#And is not a marker of love for me to do so

[ducktoo]

Graduation

Sana x M!Reader

Note: A love letter to Horimiya, Volume 16, Last Page . (And also a rewrite of an old fic I wrote wayyyyy back in 2022). Sincerely one of my favourite fic I ever wrote from back then.

Special thank you to @usedpidemo for arranging the prompt and give me an opportunity to be part of it again!

Graduation.

Not exactly the word you took seriously until the clock hit 8:59 and you were standing in the middle of the school auditorium, surrounded by echoes of the past four years and people biting their lips to pretend they weren’t about to cry.

It was supposed to be a celebration. A clean-cut milestone tied up with shiny sashes and plastic diplomas, yet you felt it instead as something heavier—like the slow turning of a page you weren’t ready to let go of.

You never thought it would come with so much weight.

Your school days… it crept up on you like that. Quietly. Unapologetically.

The walls of Taeyang High had watched you grow, fall, repeat. Year after year, morning bell after morning bell. And now, suddenly, you were at the end of the chapter, still blinking, still waiting to catch up.

“…And next, a speech from this year’s valedictorian. Park Jihyo.”

Thunderous applause. Rightfully earned so. Jihyo was the sun everyone revolved around in the year group. Straight A’s. Debate team president. A voice like a thousand troops marching to war. She stood up, poised, smiling in that practiced way of hers.

You clapped along, your hands brushing against Sana’s.

She sat next to you, her fingers laced gently with yours, thumb occasionally brushing against the back of your hand in small, grounding motions.

Jihyo approached the podium, her paper in hand, eyes scanning the audience like a seasoned performer.

Everyone leaned in slightly, curious to hear her voice echo across the place that had cradled your youth.

The hall went silent, and as Jihyo opened her mouth to speak—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAACHOOOOOOOOO!”

The loudest sneeze of your entire existence blasted out of you without mercy. It was thunderous. Unforgiving. Human.

But it echoed. Echoed.

And you just…froze.

Dead silence again. Then a snort. Then laughter. Like a wave crashing against the walls. You swore even the janitor outside chuckled. The birds outside probably also mocked you as well.

Jihyo’s eye twitched. Possibly already plotting a murder.

And Sana? Well, she was covering her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling—not from embarrassment, but because she was laughing way too hard. She leaned into you slightly, whispering between giggles, “You absolute dummy~ Couldn't you choose a better moment?”

“I couldn’t hold it in!” you whispered back, ears burning.

On stage, Jihyo valiantly tried to keep going, but her rhythm was broken. Her voice wobbled like a baby deer on ice.

You buried your face in your hands, accepting your fate in about an hour later.

-

After the assembly, students spilled into the hallways, walking slower than usual. Everyone wanted one last look, one final memory. Every tile on the floor, every rusted locker—they weren’t just objects anymore. They were markers of their time here. Places where memories clung like dust.

And then came the shriek.

“WHERE IS THAT DAMN IDIOT?!!”

You didn’t even look back. Your feet were already on max speed.

“I SAID I WAS SORRY! I DIDN’T DO IT ON PURPOSE!”

You weaved past classmates.

“Yo, legend!” a student grinned, throwing you a fist bump mid-run.

“Top-tier sneeze, man!”

“WHY ARE YOU ENCOURAGING HIM?!” Jihyo’s voice cracked behind you, clearly not amused unlike the passersby students.

She turned a corner and nearly crashed into Nayeon.

“Whoa, slow down there, Speed Racer,” Nayeon smirked, holding up a hand. “You’re gonna trigger the fire alarms at this rate.”

Jihyo, panting like a dog, pointed a shaky finger. “I—he—SPEECH—SNEEZE—fcking-”

“Yeah, yeah, chill out. Nice speech by the way,” Nayeon cheered, giving her a thumbs up. “You know, underneath all that laughter? I caught some heartfelt stuff. A+ for effort.”

Jihyo groaned. “I hate everyone…especially him.”

-

Meanwhile, you’d made your escape.

To the rooftop—the one place time always seemed to slow down. The old place you found your solace.

You leaned on the railing, chest rising and falling. The breeze greeted you, gentle and constant. Above, the sky stretched endlessly, the same way it had the day you started high school. And yet… everything felt different now.

“Sunny today, huh?”

You turned. No one was there.

Except… someone was. In the shadow, just behind you. You didn’t have to see to know who it was. It was a familiar voice…maybe too familiar.

Standing in the doorway’s shadow was a version of you from another lifetime. The past you. Hoodie always up. Hair in his face. Shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear.

You closed your eyes. Took a breath. Then opened them again.

“I guess I…had my fun,” you murmured, watching the sky.

He nodded. “You look different. Hair looks good short. Less moody.”

“Thanks. The tattoos aren’t a problem anymore, either.”

“And… friends?”

You chuckled softly. “Yeah…I made friends. I even got a girlfriend.”

You finally turned around and there he was—your old self. Pale, withdrawn, always looking down at the ground.

But now?

Now, he looked at you. And you finally looked at him.

“You’re finally acknowledging me,” he said.

“Mhm…Sorry for ignoring you. I…won’t pretend you weren’t part of me anymore.”

The wind picked up, a soft gust brushing your face. Your past self stepped into the light.

And just…disappeared.

“Congrats on graduating, man.” he whispered, fading like mist in the sun.

As if on cue, the door creaked.

You turned towards the noise and there was your true solace—Sana.

She looked like spring sunshine in human form. Camera around her neck, gown a little crooked, her hair tied back in the way she always did when she meant business.

“There you are!” she huffed, walking toward you. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Let me guess—Jihyo-ya gave up?”

“She did,” Sana grinned. “Passed Nayeon and collapsed on a bench.”

“Bless Nabong,” you exhaled. “She’s the real MVP.”

Sana stood next to you, her shoulder brushing yours. “So….I heard you talking, mister” she said.

“Oh…”You winced. “How much?”

“From ‘my tattoos aren’t a problem anymore’.”

You groaned. “That’s everything!”

Sana just laughed. That high, hearty and princess-like laugh that made your chest ache in the best way.

“You get sentimental too much these days,” she said.

“I’m not sentimental,” you replied, deadpan. “I’m just… emotionally reflective.”

Sana gave you a look.

“Okay fine, I’m a sap,” you admitted. “But it’s not like we’re getting separated, right?”

She softened. “No. We’re not.”

You slipped your hand into hers.

“But it doesn’t hurt to think about how far we’ve come,” you said. “Like the time I got the back tattoo and you almost broke up with me.”

Sana choked. “Don’t remind me! Who tattoos wings on their entire back?!”

“I thought it was cool!”

“Everyone thought I dumped you.”

You pouted. “I was 16 and edgy.”

“And now you’re 18 and a dork.”

You laughed. “Yeah… but while we're talking about the past, I also kind of miss the kind, gentle Sana.”

She raised her hand and smacked your shoulder. “One, that was a horrible segway, and two, what am I now then?”

You smiled. “Well now you're….Sana… just Sana. And I love you just like that.”

It was quiet after that.

The moment slowed again—like it was letting you have this one moment.

The rooftop. The sky. The wind.

And her.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Sana wiped your cheek.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “For not giving up on me.”

She leaned her head against your shoulder.

“I love you.” you said again.

“I love you too, you dork.” she replied.

But the moment was ruined when you both turned at the sound of gagging.

“Blech. Get a room.” Nayeon’s voice rang behind you. "Gosh you guys never stopped being sappy ever since."

Behind the door stood Nayeon, mock vomiting into her hand, and Jihyo, still catching her breath but she still had one good punch left in her.

“I’m not gonna hit you,” Jihyo rolled her eyes. “…but only because I’m hungry. Sushi?”

“Sushi,” the group agreed in unison.

-

You walked down the street with them like you had a hundred times before to the usual sushi place.

Jihyo was once again getting annoyed at Nayeon for throwing out her daily dad jokes like confetti. Sana was goofing off beside you, swinging your hand back and forth like a kid, every now and then poking your side just to get a reaction. And you? You were just laughing—at them, at the moment, at the feeling that somehow, this right here was the best kind of peace.

The kind you wanted to keep.

Still, your eyes kept drifting back to Sana.

Even with the noise and movement around you, she was all you could focus on.

You realised then—really realised—that the distance between the two of you had gotten smaller. Not just physically. But in every sense that mattered. It was subtle, quiet, like the way winter turns into spring.

And it terrified you. Truly.

Because it was the first time you’d ever gotten this close to someone before.

You used to prefer hiding behind the crowd and in the closet. But leaving that box—stepping out of that gloomy, guarded version of yourself—was what helped you discover the other emotions hiding inside you. The quieter joys. The softer truths.

And…you wouldn’t have found them on your own.

Minatozaki Sana.

It was her who made that possible.

It was her who made all your insecurities disappear, one gentle moment at a time.

You wondered, all of the time, if you’d ever done the same for her. If you’d made her happy in the way she made you feel safe.

Because Sana was so much more than what people saw.

She was stronger, bubblier, and kinder than anyone gave her credit for—but beneath it all, she was also fragile. Softer than she ever let on. She broke easily, quietly, without warning. And real.

So damn real.

You knew, because you’d seen the cracks behind her smile as you stood by her side.

And it was exactly because she stayed soft in a world that tried to harden her—because she kept being herself—that every day felt so bright.

“Satang,” you said, just loud enough for her to turn.

Your voice was barely above the rustling wind, but she heard it anyway. Her head tilted, hair catching the sunlight.

And even though you smiled, you felt something wet trail down your cheek before you realised it.

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I love you.”

Sana smiled—not her teasing grin, but that real, quiet one that only came out when she understood everything you couldn’t put into words.

“I love you too,” she replied.

The others had walked ahead now, bickering and laughing under the canopy of afternoon light.

You held her hand tighter.

The moment felt frozen in time. Like a photo you’d look back on years from now.

The clear blue sky above. The trees danced along with the breeze. The road stretches ahead.

And in the middle of it all—her. The love of your life.

And yet… you had a feeling she’d prefer something else over all this poetic nonsense.

Maybe… a fresh batch of cookies you always made for her. Like usual.

Yeah.

You made a mental note to bake them later tonight.

