#But I needed to get it out because it's all I've been thinking about for a while.

[dio-icarticaae]

Being an active participant in democracy is not something you do every 4 years when there's a presidential election - and that attitude is a significant factor in how we ended up here. The Republican party made an effort to get its voter base to turn out and vote straight R for Every. Single. Election. for about 40 years - we need to do the same.

Also: voting is in no way the be-all end all of democracy. It's merely choosing, out of the options you have, who will get you closer to your goals. Democracy requires participation, you have to show up. Look into what your city council and local officials are doing, and when meetings are - and show up! Make noise at school board meetings against book banners. Support your local library board! Contact your local officials and tell them what you think about what they're doing!

And that last part is especially important - it can be easy sometimes to think that because elected officials have power they're the "boss" but it's the exact opposite. We The People hired them for the job by voting, and We The People can fire them by voting them out. THEY work for YOU. They are where there are to represent YOU. So make noise! If you like what they're doing, tell them that! It gives them the courage to keep doing so. If you don't like what they're doing, DEFINITELY tell them that - politicians get nervous when their constituents are angry at them. Make them nervous!! (but do be polite to the staffer taking the call, they don't necessarily agree with your elected official). This is helpful even with the most stubborn legislators - pressure works, and even if it doesn't flip their vote that time, it helps for the future.

If you're overwhelmed by this, I get it - it's hard and I've been doing this for a little under a decade and I still get tongue tied sometimes. I recommend having a script for you to follow - it doesn't need to be long, just an introduction of you as a constituent and a couple of sentences on what you're calling about and why, before finishing up. I also recommend connecting with activist groups for issues you're invested in - they often have lists of legislation they're supporting or opposing and are happy to send you an email when one of those bills comes up with a script and who to contact. It's best to change the script a little so that your legislator doesn't get a bunch of identical calls/emails, but it's a very good basis for your script AND you'll be advocating precisely and relevantly on that issue for specific legislation.

Anyway, back to the topic of elections and showing up for them; there are quite a few in 2025 and they are important:

I highly recommend Bolts Magazine for election reporting, especially on local elections and how they related to criminal justice reform - each year they have a breakdown of local elections and what the implications are. Bolts hasn't made their 2025 elections page yet, but they do have a list of prosecutor and sheriff elections in 2025:

All of these are important for a variety of reasons, but the incredibly important ones here:

WI has a supreme court election! This is CRUCIAL - it'll determine the political makeup of the Wisconsin Supreme court for at least the next year, and whoever is elected will be on the court for 10 years. The Wisconsin Supreme Court decides a lot of things and making sure Republicans don't gain control is critically important to dismantle the extreme gerrymandering in WI as well as who decides what is and is not constitutional in Wisconsin. I don't need to tell you how crucial that is.

NJ and VA both have Governor races. In NJ, the goal is to keep the governorship to maintain a Dem trifecta - controlling the state house, senate, and governorship. In VA, the goal is to gain a Dem trifecta with a Dem governor.

Americans, I know we're going through it, but why do I keep seeing stuff like "I'm sorry world, we'll fix this in 4 years"? But like... what do you mean "4 years"?

We have midterm in 2026, yearly local elections, special elections, primaries, etc.

We have the right (dare I say responsibility) to contact our representatives and the right to organize and protest if/when they don't listen.

We need to find a meaningful way to educate people about propaganda and media literacy. We need to convince people to be willing to educate themselves. The habit of only checking in to politics on presidential election years needs broken.

I understand how defeating today feels, but we, especially those of us who could conceivably make it through these four years unscathed, need to stop this proactive surrender.

[salontiwon]

- 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 ִ ֶ 𓂃

[nonidol!hubby jw x fem!wifey]

࣪𓏲ּ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃

Summary: [you and jw are married, and lately you've been feeling insecure/left out cuz he's been spending so much time with him co-workers, staying late at the company and work "parties", he hasn't even slept with you in bed for a long while, it made you feel less specially bcs you're unemployed and just his housewife, your intense insecurities made you think that you're just there for his pleasure, in a heated argument he says some words that were heavy on your heart, he felt guilty and decided to take a break with you away from this world]

Warnings: unprotected sex, breeding, fingering, creampie, cock stroking, pet names? (Baby idk), insecure/paranoid reader,smoking, overstimulation, idk what else tell me if I forgot or didn't know abt something

Note: I can say this is my first (I've been writing tho) but it's my first time posting in this acc and I'm kinda embarrassed/anxious idk why, hope nobody judges and if there's any mistakes I'm willing to receive corrections and education from anyone who comes across my work, thank you.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT FOR YOUR OWN GOOD OR IMMA GENUINELY CRY.

Waiting on the couch, finally deciding to confront your husband about his insanely busy time lately, despite knowing it even before marriage that his job as an important part of that company will automatically take most of his time.

biting on your nails as your insecurities race in your head, like you're hearing another version of yourself making fun of you, look how the "sweet" husband is making you wait, he's out at work parties and god knows where, but all you can do is sit here and clean his dirt.

as the door clicks open, you sit up without a second thought, leaning on the wall at the end of the entry hall "jungwon we have to talk" you say firmly before walking back to the living room

with a loose tie and a few buttons of his shirt undone he follows you, "now? But sweetie I'm so tire-" , "jungwon I said we need to talk" you repeat, making his frustration grow slightly, "and what's so important that you're willing to take the time I should be resting in to 'talk' huh?" He says, and your sensitive heart already started beating faster, scared of not handling this discussion well.

"where are you staying till this hour this last period? Yes you'd say at work but even work won't give you the right to leave me like that!" Your voice trembles, and yes to keep strong, you thought raising your voice slightly would make you feel strong but it only fueled the fire of his frustration and exhaustion, "really?! Are you questioning my loyalty now?! You knew what you were getting into the day I knelt to propose to you!" He yells back.

"I'm not questioning your loyalty I'm just saying, whatever it is, you shouldn't have been THIS absent, it's like I'm single!" You argue.

"'it's like I'm single' my ass, darling please stop being so paranoid I'm too tired to deal with your insecurities right now" he walks to the bedroom, taking his clothes off and slipping under the blanket.

"really jungwon!! You're infuriating! Get up and let's discuss this!" You walk to bed madly throwing the blanket off his body, he sits up but with a deadly gaze this time.

"oh really now you wanna be like this huh?! Okay guess what, I didn't tell you to be here 24/7 , I wouldn't mind if you went to work anywhere and stayed all you wanted doing your job! But you can't force me to drop everything and come running to your arms because of your little insecurities probably about some stretch marks and a massive inferiority complex! You chose to be a housewife then be it! I don't have to fucking pay!" He stands up, his pillow in his hand and a blanket he grabs from the closet in the time you were frozen there, goosebumps all over your skin and tears threatening to fall. It was like a slap on the face making you feel ashamed, embarrassed, hurt and even more frustrated.

he walks down to the living room, falling easily asleep on the couch, signaling that the exhaustion he was going through wasn't as satisfying as you thought it was for him. You slip under the blanket crying yourself to sleep, feeling slightly guilty for ruining his rest, yet you feel hurt yourself.

The night then passes quietly and so are the next few days, awkwardness growing between you two, both feeling guilty but obviously his guilt was greater, he'd occasionally buy your favourite snacks and put them in the drawers without talking to you, or asking about you, above all the stress he was under, your expression that night couldn't leave his mind, how could he say such a cruel thing to such a sweet little soul, he understood your frustration because from where you saw it, it was just the surface, he only thinks about how he left his exhaustion get the best of him, he had the perfect way to gain your smile back but he still has to work on it a little more.

-

Your eyes slowly fluttering open, you feel a gentle hum, like a car's engine, and after a few blinks and checks, you finally hear

"finally awake?" You feel a big hand on your thigh waking you up completely.

"what's that..my head's spinning" you place your palms on your temples.

"you'll be fine, just lean back and take a deep breath" jungwon smiles pushing you against the back of the car cushion gently by your chest, and as minutes pass, you feel better as you get distracted by the view of the rainy weather and nature surrounding you both and running back as the car paces forward, you even forgot to ask the questions that were in your mind, with your head resting against the window, the sadness started creeping through your calm heart, you immediately start feeling frustrated again at being stuck with him in the car, "how did I get here and where are we going?!" You look at the car's clock, noticing it's 6:00 am, where the hell could he be taking you at this hour. "Do you trust me?" He asks, "jungwon answer me and stop-" he cuts you off "I said, do you trust me?!" He turns to face you just seconds before refocusing on the road, you can't help but nod, after all, an argument won't immediately kill the trust you had for him, "yes I do, so stop being ridiculous and answer my questions" you insist in a slightly annoyed tone making a reassuring smile spread across his face, even tho deep inside you, you knew it's whether a surprise or a way for him to reconnect with you, you wanted an answer.

"just relax, I'm kidnapping my wife is it illegal now?" He smiles making you scoff, you were still so frustrated, but at least seeing this side of him, now you know it really is something good for you, taking you to a restaurant or something, just before you get distracted again by the view and you find yourself out in Dreamland.

-

At the slight trembling of the car and the sounds of the wheels crashing the hard dirt rocks, you wake up again, your eyes immediately at the clock and they widen, it's now 11 am! You really slept for another five hours in such a position , you look through the window at the pine trees everywhere then look back at him.

"where are you taking me you've been driving for hours! My back is sore" just after hushing you, a wooden, modest house in the middle makes its way to your sight, making you let out a "eh?" , A wide smile you tried to suppress taking over your confused features and a slight flush of embarrassment, cuz after all, you're still hurt and frustrated.

His own face breaks into a grin, brushing your hair back to take a better look, "looks like my girl's excited" , your blush deepens and you push his hand away but gently, "stop it...tell me where we are instead"

without answering, he's stepping out of the car, rushing to the trunk under this heavy rain, he carries the bags he prepared last night, the ones you saw him preparing and thought he was leaving you before you fell into a strange slumber, while he's heading towards the front door, he stops outside the passenger's seat side, knocking at your window with one busy hand.

"afraid of rain?" He jokes, his voice muffled by the door and the sound of rain drops surrounding you, making you shake your head before opening the door and stepping out yourself.

"You look like a maniac" you take one of the lighter bags from his grip.

"oh madam mature, we used to kiss under skies like that". He smirks again, his words making your heart skip a beat at the memory.

-

With that you finally are stepping inside this house, welcomed by a warm, well tidied up place and the natural fragrance of pine trees surrounding the place outside, the sound of the heavy rain again gets muffled letting both your ears buzzing, you drop the bags in the entry and step in, looking at the modest place, old fashioned couches and handmade details, everywhere you look you'd see a frame, a vase, a rug, and it makes you feel so warm inside, it's nothing like those modern almost empty houses that look nothing like your inner soul, a fireplace at the end of the living room making you mumble

"wow..." You turn back around to face him, he was ruffling his damp hair in the little mirror by the entry and fixing it, before smiling and walking up to you, "like it?" He asked, wrapping his arms around your waist, you immediately tense, you were still frustrated with him, still insecure and slightly embarrassed that this all might be just because he noticed the dilemma you were in. to play it off, you step away taking one of the discarded blankets on the couch ,that was part of the house aesthetic and you knew it, but you're too nervous to play the knowing girl, "god.. why's this here.." You whisper nervously like ‘to yourself‚ making him roll his eyes, a flush creeping to his ears at how you pulled away but he tried not to focus on it for now, but again he didn't give up , grabbing your busy hand, "let me show you the rest", you nod with a blank stare and follow him.

Walking up a few rugged stairs, it was a larger space, with two closed doors and an open one, he steps inside, "here's the kitchen" he turns to face you but you were already stunned, looking at the small fridge, the colored napkins on the counter, the small window and the colored, decorated plates, unlike the plain ones you had back at home, it was like the kitchen you always wanted, since you were a little girl even, the sight makes you squeeze his hand excitedly, and he excitedly responds by stepping out to show you more, he opens one of the closed doors, and there it was, the cozy, warm bedroom with printed walls, and a bed in the center with a soft thick mattress on it, covered with soft printed sheets and pillowcases and a thick blanket, a big window with the incredible view of the rainy weather outside, a beautiful, old fashioned wardrobe with beautiful carved details. You continue looking around in pure awe before he breaks the silence again.

"I'm going to bring the bags so we can make ourselves home"

You turned to ask but he was already walking down the stairs, you were again left with unanswered questions and a frustrating confusion.

Ignoring the awkwardness of the situation he left to do so as you continued checking the place, time passed and you two organised almost everything, showering and changing into comfortable clothes, the sky darkens and the house gets warm when he turns on the fireplace, your housewife and caring nature kicking in, heading to that kitchen of your dreams wanting to cook something, he stepped in behind you, "need help?" He asked, "of course I do, I don't know where anything is" you manage to make him chuckle, immediately start opening the drawers and closing, you two delve into the task and it turns to awkward jokes and forced giggles, you were still deeply hurt and paranoid about his love for you, and he was still thinking about how he could envelope you in his arms again.

Dinner, cleaning, joking, organising, it all passed now and it was kinda too platonic too. you're sitting alone by the fireplace with a cup of cinnamon tea in your hands, he was sitting on the couch across from you, his laptop on his lap completing the final point of his work as he said.

"drink your tea before it gets cold" , without being told twice, he folds his laptop closed and places it beside him, grabbing his mug, you kinda regret telling him that, your paranoia making you think that you're forcing him to enjoy his time with you, you zone out on the fire that's eating on the woods, minutes passing as you both sip and sip, before he immediately places his mug down.

"y/n, I'm sorry..." He breaks the silence making your heart jump with his directness, but you feel guilty for making him feel bad for doing his job, so you just go with "sorry? For what..or what exactly?" You place your own cup down.

He moves to sit beside you, "we know each other too well to act this clueless.." his voice drops to a low murmur, and there you were, realising he's right, you're both mature, adults, grown ups enough to address the elephant in the room. Or at least FINALLY cuz you told him to do so multiple times before his hurtful words, but now that he isn't busy and you're both ready, it'll be more logical.

"you're right...but jungwon, I genuinely hate feeling triggered by you doing your job, I wanna change it but...I just can't and.." hearing your voice admitting that, it almost makes his eyes tear up, as you look into his eyes and you both admire the vulnerability in each other's features, he cups your face and leans closer.

"why are you so precious?" He couldn't hold himself back anymore, his nose tracing your jaw, you squeeze your eyes shut and take a shuddering breath.

"jungwon i.." you were stopped by his burning lips against yours, you immediately melted into the kiss, despite your insecurities eating at you, don't give in, it's just for his pleasure, just for his satisfaction, but fuck, you were deprived of his touch for too long to complain.

He pulls away to look into your eyes, his cinnamon scented breath brushing against your delicate features. "Can I fuck the doubts out of your little pretty head?" He asked, and a slight, shy smile spreads across your face, he's my husband, he chose me to be his, he picked me to be his wife, you think looking at him then back at the diamond ring on your finger "do you want to?" you whisper almost shyly.

"do I want to? Do you wanna find out if I want to?" He whispers with a smiley, deep voice, one of his hands unbuckling his belt, his face nuzzling your neck to make you smile and you did despite your attempts to fight it back, your thighs squeezed together as if trying to hold back the wetness that's uncontrollably leaking out of you as well, cuz with the way his breath is brushing against your skin, and the way he was licking and kissing on your neck? You couldn't say no. All you could do is let out a whisper of "I want it..."

Now with your legs around his waist and arms around his neck, you don't even notice the way to where you're now bouncing on that bed as he threw you.

Unbuckling his belt completely and baring himself before you, he straddles you and rips your pjs top off, tracing the outline of your bra.

"so insecure for what" he whispers as if in disbelief, mostly to himself, before turning you around like you weigh nothing to unclasp your bra, throwing it across the cozy room, followed by your undies, making you shiver.

and he can finally see the ass he loves , the stretch marks he adores,his palm connecting with your ass in a hard slap, making you whimper, reminding you both of the first night after your wedding party. He gets up again, grabbing a towel from the bathroom and lifting your hips, placing it beneath you.

He turns you back to face him, smiling up at you reassuringly, his big hands on your skin, it reminds you of all the times you let yourself go with him and ended up being a satisfied little thing nestled in his arms ,you uncontrollably smile back at him.

He kneels beside your legs, lifting one to rest on his shoulder, his finger gently running along your slit, "so wet bby" he murmurs, making you hiss and squeeze your eyes shut "am I?" You whisper, before whimpers start falling outta your mouth like a broken record when you feel his finger slipping inside your desperate hole, you open your eyes to look at him, seeing him too focused, his cock rock hard against his stomach as he fingers you, a second finger was already in, curling and stroking your g-spot with ease, as if he had a perfectly defined map of your body.

His lips kissing and nipping at your inner thigh, before he sniffs deeply, "you smell like love bby.." he murmurs, one hand gripping your thigh, and the other inside your pussy as you moan and squirm on that bed enjoying yourself, all your worries and frustration is aside for the moment when you're feeling this good.