[rcmclachlan]

fic nostalgia: histocompatibility

Rules: Share the fic you posted as close to exactly one year ago as possible. You can just post a link if you like, but feel free to talk about it too! How did you feel about this fic then, how do you feel now? Do you love it, hate it, has your writing changed at all? Anything you'd do differently in hindsight? Go nuts!

Thanks to @liminalmemories21 and @freneticfloetry for tagging me!

+

So, we're actually coming up on Histocompatibility's birthday! I wrote the first iteration of the story in the tumblr post editor like a dumbass on August 10th, but it wasn't until the 26th that I put it on AO3 in its final form.

Out of all my 911 fics, this one's still my favorite. Exploring Buck's reaction to the fact that he was a failed savior sibling is probably the juiciest thing I've written for this fandom. What was really fun was having him process it with the help of a handsome stranger with whom he immediately clicks. Granted, the Tommy we all knew last August is very different from the one we know now, but I still think his characterization holds up.

But the thing I like most about this story? The beginning. They're often the most difficult for me to write, which means 98% of my ideas end up in the trash because I never manage to write a satisfactory start to them. I somehow managed to strike gold with the opening of this story.

It would've been an allogeneic transplant. He'd looked it up once when he was watching a 60 Minutes segment on Myelodysplastic Syndrome. They would've taken the stem cells from his umbilical cord if the timing was right. Although the timeline Maddie gave him suggests they tried it a little bit later; probably waited a few months for him to hit certain growth markers before they scraped Daniel's homegrown defense system out of Buck's bones. Normal babies cry anywhere from one to three hours a day as a way to get their needs met, but babies with hellfire missiles in their marrow probably cry more. Not only are they hungry and have diapers in need of changing, but they're also in pain from filgrastim injections and dealing with weeks of headaches, nausea, fatigue, and soreness following extraction. He wonders if he cried more than the average infant after the procedure was done. He wonders if he drove his family crazy with his wailing and screaming because his pelvic bones ached so much that having his diaper changed felt like deliberate torture. He wonders if they were too busy watching Daniel for signs of improvement to even notice.

My father actually had (and passed away from) myelodysplastic syndrome, so I already knew some things when I started writing this. I did a lot of additional research into allotransplantation and what donors experience during the process, and it can be pretty harrowing stuff, especially the side effects.

But the vast majority of those donations come from consenting adults. Imagining what a baby might've experienced during and after the procedure — and coupling that with the Buckley parents' (most likely unintended) negligence while they focused on Daniel — was incredibly painful and delicious. That made it incredibly easy for me to get into Buck's head for this.

Sometimes I think about writing a sequel, or at the very least a coda. Like, following Buck and Tommy on that first real date, and diving into Buck's head as he kisses a man for the first time, but this time knowing that he actually wants to. I doubt it'll ever materialize. I think Histocompatibility stands perfectly well on its own.

And I should also mention that I ended up writing the infamous Tommy is batshit insane ficlet like four days later. August 2024 was a banger month for me, apparently.

+

No pressure tags: @screamlet, @dadvans, @alchemistc, @beanarie, @firehose118, @cecilyv, @politenotice, @geddyqueer, @leashybebes, and @middyblue

[inkedtension]

imagine the reader at one of those Stone chest tables that they have at public parks sometimes. They're playing a game by themselves staring at the board contemplatively. And then one of those overly smart characters comes by and thinks the reader is a idiot because there's an obvious move for how to win the game. So they go up to the reader,

and they're like. "There's an obvious way to win this. Why don't you just move the pieces?"

And reader is like. "Would you like to join me for a game?"

So, smart-ass sits down thinking this will be easy and the reader resets the board. The game goes on a bit longer than character. Thought it was going too, and the reader isn't exactly giving them a lot of clues. they seem to be making moves seemingly at random, Talking about nonsense not really taking the game seriously.

But when they finally get to the end and character puts Reader in check, Reader pulls out the dry erase marker that they had been keeping tucked behind their ear or in their hair. draws lines together, connecting the pieces to spell out the word horse. Before cackling to themselves, getting up and walking away.

Leaving character dumbfounded.

I've been thinking of this mostly with bsd characters like Fyodor Ranpo and Dazai, but you can add in characters from other fandoms if you think they would go well with this prompt.

ok this one's literally from feb 1 im so sorry bro. Already written but was lying idle in drafts. i'm really sorry, but i hope you like it!!

...

It’s a quiet afternoon in the park, all golden light and drifting clouds. The stone chess table is cracked slightly along one edge—years of sun and rain eroding its dignity—but it still holds its ground.

Just like you do.

You sit with your sleeves pushed up and your expression unreadable, elbows resting on the cool surface. The board is already set. One side white. One side black. Only one player.

Your opponent? Nowhere in sight.

You don’t mind. There’s a strange peace in playing alone. Or maybe it’s not about the game at all.

You’re dressed plainly—something loose, forgettable. Ink smudges your fingertips. A dry-erase marker is tucked behind your ear like a cigarette waiting to be lit. You stare down at the pieces like they’re telling you secrets only you understand.

And then—

Footsteps. Slow. Rhythmic. Swaggering.

The kind of footsteps that don’t belong to anyone who needs to be somewhere.

Dazai Osamu appears in your peripheral like a well-timed plot twist. Trench coat swaying. Hands in pockets. That smile—mischief wrapped in velvet. He tilts his head, watching you as if you’ve wandered out of one of his more indulgent daydreams.

“Oh?” he says, voice sweet and sharp. “A game for one? That’s almost poetic. Lonely, but poetic.”

You don’t look up. “Who said I’m alone?”

He leans in, just enough that you can smell something warm and vaguely spiced on him. “Well, now you’re not.”

You don’t react. Not yet. But he sees your eyebrow twitch.

He circles the table like a curious predator. “Let me guess. You’re mourning a loss? Or punishing yourself for a win that felt too easy?”

“I just like the silence.”

He hums, low and amused. “I could be silent for you. But I won’t be. I’m too curious.”

He peers over your shoulder at the board, lips quirking.

“There’s an obvious win here. If you move your rook to C6… you’ve got it. That’s game.”

You finally glance at him. Your gaze is slow, assessing. It lingers on his collarbone for just a second too long—whether intentional or not.

“Would you like to join me?” you ask.

He smirks like he’s already won something far more interesting. “Only if you promise not to fall in love with me when I destroy you.”

You clear the board without a word. Pieces reset with almost lazy precision. There’s a sensuality to the movement—not overt, just something soft and sure. Like muscle memory. Like foreplay.

He watches every motion like he’s storing it away for later.

Dazai slides into the seat opposite you with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure. “God, I love when people don’t try to impress me,” he says. “It makes it so much easier to fall for them.”

“Is this your strategy?” you ask mildly. “Talk until I get bored and surrender?”

He grins, sharp and boyish. “Is it working?”

You tilt your head. “You haven’t made a move.”

“Oh, but I have,” he says, placing a pawn forward with theatrical flair. “Emotionally.”

You play without hesitation, flicking your knight forward with one finger. You don’t even look at the board when you do.

He narrows his eyes. “Reckless.”

“Confident.”

He hums. “Dangerous.”

You smirk. “Flattering.”

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses lightly.

“Doing what?”

“Making nonsense look strategic. You’re trying to seduce me with chaos.”

You quirk a brow. “Is it working?”

He holds your gaze a little too long. “...Alarmingly.”

The game stretches longer than he expects. Every time he thinks he’s caught you, you wriggle free with a move that shouldn’t make sense but somehow doesn't hurt you either. It's like trying to win a swordfight against someone who's dueling with spaghetti—until you realize the spaghetti is laced with poison and you're already dizzy.

Eventually, after several bold sacrifices, one prolonged monologue about why flamingos probably hate themselves, and your refusal to take anything seriously—he traps your king.

“Check,” he says, voice smug, fingers steepled under his chin. His smile is victorious. But his eyes are searching.

You don’t look at the board. You reach up slowly. Unhook the marker from behind your ear.

Dazai’s brow furrows. “...What are you doing?”

You don’t answer.

You lean forward. Pop the cap off the marker. In slow, careful strokes, you begin connecting the chess pieces with lines. The knight. The pawn. The bishop. Another knight. The black queen.

A soft curve here. A slanted angle there. You draw on the board itself, marking the weather-worn stone. Marking him.

You spell: H-O-R-S-E.

And then you start laughing. A light, uncontainable laugh. Bright and genuine and utterly pleased.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just… delighted. Like you just cracked your own riddle.

You stretch, cap the marker, tuck it back where it belongs—behind your ear, like a trick you might do again later.

“Thanks for the game,” you say.

And just like that, you walk away.

Dazai blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. He stares at the board like it’s trying to tell him a secret. And maybe it is.

He stares at the H-O-R-S-E spelled out in ghost-gray lines.

Dazai stares at the board for a full five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen.

...

He gives Ranpo a lolipop and asks his opinion.

“…You lost to a word puzzle?” Ranpo says, voice flat.

Dazai doesn’t respond.

He slaps his hands to his knees. “That was a puzzle.”

That wasn’t a chess game. That was a goddamn map.

You let him win.

You wanted him to reach check just to land there. On Horse.

And the worst part? He still doesn’t fully get it.

He lets out a wheezy laugh. Then stands, snapping his lollipop stick in half with his teeth.

“Okay, okay… I see how it is.”

Ranpo cracks his knuckles.

“You have to find her again.”

"You don't have to remind me."