You look down at him, before your other foot moves to his cock, stroking it gently, he buries his face deeper in your soft thigh as he groans "uh...fuck..." His fingers start moving faster before he looks down at you again. The sight makes him smile even in this hot mess, you both giving pleasure to each other, like the real couple that you are.

"you like that bby? Here?" He strokes a specific spot, making your eyes water as he looks down at you, teasing yet genuinely loving you, his fingers started moving even faster overwhelming that spot, before he feels a pressure pushing his fingers out, just as he does, they were followed by a heavy flow of your waters, and this sight made him leak down your toes, "fuck...Fuck you just squirted baby.." his hot seed spilling down your foot and your essences covering his abs.

you pant, covering your face before he straddles you again, kissing your neck, "are you alright baby?" He tried to peek at your beautiful, flushed face, little did he know you were giggling shyly behind those little hands "yea..", his eyebrows furrow in light curiosity and he pulls your hands away with his "look look who just made a mess and is now giggling .." he said, trying so hard not to ravish you, he wanted to be buried deep in you RIGHT THEN AND THERE, but he has to ask, knowing how paranoid you can get afterwards.

"..can you handle intercourse right now?" He asked, gripping a fistful of your hair and dragging your head back to bite on your neck and sniff, making you know that even if you say no, he'll never stop jerking off on that bed all night long because of you, you look down at his hard cock, making you bite your lip, his hand cups your pussy , caressing your sensitive folds, coaxing you to say yes, "is this a yes? You feel that pretty pussy asking for hubby's cock baby?" He coos, You moan, letting him know that it's a damn official yes and he didn't waste any more time, immediately pushing his tip inside your cunt followed by every inch, he groans in sync with your loud moan at the sensation of finally feeling this again.

Minutes pass and you're now a flushed, moaning mess with tears running down your temples and hair tousled in the sheets, the sight only making him go feral, changing angles every two minutes, hitting deeper and scratching every itch of yours, "you're so tight...fuck and you smell like pure debauchery right now baby.." a hot, panting laugh escapes him, as he continues his thrusts, but even in this situation, your insecurities were still there, and you decided to try to make him look at you, even tho you knew he becomes an animal in heat when he's like that, but it was as if your insecurities were challenging you...you mumble weakly "babe look at me .." but all you get back is two hungry, mad eyes "shut up not now...not when your pussy is feeling this nice baby..okay?."

His gaze softens SLIGHTLY as he looks at you and remembers you're his little lovely woman who's always paranoid and insecure, before sliding his middle and ring finger inside your mouth, he loved being surrounded by your soft inner flesh squeezing him everywhere, he loves feeling possessed by your warmth and giving it back to you, your pussy immediately clench around his cock when you feel his possession of you, the fierce love and lust making you spread your legs wider looking for a fourth orgasm when you feel your pussy getting this slippery, and when he sees the sight in front of him, his eyes almost pop out of his head, your legs wide open, your face flushed and tears all over it, hair in the sheets and your breasts bouncing.

the thought that his thrusts can't get stronger already gets forgotten when he starts fucking you senseless, the bed creaking and skin slapping and here is when your screams couldn't be held back anymore, you grip the sheets in your hands and scream his name nonstop "won... please don't stop..." Your voice making him grip your waist tighter, fucking you fast and hard , the strokes making you feel like your walls are about to explode due to the thick pressure pushing them apart , he reaches out, rubbing your clit, his gaze on his bulge beneath the skin of your lower abdomen.

you start gasping for air when the familiar lightness of your hips starts taking over you making you grind against him, your eyes rolling back as you let out a choked moan, your walls yet again squeezing his dick inside you, and this was all he needed to let go, his hips jerking deep inside you as he groans, his head tilted back and eyes squeezed shut, his hot seed planted deep in your precious inside as he gives a few more thrusts riding out your orgasms. You thought he'd stop now, but the thrusts to calm his twitching dick down only seemed to arouse him again, he didn't stop, and there you were overstimulated and still taking his cock like the good wife that you are, more tears spilling down but your worn out expression only makes him go insane.

His hands grip your breasts making you gasp, it was satisfying, even when you thought you can't cum a fifth time, he continues fucking you madly, there was another hole in the back, but he always thought why would he use it when your puffy tight cunt is there?

Sweat forming on his whole body as he fucks you like a psychopath, you look at him with your completely wrecked expression and it melts your heart seeing obsessed he looks right now, you'll never stop him, even when his thumbs spread your folds to look at his length getting sucked inside then harshly pulling back out, he hisses at the sight, eyes fixated in there and as he starts rolling his hips sensually you knew he was in the verge of filling you up again, you start tightening your cervix muscles, making him roar "uhhh just like that...fuck that ..." He smacks your clit making you whimper just when he buries himself to the hilt, throbbing his hot seed yet again deep inside you, he's now with both elbows on each side of your head, giving the last thrusts to feel the best of his orgasm before he finally collapses on top of you, sticky with sweat and his softened member inside you.

after catching his breath, he rolls off of you, pulling out making you both wince at the light stroke of your two overstimulated privates, he looks down watching his cum leaking out of you and falling on the towel beneath you, before he lights a cigarette as you both stare at the ceiling, the smoke coming out of his mouth, giving you that familiar atmosphere after every sex session, and the silence after that sex with so many unspoken things left you two in confusion, he looks over at you before whispering in a hoarse voice "c'mere" pulling you with one arm around your bare waist easily, you automatically rest your head on his chest, you hand on his abs as he continues smoking his cigarette for minutes.

After it's all burnt, he sits up resting your head on the pillow, crashing his cigarette off in the ashtray on the nightstand, he surprises you by kissing your lower tummy "you were such a good girl for me" he whispered making your tired self smile, brushing your legs against one another despite the discomfort in between them, you stay there drowning in your thoughts again when he heads to the bathroom, wetting a towel with warm water before walking back to you, parting your legs with caring hands and cleaning up the mess, without forgetting to take the towel that's soaked in your fluids from beneath you, heading back to the bathroom yet again, you hear him washing things and moving around, when he steps back into the room, he heads towards the wardrobe slipping in one of his boxers and grabbing one light, silk nightie for you, he helps you into it and kisses your neck softly "are you tired baby?" He asked as you nodded, he gets under the blanket seeking warmth when your bodies come down from the high and processes the chill weather, pulling you with him, letting you rest your head on his chest again as he caressed your scalp and shoulders.

meanwhile, you were fighting sleep there, the only thing stopping you was your doubts, and you finally look up at him,after all this vulnerability and connection, you can't keep being so bitchy about it, "jungwon" catching his attention "hm?" He looks down at you, before you blurt out:

"do you look at me sometimes and wish I was more.... sophisticated? More...into serious, important society? Like.. employed and all?" You look away feeling ashamed of your way of thinking and the fact that his hurtful words from that heated argument actually did have an impact on you.

he shakes his head.

"babe, I know I said some hurtful things and used your insecurities against you, I feel like a bastard for doing so I swear..." He looks into your eyes, leaning dangerously close that your noses are touching before he whispers again "you're as serious and as important as any other human being on this earth ..and even more for me" he kisses your lips gently, leaving a faint taste of cinnamon and cigarettes before whispering again with one hand buried in your hair locks and the other pulling the nightie's strap off your shoulder to caress it:

"you keep that house a home for me, you make me laugh and ease my burdens..you even blow your back cleaning and cooking...and if it wasn't you making me feel alive...god..I don't know how I could've survived every obstacle that has ever came my way baby"

You nuzzle his nose sensually, your vulnerability taking over you as your whispers shake

"I'm sorry for doubling your stress Hun.."

He captures your lips in a deep kiss, sucking your lips into his every time the kiss was about to break, but it eventually does as you both pant, he lets out a breathy chuckle.

"god, many women at work say they wish they were housewives and creating families, I'll never understand women" he laughs, making you smack his chest gently "shut up won you know nothing" you whine tiredly, he smiles tenderly looking at you.

"oh babe I know everything, I know what's going on inside that little head of yours, I know what you love, I know the exact same house you dream of spending a few weeks with me in" he winks as realization hits you like a truck, it was it, the place you always wrote about in your notes, the simple old fashioned house with simple decorations and a fireplace, the cozy bedroom and the painting of the girl by the river that was exactly facing the bed.

you gasp softly and look up at him "no you didn't..." You whisper in disbelief, feeling guilty for all the times you hated how he's always busy, before he cuts you off "yes I did, those nights out, those busy days were all for working on this..." He knocks on your head gently "little dream haven of yours, woman" you immediately hug him tightly,

"I love you I love you I love you" he hugs back "pull away you smell like sex.." he teases along while burying his face on your neck and hugging you tightly against him "ugh go away, go away you little beautiful woman.." he laughs and you do as well.

"sometimes I can't believe you're a grown man, doing things such as putting snacks somewhere and disappearing like santa.." you laugh at him.

"oh shut up, we both know we both have high ego, just imagine after that argument i give you a packet of candies and be like here's your favourite , woman, you'd put it up my ass" he looks at you, his smile softening "but I managed to make you sleep deeply with the last bottle of chocolate milk, you were drinking like a child being all grumpy about me packing 'my bags' , not knowing I was actually planning to kidnap you" he makes you both giggle, continuing the lazy banter in the sheets.

joking for minutes before sleep steals both your minds, the comfort in each other's arms even making you oversleep the next day, cuz your mind and his, had finally found the answer to everything, and you finally feel worthy again.

@twiishaa @slut4hee @stvrrylove @nodoubtily @nanahachi3 @enhard @onlygarden @kikidoul

[hopepunk-humanity]

this is hope-punk to me but i'm not quite sure how this'll fit with the rest of the blog so i'm anon-ing. this is very heavy into the US's situation right now, so anyone that that may make spiral, maybe sit this one out

y'all know about the attempted "buy-out" of govt workers? my parents are govt employees. my mom told me the night before about the mass emails sent out basically saying "hey guysss if you quit now we'll pay your through september pretty pretty please quit"

mass emails don't usually get sent out from the OPM like this. workers receive emails from the individual department heads.

this is a massive fuck-up, because people knew it was fishy immediately. some even thought it was fake. people are confused and angry. my mom said "they're so tech-savvy yet they can't even write a convincing email", and thousands of other workers are saying the same. because this email is the exact same email that Melon Husk sent out to Twitter employees before he cut them

but this isn't Twitter. this is the entire US government workforce that hundreds of millions of people rely on to do their jobs every single day.

mind you, the govt is gonna run out of money March 15th (if the debt ceiling isn't raised). they CANNOT pay any workers who resign through september, if they pay them at all, which senator Tim Kaine (D-VA) is openly highly skeptical of and there is a video of him on the senate floor telling government workers to not take the deal, echoing exactly what federal unions are telling everyone

and now tens of thousands (probably hundreds, if i'm being honest) of govt workers are standing firm. they know what this means. the fed subreddit is just filled with "stand firm! hold the line!" posts and propaganda that i fucking love to see. one post has over 60k upvotes on it. saw dozens of comments that all say something like "i've been begging for a way out for the past few weeks but this email just reignited my passion for public service and upholding the law".

this is a war on the american people and they are ready to stand up to it. they know mass resignations will fuck up so much shit, and that there is NOT enough people wanting to work for the government to fill those holes.

as of 2pm today (1/29/25), a lawsuit has been filed by the AFGE about Trump trying to politicize the civil service, with special emphasis on how he's going about it. this will not go down quietly. add that to the list of every other lawsuit being filed against him

my mom sent out "keep calm and carry on" to her team and offered guidance if anyone was thinking about resigning (mainly, her younger team members who don't have tenure - understandable). this is a tumultuous time that is scary. my mom is never phased but she is so over this bullshit, as is my dad

this administration is trying to scare/threaten people into quitting because they know a gutting is not going to be easy or even possible and to be completely honest, that email was absolutely a threat to people's jobs.

this is a grand stand of solidarity to the american citizens these people took an OATH to work for. they are tired but they are re-fired up to fight this administration with everything.

and do you know what fighting tyranny looks like for government workers? doing their jobs well. making sure people get what they need. standing up for the constitution. because for some goddamn reason, the clown show believes that government workers just sit at a desk all day and do absolutely NOTHING

Donny may be smarter this time 'round and he knows what he wants, but he has no idea how to get any of it.

bottom-line is, a large chunk of federal workers are in republican-lead states in roles that encompass every department. a lot of government work involves blue-collar workers that get paid jack shit and are NOT partisan in any capacity. this is going to fuck people up, REGARDLESS of political affiliation

so stand behind the government workers who do so much. they need us just as much as we need them. and trust, WE NEED THEM.

if you want us to be okay, you have to believe that we CAN be okay first. and i'm believing that we will come out onto the other side of this. because american citizens hold all the power here, and not him, and this (so far failed) government takeover is just proving that even more. he is overconfident.

in the darkness, this is a spark of hope. people know what we have to lose and they are FIGHTING for it

As someone who was trying to get a federal job before this mess forced me to put those efforts on hold for now, I've been watching this situation unfold closely. I'm thrilled with what I've seen from the federal workforce. It makes me all the more confident that this is the career I want, because the people already there have the same mindset about it. It assures me, too, that there a huge swathes of the government (far more people than in congress) who have this country's best interests at heart.

Suffice to say, it's been really difficult to be hopeful about the U.S. government for the past several years. But for me at least, the federal workers are re-writing the narrative.

Hold the line. Don't resign.

[sirfrogsworth]

The Anger Returned

This is probably the most hurtful and infuriating paragraph I've ever read...

"As for taking care of dad. We offered many times to find a place for you and dad to live closer to us so that we could take dad to his appointments and have some skilled care available. He didn't want to leave you at the house alone, so my wife searched high and low for a place that could take both of you. Dad was open to moving closer to us and had said he would have done so on several occasions but you were unwilling to give up the house and ultimately dad said no based on your opposition to moving and that you both would remain at the house. You make it sound like you were taking on this burden to relieve the pressure off me, but in reality this was the only way to retain the house for you after dad's passing. Because if you were unable to care for Dad the current situation would be very different."

That is one of the last things my brother said to me way back in August of 2023.

I don't understand how two people can be so oblivious to what is involved in taking care of a dying person.

Taking him to his appointments was probably the easiest part. And that is what they were willing to personally contribute.

And "skilled care"? What does that mean? A nurse? House cleaning?

Within my dad's budget, we could have maybe afforded someone to come a few times per week. That would have been almost no help to me at all. Plus, they could have sent "skilled care" to this house. Why was that dependent on moving closer?

It feels like they think appointments and having someone come over for a few hours here and there is all it took to care for my father.

But accusing me of wanting to stay put so I could "retain the house."

I still don't know how to process that anger.

It repeats in my head in a loop. Sometimes I will forget about it for a few weeks. Maybe a month. And then tonight it just started looping in my head again.

First, my dad lied. He kinda screwed me. He probably didn't know he was screwing me. But he did not want to leave this house. He was surrounded by my mom's things. He thought her spirit was still here. He talked to her at night when he was trying to fall asleep. I don't think he knew I could hear him.

Oh, and he threatened to kill himself if we tried to move him out of this house. So there was that, too.

But he lied and blamed it on me so my brother would stop pressuring him to move. I get it. But it gave my brother an excuse to blame me. A way to justify away his guilt. Sure, he was only 45 minutes away. But if he were only 5 minutes away, that would have somehow solved everything.

My dad couldn't go to a nursing home because he was neglected so badly in rehab (which is a nursing home) that he had to call the police on them. He said "I'll die before I go back to one of those places."

And the fact they were even considering that just shows you how out of touch they were with the situation.

And, yes, I didn't want to move. That is true. But it had nothing to do with "retaining the house." I thought the stressful process of moving would kill my dad. And I asked the doctor what moving could do to my dad's health and he said, without hesitation, "Oh yeah, that would have killed him."

Beyond that, they had no plan. They didn't say how we were going to get our belongings out of the house. How were we supposed to handle the realtor or open houses? It took me months to configure this place to my dad's needs. Were they going to help me do that in a tiny apartment? Were they going to find my dad new doctors and a new pharmacy?

I built an entire infrastructure around this house to take care of my dad. They talk about all this work they did googling apartments but they did no research or planning on how to actually move us. Was that up to me? Was I supposed to figure all that out while giving him 24/7 care?

I was watching a new show called The Pitt and it had a woman taking care of her elderly mom. And she was so overwhelmed she abandoned her at the ER. And I started crying because that is so real. Taking care of a dying person is nonstop stress.

I had to watch my dad go to the bathroom every single time to make sure he didn't fall. Which meant I never slept through the night.

Not once.

I slept on a mattress on the floor next to the hallway so every time he got up, I would wake up. And if he fell, I would pick him up. In the final few months he could not tuck himself back into bed. So 4 times per night I had to get up, watch him pee, arrange his pillows so they supported his back, pull up the covers, and then tuck them under the pillows so they wouldn't move. He was so uncomfortable all the time and that was the only way he could fall asleep.

And those were the *easy* days.

The hard days involved cleaning up pee and poop. Sometimes blood. Sometimes mystery fluids. Before I got the special lifting device, if he fell, I had to literally drag him to his electronic reclining chair so we could use the footrest to help get him up again. I once had to drag him through two rooms and hurt my back for a week. I probably should have called EMS, but I didn't know my back would go out until it was too late.

And then there were the delirium days where he talked and didn't make any sense. How do you take care of someone you can't communicate with? He had a dead toe that needed lotion applied. Nearly made me puke every time. And then there was the time the urologist had to open up his urethra. With a metal spike. My dad screamed so loud I nearly had a panic attack. Every person in that office heard him scream.

But I think his depression was probably the hardest to deal with. He had a son that never spoke to him. Never visited. And a granddaughter he only met a few times. He cried himself to sleep so many nights. Sometimes it was so bad I had to lie with him in bed and just rub his back until he fell asleep. He was so lonely without my mom. And I tried to be good company, but I was often too tired to give him any attention beyond his care.

When things were hardest he would get suicidal. And considering his quality of life, I didn't blame him. Sometimes I regret keeping him alive as long as I did. He was ready to go as soon as he lost his wife. But we both held out hope my brother would wake the fuck up and realize there was not much time to make amends. To say goodbye. To install core memories of my dad in his daughter's mind. So she'd at least have one grandparent to remember.

It never happened and I feel guilty for letting him live so long in misery when deep down I knew that hope was foolish.

That's the kind of shit no one knows or thinks about when it comes to caregiving. The easy days are hard and the hard days are impossible and you feel awful for feeling overwhelmed because you aren't the one miserable and dying. Dialysis is nearly barbaric.

For over a year, I barely slept at night. And the only time I could get uninterrupted sleep was when he was at dialysis. So the only time I ever had to myself, I had to use sleeping so I wouldn't burn out.

Hiring a "skilled worker" does nothing to help me with that. And no nursing home is going to give him that kind of care.

Only love can give someone that kind of care.

My brother doesn't think I saved him from any burden by taking care of my dad. I just wish I could figure out a way to show him just how incorrect that is.

If I refused to take care of my dad and left it all in my brother's hands, he would have put him in a nursing home and burned through all of my dad's money in a few months. Then he'd either have to pay for his care or take him in.

Was he going to watch my dad pee 4 times a night and tuck him in?

Those who have never taken care of someone like this... have you ever thought deeply about what is involved? Does your common sense tell you it is a little more than driving to appointments and hiring a "skilled worker"?

Why does my brother (and my uncles) think so little of my efforts?

I honestly thought it was common knowledge that taking care of a dying person was super duper hard.

It was the hardest thing I will ever do. And the thing I am most proud of accomplishing. And for some reason I still want my brother to say thank you. I don't know how to find closure without that gratitude. And I'm pretty sure it will never happen.

[keylimepie]

You know, I've thought about this a lot over the years. I started participating in fandom 25 years ago, and I do remember during the LiveJournal (LJ) and forums eras that I rarely if ever heard a fanfic writer complaining about engagement and each chapter was full of comments. Then around 2010 tumblr happened and everyone migrated from LJ to tumblr. Suddenly fanfiction writers were complaining about a lack of engagement. I think this is largely because we became so centralized and lost all sense of community. It used to be you had to sign up for a website with a forum dedicated to a very specific pairing, or you had to join a livejournal community that was very specific to your interest. And the membership might reach a little under 2k. Most of these communities were locked too, so you didn't have to worry about what you said being publicly visible to folks outside your community. You knew who you were speaking to and who could see what you were saying.

Tumblr, tiktok, and twitter are more like shouting into the void and hoping someone in the crowds of 100k people take notice of you, and that task is way easier with a pretty photo or a video than with a fic. You don't know who is going to see what you're saying, and I think most of us have either experienced or witnessed someone receiving dog-piled backlash because one person misconstrued what the OP said. So basically, not only are you struggling to get attention in a massive crowd from people with incredibly short attention spans who have no idea who you are, but if you do manage to get someone's attention they may be too scared to say anything publicly. Hell they may be too scared to DM the author because they don't know the author either and I have seen authors tear apart DMs publicly because they misconstrued something that was said and now the author's fanbase is dog-piling that person. You ever notice how so many asks to authors are anon? People are scared, and it is so much safer to just like or kudo something than put yourself out there in front of a potential firing squad.

Also just want to point out, that a lot of asks people send to creators never get addressed, either because tumblr ate it, or the creator decided to ignore it, or the creator's inbox was overflowing. And after awhile people stop sending asks to not only that creator, but other creators as well because they've been receiving negative reinforcement that their engagement is undesired.

I think I saw another one of these posts floating around where it turned out people were gushing about fics in discords but not commenting on AO3 or the author's tumblr. And this kind of makes sense to me. Discords are a lot like the forums and LJ communities of old, where it is a much smaller group and you tend to know most of the people there and you feel more comfortable speaking up.

I just don't think huge centralized hubs are of the benefit to creators. It is fine to post stuff to tumblr or AO3 or wherever, but that isn't enough. If you want engagement you need to build up or join a community and cross-post there. If you're just flinging your work into the void and expecting engagement, then it just isn't going to work. Sure people will find it, but they wont feel comfortable enough to say anything where they have no control over who sees it. 20 years ago, we didn't have tumblr or twitter or even AO3, you had to find or start a community if you wanted to share your work. We had to make our own spaces not rely on corporate spaces, and I think that is what the difference is. You need to create a space where people feel safe to engage, and tumblr has NEVER been that. Tumblr has been terrible from day 1 for engagement, just toxic and mindless so often.

TLDR: No one is engaging because the sense of community is completely gone and been stripped away over the last 15 years. I cannot stress enough for the younger folk how much fandom these days is just not what fandom was. It has been 13 years since I last felt a sense of community in any of my fandoms, and it sucks. I can't help but think we need to decentralize again and create little pocket communities in order to return fandom to what it is meant to be.

You know what’s really disturbing to me? The culture that seems to have sprung up around fanfiction. Writers spend weeks and months working on a story – I think my record is six months on A Place For Us To Dream. And so many times readers expect to just be given a chapter even if they don’t give anything to the writer in return.

I’m going to date myself a bit here, but I’ve been reading/writing fanfiction for ten years. And when I first started it was a wonderful community. There was an unspoken rule – if you read/enjoyed it, you review it. You take thirty seconds to tell an author who probably spent anywhere from three days to a week writing that chapter you just enjoyed to tell them you enjoyed it. Even if it was as simple as “Great chapter, can’t wait to see what happens next!”

Writers spend so much time on stories, and then they post it because they have this thing that they’ve invested so many hours into and they want to share it with the world. They know how they feel about the story, and they want to know how other people feel, what other people think.

And when you read it and don’t review, you know what message you’re sending that author? That they’re not worth your time, or you didn’t enjoy their story. So why should they keep posting it? Yeah they might continue working on it in their own time, for their own enjoyment, but you might never see another chapter again because you couldn’t be bothered to take thirty seconds out of your day to tell them how you feel.

I’ve written stories in eight different fandoms, ranging from very small to very big (I’ll openly admit I wrote Twilight fanfiction once. Once. It was an Alice/Jasper story and haters can hate all they want but I’m still proud of it). I took a break for a few years because I fell out of fandoms during college, and when I came back apparently it’d become the norm to just greedily consume writing without telling writers how you feel. And that is one of the saddest things in the world to me because fanfiction is where I really started getting serious about writing. It’s how I’ve honed by skills and become the writer I am today. And that was largely in part because of all the support I got when I was an itty-bitty thirteen-year-old writing crappy W.I.T.C.H. fanfiction.

Everyone keeps saying “reviews don’t matter, you should just write for yourself.” Well, you’re wrong. Reviews make or break fanfiction. Reviews tell writers whether it’s worth their time to continue posting that story online or whether they should keep it on their hard drives and never share it with the world.

Kill the attitude that reviews don’t matter. Start telling writers you like their stories. And if you don’t, if you all just continue to be invisible readers? Don’t be surprised when that writer disappears.

[covenofagatha]

now I've gotten your approval on g!p reader, here's the brainworm that's been wriggling with its fellow wormies. rather than desperate! agatha, let's try desperate! reader for a change:

(warning, this is an extra freaky worm. includes baby worms of humiliation, mommy kink, handjob to blowjob to fucking, bondage, 69 i think, pet play (collars and leashes), cock cage, handcuffs, overstim, rio in the last bit because i miss my babygirl ngl)

g!p reader who's awfully insecure about it, so delicate and innocent that agatha could just eat you up. she hadn't been the least bit fazed when you told her, though she would admit that it was rather hot to know she wouldn't need a strapon for the most part.

no, the best part of it all was when you'd confessed you hadn't used it before, not with another person -- and that was when her mind began to bubble with ideas on what she could do with you. the adorable thing you were, you'd looked to her for guidance, for approval, just to know how good you were doing. god, she needed to *ruin* you.

it starts off gentle, and she decides to slowly work you (and your tolerance) up, wrapping her fingers around your cock. you didn't even know it could get this hard, didn't know you could drip so much even before you came. she coos at your whimpers, and you fidget next to her, fiddling with the fabric of her shirt as you squeeze your eyes shut.

her fingers are so long, and the cool skin makes you shiver, and she huffs out a laugh next to you as you squirm under her. "i haven't even moved yet, baby" she hums, and you can't help but plead "mommy" because it's too much, the feeling unfamiliar yet so right, and it feels so good that you can't take it. you've never been this turned on before, never thought it could feel this good, and you realise with a start that if hands feel this good, you can't imagine how good her mouth, her cunt feels.

"mommy, please," you bury yourself into her shoulder, and she's looking so incredibly composed, not even a hair out of place, just sitting calmly next to you. the dichotomy between you and her sends you reeling, and if the dilation of her pupils is any indicator, she's enjoying it. "didn't know it- it could feel this good, mommy," and she groans lowly at your innocence.

agatha runs her thumb over the dribbling slit of your cock, whispering wickedly into your ear that "only mommy can make you feel this good with just a hand" and "you're so desperate for mommy, didn't even need to do anything". it's when she moves to spread the little droplets across her palm, then sliding it over your dick, the feeling of her skin on yours, and her only warning is a mewl of "mommy" before you splatter all over her floor, over her hand.

you might just shrivel up and die of embarrassment, if she didn't just raise an eyebrow and lick it all up, before planting a chaste kiss on your lips, where you taste yourself and you blast another load. agatha rolls her eyes affectionately, running her clean fingers through your hair, muttering about "what's mommy going to do with you, baby?" while you nuzzle yourself into her chest.

-

when you 'level up' to her mouth (she huffs at your childish antics each time, because of course you think of it like a highly esteemed video game, silly girl), she decides to combine it with your favourite meal: her cunt. you're tied to the bedposts, stripped down bare, and your cock is standing at attention, more rigid than a flagpost. she hasn't put her mouth on you yet, hovering above it as you lick and devour her pussy, groaning at the taste. agatha loves the way you listen to her, the way you get as worked up as she does despite not being touched.

"just a little deeper, baby, keep going, just like that," she guides you through it, grinding her clit against your nose bridge every so often. "such a good pet, fuck, so good for mommy," and you keen at the praise.

when she cums, you writhe under her, your attention now on your needy cock, and she uses her juices to coat it, mixing it with your dripping pre-cum. you mumble incoherently beneath her, and having been trained proper, don't bust immediately. she lowers her mouth over your cock, taking it in, and you swear loudly as the warmth envelopes you whole.

agatha's mouth is warm and wet, and she uses her tongue to swirl the sticky liquids together, and you attempt to buck your hips to no avail. "mommy, mommy, please" you babble, and she licks and licks stripes down your cock to your swollen balls.

she can't help herself, rutting into your phase out of pure need, the sight of you unraveling in mere seconds working her up again. your begging muffled by her cunt, she takes pity on you (it is still your first blow, after all) and takes your entire length in at once. your groan is gutteral, and in the approximately seven seconds it takes for your tip to hit the back of her throat, she has to pull away already; with one choked sound from her as she gags on your cock, to your utter horror and humiliation, you cum all over her face, rivulets dripping down the sides of her mouth, her cheeks, her nose.

you know you fucked up when her eyes narrow, brow raised at your defiance of cumming without her permission. "oh, pet, mommy's going to have fun with you."

-

the predicament you're in is... hard to describe, but to say the least. but, it truly is your fault for riling up agatha when you were already wearing so many.. possessions. a dark purple collar, complete with a green leash, and more importantly, a purple cage around your cock, locked shut with a tiny green lock. the key is tucked neatly into agatha's pocket, perhaps because agatha had already anticipated you flinging yourself at rio.

"daddy, please," you whine, draping an arm around rio, trailing kisses across her neck. she bites her lip, but one look at agatha's hardened glare makes her shake her head quickly. your cock strains against the cage, the stiff shape obvious in your pants (or skirt, where it's so very obvious to anyone who pays enough attention).

snarling, agatha stomps over, before gripping the leash and pulling hard. rio is left stunned, squirming in her seat (you know agatha slipped a remote vibrator into her underwear beforehand, and she must be getting it all wet now, the thought driving you feral) as you're tugged away from her.

agatha strips you hastily, biting into your soft skin as she kneads your tits, and you buck into the air, rio whining at the wet slap of your cock against the cage. you're left kneeling on the ground, brattiness stripped away as you blink up at her with doe eyes, wrists handcuffed together.

"mommy, i need you," you whine, but she growls out a "only good pets get touched" before moving to focus on rio. you can only watch needily as rio gets fucked, your only sense of relief being the occassional touch of your dick against the cool cage.

"mommy, mommy, please, I'll be good, I'm your good girl, please," you beg desperately, and she seems to ignore you in favour of playing with rio. eventually, after what feels like hours, she *looks* at you, and you can see the adoration in her eyes at the mess you've become.

"is that all it takes for you to be obedient, hmm? such a needy pet," and you could cry when she finally reaches and unlocks your cage and the handcuffs. "mommy," you croon, humping her forearm, and she mocks you condescendingly with "aww, pet. like a bitch in heat, aren't you?" while you nod furiously, babbling out "yes, yes" over and over.

when agatha guides you to the bed, you almost stumble in excitement, ignoring rio's snort of amusement. "she's a desperate little pup. we'll need to teach her how to handle a cunt."

you whine at the words, and the moment agatha's pussy hovers over yours, you scramble to grip her ass, whimpering as she tugs at your leash again, warning you to behave.

rio watches in disbelief as agatha lowers her pussy onto you, and in your fit of sensitivity, whine out a "can't hold it, mommy!" while she yanks your leash, agatha cooing out a "good girl, cum for me". in ten seconds, you fill agatha up with your cum, your throbbing cock forming a small belly bulge that when you rub your hand over, gets you all excited again, and you bust another load into her.

she can't believe it, honestly, that agatha's newest pet is so sensitive. rio watches as agatha rides out her high, riding your cock as you babble that it's "too much, mommy, please" while she demands that you "fucking take it".

she wonders what your cock would feel like in her.

-

lol, hope this isn't too much. I've been thinking about petplay for a while, so this is nice. i hope you liked it miss covenofagatha! once again don't feel obligated to write this out as a request, it is, as always, just a thought. thank you for the great writing you do 💜

-lots of love, worm anon

Holy FUCK

How do you keep coming up with the most brilliant ideas jesus christ

I actually started writing a virgin g!p reader one last night and it's gonna have some degradation and humiliation (very RomanGerri if there's any Succession fans out there) so hopefully that'll be up today BUT omg I am obsessed with these thoughts and just like every single one of your other ideas I might have to write about this 🫣 thank you so fucking much for blessing me and this fandom with your brainworms

[froggiewrites]

Puppeteer

Pairing: Doffy x Reader

SFW

Summary: Your life is perfect. Doflamingo has made it that way. But a small slip of the tongue makes you think maybe your husband had more of a hand in the events that lead you to him that you initially thought. Warnings: Fem!Reader, Angst, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Possessive Behavior, Yandere, Doffy is...Doffy Word Count: 7.7k Notes: I've been working on this piece since November, so I'm SO excited to have finally finished it. I hope you all enjoy it!

Your life was perfect. Your husband made sure of it.

You had anything you wanted, when you wanted it, without exception. The life of a queen, even before he had gifted you a crown.

But that wasn’t what mattered to you, really. It was nice, but what you were truly grateful for was how Doflamingo had saved you. From the world, from betrayal, from yourself. You were at risk of falling into a dark place when you met him, and he lifted you up, brought you comfort and protection. To you, his cloak might as well be the wings of an angel.

He insisted that it was nothing. That was simply his job as your lover. He tended to ignore the fact he was not your lover at the time. Destined from the moment you met, you suppose. 

“You might not have known it, but you were always mine. I was simply doing what’s right.”

You had always thought that line was sweet. You thought he meant you were destined, that you were his and he was yours.

For the first time in your life, you were having doubts about that.

It was a small slip up. Almost nothing, really. Baby 5 often goes on long tangents, so it’s a wonder you even noticed what she said, let alone processed it. But while extolling the virtues of her latest obsession, claiming this was true love (as they always are), you couldn’t help but notice an odd phrase in the middle.