[toadally-gay]

thanks for the tagggg :3

fav color? black and green

least favorite color? mmm probably like dirty yellow (not like mustard, more like if you use a yellow marker on top of a darker color and it stains the tip of the yellow marker)

last song? leave me alone by I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY FOUND ME

last movie? i think it was happy gilmore 2

last book? last finished book? oh who knows lol. but last book i read some of was portrait if a nuclear family by JP Behrens

you want this, you love this, you need this? oh gosh hmm, MORE PIERCINGS, tattoos, for me to be able to drive on my own (so close, yet so far </3), maybe a family that isnt extremely religious cuz mine now knows im gay and just like.. doesn’t acknowledge it… and i know they would never in a million years accept me being agender, using they/them, and a dif name

milk before or after cereal? AFTER. people who do it before scare me

sports, yes or no? and if so, which sports: currently not really anything, used to do volleyball and cross country skiing tho. but im gonna be getting my bow back soon so im gonna start doing archery again

siblings? an older sister and a brother in law

no pressure tagsss <3

@napkineater @homeglitch @theultimatenerd0fficial @blu-dukk + open tags :3

get to know moots (yayyayyay)

————————————★————————————

basically just these questions :]

Favorite color: dark purple

Least favorite color: red

Last listened to song: Summer 2000 Baby - TV Girl, George Clanton

Last watched movie: It (2017)

Last read book: she is the poem - June Bates

You love this, you want this, you need this: more time to make jewelry

Milk before or after cereal: after (first cereal, then milk)

Sports, yes or no? If yes, which sports: Yes. Volleyball

Siblings: None

————————————★————————————

tagged (you don't have to respond if you want to): @rubieeyes , @yourspoetically13 , @kanyaiwaizumi27 , @shobio-enthusiast

(so sorry if this is incredibly random for any mutuals. I've finally realized I've only actually communicated with a very few people.)

love you all <3

[tryandbehappy]

Jelly is looking more and more endgame to me we're getting so much angst with them it's hard for them not to be and getting her back with conrad would be a yawnfest they never had anything.

Exactly

Why Jelly as endgame would actually make sense:

• Everyone in the show wants her with Conrad (Susannah, her mom, her brother) because he seems like the “obvious” choice – cleaner shirts, future doctor, chooses the right food at restaurants or whatever – but she chooses Jere because she loves him. And all that other stuff? It means fucking nothing at all. No one should be deciding for the main girl who she should love. No one should even think they know better. Her heart chooses Jere. Again. And again. And again.

• Whenever there’s a “perfect” golden boy brother and a misunderstood one who gets bullied and overlooked – the heroine always ends up choosing the one no one gets. Because she gets him. (Delena, anyone?)

• Jelly is narratively opposed to Bonrad. Their relationship is real, not a fantasy. Belly says this exact word about Jere multiple times. That’s a classic storytelling marker. (Like Katniss/Peeta or Delena.) “Listen to my heartbeat, my heart is pounding” she says to Jere when they’re alone. It’s louder than any fantasy in her head.

• The structure of the show has always been built around their story – even if it didn’t look like it at first. Belly thought she loved Conrad, but it didn’t work out. They only ever hurt each other. She realized this. She fought for Jere all of season 2. Season 3 is about their actual relationship – where she’s literally squealing with happiness like a baby piglet, and they’re fighting to protect their love against everyone who says “you love each other too much” like that’s some sort of red flag. Meanwhile, Conrad is sidelined in his endless drama.

• And because while they were building this whole arc, they actually gave Jere and Belly a fully realized relationship. Including sex, chemistry, happiness, closeness, SOULMATE energy, total synchronicity. And let’s talk about sex, too. The show has made it canon that Jelly are constantly, deeply sexually attracted to each other. We’ve been watching this for three seasons already — even in the latest episode (“I’m gonna shower and then we’ll have some fun”).— and that’s usually a clear sign of the main couple. Side ships never get this. They get vague cutaways, soft kisses. But this time… it’s Jelly.

But what endgame we’ll get instead?

• The heroine gets gaslit into thinking something must be “off” just because they love each other “too much” and maybe she needs to go explore herself and unlock her own layers and choose herself first and whatever ✨bullshit✨ they’ll throw in there.

• Bonrad becomes endgame because they’re forced into the same space for half a season just to fake a connection. (I don’t think it’ll be a fake connection per se — but it will be something that’s forced. Like, they’re being artificially pushed together by the plot, not naturally drawn to each other by real emotions or shared growth). not fate, not something what was meant to be. Not natural circumstances. Conrad chooses to stay when she literally didn’t need him there.

• while everyone once again bulldozes over Jelly’s relationship. Dissects it. Questions it. Adds “logic” and “adult opinions” and “perspective.” Completely ignoring what Belly feels.

• Because if they didn’t do all that? There’s no way Jelly would break up. They’d get married. They’d grow together. Even if they started from rock bottom – it would be their choice. And their “mistakes” wouldn’t even be mistakes.

• Bonrad would never happen. Because he avoided her. And she barely even thought about him.

But I guess a love like Jelly’s just isn’t trendy in 2025.

All those “If you jump, I jump.”

I don’t care how much money you have.

I don’t care what my mom says.

I don’t care how we’ll make it work. I just love you.

And because I love you, and you’re next to me – I will find myself faster!

But no, now we act like epic love is “unhealthy.” That it’ll “ruin your life.” Even if you’re genuinely happy, even if you never want to be apart.

Nope. Calm down, and go “focus on yourself.”

Here’s your neat, aesthetically pleasing Bonrad.

They’ll stand on their feet separately, grow up “properly,” and then get married (And of course he’ll be in a perfectly ironed shirt — because that’s what really matters) with every single side character saying “Now this is real love.”

Or whatever nonsense they come up with.

[kosmos1307]

Dear Jiwoo

Kang Jiwoo and Jeon Jeongguk have been inseparable since they could barely walk. From stealing snacks in daycare to racing each other through the backstreets of Busan, life was always simple—just the two of them, side by side, against the world.

But life doesn’t stay simple. And Jiwoo learns that the hard way.

As Jeongguk’s star rises, Jiwoo is left in the shadow of a boy she once followed blindly and a love that neither of them dared name. Now, Jeongguk belongs to the world, and Jiwoo’s left trying to remember who she is without him.

But some ties don’t break. Not really. And love—real love—doesn’t always ask permission before it starts to change shape. Especially when it's been there all along.

-> Word count: (Ongoing)

-> Friends-to-lovers

-> Pairing: Jungkook x Original Character

-> Warnings: Explicit content, smut, drug-use, alcohol abuse, possessiveness, toxic relationship, depression, themes of grief, manipulation and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

-> Dear Jiwoo | 01. Permanent Marker

Teaser...

The ceiling fan hummed above her, a relentless, rhythmic whirl that seemed to drill into her skull. It was too loud. Too quiet. Too much. Jiwoo clenched her fingers together in her lap, pressing them so hard they trembled. The sleeves of her oversized hoodie swallowed her hands, but even the familiar fabric felt foreign against her skin, like it didn’t belong to her, like she didn’t belong to herself. Her shoulders curled inward, as if she could fold into herself, disappear into the stiff leather of the couch, sink into the shadows pooling beneath her feet.

She shivered. It wasn’t cold. Not really. The room was temperature-controlled, yet a chill sat in her bones, heavy and unmoving. Her ribs ached from holding her breath for too long. She exhaled slowly, unevenly, but it didn't help. It never did.

"Miss Kang?"

The voice was gentle but persistent. Mrs. Choi. Her new therapist. The woman who sat across from her in this beige-walled room, waiting—like everyone else—for Jiwoo to speak.

She didn’t want to be here.

Jiwoo swallowed, but her throat felt like sandpaper. The walls pressed in. The air felt thick. Too thick. Her fingernails dug into her palms beneath the sleeves.

"Give me a minute," she mumbled, her voice brittle, as if it might shatter if she spoke too loudly.

"Take your time."

A shift of fabric. The subtle creak of a chair. Mrs. Choi was patient, too patient. The silence stretched, suffocating, filling the spaces between them like thick smoke. Jiwoo squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the hem of her hoodie so tightly her knuckles ached.

"I...I don’t want to be here."

The admission barely made it past her lips before her throat closed up, her chest seizing with the weight of something too big to name. Her stomach twisted. The burning behind her eyes was immediate, creeping like wildfire, threatening to spill over.

"Most patients don’t want to be here. You’re not the first, Miss Kang. And neither are you crazy," Mrs. Choi assured her, her voice even, grounding. "I’m just here to help you get better."

Jiwoo let out a trembling breath, sniffled, then nodded almost aggressively, as if convincing herself of something. But the tears fell anyway, hot and relentless, dripping onto her lap. She rubbed at her arms, a feeble attempt to warm herself, to soothe the unshakable tremor in her limbs.

"I-I know…" Her voice cracked, splintering apart. "I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy."

She said it like a prayer, like if she repeated it enough times, it might become true.

Her pulse thrummed in her ears, drowning out the whir of the fan, the muffled sounds of the world outside this room. She inhaled sharply, like her mother had told her to—breathe in, hold, exhale—but it wasn’t working. It never worked.

"I do want to get better," she rushed out, words tumbling over each other. "B-but I’m hurting. I’m hurting and t-talking about it doesn’t help, okay? I’ve t-tried, I swear, but no one understands. They don’t get it."

Her voice broke into pieces, trembling so hard she could barely force the words past her teeth. The room blurred. She was drowning. Drowning in this thing that wrapped around her chest like barbed wire, tight and unforgiving. Her nails found the skin of her wrist beneath her sleeve, pressing, pressing, pressing. Anything to ground her. Anything to stop herself from unraveling completely.

"What you’re doing now is talking," Mrs. Choi pointed out, her voice steady but kind. "It doesn’t have to be what others want to hear. What matters is what you need to say. This is a safe space, Miss Kang. You can cry, scream, get angry—whatever you need. I can meet you at whatever level you need me to, okay?"

Jiwoo blinked at her, wide, red-rimmed eyes glossy with unshed tears. Her breath hitched, but she nodded, biting her lip hard enough to sting.

"O-okay," she whispered.

"Good." Mrs. Choi adjusted in her chair, one foot settling flat on the floor, a silent cue that she was listening. "Talk to me."

Jiwoo sniffled and gave up wiping her tears. What was the point? They’d just keep coming.

"I, um…" Her voice wavered, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. "I lost someone."

The words were small, fragile, like if she said them too loudly, they’d shatter in her hands.

"He…he died. It’s been three months."

Mrs. Choi’s eyes softened. "I’m so sorry to hear that. Who was he to you?"

Was.

Jiwoo flinched. The past tense hurt in a way nothing else did. Was. Like he was something that could be left behind, something that existed only in memories now.

The silence stretched between them, weighted and suffocating. She should answer. She had to. But the words felt impossible.