“He’s so reliable! He was so worried about me, he said I’m ‘too naive’, and that I need someone to look after me. It reminds me of how Doffy is with you! Isn’t it so sweet that he wants to protect me?” She’s beaming, and you can barely get out your question as she tries to continue her ramble.

“Why does he remind you of Doffy?” Your husband is reliable, of course, and he does his best to look out for everyone in the family, but he would never call you naive. He had never, once, in your decade of marriage implied even for a second he thought you were incapable of looking after yourself.

You had asked him once, very early on in your relationship, why he insisted on doing everything for you, why he waited on you hand and foot when he knew that you would never ask that much of him. He had smiled at you gently, an expression you were sure no other person on the planet had seen, and spoken with such fondness you couldn’t help but melt. “I do this because I love you, little bird. You don’t need to read anything else into it.”

So when Baby 5 smiles again, saying, “He looks at me the way Doffy looks at you,” you can’t help the way your heart drops. You haven’t met this suitor, but you know the way men look at Baby 5. She isn’t a partner to them, she’s a target. A victim. Prey to be lured in and devoured. Your instinct is to say this is simply another delusion on her part, another desperate illusion from her need to be needed. But the way she says it, the look in her eye, it seems far more based in reality than the rest of her spiel. 

But that can’t be right. Your husband loves you, respects you. This is just another part of Baby 5’s incurable lovesickness, her romanticization of any man that gets his claws in her. “The way he looks at me, huh?”

“Yeah! It’s so romantic.” And then she’s off to the races again, completely unaware of the seed she’s planted.

You can’t dig it up, no matter how hard you try. Once a thought is in your head it cannot be unthought. So instead you bury it, as deeply as you can, and you pray that it will not take root, will not be strong enough to break through the soil. You love your husband, your life together. You will not ruin it through unearned paranoia. 

When he comes to bed that night, he finds you lying awake, staring at the ceiling. His voice and hands are gentle, as they always are with you. He has never spoken to you the way he does most people, has always given you the kindness he denies others. He still has a temper, of course, but on the very rare occasions it has turned to you it has been mild, and the apology has been quick. 

“What’s wrong, little bird?” He lays next to you, his arm immediately coming to wrap around you. The weight is comforting, familiar, something that has made you feel safe for as long as you can remember. You try to relax into him, but a voice in you whispers we’re trapped. You feel like you can’t breathe. You want to ignore it, suffer in silence, but your ever observant husband notices immediately, removing his arm with a frown. “Did something happen?”

You sit up, moving toward the window. You need air. “No, it’s nothing. I’m just anxious, is all.”

“Anxious?” His frown deepens. “Darling, you have nothing to worry about. What is it? Let me help.” He follows you, reaching around you to open the window for you, letting the night air in. Your turn to face him. With his arms on either side, his eyes flashing in the moonlight, for a moment you feel like nothing more than an animal in a cage, with a predator bearing down on you.

But then the cold air hits your back, those terrifying eyes are filled with concern, and your husband is back. Of course everything is alright. Of course you have nothing to worry about. You’re happy. Doffy has made sure of it. “It’s just…a horrible feeling I can’t shake. Nothing is actually wrong, I promise.”

He purses his lips a moment, displeased. “If you need something, you’ll have it. You know that, right?” His hand rests on your cheek, cradling you as though you’re the most precious thing in the world. To him, you truly are.

“I know, my love. I promise, it really is nothing.”

He lets out the smallest puff of a sigh. “Alright. I’ll let it go for now. Come back to bed, darling. I won’t be able to sleep without you.” His words start as an order, but his tone turns almost pleading. Doflamingo does not beg, of course, but for you he can at least command politely.

“Of course.” You practically fall into his arms, allowing him to carry you back to your bed. He holds you tightly, as though he’s scared you’ll slip through his fingers the moment he loosens his grip. For a moment you swear you see some tension around his eyes, a slight clench of his jaw, but when you rest your head on his chest it all seems to vanish.

“Goodnight, little bird,” he whispers, pressing the ghost of a kiss to your temple. You fall asleep pressed firmly against his chest, where you’re meant to be.

You bury your doubts. You love him. He loves you. Why is such a small comment enough to throw you? Do you have that little faith in your husband?

Or did it simply uncover concerns you were ignoring? Force them into the light of day when you would much rather have let them rot?

You’re happy. What else could you want or need?

A month passes, then two. You’ve forgotten the conversation. You must have. You don’t lay awake at night, overturning small interactions in your head, desperate to find some hidden meaning in it.

He always calls you little. Is it simple affection, or is it demeaning? Does he see you as less than?

Of course not. Not your Doffy.

“I think I might want to visit home.” You bring it up casually, as you’re tucked against his chest. He’s in his throne, lounging, perfectly relaxed, with you perched on his lap.

He laughs. “Darling, you are home.”

“I know. I mean–I want to visit my home island.”

A miniscule tightening around his eyes. “Why would you want to do that? After everything that they put you through?”

You knew he wouldn’t be keen on the idea. You can’t even figure out why you want to go back, because he’s right: they put you through hell. You were miserable before Doffy got you out of there. Your home had chewed you up and spit you out, and there’s nothing left for you there. It really wasn’t home at all, not anymore. Doffy never liked you referring to it as such.

But a few bad years can’t erase everything it was before the fall. You can remember your childhood, sprinting through the most beautiful flower fields with your friends. Diving into the creek, coming up soaking wet, freezing cold, and feeling freer than you had since. You remember the taste of the pastries at the cafe you used to work at, the same one you met Doflamingo at. In many ways, it was still and would always be home, no matter how long you had been away. No matter what the people there might have done to you.

“I know everything ended terribly, but…”

“But?” A raised brow, a slightly bulging vein on his forehead.

“I still have a lot of good memories from before. Places I miss. People I might be able to forgive, if I saw them again.”

His nostrils flare. His controlled smile finally falls. “Forgive? Darling, they don’t deserve your forgiveness. They don’t even deserve to live in the same world as you, let alone have the privilege of seeing you again. This has been a fun joke and all, but let’s end it here. Going there will only hurt you.” His arm tightens slightly around your waist, hugging you to him protectively.

Possessively, part of your mind whispers.

“It’s been nearly a decade, love. I’ve changed. I’m sure they’ve changed. And…I feel like all of that still hangs over me, sometimes. Even though I’ve tried to let it go. I think going back to see it would help me finally loosen the hold it has over me.”

He doesn’t say no, because you hadn’t been asking for permission. You were simply informing him of your thoughts. He couldn’t make your choices for you. He had never taken away your ability to decide, not once. But somehow his displeasure makes your heart quicken, your stomach churn. When Doffy is displeased, something in you screams that you’ve done something wrong, something you need to fix. You didn’t do anything that he would disagree with, not if you could help it. You always told yourself it was simply because you were partners, that it was natural that you would factor in his opinion.

But how many times had he asked you about his comings and goings? How many times had he told you his plans, instead of just disappearing and reappearing when he decided the time was right?

“You should protect that delicate heart of yours, darling. Who knows what going back would do to it?”

“But I’m different now. Older. Stronger.”

He chuckles, like you’ve told him some silly joke. “But still soft.”

You want to disagree, but there’s something in his tone that makes you feel so horribly small. Weak and vulnerable, some storybook damsel waiting for your prince (or king, in this case) to come sweep you away and fix everything for you. “Do you really think that?”

His eyes narrow slightly at the tone in your voice, the hurt hiding beneath it. His own voice grows softer in turn. “You’re a sensitive soul. It’s one of your best qualities, dear.”

You nod, pushing your face into his neck. You can feel him relax beneath you as you desperately try to stop your thoughts from racing. Are you sensitive, weak, soft? You cannot recall anyone else ever calling you such things. You had been so headstrong when you were young. Perhaps that’s what drove everyone away.

You clutch his shirt tightly, as though tethering yourself to him will simply fix all of this, calm your mind and bring back the peace you used to enjoy. That’s how you got all of this in the first place, really. A strong hand on your back, guiding you away from the burning flames of your old life.

The feeling doesn’t leave. It infuriates you how deeply it’s weaseled its way into you, such a small thing turning over and over and over in your mind. Something so meaningless threatening to pull you apart at the seams. You can feel your edges fraying, feel the way you’re starting to fall apart.

You can still hear Baby 5’s voice whispering in your head. Just like how Doffy looks at you. 

For the first time in your life, you intend to keep a secret from your husband. You scribble the messages quickly, shoving the papers back into your desk when you hear footsteps coming down the hall. You know that you aren’t doing anything wrong, but the idea of disappointing him, disagreeing with him, makes you sick to your stomach.

It’s only once you feel his hand on your shoulder, see his pursed lips as he looms over you where you were lost in your work that you remember that the reason you have never kept a secret from your husband is simply because you couldn’t. He knows everything about you, everything that happens under this room, everything happening within the borders of Dressrosa. You never stood a chance. 

“Darling…” he doesn’t need to continue. His sigh says enough, sets you on the defensive. 

“I never said I wouldn’t send them,” you mutter, a childish anger overtaking you. “And I don’t need your permission.”

His lips set in a thin line. “I never said you did.”

“It’s been nearly a decade. They’ve probably changed. And if they haven’t, then at least I can say I tried.”

His free hand pinches the bridge of his nose as his brow furrows. “Little bird, you’re the only one who ever tried. They never gave you a thing.”

“They gave me plenty.”

“What, then, did they give you? Pain? Suffering? An unending desire to please everyone around you?”

“They gave me plenty, before everything happened.” You can feel your muscles tensing, an unfamiliar anger bubbling up in your chest.

“I can’t recall a single kind thing they ever did for you, my dear.”

“I had a life before you, Doflamingo,” you snap. “Do you really think I’m so helplessly stupid I’d try to reconnect with someone who was nothing but cruel to me? They used to be kind. They used to care about me. Something changed. And if something changes once, it can change again. I’m not some doe-eyed fool begging for a kind touch from a hand that’s only ever bruised me. I’m just going to give them a chance to redeem themselves, or at least explain themselves.” You’re breathing heavily, teeth clenching. You very rarely raise your voice at your husband, but you’re tired of this. Of him looking at you like you’re so defenseless, so pathetic.

There’s a strange look in his eyes when you finish, something you can’t place. He takes his hands off of you, putting them up in surrender. “Of course, dear. I didn’t mean to imply you were incapable. I simply worry about my wife.” There’s an emphasis on his last words, on your title, your role. “But I suppose I shouldn’t presume to know about…your life before me.”

He spits the words like they’re poison in his mouth.

He stares at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before you realize the situation you’re in. You’re the one keeping secrets. You’re the one who snapped. You’re the one who wouldn’t drop the issue. You, you, you. A part of you screams that he’s the one who pushed you, but aren’t you still the one who jumped?

“...I’m sorry, love, for snapping. I know you worry.”

He doesn’t move.

“I understand why you’re concerned, really. I just…this feels like something I have to do.”

Still nothing.

“If they don’t respond, then I’ll drop it. I just want to take a chance.”

He lets out a breath, before he wraps his arms around you. “Of course, dear.” His grip on you grows a little tighter. “I just can’t help but want to protect you. It’s my job, after all. And I take it very seriously.”

“I know. I appreciate the sentiment, I just wish you trusted me a bit more.”

His voice grows softer. “Oh, dear, of course I trust you. It’s everyone else that I don’t trust.” He chuckles quietly. “Well, if it’s really that important to you, I won’t stand in your way. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

You sigh, burying your nose in his neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And so the envelopes are sealed the next day, handed off to a servant to be shipped off.

You keep telling yourself the letters don’t mean anything. Don’t have anything to do with the creeping dread slowly overtaking you. This is simply an act of connection, of potential forgiveness. It has nothing to do with your home life. But you can’t deny the way your eyes keep nervously drifting over each envelope labeled with your name, the disappointment when it never has the return address you were hoping for. Weeks pass, then months. 

Whenever he catches you lingering near the mailbox, Doffy always gives you a sympathetic look, a small click of the tongue. “Don’t you see, darling? You expect too much of them. You give people far more credit than they deserve.”

“It’s all the way in the North Blue. Mail can take a while to get there.” You don’t sound convincing, even to your own ears.

He sighs. “I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this, dear.” He approaches from behind, wrapping his arms around you, tucking you tightly against him, rocking you slightly. “Don’t give your attention to those unworthy of it. You have everyone and everything you need right here.”

He’s right. He’s always right.

You wait anyway.

The letters never come.

You expected this, it stings anyway. Even now, they can’t even spare you a thought. Your life was ripped to shreds, and they can’t even give you this. You don’t even exist in their memories anymore. You’re the only one who carries this pain, and you do it alone.

You try to talk to Doffy about it again, and while he plays the doting husband, you can see the satisfaction in his eyes. The pity in his face as he cradles you, the condescending, “Oh, dear, I knew you’d hurt yourself like this. You don’t need them," just screams I told you so. You can only be thankful he doesn’t say it aloud, his smile all teeth as he chuckles and pets your head like some pampered pet.

But he wouldn’t do that. He loves you.

The restlessness you feel doesn’t subside. You’ve taken to wandering aimlessly through the palace, as though you’ll suddenly find the answers hiding around a dusty corner and you’ll find the peace you so desperately crave. You want normalcy again. You want to lay in your husband’s arms and not wonder how much of his softened gaze and gentle caress is a lie, a carefully constructed act meant to keep you where he wants you. You know it isn’t true, really.

But the gnawing continues all the same.

The answers you wished for come in the form of an overfilled trash can.

You occasionally bring snacks to Doflamingo while he’s working. He doesn’t like you being in his office for long, preferring to keep you separated from the messy goings on of his work life, but you can tell he enjoys these small visits. Sometimes, on days when he isn’t busy, he pulls you onto his lap, allowing you to curl into him and enjoy the feeling of safety in his arms as he fills out miscellaneous paperwork or checks over maps. You used to cherish those moments.

Today’s conversation is brief, Doflamingo’s frustration with some issue or another clear in his every action. His teeth are clenched even as he thanks you, even as his lips brush against your temple before you turn to leave. You can’t help the jitteriness you feel, the way his discomfort sends a buzzing through your body. Once he makes it clear you cannot fix the issue (in as gentle of a tone as he’s capable of), you’re ready to make your escape, to hope the nausea subsides once you’re far enough away. You’re so upset you almost miss the envelope in the trashcan next to the door, no writing visible except for the return address.

It’s from a little island in the North Blue, known for its beautiful flower fields. 

You can’t help the choked noise that escapes your throat.

“Are you alright?” His eyes glance up from the paper in front of him, the slightest hint of concern behind them.

“What’s this?” Your voice is hardly a whisper. Your hand begins to reach for the trashcan, but you pull it back at the last second. No, it can’t be. And if it is, you don’t want to know.

“What’s what, darling?”

He wouldn’t do this to you. It’s a coincidence. There’s dozens of businesses on the island, many of which might be useful for a king and even more useful for a pirate. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, do this to you.

“This letter.”

Your heart is pounding in your ears, your hands shaking. The only thing that keeps you from exploding is the genuine confusion on his face. “What letter?”

You fish it out of the trashcan, slowly bringing it back to him. It’s covered in spilled ink which has soaked through the paper. It’s clear that the letter inside is ruined, and the only thing you can make out on the front is a street name and the island. “Why was this in the trash?”

He frowns, his brow furrowing. He reaches for it, investigating it so thoroughly you can convince yourself this is the first time he’s seen it. It’s only when his gaze falls to the address that his eyes light up in understanding. “Oh. Oh, dear.”

“Was this for me?”

“I don’t know, dear, but there’s certainly a chance.” His voice is gentle as he reaches for you. “I’m sorry if it was. I don’t know what happened.”

It’s unlike him to apologize. It’s unlike him to admit to not knowing, to not being in absolute control. But god, you want it to be true. You want the comfort he offers. You fall into him, pressing your face into his chest, barely holding back a sob. “What if it was? What if that’s the only response I’ll get, and it’s gone forever? What if my only chance at peace has slipped through my fingers?”

His hands are gentle as they rub circles on your back. “I’ll figure out what happened. I promise whoever did this will be punished, little bird. I’ll never tolerate someone hurting you.” His lips brush against the top of your head, kind and caring and protective, exactly how you’ve always known him to be. “I had others in my office earlier, I’m sure one of them did this. I’ll find out who.”

It takes him nearly an hour to calm you down, but he does it without rushing. All of his work, his empire, set aside for you. How could you doubt him, even for a moment, with your proof of his devotion right here?

He tucks you gently into your shared bed after you calmed down, encouraging you to take a nap to recuperate. A glass of water is left by the bedside for you, and he places an extra blanket on top of you to keep you warm and cozy. 

You don’t know how long your nap is. It certainly isn’t long, considering the sun is still in the sky, but it was enough to ease the pounding in your head from the sobbing. You aren’t thinking as you crawl out of bed and begin to wander in the direction of your husband’s office. You’re still a little upset, a little off kilter, and while it may be selfish to interrupt him twice in a day you want to bask in his care a bit more.

An angry voice stops you in your tracks.

“You threw them out?” He sounds furious, his voice booming down the hall. You know you shouldn’t be eavesdropping, should trust your husband to take care of it, but you linger near the door anyway.

“You said to get rid of them!” You don’t recognize the voice, but you recognize the fear. It’s how everyone sounds in front of Doflamingo, faced with his power and grace. With the knowledge he wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever he needed to them to get what he wanted.

“Yes, and I expected you to do it right! Burn them, rip them up, whatever it takes! To make sure nobody finds them! Not leave them sitting at the top of a trash can, in my office, where anybody can see them! I’m used to being surrounded by fools, but this is beyond comprehension!” You hear the cracking of wood, and somehow you know he’s broken his desk. As much as you want to stay and hear the rest, the bile rising in your throat forces you away, back to your room, where you can hide under the covers and finally break down.

He had been taking your letters. You knew that, really, but you had so badly wanted to convince yourself otherwise. He had made sure you would never want to go back, simply because he didn’t want you to. He took your choice away. Why was he so desperate to keep you here? What harm was there in you finally letting go of everything that happened?

You had been miserable. You had spent years terrified that Doflamingo would abandon you next, just like your family and friends did. You had clutched him so tightly your knuckles turned white, and he had cooed and assured you he would never leave you, not like they did. “I love you, little bird. You’re mine. It’s my job to protect and care for you, and I intend to do that for the rest of my life.”

Is that how he wanted you? Insecure and desperate to remain at his side? Perhaps he loved you because you were easy. So eager to please, to bend yourself to his will until you nearly snap as long as it keeps him around, keeps anybody around. Maybe he was as desperate as you were, in a way, because it didn’t have to be him you latched onto.

You bite your cheek hard enough to draw blood. No more thoughts like that. It had to be Doflamingo. He was your husband, your family, and nothing can take that away. Not even this betrayal. Surely he thought he was doing what was best for you. He may be selfish, but never when it comes to you.

This was controlling, it was wrong, but it wasn’t cruel. And as loathe as you are to admit it, it wasn’t out of character. He’s always been in control, his entire life. It wouldn’t seem wrong to him for that to extend to some of yours.

You should go in and talk to him. You should figure out why he would do this. Some twisted form of protection? Jealousy? Fear? You should do something, anything, to get to the bottom of this.

You crawl back into bed instead.

You accept his embrace when he joins you. You don’t push him away when he rolls on top of you, whispering how much he loves you, how happy he is that you’re his. You fall asleep in his arms, as you’ve always done.

You spent months begging the universe for answers, for some sort of proof, and now that you’ve gotten it, you’re sticking your head in the sand. What a coward. You can’t even bring yourself to be angry with him. Maybe you’re in shock, or maybe he’s just done such a good job at clipping your wings you simply don’t know what to do without him, and you don’t care to find out. You tell yourself you just love him, trust him. You ignore any whisper in your head that says the contrary.

The days pass normally, as quickly as they always do. You almost feel normal, after a while, have almost convinced yourself that everything is fine, as it’s always been.

The bird at your window is a surprise. It taps hurriedly, almost as though it’s afraid to tarry for too long. The letter tied to its leg somehow isn’t.

The script is hurried and messy. You recognize it immediately. It was written by a boy you had once run through the wild with, one you had shared every step of growing up with. It was his betrayal that had hurt the most.

The letter is nearly impossible to decipher. Your friend always did have terrible handwriting. You used to tease him for how nobody else could figure out what he meant, how sometimes even he couldn’t read his own writing. But you were always good at it, somehow always on the same page as him, no matter how small his chicken scratch was.

I didn’t expect to hear from you ever again. I’m glad I did. I’ve missed you, all of these years. I’ve wondered if you were safe, if you were happy.

I’m sorry for my cowardice. I’m sorry for pushing you away. But I was scared. That pirate made himself very clear: get away from you, or he was going to kill me.

No.

No, no, no.

No, that can’t be right.

I don’t know if he meant it. But with everything else that came after, I suspect he did. I don’t know what he said to your landlord, or your boss, or anyone else. But I know he spoke to them, and I know you were gone soon after. I’m sorry I was never brave enough to tell you in person, or to send you this letter until now. I didn’t know where you went, and I was sure you’d never want to speak to me again anyway. 

I’m glad you’re safe, or as safe as you can be. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I would be now, if I could. Not that that means much, really.

You place the paper down, shoving your head in your hands. No. This can’t be true. He may be controlling, he may be overprotective, but he would never hurt you. Not like this. Your husband would never have purposefully made you miserable. He would do a lot, but not that.

But you can’t help but remember how perfect his timing was, every time. How he’d gently encouraged you to open up in the days after you realized your friends were ignoring you. How he found you sobbing outside of the cafe after you’d been fired. How he found you idly wandering the streets after your landlord kicked you out. How he found you every time, right on time, assuring you that you didn’t need to worry anymore, that you could just rely on him now. That he always looked after his family, and he would love for you to be a part of it.

You look back on your life together. Had you ever made the choice to be here, or did he simply lure you in with the right bait every time? How many steps had you taken without realizing he was the one leading you here?

You could excuse a lot, deny even more. You can tell yourself again and again that he loved you, that everything he’s done has been for your own good. But hurting you? Hurting the people you loved? Even you couldn’t justify that.

He doesn’t even look up when you walk into his office. He hums quietly in acknowledgement, his pen scratching softly against the page. It’s only when you furiously slam the letter down on his desk that he finally looks at you.

“What’s this, darling?”

“I finally got a response. An intact one.”

He glances down at it, sneering slightly. “Intact? Dear, that’s illegible.”

“Did you threaten my friends for talking to me?”

He’s an excellent liar, a well practiced one. But you’ve known him for a decade, spent hours staring at him, starry eyed, tracking his every move. You can see the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“How many people have you done this to, Doflamingo?”

He huffs. “None. What are you talking about? Who said this to you?”

“Why do you want to know? So you can make good on your promise to hurt him?” You begin to pace, fury bubbling beneath your skin. “I can’t believe you would do this.”

“I want to know so I can know who you’re believing over your own husband.” He puts on an air of hurt, one that tugs at your heartstrings, but you won’t fall this time.

“I have tried to believe in you again and again, pushing down my doubt because I was so sure my husband would never do anything like this. But the evidence just keeps coming.”

“What evidence, exactly?” He snaps, annoyance slipping through. “The crazed ranting of some jealous old acquaintance? One who hurt you beyond repair a decade ago?”

“The first goddamn letter you tried to get rid of, first off all.” He opens his mouth, but you cut him off. “Don’t try to deny it, I heard you losing your mind on whoever you told to do it. I tried so hard to tell myself you were doing it out of some misguided attempt to protect me, but this proves you just did it to protect yourself. You just didn’t want me to know what you’d done.”

He sighs. “Dear, you’re working yourself up into a frenzy. You couldn’t have heard something that never happened.”

“Don’t lie to me! God, you must think I’m so stupid. You always have. And why wouldn’t you? I’ve fallen for everything, this entire time! I kept telling myself that this was normal, that you loved me, that this was what I wanted. I was so scared of losing you I let you look me in the eye and lie to me every goddamn day.”

“You want the truth?” He’s standing now, walking around the desk that separated you. “Can you handle that, dear? We can’t take back our words.”

You barely suppress the frustrated sob working its way out of your mouth. “Yes, please, give me the truth. That’s all I want.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, the way it always does. God, he has to make this so hard. “I’ll always give you what you want.” He reaches out, but you take a step back. He gives you your space, for now. “When we first met, I may have had a few…long talks with some people you knew. Just to make my intentions clear.”

“How many people?”

“I can’t recall exact numbers.”

“Are you why I lost my job at the cafe?”

He doesn’t hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Are you why I got evicted?”

“Yes.”

You curl in on yourself. “God. What the hell? Why would you do this to me?” You can feel your world crashing down as every memory of the last ten years is tainted, rotting from the inside out. It was never real. None of it. “Why would you ruin my life? What did I ever do to you? Why did you pick me up after like some stray dog? Did you feel guilty?”

You expected anger. He was always prone to it, after all. You had expected his tense shoulders and gnashing teeth, a fierce insistence that you were wrong to be upset, to question him. That he was right like always, and that anything he did was simply the best option to some grand end goal you couldn’t see. What you hadn't anticipated was the confusion: the look on his face so lost it was almost childlike. "Ruin your life? You wanted this. I gave you what you wanted."

"You think I wanted–what, to be miserable?”

He has the audacity to look concerned. “Are you miserable? You’re supposed to be happy.”

“Happy? You hurt people! Hurt me!"

He bristles at that. "I never hurt you. You are my wife, my family, my responsibility. I look out for you. I protect you. Those obstacles were–"

"Obstacles? Doflamingo, they were people!” 

“They’re nothing compared to you.”

You feel like you’re slamming your head into the wall. What is he not getting? Why does he not seem to think he’s done anything wrong? Why would he hide it if he thought he was right? “Nothing? I–God. What would ever make you think I wanted any of this?"

"You told me yourself!" He says it with such conviction.

You’re about to scream, to run out of this office and into the night, never to be seen again. He must be insane. More than you ever thought possible. 

But suddenly you remember it. A small conversation, a month or two after you first met. You didn’t even know his name yet, only knew him as the handsome blond who always tipped well. He had been sipping his coffee slowly, an excuse to keep occupying the table and, in turn, you. His question had seemed so innocent then.

"Do you want to leave this place?"

"What?"

"Are you happy here, I mean. Do you really want to stay here, working yourself to the bone, when you could be living in the lap of luxury?"

You laugh. "I don't know what kind of luxury I could get so easily. Things like that don't just come to people like me. I have bills to pay."

He hums quietly. "But if it could come? Would you really still be here if you had someone to take care of you? If you didn't have to worry about all of this?"

You give a sardonic smile as you wipe down his table. "Mister, you say it like it's so easy. I have things to do, people to help. I couldn't leave them behind just because it'd be better for me."

You can't see them through his sunglasses, but somehow you feel his eyes pierce through you anyway. "But if all of that wasn't a concern? Then you'd want to leave?"

"Sure, in that fantasy world, I'd love to see what the world has to offer. But I live here, in reality, and I have another table glaring at me, so I'll be back in a few minutes."

And that was it. Such a small exchange, barely worth noting.

You never thought much of the conversation. You really didn't. But sitting here, now, you're starting to see it for what it was to him: permission. An invitation to do whatever he thought would get you here. Why wouldn't a pirate act on such an opportunity?

You can barely swallow the bile rising in your throat.

“You couldn’t have possibly–” Your voice catches, and through his frustration you see something almost resembling pity peek through for just a moment. Somehow that’s the most infuriating part of all of this.

“Couldn’t have what? Thought you were being honest? I knew you were, darling. I knew you were meant to be here. I knew you would never have taken the first step with everyone in that shithole holding you down. What was I supposed to do? Leave you there?”

“Yes! That’s exactly what you should have fucking done! You don’t ruin lives over a stupid flight of fucking fancy–”

“Don’t call it that.” There’s that oh so familiar rage. His teeth clenched, his nails digging into his fists, his eyes burning so hot from behind his glasses you can feel the room raise a couple degrees. “Don’t you dare demean what we have. Don’t dismiss the last ten years. You are my wife. My partner. Mine.”

He’s stalking toward you, long past worrying about frightening you.

“Don’t you dare treat my devotion like some schoolboy’s crush.”

You think you would laugh if your heart were not beating out of your chest. Before today, you would have sworn your husband would never hurt you. But now, you don’t know if you can trust anything you think. Not anymore. Clearly you’re an idiot, naive and foolish, incapable of sensing danger even when it’s right in front of you. So when he reaches for you, you flinch.

He has the gall to look hurt. His posture relaxes as he reaches for you again, slower this time. His hands reach to delicately cradle your face, but you pull away, curling in on yourself. “Don’t touch me.”

“Darling–”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me. I’m not your darling. I don’t even know who you are. My entire life is a lie.” You barely manage to hold in a sob. He boxes you in, trying to pull you into his arms, wash away your pain as he always does. You fall to the floor, curling into a ball, desperately trying to avoid him. This familiar softness might break you. “Don’t touch me.”

He puts his hands up in surrender, but he doesn’t back away. “Your life isn’t a lie, little bird. Everything that matters is still true: I’m your husband and I love you.”

“Do you?”

The corner of his eye twitches. “Of course I do. Do you think I would do all of this for anyone? Only for you, my dear. Only you’re worth all of this. I’m sorry for frightening you, but I promise everything I have ever done is for you.” His voice is soft and cautious, as though he’s trying to lure in a wounded animal. You suppose in a way he is.

“What did I do to deserve this?” You pull yourself in tighter, your nails digging into your legs, the pain the only thing grounding you.

“You didn’t have to do anything. You were mine from the moment I saw you.” He says it with a dreamy tone, one that could be easily confused for a normal husband, so deeply in love with his wife. But beneath it there’s an obsession, a depravity to it.

“I don’t want to be yours.” The pitiful protest of a child, weak and wavering.

“Oh, darling, you don’t mean that.” He bends down to look you in the eye, put himself on your level. The condescension sets your teeth on edge. “I know you’re upset, dear, but you shouldn’t say things like that. A lesser man would be hurt.”

“A better man would believe me.”

You see the flash of rage that he swallows down before he opens his mouth again. “You’re lucky I’m patient, lover. Who knows what would happen if I took these little provocations seriously.”

“You never take me seriously.” So much of your life spent under the thumb of a man who didn’t even trust you to choose him yourself. Who didn’t trust you to choose a life together.

“You’re clearly overwhelmed. Take a minute to collect yourself.”

He didn’t disagree. So many lies for so many years, but he can’t give you the one you really want to hear.

“I want to go home.” Your voice is so pathetic, so broken.

“You are home.” His voice is gentle, but firm. A statement, a command beneath it. He leaves no room for disagreement.

“No. No, I’m not.” You close your eyes, picturing fields of your childhood. The smell of the flowers, the feeling of the sunlight on your face. The last time you had truly been free.

“You’re home, and you aren’t leaving.”

You feel yourself being pulled forward, your arms moving of their own volition.

No, not their own.

His.

His strings force your arms around him as he engulfs you in a suffocating embrace. His voice is no less sickeningly adoring than it was before. "Do what you want to me, darling. Hate me, fear me, hurt me. Rip me to shreds with your own two hands if you wish. But don't you dare leave me. You can do whatever you want as long as you're home safe."

Your voice trembles as you whisper, "And what if I wanted to leave?"

A chuckle rumbles through his chest, the condescending amusement of someone hearing a child wish for the impossible. "You don't. If you wanted to leave, you wouldn't have come here. Wouldn't have confronted me. Hell, you would have left the moment you found that first letter. Face it, little bird, you chose your cage. You love it here."

"But if I really wanted to?"

He smiles, all teeth. "Then I'd find you and bring you home.”

When he leans down to kiss you, you don’t have the energy to pull away. You can’t even feel afraid anymore as a deep sense of resignation washes over you. Ten years. Ten years of your life, gone if you leave. Your past burned under Doflamingo’s watchful eye, ensuring you have nowhere to return. Where else can you rest except your marriage bed?

It is that same bed he carries you to now, as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear. The same bed where he takes you, as he has all these years. The same bed you’re pinned to, weighed down by an arm thrown across your waist. Despite everything, despite the fear and rage choking you, the feeling is somehow comforting.

Neither of you speak of it the next morning. What is there to say, really?

Your life is perfect. Your husband has made it so.

Tag List: @pandora-writes-one-piece @shy-writer-999 @dreamcastgirl99 @tochillwithamockingjay

[emsdevs]

I’m a sucker for Angst, so a heaviest of heavy Angst will always do it for me, like I need my insides to feel like it’s being stabbed and overwhelmed with all sort of emotions. Bonus point if it’s long. Hope this isn’t too much to ask for maybe I’m getting too carried away loll Could you do it with Justin Herbert please?

No Strings?

a/n: nonnie you sent this at the perfect time! I've had justin on my schedule for a while, but couldn't figure out what to write for him, so this worked out perfectly! this does not have a happy ending but i might be open to a part two if enough people want it. enjoyyyy :)

masterlist | NFL Masterlists | Justin Herbert Masterlist

You swore you could handle casual. When you started whatever you had going on with Justin, you swore you were the kind of person who could have a casual relationship, but now you aren’t so sure. When Justin asked you out four months ago, you never would’ve expected to be where you are now. It had all been going so well. The dates had been everything you could’ve asked for and more, and Justin was the perfect gentleman. It all began to go downhill after your third date. You had invited Justin into your apartment when he dropped you off, your intentions clear, and he had followed you inside. You two had been sitting on the couch when things began to get serious, the kiss you were sharing heating up.

Justin pulled away, looking slightly guilty. “I feel like I need to be honest with you about something before this goes any further.”

“Um, yeah, okay,” you were a little confused, but you let him speak.

“Look, because of the job I have, I really can’t do anything serious right now. I know I’ve probably led you on a little bit, but I swear I’ve never had any intentions to hurt you,” he stared at you, looking nervous.