Finally, she swallowed hard and whispered,

"He was my best friend."

[batterysoup]

Happy Stex appreciation month!

Favourite Performer - Ray Shell!

Favourite Song/Scenes - Absolutely adore the bit he has in Dinah's Disco/He whistled at me reprise.

Favourite Costumes - I love the big hat verisons of the costume, so OLC 1984 and pre 2018 bochum.

Favorite Ships/Friendships - Dustin and Rusty are so brothers. I do like alot of his romantic ships Mainly, i ship him with Pearl, and Hydra. And sometimes both let them all smooch 2025.

Headcanons? - As someone with eczema, yes, the rust is eczema. Keep that up everyone. I also think he is the middle child of the freight, no matter the production. He seems like the type of guy to like Swedish fish the candy.

Also bonus sketch. It changed so much from draft to final because it was using paint markers and its so small of a space. I had fun playing around with his color scheme and stretching it.

[captonite]

Our Old Street & Go Home

Hiii mi bebe!! Angsty with some fluffy ending??? That I can do ;) Thank you for giving me the chance to write something so vulnerable it meant a lot, and I hope it meant something to you too. And as always thank you for coming along with Chubs and her journey with her brothers. Mwaaah kisses from Chubs and Her Boys (and me too duh) <333

The house was small. A little worn, tucked behind trees, with windchimes on the porch and a mailbox shaped like a cardinal. It wasn’t fancy, but it was theirs. And for the first time in years, Chubs had her own room. Real sheets. A window that wasn’t fogged by motel cigarette smoke. A closet with shelves and space just for her things.

It felt like a dream.

Dean painted the walls her favorite color—soft dusty pink—and Sam built the bookshelf by hand, even though he cursed half the time and got glue on his sleeve. They let her pick out a desk and even let her put up those glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Dean teased her, but he was the one who stuck them on the highest points she couldn’t reach.

“I want you to have a life,” Sam had said, brushing her hair back as she beamed at her brand new school backpack. “Friends. Homework. Bad cafeteria pizza. All of it.”

She hugged him so tight his ribs ached.

The morning of enrollment, she wore the dress Dean picked out. Sam made her a lunch. They were already bickering in the car—Dean saying “no one needs Greek mythology in eighth grade,” and Sam arguing it was “cultural literacy.” Chubs just rolled her eyes and grinned. Everything felt normal. Happy.

Then the office lady asked for her birth certificate.

Then her social security number.

Then—confused, frowning—she stepped away from the desk and whispered into the phone, behind a closed glass door.

Sam and Dean stiffened.

Five minutes later, the principal came in with a cop.

"She’s still listed as missing," they were told. "From Ohio. Her foster records were never cleared. Her guardianship isn’t recognized. We have to notify child protective services.”

Dean exploded first. “She’s our sister. We’ve raised her. Where the hell was CPS when she was starving and scared in some piece of crap group home?”

Sam’s voice was calmer but no less furious. “We’ll fix this. There has to be a way to—just give us a second.”

Chubs had gone still.

Her sandwich was untouched in her lap.

She didn’t say anything the whole ride home.

Not even when Dean tried to joke about her getting out of her first day of school.

Not when Sam promised, quietly, that they’d fix it before nightfall.

That night, when she heard them talking in the living room—whispers, cursing, the sound of Sam pacing—Chubs stood on the other side of the wall.

She heard “custody.”

She heard “state intervention.”

She heard “can’t risk them taking her.”

And then she packed.

Just like she always did.

Just like she had in the past, in bedrooms she was never allowed to keep.

She left a note on her pillow. It said “I love you” in shaky marker, with a tiny sketch of them in the Impala underneath.

And then she ran.

—

The second Dean found her room empty, he knew.

“Sam,” he barked, already checking under the bed, the closet, the bathroom. “Sam, she’s gone.”

“What?” Sam burst in from the kitchen, holding the phone he’d just gotten off with a lawyer.

“Chubs. She’s—she left. Her bag’s gone. She left a note, man.”

Dean’s voice cracked.

Sam’s eyes scanned the paper, a shaky “I love you. I’m sorry.”

And then he ran.

They tore up the streets.

Checked every corner store, every alley, every bus station. Dean was pale. Sam kept calling her phone, begging her to pick up. By hour two, Sam was shaking so bad he had to stop driving. Dean took over.

“I shouldn’t have said anything near her,” Sam muttered. “She must’ve heard us—she must think we were gonna let them take her.”

“I’d die before I let that happen,” Dean growled. “We promised her. We promised she’d never be alone again.”

They found her five hours later.

Soaked to the bone, hoodie up, curled under a slide in the abandoned park five miles from home.

Dean spotted her first and choked on his own breath. “Baby…”

Chubs flinched at the sound of tires on gravel.

She didn’t move when Sam sprinted toward her, didn’t even lift her head when Dean dropped to his knees in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, lip trembling. “I didn’t want them to take me. I—I thought if I left first it wouldn’t hurt as bad.”

“No,” Dean said, voice breaking. “Baby, no. You don’t ever do that. You don’t ever leave.”

“We were scared, sweetheart,” Sam added, kneeling beside her. “But we weren’t scared of you. We were scared for you.”

Her voice was barely a breath. “I thought you were gonna let them have me.”

Dean made a sound Sam had never heard before—some broken, strangled thing—and pulled her into his arms like she was something fragile and vanishing.

“We’d burn the world before we let anyone take you,” he whispered into her hair. “You hear me? We’re your family. Not the law. Not a file in a cabinet. Us.”

She cried then.

Ugly, hiccupping sobs into his jacket.

Sam’s hand settled on her back, steady and warm. “We’re gonna fix it, baby girl. We’ve already started. We’ve got a real lawyer now. Not some back alley ID-forger. You’re gonna be safe. On paper. In law. Just like you already are in our hearts.”

Chubs curled into them both.

They stayed like that, in the dark and the rain, until she stopped shaking.

—

Back at the house, Dean wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Sam kept his hand on her back the whole time they helped her into dry clothes. They tucked her into bed together. Made her hot chocolate. Turned on the space heater. Played a Disney movie she’d never admit she still loved.

“Sorry I scared you guys,” she murmured into her pillow.

Dean kissed her forehead. “You’re our whole damn world, Bambi. Don’t do that again. Please.”

Sam nodded, kneeling at her side. “We meant what we said. This is your home. We’re not letting anyone take that from you.”

“I believe you,” she said softly.

Then, after a long beat…

“Can I still go to school? With real cafeteria pizza?”

Dean chuckled wetly, brushing a tear off her cheek. “Hell yeah you can. But only if you eat better than just pizza.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Fine. I guess.”

—

Just a week later, Sam and Dean, like miracle workers that they are, worked tirelessly to obtain her records.

Her new records were official.

Sam handled the paperwork.

Dean bought her a cupcake on her first real day of class.

Chubs slipped a sticky note into Dean’s glovebox that read:

“You’re my home.”

—

Things were great until they weren't.

It was supposed to be a normal day.

Chubs had made it through her math test, finished her lunch with a goofy text from Dean, and had started walking home — earbuds in, music up, sun on her cheeks. She even hummed a little, her favorite hoodie wrapped around her shoulders, thinking about how she was gonna beg Sam to help her with science and con Dean into buying pizza.

She didn’t see the car until it screeched up behind her.

Didn’t see the arms coming until they were already around her.

Didn’t get the chance to scream.

—

An hour later, Dean’s phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then silence. He frowned.

“She’s late.”

Sam looked up from his laptop, brow furrowed. “How late?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”

Sam stood immediately.

Dean was already grabbing his keys.

Meanwhile, somewhere dark. Chubs whimpered against the gag. The ropes were tight — too tight — biting into her wrists. The van smelled like mold and cigarette smoke, and her heart pounded like it was trying to punch its way out of her chest.

"Look what we have here,” her old foster mother purred from the front. “Thought you could disappear and no one would notice, huh?"

Her foster father chuckled low. “Bet your real family didn’t even look that hard.”

Something in Chubs cracked. Because she knew her brothers would move heaven and earth for her. She knew Dean would’ve burned the world down and Sam would’ve built it back up just to find her.

But right now, they didn’t know.

Right now, she was alone again.

Back at the house, Dean’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel. “She always texts. Even when she’s late. Something’s wrong.”

“Traffic cams didn’t pick her up past the school,” Sam muttered, typing furiously. “Last ping on her phone was right outside campus. Then nothing.”

Dean’s voice dropped, thick with fear. “Someone took her.”

Sam’s eyes flicked up. “You think it’s—?”

Dean didn’t answer. Just growled out, “Call Crowley.”

—

Chubs didn’t cry. She wanted to — her wrists hurt, her mouth was dry, and the cruel taunts from her foster parents scraped against old, barely-healed wounds — but she didn’t cry.

Dean had told her once, “You’re a goddamn Winchester. Even scared, even shaking, you’re strong.”

So she glared through the duct tape, bloodied lip trembling, teeth clenched.

“Still got that attitude, huh?” the woman sneered. “Maybe we need to beat it out of you again. Worked before.”

Chubs flinched.

That was the moment the door burst off its hinges.

Gunfire. Yelling. A demon’s scream.

And then Dean.

“Bambi,” he breathed, rushing to her side. “Baby, I got you. I got you, okay?”

She was sobbing now. She couldn’t help it. “D-Dean—”

“I’m here. Sammy’s here. You’re safe now.”

—

Wrapped in blankets, Chubs sat curled between her brothers, eyes vacant, throat raw. Every time she blinked, she flinched.

Dean’s arm was around her, shaking with barely restrained rage. “How the hell did they find her? We burned every record.”

Sam’s jaw was clenched. “Foster dad’s cousin works for a records department. Cross-checked her school ID with a missing child database.”

Dean’s voice broke. “We almost lost her. Again.”

There was a knock.

Crowley strolled in, dapper and dangerous, holding something small and soft.

“Don’t worry, Squirrel. Moose. I had a little chat with those monsters.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Define ‘chat.’”

Crowley’s smile was razor-sharp. “Let’s just say their souls are on a permanent vacation.”

Then he turned to Chubs, softened. “Bambi, darling, I brought you something.”

He handed her a goat plushie — tiny, fluffy, black with glittery horns.

Chubs blinked at it. “You got me… a demon goat?”

He winked. “His name is Balthazar. He’s got a mean bite, just like you.”

A small, choked laugh escaped her. It was the first sound she’d made in hours that didn’t break their hearts.

Sam leaned in, brushing hair from her face. “You’re safe, baby girl.”

Dean pressed a kiss to her temple. “Nobody’s ever taking you again. Not without going through us first.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “And me. Honestly.”

And for the first time since that day turned nightmare, Chubs leaned into her brothers and let herself believe it.

She was home.

And she was never going back.

—

The house was too quiet.

It wasn’t supposed to be. Not after everything. Not when she was finally home. But Chubs hadn’t spoken much since they got her back, hadn’t laughed, hadn’t even really cried. Sam and Dean had taken turns hovering—one always nearby, like she might vanish if they so much as blinked.

She sat curled on the couch now, a blanket wrapped tight around her small frame. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and her eyes, wide and dull, were fixed on the flickering TV. She wasn’t watching it. She was just… somewhere else.

Dean stood in the kitchen, gripping the counter until his knuckles went white. “I should’ve picked her up. I should’ve been there.”

“Dean,” Sam said softly. “We didn’t know.”

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Doesn’t matter. We should have.”

It had been two days since they found her—bruised, bloodied, duct tape over her mouth, wrists red-raw from fighting the zip ties. The bastard foster father hadn’t even had the decency to keep her unconscious. She remembered every minute. She screamed when Dean broke in, screamed like she didn’t recognize them.

Sam had carried her out. Dean had gone back in and made sure the man would never touch another child again.

Now Chubs flinched at loud noises. She kept her back to walls. She didn’t like the dark. And when she did sleep, she woke up screaming.

Dean brought over the tea he’d made—chamomile with two teaspoons of honey, just how she used to like it. He knelt in front of her and gently touched her blanket-wrapped knee. “Hey, baby,” he said, voice gentle. “Think you could drink some of this for me?”

Her eyes flicked to him. She didn’t say anything. But she reached out with trembling hands and took the mug.

Dean smiled, trying not to let it crack. “Atta girl.”

Sam came and sat on her other side, careful not to crowd her. “You hungry, kiddo? I could make you grilled cheese. Or soup.”

She gave a tiny shake of her head.

Dean hesitated. “You, uh… want to talk about it?”

She blinked. Then finally, for the first time in hours, she whispered, “They said you wouldn't come.”

Dean froze. “What?”

“They told me no one was looking for me. That you forgot about me. That this was always gonna happen.”

Sam leaned in, heart shattering. “Baby girl, that’s not true. We never stopped looking.”

“I screamed,” she said, and her voice cracked. “I screamed so loud, Dean. I kept thinking—if I scream loud enough, you’ll hear me. You always hear me.”

Dean looked like someone had put a bullet straight through him. “God, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.”

“It hurt,” she whispered. “Everything hurt. I thought I was gonna die.”

Sam reached for her hand, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “You're safe now. We’ve got you.”

Chubs dropped the mug on the coffee table and finally let herself lean sideways—falling into Dean’s chest, trembling like a leaf. “Don’t let them take me away.”

Dean wrapped his arms around her like a vise. “Never,” he rasped. “No one’s taking you anywhere. You're ours. You’re home.”

Sam leaned in too, rubbing her back. “I don’t care what the law says. You’re not going anywhere, Chubs.”

“I don’t want to go to school anymore,” she hiccuped. “Please don’t make me.”

Dean kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, okay? We’ll figure everything out.”

Chubs nodded against his chest, finally letting out a soft, broken sob. Dean held her tighter.

They stayed like that for hours—curled together, a mess of tears, apologies, and whispered promises. Sam eventually fell asleep in the armchair, head tilted back, while Dean sat protectively upright on the couch, Chubs still clinging to his chest.

The nightmare came around 3 AM.

Chubs thrashed and screamed until both boys jolted awake. Dean cupped her face, repeating over and over, “It’s me, baby. It’s me. You're safe. I got you.”

Sam turned on every light in the room.

They made a new rule that night: no more sleeping apart. Not for a while.

Dean built a blanket fort in the living room. Sam pulled in all the couch cushions. Chubs finally drifted off again between them, safe in the cocoon of her brothers’ arms.

Dean whispered into the dark, “She’s never leaving our sight again.”

Sam nodded, voice raw. “Not ever.”

And Chubs, half-asleep but safe for the first time in days, finally believed them.

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

Close-up shots of the minis from the new 3rd Star League Battle Group force pack, from @paintit3262c on Discord:

The Savior Repair Vehicle. Not a combatant vehicle by any means, but it is actually armored, and brings a single small laser, an entire Mobile Field Base, some cargo, and some infantry capacity - great for campaign play, and useful as an objective marker. Love how they've made the panels on the back movable and posable.

The Wendigo, a Clan Nova Cat design that got picked up by the DCMS and Sea Fox after Nova Cat was kil. LRM-10, UAC/2, a Streak SRM-6 and quad ER medium lasers. Pretty good medium all rounder.

The Excalibur, definitely the oldest 'Mech of the whole bunch, dating all the way back to the 2600s - but you get a Gauss Rifle and an ArtIV LRM-20, so it's a decent sniper.

The Malice, 100 tons of LB 5-X autocannon spam (or quad Hyper Laser spam and supernova level explosions, if you run the superheavy RISC variant - which I'm sure I'll convince @the-clawtake to do at some point :3).

The Peacekeeper, a 95-ton RotS/DCMS anti-insurgency 'Mech. Plasma rifle, ER large laser, SRM-2, and curiously, both a Heavy PPC and an ERPPC. TSM and Jump Jets for extra speeeeeeeeed.

And the gorgeous pre-painted Savage Wolf, of which I need CGL to send me 120 of them yesterday. The nuSLDF Savage Wolf spam will be real.

(I just wanna say: me and @msn-04iinightingale 100% called it when we put the Clan daggerstar on that Ebon Jaguar he painted up for me as nuSLDF a while ago)

[mizaryrottmnt]

Omgg, I just found your account and I immediately fell in love with both your artstyle and your ideas!!! Please don't mind me liking your older posts, I just want to see everything you've done abt Unity. She has such a creative concept & design C:

Btwww, what type of materials (pen & marker) did you use for this specifically?

That is if you have the name or brand. If not, it's okay, no pressure C: I loved the way it looks though It's so smooth, and has a manga-style to it imo

Also, I'm genuinely enjoying your blog haha, do you happen to have another blog where there's more artwork or fanfics, not necessarily tmnt related? In that case I would definitely like to check it out and reblog C:

Oh my! Thank you so much! I don't mind at all, just be careful to not be flagged as a bot by Tumblr XD

You all can't imagine how happy I can be when you share your love of Unity to me! 💜💜💜

For my materials when I do traditional art it's this:

Sketch pen: Pentel Graphgear 0.3

Line pen: Mitsubishi Unipen 0.1

Black part pen: Stabilo OHPen Universal M/S

Grey parts: Copic ciao C-3 / C-2 / C-5

Eraser: Mono (it doesn't make dirty stains)

And for my paper I use a bullet journal bought at "HEMA"

I have a manga style when I do tradi' because I read and drew a lot of manga before coming to the internet as an artist. I'm really bad at putting colours in traditional art so I prefer being all black and white. It avoids crying for hours because I mess up something ಡ⁠ ͜⁠ ⁠ʖ⁠ ⁠ಡ

If you want to see more of my work, I have my main account (I don't post anything for a time now but I have old art) it's @mizaryroku ✨ you can find me on Bluesky too and Instagram (I have more art on my Instagram account :)

I hope you like my next post too like the other. I want to make more traditional art in the future. Let's see what the future's gonna give us :')

Thank you again for your support and king words, it means a lot ✨💜

[purplepinkskies143]

🌟 CG!Sam & CG!Bucky x Little!Reader Headcanons (Gender Neutral) 🌟

💖 GENERAL VIBES

• You are so spoiled. Soft snacks? Already in the cupboard. Crayons sorted by color? Already sharpened. A sock fell off your foot? Sam’s putting it back on and Bucky is glaring at the sock like it’s got beef.

• Neither of them will ever let you feel like a burden. You wanna curl up and be tiny? Cool. Wanna be quiet and just color all day? Done. Wanna sob because you dropped your juice? Valid. They’re both here.

• “You’re safe,” Bucky says, over and over, because he needs you to believe it. Sam says it too, but he adds, “And you’re loved, every version of you.”

🐺 CG!Bucky:

• The Quiet Protector. He doesn’t always say much, but the way he hugs you like a weighted blanket and runs a big warm hand through your hair?? Ugh. You feel like nothing bad can ever happen again.

• So. Many. Blankets. If you’re cold? You are now a burrito. If you yawn? He’s already carrying you to the couch. If you look sad? You are swaddled with a hot cocoa cup in your hands.

• Favorite Things To Do Together:

• Reading books while you sit on his lap and trace the words with your finger.

• Drawing on his metal arm with washable markers (he acts annoyed but never washes it off until you do).

• Matching stuffed animals. His is a soft bear named Steve. Yours is whatever one you picked out the day he and Sam took you to Build-A-Bear 🥺

If you get overwhelmed or overstimulated, Bucky doesn’t panic. He just picks you up and whispers, “You’re okay, doll. I got you. Just breathe with me, in and out.”

🦅 CG!Sam:

• The Chaos Wrangler™. He’s the one doing voices during playtime, wearing silly hats, and declaring “Mac & Cheese Hour” like it’s a national holiday.

• Big Words of Affirmation Guy. You hear so much praise and affection. “Look at you! My talented little superstar! You brushed your teeth and remembered your plushie? Nobel Peace Prize!!!”

• Favorite Things To Do Together:

• Drawing side by side while he goes all in with glitter and gel pens. He’s very proud of his art and tapes yours to the fridge every time.

• Dance parties in the kitchen while dinner’s in the oven. You and Sam are spinning and laughing while Bucky just watches with heart eyes.

• You crawl in his lap and he becomes a human jungle gym. He loves it. Will absolutely hold you with one arm while flipping pancakes.