“That’s okay!” you speak up too quickly for your liking. “We don’t have to stop unless that’s what you want. I can do casual.” Surely, you could. It couldn’t be that different from a normal relationship.

“You sure? I don’t wanna overstep if casual isn’t something you’re comfortable with.”

“Yeah, of course. No strings attached. Just having fun.”

As Justin leaned back in, you were thinking that this could definitely work. Justin was great, and this would keep him in your life without overstepping any boundaries. You could do casual.

~~

Turns out, you can’t do casual. You’ve been trying to stay normal, but you realized two days ago that you were falling for Justin, hard. You’d been keeping it to yourself, not wanting to scare him away, but it’s getting more and more difficult. He’s just so sweet, and the things he tends to do for you simply cannot be casual.

Is it casual when he plays with the ends of your hair before you get out of bed in the morning? Is it casual for him, even though he keeps all your favorite snacks at his place for when you have movie nights? If it’s casual, why does he keep a drawer free so you have space to keep a few clothes at his place? If it’s casual, why does he know you better than you know yourself? Why has he gotten you your favorite flowers every two weeks since you went on that first date with him? Why does he know “How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days” is the perfect movie to cheer you up after a long day? If it’s casual for him, why is he acting like he’s in love with you?

Eventually, it had gotten to a point where you couldn’t stand lying to him or yourself anymore. After four months of no strings, you had to talk to him. You finally got the chance one night when he invited you over for a movie night. Before the movie got started, you decided it was time to break the news.

“Justin… I actually think we need to talk,” you wiped your hands on your pants, feeling them already starting to sweat from the nerves.

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“I just really need to say this, and I know you probably won’t like it, but I need you to listen until I finish,” you pause, waiting for him to nod. “Okay, so, I just feel like we’ve definitely crossed some lines in this arrangement, ya know? Like we both have a drawer at each other’s places. We’re spending the night together, and sometimes, we hang out without even having sex. I just… this isn’t what we originally agreed to,” you were avoiding saying what you were truly feeling.

“So we’ll step back some? I don’t know. That doesn’t seem like something to be worried abou-”

“I caught feelings for you, Justin,” he just stares at you, shocked, “I know we said no feelings, but we’ve just gotten a little too close. We don’t have to stop or anything. I’m a big girl. I can handle-”

“No. No, we should stop,” he cuts you off, and it’s your turn to stare.

“Seriously?”

“We said no strings. I told you I can’t do relationships because of my job. If you have feelings for me, this needs to stop now before it can get worse.”

“Right,” you stood robotically, grabbing your things and walking out of Justin’s house with tears in your eyes. The worst part? He didn’t even try to stop you. Somehow, with one sentence, you ruined something that could’ve been so good for you, that had been so good for you.

~~

Now, it had been three months since that night, and you hadn’t spoken to Justin since. You’ve been going through the motions, just doing a fairly normal routine to make it through your day. You wake up, get dressed, go home, shower, cry while you eat your sorrows away, sleep, and then do it all again the next day. Nothing has felt right since your breakup with Justin, if that’s what you would even call. How can you break up with someone you were never really dating. 

You’ve found your confidence to be much lower recently, too. You couldn’t count the amount of time you’ve wondered where you went wrong. Why did you have to tell him? Why would he not even try? Why didn’t he follow you? Today, you found the answer.

You had decided that a day out would do you some good, so since you had the day off, you got dressed and walked around the city. You were about to go into one of your favorite coffee shops, one that you had brought Justin to many times. As you neared the door, you caught a glimpse of something that shattered your heart in a second. There sat Justin across from some girl you’ve never seen, looking too close to just be friends. You watched as she stood, kissing his cheek before she wandered off to the bathroom. A bright smile made its way onto Justin’s face, a smile you had never managed to bring out of him. With your heart broken all over again, you made your way to a close friend’s place. It was closer than yours, and you knew you didn’t want to be alone right now.

He had told you he couldn’t be in a relationship, but what he really meant was that he couldn’t be in a relationship with you. The questions began to set in again. Were you not pretty enough? Not popular enough? Did he need someone in the same tax bracket as him? Did he really just not like you? Did he think you weren’t good enough for him? Was he lying the entire time, every time he told you how special you were to him

Even with all the questions you had, you knew two things for sure. You were done with Justin Herbert, and you definitely could not do casual.

taglist: @heartsforjh @irishmanwhore @heartforherbert @jusaints @one-sweet-gubler

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[nightblackowlbat]

Tim thinking he's in heaven being cared for by Peter Red Hood's two dead brothers is AMAZING. I'm sure the magic surrounding Danny and Jason's graves only adds to that feeling.

And then to come back and automatically figure that Peter Red Hood killed him by accident? Wonderful. He probably thinks Jason and Danny didn't want Tim's death on their last living brother Peter's conscience and that's why they sent him back.

But they DID say that Tim could come back anytime he wanted. So how do you return to heaven? Cue Tim orchestrating more Near-Death-Experiences for himself so that he can see Jason and Danny again.

The Bats are having aneurysms. They just got Tim back, just resolved to protect him and appreciate him while they can. And now he keeps throwing himself into life-threatening danger! And Red Hood, who stole him away to teach them a lesson in protecting Robins, is no doubt very displeased with their failure to keep Tim safe.

Red Hood on the other hand is having his own freak out. He and Danny took Tim on vacation to improve his mental health! Why the fuck is he even more reckless than before? So Red Hood confronts Robin about it. And Tim explains what's going on in his head.

"I saw- I met your brothers, Peter." He admits.

Red Hood rocks back on his heels. "My... brothers?"

"I know it sounds insane. But when you hit me with the tranq, I died. I must have, because when I woke up, I was in heaven with Danny and Jason."

Robin grabs Red Hood's hands.

"Peter, they're happy. Your brothers are so, so happy. And they love you. They love me, and I can't imagine why but I'm so grateful they do. They love us, and that's why Jason took me back. He didn't want my death to be on your conscience. But Danny told me I can visit, and I've been trying!"

"Wh-" Red Hood pulls his hands out of Robin's grasp. Settles one on his shoulders, the other over his face. A faint wheeze can be heard through the mask. "You think- okay. Okay. You're coming with me, now."

So Robin gets abducted by Red Hood for the second time and on the way to the farm he explains that Peter is Jason is Red Hood and that being undead is just something he and Danny share in common.

"Yes, I died. Yes Danny died. But we're not dead dead, and neither are, were, or will you be anytime soon, baby bird! If you wanted to go back to the farm all you needed to do was ask. Quit giving me grey hairs!"

And the poor, poor Bats think Red Hood took away their Robin privileges again because they failed to keep him safe.

DC x DP - Two of a Kind

Danny running away from his home dimension for such and such reasons (GIW, bad reveal, etc, etc) cue him stumbling around Gotham because holy mother of ambient ectoplasm, Batman.

So anyways he’s just chilling in crime alley, as a struggling guy in Gotham does and then. And then there’s someone else. Looks exactly like him. Not like how he and Dani look similar, her features just softer and rounded with babyfat, no, no, this guy looks exactly like him. Down to the barely there scattering of freckles on the nose bridge.

It’s Jason Todd. Danny is his dimensions version of Jason Todd.

[brokenpieces-72]

Hi, I was thinking how cool it would be for the team to have a 3-4 foot nothing mouse as an infiltrator and informant. who can sneak in by squishing themselves flat like real mice through the smallest cracks, steal information and not get caught. Thanks, and I love your work ^^.

Omg I adore this idea it is adorable! Yes! I'm just imagining the reader, squishing themselves against the ground but their legs are just kicking up the dirt behind them as they wedge themselves under a door that should not even fit their skull, lol. Also, this takes place before Spirit's time or a different time all together. I couldn't think of a way to include her in it.

Click

TW: past trauma, mentions of prison, mentions of ruining people's lives, shitty bosses, criminal history, let me know if any changes are needed.

"Is this contract negotiable?" You asked, sitting across from Laswell. She'd slid the contract over to you for a job, promising you the basic amenities and a hefty cash reward for your participation in an infiltration mission. You would be a key player in an infiltration mission to collect data from a cartel, something you were very good at. The information was pretty basic stuff like bio-chemical research files, shipping manifests, buyer lists, etc.

"What are you asking for?" Kate asked.

"Reduced sentence." You said, sliding the contract back to her. Kate took it back, glancing at you. "I've served 10 years already, for following orders. I want to walk around freely after this."

Laswell didn't show it but she was surprised by your statement. You'd plead guilty during your trial, and chose your words carefully when you spoke. If you wanted your freedom she could arrange it. You would be tracked for a while, but you knew that already. In a place like this, your size was weakness, something plenty of other inmates could take advantage of.

"I'll see to it personally." Kate told you, gathering her things. You gave her a curt nod.

You didn't need basic training, but the overgrown lizard with the missing wing wanted to give you an assessment. You didn't argue, you could give him attitude once you'd warmed up to the others. Your contract required compliance on your end. While you didn't have to like it, you weren't about to start drama. Just get your work done, complete the contract, and get your tracking bracelet. Thankfully you passed the assessment with little issues. You returned to Price for your orders and then you see Alejandro. Fuck.

You have to dig your nails into your palms when you see the spots on his arms. You know those spots, and try to avoid them. And of course the colonel noticed your discomfort with his presence. Didn't comment on it though. Price dismissed you to shower, and settle in. A laptop had been put in your room for you to look over what information they had so far for the mission. You knew what you were going to do with the laptop right away.

Holy shit, you forgot how much you missed warm water and privacy like this. It felt so good to get all of your dirt and sweat off, scratching at your scalp to get out all the grime and grease that had built up. You had to brush your hair out in the shower because of how knotted it was, but it was worth it. If anyone had an opinion on how long your shower was, they kept it to themselves. Coming back to your room in a warm hoodie and wet hair was marvellous feeling. You felt much more refreshed. When you saw the laptop, you put your date with your bed on hold. The sooner the job was done, the sooner you could shower as much as you want.

The cartel location was pretty simple set up. There were blueprints of the building along with edits for renovations. Everything you'd requested for the mission was available, including any reciepts they could get a hold of for the renovations. Tech was higher end but not exactly the most secure, it would take time to make an attack plan for it. You'd want to get a drone out so you could see how many guards were on security at a time, especially if there is an event going on, because security would be tighter. There were some aerial photos that you could get closer looks at, eyeing the vehicles that weren't military make. Odds were mods had been added, like bullet-proof glass or compartments for weapons.

Everything you could find or didn't find was scratched into a notebook. The advantage with writing things down instead of typing, was how easy it was to keep it to yourself and destroy it if you needed to. You probably spent a better portion of the day working on your notes and plans. By the time you had most of your wrok done, your lip was a little numb from chewing at it. Your eyes watered from staring at the screen, realizing just how dark it had gotten in your room. What time was it? Evening at least. Shit, you hoped there was still some food for you at the messhall.

You left your room, yawning, wishing you had taken a nap before getting to work. After poking your head into the hall, you quietly slipped out of your room to find the mess hall. When you turned the first corner though you nearly had a heart attack. Kyle unintantionally scared the shit out of you. You had to cover your mouth so you didn't yell in surprise. Did you hear someone coming? Yes. But not someone with big wings.

"You good?" He askeed. You nodded needing a minute for your heart to settle.

"Yeah... sorry." You said. "Was looking for the mess hall."

"I'm on my way there, I can show you." Kyle told you, waiting for you to give him the okay to show you. You nodded and gestured for him to lead on.

"So what do we call you? The Cap'n gave us your name but I figured you had a nickname or something." Kyle said, walking with you. Great, he likely knew you had a record as well. Certainly didn't seem bothered by it though.

"Mouse. Or Click." You answered. "Super original I know."

Kyle told you about the other nicknames of the team. You couldn't help but notice he seemed fairly casual with you, while keeping to himself. As soon as you figured out what he was doing you cracked a small smile. Kyle noticed.

"Did I say something?" He asked. Oh shit, he saw that. Awkward.

"No no, just... old training kicking in." You admitted.

"How so?" Kyle asked. You were hoping "old training" wouldn't come with follow ups. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable, if you wanted any mission to go right you needed trust from both sides. Kyle was taking the first steps, and you wanted to catch up. If you kept it to yourself it could make him uneasy, or dig into your file deeper. If you told him it could make him more cautious.

"I learned speech patterns to go with my informant training." You explained.

"Figured." Kyle said. "So what have I given away?"

The question is phrased in a way that sounds lighthearted, but you get the feeling he's both testing you and wishing he'd been more careful about talking to you. The more open and forward you are the better it would be later on. "How much of a dressing down do you want?"

Kyle shrugged. May as well give him the fullset. "You told me everyone's name and nickname, while giving me one thing to focus on for each of them in terms of appearance. Instead of telling me what hybrid they are you described their more human aspects. You're attempting to make me feel comfortable with them by providing me with friendlier terms to refer to them. Instead of focusing on what makes them different you mention the things they have the most in common which is their humanity. In summary you're sizing me up - no pun intended - while wanting me to be more relaxed and comfortable with the rest of you."

"Yep." Kyle said simply. You gave him a double take. Was that a test?! Kyle just shook his head smirking. Not the usual response but you appreciated how he took it.

"Can I be informal about this meeting?" You asked Price.

"You have the floor use it as you see fit." Price said. Oh boy, this would be a trip.

"Okay, first and foremost, there is more than one target. You have a server room that I'm not even sure could be called that, and there's a main office holding both written files and a computer. Second, this place has gone through more renovations than I can count. There are plenty of ways in, but each one has something either blocking it or guarding it, which will take more than a smile to get in."

"More than lockpicking as well?" Rudy asked.

"Or breaking down the door, not saying brute force and ignorance isn't an option, but I don't recommend the latter." You added. Simon was looking over the map you had spread out.

"Where are the targets?" He requested. You marked them and they were some distance apart. The server room was in the general center, with the main office being further from the entrance. "You have a main one?"

"I was going to ask about that." You said. "How much data do you want?"

"All of it." Price answered simply. You thought so.

"Server would get you plenty of files but they'll likely be encrypted, office would get you their main computer which could also be locked pretty tight, and the option of hard copies, but that's if they have hard copies." You explained quickly. Getting everything would be an option it was more how much they wanted to break stuff.

"All of it." Price repeated.

"Okay," You sighed. "If you look at the papers there's maps and times for the guard's rotations, which aren't the most consistent, but are close enough, during events and meetings they put in the effort to cover up a bit more. Their vehicles are no exception, those illegal tints are probably hiding radios, and hidden compartments."

"The van is modded too?" Kyle asked, looking at the photos you'd gotten from the drone. Sketchy white van parked out front.

"Spoilers." You told him. "But yes... and no. The cartel gets businesses to come in and work on their stuff under the table, all of it is done in cash and off record, but it's not always the same person. Before Kyle said anything that would be the first way in but that would get civilians involved."

The team didn't want to get innocent people involved, even if they were doing sketchy business. The team examined the work you'd put together. There were plenty of scribbled notes, photos, and maps to go over but Price could see through all your work.

"Do you have any other suggestions?" He asked you.

"Sadly, no. I wasn't exactly the planner when it came to these things. One thing I can tell you that is close to a suggestion, is that the place's security system is like a smart home. System sends a signal anytime someone interacts with it. If someone is taken off or put on the system, ping. Door unlocked or locked, ping. Car leaves the premises, ping."

"Windows?" Soap asked.

"It's a way in, but a way to be seen as well. I get most of your guys are bulletproof to a degree, but I'm not." You explained. They could cover you, that wasn't a massive issue.

"Could we take out the guards, replace them?" Alejandro asked.

"Theoretically yes, it would require them to leave the premises and a car jacking." You explained. Less violence required, and you were starting to map some more things out in your head.

"That will work, but then how do we reach the targets?" Price asked. Ghsot and Rodolfo could get through easily enough and unlock the doors from the other side. Price and Gaz would be able to hide among the guards as easily with their wings, so they could provide recon and a distraction while the rest broke in. Meanwhile you would get into the computer and servers directly, retrieving the target. There was one problem though. How would you get in? Your ears could be stuffed into a ski mask with some discomfort and your tail could go around your midsection under your clothes, but...

"One problem... I'm a little short for stormtrooper." You mentioned. You didn't like it, but they found a way.

Night before the mission you were curled up in the rec room with your notebook. You were journaling. It was the one thing you could do when you were incarcerated, and your therapist recommended it. One mission and you would be able to walk outside again. Felt good to write about it. Your ears twitched hearing someone walk in.

"Looks like there's a creature stirring." Soap said, joining you. You rolled your eyes, but gave him a friendly enough smile. You sat in silence for a moment before Soap decided now was a perfect time to get personal with you. "What were you in for?"

"It's in my file." You answered.

"Didn't bother reading it. I prefer the source, more accurate." He replied. You looked over your journal and tucked up knees at him. It wasn't to catch you off guard, or anything, he wanted to hear your side.

"Hacked into National Security." You said, finishing the sentence you were on before closing your journal.