[idontmindifuforgetme]

The whole “be responsible not for other people’s feelings but to them” distinction is so so true… at some point you need to realize that other people’s insecurities really are their responsibility & dimming or contorting yourself to make them feel better helps neither you nor them. Firstly, bc they need to realize what they’re doing and grow up. And secondly, bc you’re not just compromising on a one-time thing. You’re comprising on who you are as a person. I don’t want to look back when I’m older and stay stuck wishing I held my ground despite people’s projections or asserted my presence more or didn’t apologize so much for who I am. I really just want to own everything (the good and bad) & continue doing what makes me happy

[cangrellesteponme]

wife

[yuhi-san]

just finished network effect and so much to say and also i just know so many people mentioned how bizarr everything must have been for three

like everything happening in network effect is off the scales by any mesurement and becoming a rouge sec unit is not exactly something you ever expect but like? the first 5 minute on art specifically.

everything before? not so great and a mess but mostly its still "protecting clients" from hostiles so thats fine. it knows how to do that even without the governer modul looming over it!

while scary and confusing having freedom is nice but its also nice to still have protocols for stuff that help you navigate situations! like helping you interact with humans associated with clients.

except the humans come right up to you, neither acting like you are scary nor like you are an appliance on the cognitive levle of a roomba. in fact they just start talking to you like a person and also they immediatelly assure you that they (squishy unarmed humans) are not going to hurt you (armored armed sec unit). and thats like. ????? you are so so confused.

there is no protocol for that. there isn't even anything close to usful for this.

they might have just caused a little system crash in you. its so confusing. not that you have any time to figure out how to respond to that.

suddenly you have a monstrous entity in your head. its the most terrifying thing you have ever encountered. it might be considered uncomprehending horrors by all mesurements. it tells you it will brutally murder you if you even so much as think of hurting anyone here.

this is the scariest moment in your life and you are very glad you do not have a digestive system because that would be a mess. at least you know how to response to that. because a) you do not want the terrifying monstrous entity to brutally murder you and b) you didn't want to hurt anyone anyways

while this extreamly frightening but brief exchange has been going on the humans you have never seen until right now are seemingly already outlining a plot to save you (what did you miss where this suddenly became a situation in wich you need saving? you are soo confused). the plot apparently involves but from the sound of it is probably not limited to faking your death.

the whole concept of humans thinking about how to save a sec unit is so backwards to you it might give you another error. but next thing you know all the humans and the terrifying entity of the ship are arguing about saving another sec unit. so it seems you somehow stumbled into a group where that is just... a thing they do, apparently.

because the arguing has zero to do with wheter or not its worth saving. the consensus is clearly "we will get sec unit back or so help the people that captured it". what they don't agree on is whats the best way to do so and how much the terrifying entity gets to bomb the colony.

you are so utterly confused. you understand next to nothing about what is going on but you participate in it anyway. there is no protocol for saving a sec unit but one thing you do understand is how to handle client retrival and hostage situation.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The Quest Continues...

(part 1- part 2)

[kosmos1307]

Dear Jiwoo | 01

Kang Jiwoo and Jeon Jeongguk have been inseparable since they could barely walk. From stealing snacks in daycare to racing each other through the backstreets of Busan, life was always simple—just the two of them, side by side, against the world.

But life doesn’t stay simple. And Jiwoo learns that the hard way.

As Jeongguk’s star rises, Jiwoo is left in the shadow of a boy she once followed blindly and a love that neither of them dared name. Now, Jeongguk belongs to the world, and Jiwoo’s left trying to remember who she is without him.

But some ties don’t break. Not really. And love—real love—doesn’t always ask permission before it starts to change shape. Especially when it's been there all along.

-> Word count: (Ongoing)

-> Friends-to-lovers

-> Pairing: Jungkook x Original Character

-> Warnings: Explicit content, smut, drug-use, alcohol abuse, possessiveness, toxic relationship, depression, themes of grief, manipulation and unhealthy coping mechanisms.

1. Permanent Marker

BUSAN, 2008 -> 2011

“Woori! Woori! Jeongguk is here!” Kang Mi-rae called from the kitchen, arms elbow-deep in a wide basin of cabbage and chili flakes, the sharp tang of gochugaru stinging the air.

Eleven-year-old Jeongguk appeared in the doorway like a quiet little alley cat, barefoot and already shrugging off his sandals. He’d been slipping in and out of the Kang house since he was little—like it was just another one of his own. His presence was unobtrusive yet unmistakable, always searching for one person—Jiwoo.

Their bond had been formed long before they understood it, tied together by their parents, who had delighted in their near-simultaneous births. Jeongguk had arrived on time, while Jiwoo, ever impatient, had come early, as if eager to meet him. They were their parents’ little couriers, carrying homemade dishes between houses, a tradition no one questioned.

Jeongguk never came empty-handed. And Jiwoo never left his house without a package either. Today was no different.

"Miss Kang, my mother said to wait a few more days before eating it," Jeongguk announced, his small but serious voice at odds with his round cheeks as he carefully placed a heavy grey tub on the wooden table.

Mi-rae peeked inside, clicking her tongue. "Aigoo, Jeongguk-ah, your mother is impossible! How many times do I have to tell her to stop sending me kimchi, huh?" She shook her head but smiled fondly. "Take it and give it to the Parks instead."

Jeongguk frowned, his arms straining as he grumbled, "But it’s so heavy."

"Then grow some muscles, hm?" Mi-rae teased, ruffling his hair. "Not just for the kimchi, but for Jiwoo too. Who else is going to catch her when she falls out of all those trees she likes to climb?"

"Mom!" Jiwoo huffed, stomping into the room. She wore track pants and a loose school shirt, the hem hanging longer than usual—Jeongguk’s, Mi-rae realized. She often stole his clothes, stretching them out with her restless movements, but Jeongguk never complained.

"And do we really have to deliver these to the Parks?" Jiwoo crossed her arms, her stance wide, feet planted firmly like she was ready for battle. "We're going to be late!"

"Late to what?" Mi-rae arched a brow.

“The arcade!” Jiwoo’s tone turned dire. “Taehyung’s dad just got a new DDR machine. It gets packed after lunch. We can't risk it.”

Mi-rae sighed, exasperated. "Fine, fine. But at least pack something to eat."

"Mom!"

"Thank you, Miss Kang," Jeongguk chimed in at the same time, grinning sheepishly. His fingers fidgeted at the hem of his sweater, a small habit Jiwoo had come to recognize as sheepish guilt.

She narrowed her eyes at him, already suspicious. "You can't help yourself, can you?"

He blinked innocently.

"Fine. Jeongguk, help me." With an eager nod, he trailed after her, his steps always half a beat behind hers.

Mi-rae simply smiled, shaking her head. "Make sure to pack extra," she called after them. "Jeongguk says you eat all his dosirak and leave him with nothing but seaweed and air."

Jiwoo turned sharply, shooting Jeongguk a glare. "Snitch."

Jeongguk grinned, dimples deepening like craters as he lifted the kimchi tub again. They headed out, the sun already beating down against the pavement. Jiwoo led with her usual speed, her ponytail swinging behind her, while Jeongguk adjusted to the weight of the container like he was training for military service.

Just as they rounded the corner into the Parks’ small yard, a voice rang out above.

"What you got?"

Jiwoo nearly tripped, spinning with a startled shriek. Jeongguk—ever on alert—reached for her elbow before she could fall flat.

“Yah, Jimin! You scared me, idiot!” she yelled, hands on hips.

From the rooftop, Park Jimin grinned down, dangerously perched with his knees tucked up and his smile smug. The sun caught his hair, highlighting the mischief in his crescent-shaped eyes.

"What are you even doing up there?" Jeongguk asked, shielding his face from the glare.

"Just hanging," Jimin replied, utterly nonchalant. "Let me guess, you’re going to the arcade again?"

Jiwoo rolled her eyes, shoving Jeongguk toward the front door to drop off the kimchi. "Stop acting cool and just admit you wanna come. Taehyung’s dad got a new dance machine for the arcade. It must be there by now."

Jimin’s interest visibly piqued. "Really?"

Jiwoo grinned. "Yup."

"Okay, wait for me!" Jimin beamed, his excitement bubbling over. He was small—around Jiwoo’s size—but somehow always ended up in places he wasn’t supposed to be. Then again, Jiwoo figured she shouldn’t question it, considering how often she got caught in trees herself.

Just as Jimin planted his feet on the grass, Jeongguk returned, his smile instantly vanishing at the sight of Jimin standing beside Jiwoo.

"Ji, please tell me he’s not coming," he muttered, his bowl cut flopping into his eyes as he frowned.

Jiwoo grinned, completely unfazed by his sulking. "He is! Jimin’s excited about the dance machine."

Jeongguk clicked his tongue. "Jimin always ditches us for the older kids. There’s no point."

"Yah! It’s hyung to you, twerp," Jimin shot back. Then, just to further irritate Jeongguk, he threw an arm around Jiwoo’s shoulders despite her protests. "And stop hogging Woori."

Jeongguk scowled, but before he could retaliate, Jiwoo grabbed both of their wrists and tugged them forward, her grip firm and final.

And just like that, the trio set off toward the arcade, their usual bickering and banter filling the air.

──────────────────────────────

The adventures of Jiwoo and Jeongguk began way before the two could speak proper syllables. Jeongguk older by just a few days not that he could use that in an argument. Jeongguk had always been a quiet child. Not shy, not timid—just quiet. The kind of boy who lingered rather than leaped, who watched before he acted. He had a small voice, soft and hesitant, but Jiwoo had never needed words to know what he was thinking. She had always been loud enough for the both of them.

"Yah, Jeon Jeongguk! Hurry up, slowpoke!"

The boy in question barely had time to brace himself before Jiwoo yanked him forward, her grip firm and unrelenting. She was always pulling him somewhere—into trouble, into adventures, into situations that had him standing awkwardly in the middle of a screaming match with their neighborhood friends. And he, despite all common sense, always followed.

Jiwoo on the other hand, was a firecracker, a whirlwind of energy, all sharp words and reckless limbs. If she loved you, she loved you with the force of a typhoon. And Jeongguk, as quiet as he was, had been caught in her storm for as long as he could remember.