"That all?" He asked.

"I was... ordered to. I broke in, obtained files on suspoected war criminals, my commanding officer gave me the okay, said he'd gotten a warrant and everything. Tried arguing with him, and... he convinced me it was for the best. We were catching criminals, terrorists. Well he never got the warrant, and the next thing I know I'm on trial, hearing how many people I hurt through my actions." You said.

"What about your superior?" Soap asked. You felt something boiling inside of you. The night he'd come to see you to warn you about the trial, you thought he would defend you. You retold your side to him, despite him knowing it. His final words to you stung. In the end it was your hand on the trigger.

"Haven't seen him." You said, shrugging. "Got plenty of tats in prison though."

"Really?" Soap asked, giving in to the subject change. He'd only seen the one star on your neck. YOu set you journal aside, and pulled up your hoodie and shirt to show your ribs and some beautiful inked works. "Is that recent?"

"The snake is yeah." You said. You're pretty sure the reason the hybrids were more comfortable around you was because of your small size. As a mouse you're less of a threat, but you have a criminal record. Soap wasn't put off by it, none of them were. You'd heard things about the 141, some of the skeletons they might have in their closet. You assumed there was little room to throw stones in the glass house. "Tomorrow is gonna suck."

"Why? The plan is solid." Soap said. Yeah for him maybe, not for you. Maybe that was why he was being friendly, so you wouldn't get back at him for roughing you up. You gave him a look, and he failed to hide his grin. "It's a solid plan."

Oh yeah yeah, solid FUCKing plan Soap. Laugh it up. He was snickering about it when everything was being planned out too. Were you laughing about it too? Yes, but it was a bit of reluctant laugh, like when you know you've lost a bet and have to get drenched by a water balloon.

"Permission to speak freely?" You asked Alejandro who was ziptying your hands behind your back. Something about him having to kneel down to do so was forcing Soap to hide his face. God he was a fucking child sometimes. Kyle was doing the same, but it was more towards Soap and his childish humour.

"Always." Alejandro said.

"Thanks." You said. "Hey Soap? Fuck off."

"Aye. Remember who's dragging in you in there." Soap said.

"Aye, remember who can make you sketchy dating profiles." You reminded him. Soap put his hands up in surrender. Alejandro was nice enough to help you get on the edge of the open truck before applying zipties to legs. "The leg ones necessary?"

"Yep." Alejandro said simply. He finished up and stood up straight. Rudy put the bag over your head, as you got yourself to awkwardly roll into the trunk. Before shutting the door you heard Ghost.

"Comfortable?" He asked. Not really, you were stuck laying on your arms but being on your stomach wouldn't be any better. You were able to nod under the hood, and give out a muffled, good. Then the trunk closed.

Didn't take long for you to figure out why they put leg ties on you. As soon as they arrived, and pulled you out of the trunk, you got hoisted on to a shoulder. You don't know who it was but they maintained the cover, with no signs of laughter.

You kept quiet, letting them carry you inside. You heard Alejandro talking to someone. You couldn't make out the words, he was speaking Spanish. There was some back and forth and you think you hear the word ninos. Other guy probably thought you were a kid. You started moving again, and held back a sigh of relief.

A door was opened, and two things were put in your hands as you were laid on the floor. You were given a pat down, the equipment under your hoodie was ignored. The door was closed and locked. Your shoulder was starting to feel sore again, only having short relief from the car ride. You continued to wait patiently. You've waited ten years to see the world again, what was a few more minutes? You felt something nudge you and you knew it was go time.

You sat up, and carefully opened the blade. You got the zipties on your wrists cut and then moved to your leg-SHIT! That fucking smarts... okay legs ties were off. Should've shaken the bag off first. You checked the damage real quick. You'd cut your hand, enough to cause bleeding but not deep enough to warrant stitches. You looked at the thing that nudged you, a cadejo, who showed some concern for your injury.

"Go, I'll be fine." You ordered quietly. then you put the ear piece in. Immediately Rudy asked if you were okay, and if you needed anything. You assured them you were okay but would need an extra minute. The hood was the best option, so you cut some pieces of it of with the knife. They were tucked against the wound, and then you got your gloves on. It was going to hurt as you looked up at the vent shaft above you. They'd put you in a storage closet, classy. Thankfully the vent grate wasn't bolted. You could hear the team going over other parts of the plan while you focused on your own.

One hop up, and you were able to get the ve-dang it. Okay come on. Come on! Get the right gri-there you go! You got the grate off and set it aside. For anyone else your size, the shaft would be tight. You were a mouse hybrid. You could squeeze into plenty of small places. The vent was no exception. You got low to ground, shifting your feet for the right stance, and then sprung upwards.

You got your hands into the shaft and on to the edge of the tunnel. With some small swinging of your legs, you hoisted yourself further inside, getting the rest of your body in. As you shuffled along, poking your head around to check for any risks you continued to listen to the team. They were making their way to finding the security cameras, intending to watch over you so no one would suspect anything. Ghost was making his way to the server room where you were headed while Rudy was lingering by the main office.

Thankfully there weren't many issues, once you got to the server room, but your hand was starting to sting. Shit, you could feel the blood sticking to your glove. Once you reached the server room you tried testing your hand, applying some pressure. Yeah you were going to need some help getting down, otherwise you might just hurt yourself more. You touched your earpiece.

"Ghost I'm at the server room, what's your location?" You asked, keeping your voice down.

"On my way still. Security cams have been secured, you're clear to engage." Ghost informed you.

"I'm gonna need you inside." You admitted.

"Need medical?" He asked.

"I might." You said. Ghost picked up his pace a little, keeping an eye out for anyone else. Once he reached the server room, he stood, doing a scan of the hall and ensuring he wouldn't be noticed befor slipping inside, through his own shadow. You were still waiting above the room, carefully removing the grate and pulling it up into the shaft with you.

"Where are you?" Ghost asked. You saw a figure moving below you.

"Still in the shaft." You admitted. The figure looked up and saw you.

"Stop fucking around and get down." Ghost hissed at you.

"Needed a spotter." You told him, cautious slipping down and dangling by your good hand. Something wrapped around your leg, and you realize Ghost is keeping a grip on you with some shadow manipulation. Once your feet were on the ground, you got to work while Ghost got a first aid kit that was thankfully hanging on the wall. You started typing away on your laptop, after retrieving it from the bag under your hoodie. You had a program put together already that would duplicate items, making identical replicas of the files as if they were never accessed or touched.

Once you got the right cords hooked up to your laptop, you let the program play out. Thankfully you could get quite a few files from the servers alone. It meant some impatient waiting, but Ghost had a way to pass the time. Cleaning your wound properly and getting some proper bandages. You set your laptop aside while Ghost set himself on the floor. You held out your hand for him and hissed at the stinging of the alcohol.

"Do me a favour when you get back." Ghost said, wrapping the guaze around your hand. Simon was surprisingly gentle when it came to patch ups. "The coward that put you in jail, make sure he pays up."

"Laswell told me she was looking into it. Don't worry." You assured him. Ghost had his commanding officer fuck him over too, but he'd had it a lot worse. You flexed your hand a bit to test the wrappings before Ghost applied tape.

"Soap to Ghost." Soap was heard in both your ear pieces. Ghost packed the kit up quickly, getting Soap to continue. "There's a guard approaching, west side."

"Company?" He asked.

"Find cover." Soap said confirming. You looked at the program still running. Unplugging it would mess up the files, you know that. Ghost could hide no problems there, but you were a different story. Seeing your panic, Ghost ordered you to get on top of the server towers. You looked at your laptop, but he hissed for you to leave it. Yep you weren't going to argue with him. Ghost instead hid beside the tower closest to the door, while you waited on the tower. You kept glancing down to see if the program had finished yet. Almost. Come on, come on, come o-the door opened and you pressed yourself against the top of the tower as much as you could.

The guard walked in casually, likely a routine check-up, make sure no one was fucking around on duty, literally and figuratively. The door slowly closed behind the guard while you held your breath. You know Ghost isn't gonna kill em, if he does it will raise alarms if anyone finds him. Knocked out, it could be from anything. Ghost readies himself, shifting his weight to go in for a headlock. Then the guard stops and starts patting his pockets. Holy shit there was no fucking way. The guard turned and freaking left?!

"Click, where are we at with the files." Ghost asked as soon as the door shut behind the guard. You glanced down again.

"Done." You whispered with excitement. Okay, one down, one more to go.

"The guard is leaving, you need to move." You heard Alejandro say. Didn't need to tell you twice. You hopped down from the tower, and unplugged your laptop, stashing it away quickly. Ghost left the room the same way he came in. Once you had you gloves back on you got back to vent. You moved quickly knowing it the guard could return again, even with Ghost out there lingering. The office was a much longer way to go, with plenty more vents along the way. You overheard some muffled conversations, casual stuff from guards and other cartel members.

"Click hold up." You heard over the comms. You stopped, looking through the vent grate. You had a tracker pinging your location through the shafts, so the team knew where you were for each room. You noticed a group of people chatting, all masked. Your small size, meant less weight so no issue with making too much noise. You could hear Soap's irritation over comms.

"Soap, status?" Ghost requested.

"There's someone else in the office, talking to the leader. They're chatting and friendly by the looks of it."

"You need a distraction?" Gaz offered. He and Price had been pretty quiet throughout the mission thus far.

"Alejandro?" Soap asked.

"In position." He said. After a confirmation from Price you start to hear a loud ruckus. The men below look around confused, unsure of what they were hearing. Then you hear Alejandro barking orders at them in Spanish and they start moving. You needed to move to. Rudy would have to make himself scarce, so you would only have Soap as your eyes through the walls. You're a little ways from the main office when you hear a noise in your earpiece followed by Soap cursing again.

"Soap status?" Ghost asked, more concern in his voice.

"Shift change." He said quietly. Okay now you had to move faster and you scurried through to office, overhearing a commotion from Soap, likely dealing with his shift change. Get in and get out, the commotion will pull the leader away. Rudy confirmed it. Except the leader's guest was still in there, with Rudy guarding the door. You saw them once you reached the office, and saw him sitting casually at the desk, as if he were just waiting for his boss to return so they could keep up their friendly chat.

You kept an eye on him, waiting for the commotion on Soap's end to finish. The extra occupant was an unplanned variable. There was no back-up plan aside from the distraction. Damn it this made things more complicated. "We have a John Smith in the office."

Soap stopped whatever he was doing with the guard and returned to cameras. He saw the extra variable. You had to wait for orders, and heard him talking to Simon about what they could do to get rid of the guy. Killing him would be the easiest but it's harder to cover up as opposed to a quiet infiltration. Your ears flattened, as you let yourself relax in the tight space for a moment. You arms were getting sore from holding yourself up. Mad props to the soldiers who could do it under long stretches of dirt and mud.

John Smith got up from his chair and started to walk around the room. You reported it, and heard Soap, Ghost and now Alejandro debating what they could do. Then the stranger turned, letting you get a good look at his face. Your ees widen, and you cover your mouth to keep yourself from gasping. No, there was.... no. That fucking bastard.

"I don't recognize him." Alejandro said.

"I... I do." You said, trying to control your emotions. The soft white noise of the comms was deafening as you remembered the night at your apartment, when he came to see you. You thought he came to be friendly, but you were naive. Thinking you were doing the right thing.

"Click, we need a name." Ghost said, having to repeat himself. You gave his name and his rank. The team realized your connection to him immediately.

"Permission to engage?" You asked. Price needed a moment to think about it.

"Can you keep control?" He asked.

"Affirm."

"Engage, you do not have execute authority." Price ordered.

That's all you needed, as you got the vent grate off. You waited for him to come into view, being sure he could hear the noise. As soon as he was in view, the grate was angled and aimed. You forced it down as hard as you could and hit him in the head, making him stumble back and fall against the desk. You didn't know it but the noise form outside the office caused Rudy whip around. He'd heard the order but didn't know what you'd done.

You dropped down with ease, landing in a crouch while your old boss groaned. When you stand you keep an eye on him, pulling up your face mask. You heard Rudy ask if you wanted help. No you could handle this. Once again you plugged in your laptop to the main computer and ran the program. While that was running, you went back to your boss, who was slowly getting back up, and hit him in the stomach, getting him keel over. That was a mistake.

Your former boss is bigger than you, by a couple of feet. Keeling over he was able to grab you, and drag you with him to ground, pinning you down on your stomach. "Hey there mouse. Long time no see."

Of course he recognized you. You had been the shortest on your old team, and the only hybrid. He thought it would disarm you, but you freed your arm and elbowed him in the face, hard. Once he rolled off of you, you were much faster, climbing on top of him. His mistake was not wearing any armour. Jail time taught you some tactics as well. A quick comm to Rudy and you grabbed between your former boss's legs. You grabbed hard, fingers curved in. The look on hos face was so worth it.

Did he try to knock you off? Yep, but any attempts vanished when Rudy sent in the cadejos at your request. Both stood over him growling. When he tried to cry out, you covered his mouth. His pained muffled groans however would have left plenty of questions if there weren't visuals to back it up.

"Anybody have some questions for this guy? He's an informant working with a cartel after all. Not undercover either." You asked. They didn't admit it, but anyone seeing you on the cameras was wincing a little at yur methods.

"Is he a client of the cartel?" Price asked, unable to see what exactly was going on.

"Are you a client?" You asked him, uncovering his mouth.

"You're a rat bitch." He said. You squeezed, and admittedly, enjoyed his pained expression.

"Yeah I am, but that's not the fucking question." You told him. "Are you a client? Yes or no?"

"N-no." He managed. You loosened your grip.

"Why are you here then? Serve them with a warrant to check their liquor cabinet?" You asked, jerking your head towards the glass of alcohol on the desk.

"To keep your ass in check." He said. You squeezed again.

"You never needed to keep my ass in check. Try again!" You said.

"A business deal." He said quickly. You loosened and he sighed with some relief.

"See it'll hurt less if you do answer me nicely. Also keep in mind, we're in the very room containing documents that can easily disprove your statements." You said.

"Information... for product." He said. "Get off of me."

You stayed on top of him, because you wanted to do so much worse to him. In this moment you had the high ground, both physically and morally. You wanted to twist.

"Click, how long until you have the data?" Rudy asked. By now he'd probably seen what was going on. You needed to focus. Besides, now you had proof of his guilt and an extra reason to walk free after. You twisted your body and made out only a few seconds left on the screen. Your former boss tried to take advantage of your vulnerable state, but you were faster, punching him in the throat. Then you put your hands together into a fist and slammed down on his stomach, lifting your legs to bring more momentum with your weight. Yeah he wasn't going to get up any time soon.

Once you got off of him, you got to the other side of the desk, turning your laptop around to face you. Data completed. "Just need some hard copies."

"We're out of time Click, take what you have." Price said. Damn it, you got caught up in your personal drama. The cadejos vanished, returning to their vessel. As you watched them leave, your attention attached itself to some papers on the desk. A contract, with signatures. You took out your phone and started taking photos, as many as you could in between a rushed packing job. You even opened a desk drawer and took photos of the inside before putting the laptop in it's bag. Okay now it was time to go.

"I need an evac." You said.

"Rodolfo." Alejandro said. All he needed to say. Rudy came in and you put your hands up in surrender. The same routine as when it started, except he left your legs alone. Your buff went over your eyes and you were led out of the room. Your old boss was still on the ground groaning. Rudy took one look at him before turning and dragging you out of the room. You didn't see much of what happened after that.

Once you returned to base, you thanked Rudy for his help. Too much longer and Rudy might have passed out, you knew it was a risk. His only request was that on the off chance the two of you worked together, you warn him if you do something like that. You could agree to that.

As for the data you collected, it was enough to get the cartel taken down, and put plenty of people behind bars. You contract could also put your old superior away, and reopen the investigation into the crimes you'd committed. Until then you were permitted to remain on base, working through the intel you'd collected. Your assistance had been a great asset.

One day you get pulled into Price's office where he commends you on a job well done, especially when it had been so personal. Unfortunately, that was your one flaw, in your opinion. You made and took things personally. It was why you put on a sarcastic attitude from time to time.

"Yeah well, I had the motive of a hefty paycheck." You told him, cracking your back oulling your knee to your chest and resting your chin on it. It wasn't the real reason, but Price didn't call your bluff. That smug look you gave him was growing on him, ever so slightly.

"About that..." Price started. Your ears flattened, and your body straightened. What the fuck, you signed a contract! You should be getting paid. Price smirked at your insulted expression. "You're still getting paid, and a substantial amount."

"But?" you asked. Yeah there had to be more. No way there wasn't.

"You have a great skillset, you have a strong mentality, your abilities prove that you're a great asset, and you get along well with the rest of the men. That being said, I can't recruit you because of your criminal record. Laswell was adamant."

You fidgeted in the chair, listening intently to what he had to say. The captain slid a piece of paper across his desk. You took it and looked it over. "I could use someone like you on my team though."

Freelance work. The paper was another contract, for Price to have the ability to call on you should he need your services. It was tempting. The risk involved...