Their childhood was a series of chaotic, sunlit days spent running through the streets of their neighborhood, challenging older kids at the arcade, and waging war against Taehyung and Jimin, who were just as unruly but somehow always ended up on the losing side. Jiwoo was their leader, their self-proclaimed queen, and Jeongguk, without ever saying it, was her most loyal knight.

That loyalty was often tested, especially when Jiwoo decided randomly almost on a daily basis, with absolute certainty, that she could climb to the top of the neighborhood's tallest tree.

"Don't," Jeongguk warned, voice barely above a murmur.

"I can do it," Jiwoo huffed, already hooking her leg over the lowest branch. "Just watch."

And he did—watched, wide-eyed and uneasy, as she scrambled higher and higher, Taehyung and Jimin cheering her on. But the higher she went, the more Jeongguk fidgeted, his hands curling into the hem of his oversized t-shirt.

Then, predictably, she slipped.

The scream that tore out of his throat shocked everyone, Jiwoo included. One second, she was flailing, and the next, Jeongguk was beneath her, arms open, ready to catch her with all the strength his tiny body could manage.

It wasn’t enough.

They both went crashing to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs and dust, groaning in pain.

"You idiot," Jiwoo wheezed, shoving his shoulder. "Why would you try to catch me?! You’re, like, half my size!"

"You were gonna fall," Jeongguk mumbled, rubbing his ribs.

Jiwoo scowled but didn’t argue. Instead, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him up, brushing dirt off his clothes with a scowl.

"Next time, just let me break my legs, okay?"

"…No."

Jiwoo groaned, but her lips twitched. She knew how irresponsible she could be, her parents reminded her often. Apologies didn’t come right away but the shame did. Jiwoo bit her tongue when Jeongguk carried her home—muddy knees, tangled hair, and all.

By the time her mother had finished checking every inch of her body, they were sitting at the dinner table. The house buzzed with the quiet chaos of a crying toddler, burnt kimchi stew, and Mi-rae’s muttering under her breath.

Jeongguk had been eating with them so often that Jiwoo’s parents had stopped asking and simply set an extra plate for him, they understood after all—he was an only child.

"Eat more, Gukkie," Mi-rae would say, piling meat onto his plate as Jiwoo’s father tried (and failed) to keep two-year-old Yuna from launching rice across the table.

"I—"

"Yeah, Gukkie, eat more!" Jiwoo teased, poking his ribs. "So I can punch you without breaking you in half."

"Jiwoo," Mi-rae warned, flicking her forehead.

"Ow! You always hit me!"

Jeongguk had barely taken a bite, but he was already biting back a laugh.

His own home was quiet—comfortable, familiar, but never quite as loud as the Kang’s. His parents were kind, gentle souls like him, with voices that never rose above the hum of the television. They loved him, he knew, but they didn’t hover, didn’t fuss the way Jiwoo’s family did.

Maybe that’s why he liked it there so much.

His own home was quiet—comfortable and warm in a way he appreciated, but never quite as alive as the Kangs’. His parents were gentle, soft-spoken people, with voices that barely rose above the evening news. They loved him, of course, but they didn’t hover, didn’t fuss, didn’t fight with love the way Jiwoo’s family did.

Maybe that’s why he liked it there so much.

But it wasn’t always just the two of them. Jiwoo lived right next door to the Parks, where a boy two years older—Jimin—also roamed. Jimin, despite the age gap, played with them like he was one of their own. He was charming, bold, a menace just like Jiwoo. And Jeongguk, well... he didn’t love that. Jimin was her biggest hype-man, egging on every wild idea she had like they shared a single brain cell.

Then there was Taehyung. Tae lived a block away with his grandmother and dad, who ran the town’s best arcade and a little sundae shop that always smelled like sugar and burnt popcorn. He’d moved to Busan when Jeongguk and Jiwoo were five—instantly folded into their days like he belonged there. Out of everyone, Jeongguk liked Tae the most. Tae was level-headed, thoughtful and more his speed.

But even then, even when the four of them were together, Jiwoo and Jeongguk were always off in their own orbit.

And Jiwoo made sure everyone knew it.

“They’re not part of our duo,” she said once, flatly, after Jimin tried to call them a “squad.” “You and me, Guk. We’re the main characters. They’re just guests.”

And somehow… that made sense to him.

"Jeongguk is only my best friend," Jiwoo declared one evening, arms crossed as she glared at Jimin.

"You don’t own him!" Jimin shot back. "Right, Jeongguk?"

Jeongguk, caught between them, blinked. "Uh…"

"See? You’re stressing him out!" Jiwoo snapped, stepping in front of him protectively.

Taehyung, never one to miss an opportunity for chaos, smirked. "What if I steal Jeongguk, huh?"

"I dare you," Jiwoo hissed.

Jimin scoffed. "Jeongguk’s not a prize to win, Woori."

"No, but I bet he’d pick me over you."

"In your dreams."

As their bickering escalated, Jeongguk sighed. This was his life.

Years later, he would still follow her home. Still let her drag him into trouble. Still get caught in her storm, powerless against her pull.

And even if he never had the words to say it, Jiwoo always knew, through his lingering presence, through the way he never left her side—he would always, always choose her first.

Jiwoo, on the other hand, didn’t think too deeply about Jeongguk. He had always just been there. Like the curve of her elbow or the nail on her pinky toe—things she didn’t question, didn’t inspect, because they were so fundamentally hers. From every birthday candle she blew out to every drop from a random tree, Jeongguk was present in the backdrop. Laughing, limping, tattling, or handing her a tissue without asking. He was stitched into her timeline in a way that didn’t feel poetic, just...natural.

Kids rarely stop to dissect things like that. They accept constants like gravity.

Jeongguk wishes he could say the same.

But Jeongguk never had the luxury of ignoring Jiwoo. His life came with a quiet clause: where she goes, you follow. No one ever said it out loud, but everyone lived as if they’d agreed to it. He knew when to grab her collar before she got herself chased, when to yank her ankle before she leapt too far, and exactly how loud to yell when she needed pulling back from the edge—literal or otherwise.

He’s never told her she’s not invincible.

Never mentioned how her knees shake when she climbs too high, or how her hand instinctively finds his shirt when strange boys taunt her. Jiwoo doesn’t remember it, but he does, how she used to duck behind him when she felt smaller, her breath hot against his back as her mouth called the shots but her body sought shelter.

And maybe she still does.

Maybe some part of her still assumed he’d always be there to catch her. That’s the thing about kids—they don’t notice the safety net until they fall straight into it.

And sometimes, the net looked a lot like Jeongguk.

Because if he had a superpower, it was how scarily observant he was. Especially when it came to Jiwoo. She’d just turned thirteen that September and lately, something was off. Her sharp tongue had always been part of her personality, but now it felt… excessive. Mean, even, for no reason. She flinched when someone bumped into her in the hallway. She stared at her reflection too long in the morning—tugging at her bangs, turning sideways like something had shifted.

They didn’t talk about it. But Jeongguk noticed.

7th grade was unforgettable. Not for exams, or class field trips, or the new teacher who smelled like expired cologne—but because that was the year he figured out what was going on with Jiwoo.

It was a random Tuesday afternoon, one of those long, dragging days when the heaters barely worked and everyone was waiting for the last bell to escape. Their classroom buzzed with the end-of-day shuffle—pens clicking, girls retying ribbons on their beige uniforms, phones hidden under desks as they texted away on chunky secondhand flip phones and clunky Anycall slide models.

Jiwoo didn’t notice anything right away.

Not until the girls behind her started whispering. Pointing. Snickering.

And then she looked down.

The dark patch on her seat stared back like a death sentence.

Her brain short-circuited. No. No no no no. This isn’t happening.

This was supposed to happen at home. Or with warning. Cramps. Cramps were supposed to be part of the deal! Her mom said there’d be cramps!

She stood quickly—then sat back down even faster. Oh my God. What if there’s a trail? Her knees pressed together, both hands gripping the seat like a sinking life raft.

How long have I been walking around like this? Since PE? Since lunch? Did anyone say anything? Were they just being polite? Or—oh god, what if there’s already a group chat—

“Miss Kang?” The teacher looked at her, frowning. Everyone else had started packing up. She hadn’t moved.

“I—I didn’t get all the notes,” she blurted, pointing weakly to the board, her thighs clenched like a vice.

The teacher shrugged, not in the mood to argue—not with his precious fifteen-minute break coming up. The room cleared quickly after that.

As soon as the coast was clear, she yanked out her phone and typed like her life depended on it.

Jiwoo: EMERGENCY!!! I NEED YOU TO FREAKING TELEPORT TO MR. SHIN'S CLASS, RIGHT NOW!!!!

Three minutes later, Jeongguk burst into the classroom—wide-eyed, breathless, and clearly mid-sprint.

But all he found was Jiwoo sitting stiff as a board.

He blinked. “What’s the emergency?”

She stood slightly.

He looked down at the seat. His brow creased, not in disgust, just... curiosity. No recoil. No flinching. Just the calm scrutiny of someone doing mental math.

“You need new pants.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she hissed.

“Okay. Stay here. I’ll go ask Miss Lee for a change of clothes. And a tampon.”

She gasped. “You can’t say that word in public!”

“You’re bleeding, aren’t you? I think that’s what they’re for.”

Jiwoo groaned, burying her face in both hands. “Oh my God.”

Jeongguk crouched beside her desk like they were planning a prison escape. “I’ve seen them before. My mom has a box in the bathroom. They look like tiny cotton torpedoes. With strings.”

“Stop. Talking. Do you want to die?”

“I think you shove it up there and it just—absorbs everything?” he added, nodding like a scientist confirming a theory.

Jiwoo squinted. “Wait. Up there? Like inside-inside?”

They both froze.

“...Like up there?” she whispered.

Jeongguk looked horrified. “Oh my god, is that how it works?”

“I don’t know!! Gguk, I’m going to die!”

“You’re not gonna die,” he said, deadpan, as she smacked his arm. “Why are you so calm?!”

“Because you’re not.”

She stopped. Stared. It wasn’t a joke. He meant it.

That had always been their rhythm: if she spiraled, he anchored.

He stood, brushing dust from his school uniform. “I’ll get Teacher Lee. I’ll say it’s a… ‘girl emergency.’ That’ll do it.”

Jiwoo was blushing so hard her ears burned. She was holding back a sob and a laugh, caught somewhere between this is the end and this idiot is saving my life.

“You’re so dumb,” she mumbled.

He smirked. “But useful.”

She watched him jog off down the hallway—her wiry little best friend in his oversized blazer and scuffed sneakers, disappearing around the corner like some kind of weird, period-positive superhero.

And the thing was... in that moment, with blood in her underwear and her social life dangling by a thread—she hadn’t thought to call anyone else. Her brain hadn’t even needed to think. It just sent the signal:

Jeongguk.

He came back ten minutes later, panting, clutching a navy pair of school-issue sweatpants, a brown paper bag, and a hall pass. He set them down like a soldier delivering aid in a war zone.

Inside the bag was a pad. Not a tampon.

“That one seemed less horrifying,” he said.

Jiwoo blinked at the pad like it was cursed. “I really need to start paying more attention in class.”

───────────────────────────────

Jiwoo didn’t just admire Jeongguk for his quiet reliability—she admired him because he was disgustingly talented. Like, unfairly good at almost everything. Drawing? Decent. Sports? Naturally athletic. Math? Don’t even get her started. But what really set him apart—what she secretly envied and adored—was his love for music.

She couldn’t remember exactly when it started, or how, but Jeongguk’s fascination with sound had always been there. Like his shadow. They used to walk to school sharing a tangled pair of earbuds, an old MP3 player shuffling through an odd mix of Korean ballads, Japanese anime intros, American rock, and whatever hip-hop Jiwoo was obsessed with that week. Jeongguk barely talked most days, but when he did, it was usually about a song, a rhythm, or the beat of something stuck in his head. For months, he talked about one thing in particular: how badly he wanted a guitar.

Not just any guitar—a real one. Not plastic, not a toy. A proper secondhand Cort AD810 guitar he saw at a nearby music shop, still too expensive for a middle-class kid. He begged his parents like it was life or death. And when Christmas of 2010 rolled around, he finally got his wish.

Jiwoo would never forget the way he screamed.

It was ridiculous, honestly—like he’d won a World Cup, jumping up with his fists in the air, the Yamaha box nearly slipping from his hands. The Kang and Jeon families had gathered that year in the Kangs’ small living room, the floor lined with blankets and the table crowded with dishes of galbijjim, tteokguk, and sweet honey-dipped yakgwa. Christmas wasn’t a huge thing in most Korean households, but this was their tradition, warm food, shared space, too many people in one room, and the chaotic joy of kids tearing open boxes while adults watched, laughing and yelling over each other.

Jiwoo got a painting starter kit that year—watercolors, brushes, a small wooden easel. It was everything she asked for, and she did love it. But watching Jeongguk cradle his guitar like it was some fragile miracle made her feel full in a way that had nothing to do with food or presents. She didn’t even open hers right away. Just sat next to him, listening to his fingers already try to mimic the positions he saw on YouTube.

From that day on, everything shifted. They still hung out in Jiwoo’s room most days, but after Christmas, it became normal to find her in Jeongguk’s instead—cross-legged on his floor while he stumbled through chords, tongue poking out of concentration. The guitar was almost too big for him at first, but he didn’t care. He practiced until his fingertips blistered.

Jiwoo, of course, was no help. If anything, she was a menace. She made up lyrics over his clumsy strumming, narrated his progress like a talent show judge, and once compared his playing to the sound of a dying seal.

“Ji, do you want to be banned?” he threatened one afternoon, scowling over the neck of his guitar.

“You need me,” she grinned, smug as ever. “I’m your number one fan and your biggest hater.”

He banned her anyway. Twice.

It never stuck.

But Jiwoo wasn’t always annoying. If Jeongguk really wanted to ban her—for real, no take-backs—he would’ve done it. He just never did. Couldn’t. There were days when she was so adorably supportive, he had to fight off a grin, that nose-scrunching kind he did when something warmed him from the inside out.

His favorite moments were the quiet ones. When she’d lie on her stomach on his bed, chin propped on her arms, bare feet kicking in the air as she watched him practice. She never complained—not even when the chords he played came out completely wrong. She didn’t pretend to like it either. She just...stayed. And that was more than enough.

When he started growing frustrated, mumbling curses under his breath, he’d glance up and there she was, hands up in a frame around her face, squinting right through the center like she was lining up a shot.

“What are you doing?” he asked one day, finally too curious to ignore it.

“Documenting,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Ji, that’s not a real camera,” he deadpanned, irritation bleeding through his voice.

“And you’re not a real musician,” she chirped back, syrupy sweet. “So just play with me, won’t you?”

He tried not to laugh. Failed miserably.

She kept doing it—“documenting”—while he kept practicing. And even though her commentary was useless, he found that he missed it the second it stopped. Especially when she’d fall asleep mid-session, arms tucked beneath her cheek, mouth slightly open, lashes fanned across her cheeks. He’d finally get some peace and quiet but somehow, it felt lonelier.

That’s when he’d switch to writing lyrics. Scribbling them down in the corners of his notebooks like secrets. He was only thirteen, so none of it was genius, but it felt honest. Personal. Real. Even Jiwoo wasn’t allowed to read them. Not because he didn’t trust her, because he did. He just...needed one thing that was his alone.

She supported him in her own way. She printed out sheet music from the school library, children’s lullabies and anime theme songs. She called him ambitious for trying anything that wasn’t a three-chord progression. When his fingers got so raw he couldn’t even hold a pencil properly, she took a bus by herself to the music shop in Seomyeon, downtown Busan.

And just as she was walking back through their neighborhood—snow crunching under her boots, cheeks pink from the cold—she spotted him loitering outside her house like a suspicious elf.

“Boo!” she said, jabbing his side.

Jeongguk jumped, startled, tugging down his hoodie over his fluffy bowl cut. “Freaking hell, Ji,” he muttered, rubbing his ribs. “You scared the crap outta me.”

“Why are you sneaking around?” she asked, brows raised. “You do know you’re allowed to just walk in, right? My parents like you more than me.”

“I—I was supposed to help your dad with seaweed at the pier,” he mumbled, eyes flicking guiltily toward the Kang house. “But I pulled my hamstring.”

Jiwoo blinked. “Doing what?”

He shifted awkwardly. “W-working out.”

She squinted at his red ears and limp-walk, biting back a laugh. “Right. Sure. Athlete Gguk. Noted.”

Without warning, she extended her arm, hand in a fist.

“Here,” she said simply, eyes glinting.

He blinked at it, like she might be holding a spider or one of her weird science experiments. Cautiously, he opened his palm beneath hers—and out dropped a small black guitar pick. Smooth. Worn. With the letter J etched in English at the center.

His eyes widened. “Is this...?”

“I saw how busted your fingers were. Figured you needed one,” she said, trying not to sound too proud. “That’s what guitarists use, right?”

He stared at the pick, speechless. The kind of quiet that doesn’t come from confusion but from being a little too overwhelmed. He didn’t tell her he hadn’t reached that level yet—hadn’t earned the pick. He just nodded slowly.

“They do...” he murmured. “But, Ji…you went to Seomyeon alone?”

She shrugged. “I wanted to. You wouldn’t have done it yourself.”

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, holding the pick tighter. “J for Jeongguk?”

“No, idiot. J for Jiwoo,” she said with a huff. “So you never forget me when you’re famous.”

He laughed at that, looping an arm around her neck and tugging her close. The pick was already stuffed deep in his pocket like treasure.

“First of all, I never said I want to be famous,” he said. “And second… even if I did, there’s no way I could forget you.”

She smiled against his hoodie. Then—

“How could anyone forget someone this annoying?” he added with a smirk.

Her smile dropped. She punched him in the gut—lightly, but with feeling—and they continued down the road, arguing like they always did. Neither of them knew exactly where they were going.

But together felt like the right direction.

Their early years were their golden era. Both would agree on that. Even when their words will inevitably become knives and their silences louder than any song Jeongguk could ever play, this time in their lives remained untouched. Sacred, almost.

They were too young to understand it then, but they had built something rare. Safe. The kind of friendship people write poems about.

High school came like a storm no one saw coming.

And with it came the inevitable shift. They were still Jiwoo and Jeongguk—but not in the same way. Not the easy kind. Not the childhood kind. Their dynamic began to change in ways neither of them had the language to stop.

And it wasn’t bad at first. Not right away.

But it was the kind of change that makes you miss what you had before even though it's still right in front of you, just...cracked around the edges.

It would be years before they could say what really happened.

By then, it would be too late.

───────────────────────────────

Present day.

The ticking of the clock was too loud.

Dr. Choi had been quiet for some time now, her pen stilled on the yellow legal pad in her lap. She’d stopped writing somewhere between the mention of shared MP3s and that Christmas in 2010. When she finally spoke, her voice was a quiet thread.

“It sounds like the two of you shared something… very rare,” she said gently. “A kind of friendship that most people go their whole lives without experiencing.”

Jiwoo nodded once. Her arms were folded tightly across her stomach, knees pulled up toward her chest. The sleeves of her hoodie were stretched beyond their natural length, fists clenched inside them like she was trying to disappear into the cotton. The counselor's office felt colder now than it had twenty minutes ago.

“Yeah,” Jiwoo murmured. “We were lucky.”

Dr. Choi waited a beat, then asked the inevitable.

“What happened in high school?”

Jiwoo's face crumpled the moment the question left the air. Not all at once—but gradually, in waves. Her jaw clenched, eyes fluttered shut. She turned her face toward the armrest of the couch, but not quick enough to hide how red her eyes had gone. A tear slipped down her cheek and she wiped it away so fast it almost looked practiced. As if she was done giving her tears attention.

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tugged at her sleeves again. The way she folded into herself—chin tucked, spine curled, lip trembling—made her look small. Nothing like the bright, clever girl running barefoot through alleys with Jeongguk. Or the paint-stained child sitting cross-legged on the floor, giving him hell for missing a chord.

“That’s when...a lot changed,” she whispered.

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Chapter 2: Teenage Fever -> Coming Soon...