"I think I'd be better off giving you my number." You admitted. "I'm sorry Cap. Military and politics aren't the best for me. Learned that some time ago."

Price could've told you everything that was in that contract, how it ensured your immunity if charges were ever laid, the high prices they were willing to pay, and your freedom to turn down work. You'd already been screwed over hard by the system. Would the contract let you do what you did best? Yep. But it forced you to make judgment calls, ones that went wrong in the past. Price understands your concerns.

"Let me know when it changes." He said. You could agree to that.

You reclined in your chair with your headset and your feet on your desk. A video was playing in your ears, while you were gaming with the controller in your lap. After a long day you deserved some time to yourself. Your lamp was on to keep your eyes from watering, while your laptop ran through some programming and codes. You set the controller aside, to take another bite of your take out. You get two notifications on your phone which you check. The first is from your ankle bracelet having an issue. You contact the officer in charge of you, informing him that you're not doing anything and the bracelet is having problems.

The second is from a familiar name. You smiled, and called him. "Hello new phone, who dis?"

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @0wosugarmommymedic0wo @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving @cutiecusp @shikigami-the-paper-spirit @lolyouranelf

[kanansdume]

You started these tags with "oof" and I went back to re-read the second part of this post and... yeah, oof is about how I feel, too. Oh how hopeful I was for something good to come out of that show, BOTH shows actually since I was looking at Mandalorian season 3 as well it seems.

This post is already a little long, so I'll put the rest under a cut, but tl;dr is that I think you're giving the people writing in the Mandoverse SO MUCH more credit than they deserve and they'll likely never do anything good or creative with these characters again.

I don't think that making Sabine a Jedi had anything to do with Sabine at all. A lot of people have pointed out that Sabine is acting like a bratty teenager despite being literally 30 years old and that she feels a lot like an ANAKIN stand-in so that Ahsoka can figure out her feelings about Anakin through her relationship to Sabine. We know that the Rebels Search for Ezra storyline got combined with Ahsoka's show and that they weren't originally intended to be the same story. So it makes sense that Ahsoka likely HAD a padawan-figure originally who was probably a new character and that they just replaced that character with Sabine when things got combined, regardless of what that would mean for Sabine's character.

Sabine doesn't even grow or learn anything by the end of the show. I've see people try to argue that when she left Ezra behind in order to save Ahsoka that it showed she'd grown from when she abandoned everything to save Ezra, except... she's literally just making the same choice for a different person. Thrawn is LEAVING and the whole point of jumping onto his ship is to try to STOP HIM or something, and instead of doing that and helping Ezra, she runs back because one person's life is at stake and now Ezra is alone on that ship and Sabine never has to face the consequences of her own actions. Personally, that doesn't feel like any actual growth to me or like she's learned from the mistake she made by going to get Ezra. The narrative itself doesn't even seem to think that it WAS a mistake she needs to learn from, which leaves her character with literally nowhere to go.

If they were going to bring her back to Mandalore as a leader, they probaby would've been EMPHASIZING her connection to Mandalore rather than basically erasing it. It would've made more sense to leave her family ALIVE, even just ONE of them, to give her more of a connection to that cause. But no, aside from her wearing the armor, there's absolutely no indication she gives a flying shit about Mandalore or its people anymore.

So even if they DID start pushing Sabine in the direction of being a leader again, I wouldn't like it. THIS Sabine should never lead anybody ever. THIS Sabine is a selfish piece of shit who is willing to unleash Thrawn upon the galaxy just to get what she wants. REBELS era Sabine was awesome, and had the makings of a great ruler. REBELS era Sabine had learned mercy and patience and selflessness by the end of the show, while THIS fucking Sabine is impatient, impetuous, irresponsible, and selfish. Nobody should EVER allow the Ahsoka show version of Sabine anywhere NEAR a leadership position, and if they try to do it, it'll just be unbelievably bad writing. Perhaps hilariously bad writing, it could be amusing to see them attempt to make that claim, but it'd still be bad.

And, as you mentioned, they've already put Bo-Katan in as the leader of Mandalore for the THIRD TIME and, ostensibly, destroyed the Dark Saber. There doesn't seem to be any real planning around who gets put in as the leader of Mandalore, to be honest, it just kind-of flip flops and goes to whoever they deem most convenient in the moment. Sabine was being set up for it for a minute until they decided it would be problematic with what they wanted to do with her later in Rebels, so they threw it at Bo-Katan with no good reason. Then they took it away from Bo-Katan in The Mandalorian so that they could set Din up to take on leadership of Mandalore except that then they decided they didn't really like that so they abandoned all of that set-up and tossed it back at Bo-Katan because, hell, she's already there isn't she, might as well just give it back to her because THAT'S satisfying to see! So, sure, MAYBE they'll give it back to Sabine and take it away from Bo-Katan AGAIN later on, maybe Bo-Katan will die fighting Thrawn and so Sabine gets put back in as an option, but I don't have a single ounce of belief that it'll make any sense or feel in any way satisfying.

For all that the Mandoverse is focused on Mandalorians in the extreme, I don't feel like they're writing them all that well or care all that much about giving these characters good strong narratives. Sabine is just the latest in a string of terrible writing choices for their Mando characters.

Sabine Wren is not just the true wielder of the Darksaber, but the only one who should’ve been chosen to rule Mandalore and I will die on that hill.

The entire point of Sabine’s whole arc through the show is that she is learning JEDI VALUES, that she’s learning that the Mandalorian way has its place, but it also has so many flaws and that it’s what has led Mandalore to fight itself into dust. She’s impatient and distrustful and learns to listen with Hera about Fulcrum. She’s more inclined to kill someone out of anger until she learns the value of mercy and second chances from Kanan with Fenn Rau. She tries to pretend her problems don’t exist and won’t truly face them until she learns to wield the Darksaber with Kanan and then goes to make amends with her family. The entire episode with her familiy shows how Sabine brings together everything she’s learned: she waits and listens to her family’s grievances, understanding exactly how her actions impacted them, and then she shows mercy to Gar Saxon rather than killing him after her win like a true Mandalorian would.

Having Bo-Katan claim that the Mandalorian way is a way of MERCY, when we’re intentionally told and shown that Sabine’s willingness to show mercy explicitly goes against her Mandalorian upbringing and teachings and was something she learned from Hera, and from Kanan and his Jedi teachings, is really insulting. The Mandalorian way, as shown through Rebels, is NOT one of mercy, that’s the entire point. Sabine recognizes that, recognizes that that’s what’s caused them so much misery, caused them to turn on each other so much that their planet hasn’t ever had the chance to heal and regrow.

Bo-Katan even says IN THIS EPISODE that Sabine represents the best of what they have been in the past as well as the best of what they could someday become. That Sabine is a true leader.

To have Sabine turn around and say that the Darksaber came to her, after she EARNED IT, for the FIRST time since Tarre Viszla she truly EARNED the Darksaber, just so she could pass it on to Bo-Katan, someone who once gleefully helped set a village on fire after the people she was helping subjugate tried to resist?

I’m sorry, but no.

Sabine Wren is Tarre Viszla’s true successor. Not just as the wielder of the Darksaber, but as Mandalore’s uniter, as its truest ruler. Sabine Wren has the patience and mercy and wisdom of a Jedi with the passion and mettle of a Mandalorian warrior. She has learned to listen as well as she fights, and she has learned how to appreciate different points of view and how to bring them together to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

The Darksaber came to her because Sabine Wren always had the capacity to use it to fulfill Tarre Viszla’s vision, to unite Mandalore, to save it from itself, to make it more than it is. The Darksaber came to her specifically because Sabine has the greatest ability to lead Mandalore into a peaceful future.

[corviiids]

hello! how do you find consistent friends in fandom? as in, how do you find people who stick with you through different fandoms and listen and read your work. also, how long have you been writing for and how long did it take you to get so good at writing and character analysis.... your work is such an inspiration to me, genuinely one of my top 3 authors across ao3. i hope the writing goes well!

hey! this is really sweet, thank you very much for your lovely kind words. 💖

re: friendship: i don't mean to be a downer about this so i hope it doesn't come across this way, but i do think the concept of friends where you follow each other through all your fandoms and continue to read each other's work etc kind of... either doesn't exist or is just a rare phenomenon and not a 'type' of friend per se more than it is something that just happens out of luck. i am lucky enough to have friendships which have persisted through all of us changing fandoms, but the reason those friendships last is actually because we found connections that went beyond common interests. i think sharing a fandom/interest is great as an initial point of connection and a way to meet, but for a relationship to last, you need to have a deeper bond than both being into the same thing--so contrary to what you've asked about (oops sorry) those friendships im speaking of only last because we didn't follow each other into different fandoms, really. we didn't have to. along the same vein, i'd respectfully argue that it wouldn't be productive or fair of me to group 'reading my work' in as an element of friendship, so to speak--i definitely don't expect my friends to read my fic and vice versa, we all understand that we can support each other in our creative pursuits and lives in general / in the abstract without needing to be a fan of the same things or even necessarily being fans of each other's work (although of course it's always nice). i know this doesn't really answer your specific question but i hope it doesn't come across as pessimistic as it might sound. i truly and genuinely believe it's a positive thing that the idealised friendgroup traipsing through fandoms together doesn't really exist (or if it does exist, it's luck and not something to shoot for in itself), because this just tells me to look out for these great opportunities to form bonds that last beyond superficial interests.

in terms of how to make those friendships to begin with, im honestly even less help. my friendships kind of just happened to me. im actually quite terrible at reaching out to people and i am notoriously difficult to reach myself hahaha so honestly all the credit for my friendships goes to my friends for being patient and sticking with me despite that. i am honestly just very lucky in that i've been able to talk out loud into the void and have had wonderful people reach out to me because of it, but that's hardly a reliable strategy... i guess i'd encourage you to be more like my friends, who are the anime protagonists wielding the power of friendship to my prickly antagonist, or whatever. oh another thing to remember i guess is that some friendships just don't last this way and will stay within fandoms and may peter out, and that's ok. i don't consider those relationships less real or valuable for being less lasting.

re: writing: i want to caveat that i don't think i'm fairly able to say (or comfortable saying) that i'm particularly good at writing or character analysis, certainly not to an extent that i'd be willing to hold myself up as an example of it, but i really appreciate that you feel that way about my work and am incredibly honoured to be considered an inspiration in any capacity!!

with that disclaimer made, i'll do my best to answer for whatever it's worth. i've liked writing ever since i was a very little kid, but i will credit any actual progress i've made in developing the skill to writing fanfic because i think that being able to focus on building character and logical flow in plot progression over other things like creating characters, worldbuilding, inventing plots wholesale, etc--which has allowed me to sort of expedite those skills in particular and which i think are helpful in writing more broadly. (this also answers the 'character analysis' part specifically--when you don't have to/get to invent a character, you have to spend more time taking them apart.) anyway, i started writing fic about twelve or thirteen years ago, and there have been periods within that where i've progressed faster or slower depending what's going on in my life haha. i do think time played a massive role in any skill developments i've made, but i also know people take less time or more time to make similar progress (caveat again: progression is subjective, this is very approximate), so i think the other key ingredient besides time is engagement. if it's helpful, i went into that a little bit more here, but as stated i have a lot more to learn and would never present myself as an expert lol

[astraeus-tree]

Can you write something with Damian X Reader where R is an extremely intelligent girl, to the point of having discovered the secret identities of the entire Batfam only two months after moving to Gotham, and who is constantly in the Bats' action scenes (Like she shows up anywhere they're fighting criminals just to recite one by one the reasons why she's sure they're the Waynes, even with all of them denying it and pretending she's a complete crazy person. A bonus if Damian "hates" her (it's actually just misunderstood love because she's just awesome and he can't handle himself)). By the way: your Batfam fanfic is great!

Sometimes Things Aren't As Plain As They Seem

Pairing: Damian X F!Reader

Warnings: Self harm, blood, mention of torture near the end

Reader and Damian's age aren't specified and I'm really sorry but you can tell I gave up at the end I've also never written for Damian so he's probably ooc

You've held a secret for the past few months now.

No one else knew this secret of yours. Well, except the people involved in this classified information. Namely, the Wayne family and those close to them. In fact, this secret wasn't even yours to share.

What this secret was? The identity of the vigilantes that patrolled the streets of Gotham. Yes, the birds, the bat and those that worked with them in Gotham.

Your first hint was almost instantaneous after moving here. After all, who would have enough money for all those gadgets that Batman uses? Almost every citizen has come to realise that he doesn’t have any powers— with the exception of a few—so the only other reason would be man-made technology. But those costed money, and most people in Gotham could never afford those, so that left the rich or those with connection to them.

After this realisation, you made it your mission to find out their identities. It was a personal goal of yours, another thing to add to your list of achievements. And you did it. Just two months in to living in Gotham at that.

However, you needed confirmation. You were almost certain you were right, but you needed one final confirmation. You had doubts. The main being that it was hard to believe that someone from the high society of Gotham would even think to help the poor without a hidden motive. Bruce Wayne—Batman—had proven himself multiple times, yet the doubt would linger at the back of your mind.

So what better proof than word from the mouths of the heroes themselves?

Lately, Damian’s been dreading the patrols around Gotham. The reason being was this girl, around the same age as him, you.

In almost every patrol, you had interrupted them. You had somehow found out their routes for their patrols, even when they tried everything to make it impossible to track them. When questioned, you would say that there is a pattern in everything, that’s what made people human. Human, not a hero, not a killer, just human.

You would constantly put yourself in danger, just trying to get an answer from him and his father. You would always list reasons why Gotham’s vigilantes were the Waynes. It was almost endearing annoying.

In fact, you were a danger yourself. You were a risk. You could easily spill their identities.

So tonight, he would warn you. Save you. Unfortunately for you, his job was to analyse anything and everything about someone suspicious, and in his family’s books, you were one. Fortunately for him, you were easy to find, because just as you said, there is pattern in everything.

It was another night of you trying to get your final, solid evidence. You snuck around the streets of Gotham, heading to the area where you next expected Batman and Robin to start their patrol.

As you made you way, you felt eyes boring holes into you. You reached your hand into your pocket, clutching the pocket knife inside. As you heard a thud of a pair of feet landing on the ground, you turned around, shoving the knife at the person’s throat.

Your eyes widened when you saw a familiar domino mask staring back at you. Robin—Damian Wayne. What the hell? You’re usually the one to look for them, not the other way around. What’s with this turn of events?

“(Last Name).” His voice is sharp, not even bothered by the knife pointed at his neck.

“Robin? Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be on patrol yet.”

“Of course you would know that.” He mutters under his breath. “You’re putting yourself in danger. You need to stop or we will make you.”

“I- what?” You stumbled back, confused at his words.

“Stop following us. For your safety and our own.”

“Well maybe if you finally gave me answers, I’d finally leave you guys alone.” You cross your arm and roll your eyes. You knew you were being stubborn to a fault, but you really wanted this confirmation.

“And what will you do with this information?” He returns the action and raises his eyebrow.

“Nothing. Swear on my life.”

“And how should I trust you?” He asks, skeptically. There was an awkward silence between you two for a moment. You stared into each other’s eyes, before you put the knife to your palm and let the blood dripple down on the ground.

“May Lady Gotham herself place a curse on me should I lie.” You see his face twist, trying to make sense of what you just did. This was probably a stupid idea, but you needed answers. After all, the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat but satisfaction brought it back.

“Why did you do that? Do you know what you’ve just done?” Robin was dumbfounded. Who in the world would someone in their right mind make an oath like that just for some answers? Apparently you. He was almost amazed.

“Of course I do. Just tell me what I want to hear already.”

“Fine. You’re right. Will you stop putting yourself in danger already?” He sighs defeatedly. A smirk forms on your face, another goal achieved.

“I was right.”

“You were right.”

“Well, that’s all I needed! See you around wonderboy!” You turn on your foot, not waiting for his reaction to your nickname for him, and start walking back to your house. You’ll definitely be recording this down in your journal when you arrive.

“Hey wait! You hand’s still bleeding!” You stop in your tracks and look at your hand and back at Robin, now confirmed Damian Wayne.

“It’s fine, it doesn’t hurt that much. I’ll just bandage it up at home.” Actually, it did hurt, but you wanted to look cool in front of him. I mean who wouldn’t want to in front of the guy they like?

Another silence falls between you two. You could see the conflicted look on his face, even with the domino mask covering half of it. You mentally laughed at his expression. After a few seconds, he seemed to finally come to a decision. He reached for your wounded hand, and you hesitantly let him hold it.

“At least let me help. I have some gauze in my utility belt to cover it.” This boy really was full of surprises, first coming to you to threaten you and now he’s helping you fix a self-inflicted wound. You truly chose the right guy to have a puppy crush on.

“Alright.” He held your hand gently, like you were fragile glass that would break in one wrong move. He pulled out a roll of gauze and wrapped it around your hand. You can hear him muttering stuff under his breath before finally speaking up.

“You’re actually crazy. why would you make an oath like that?”

“Aww is little birdie concerned about me?” You teased him.

“(Last Name).” He remained serious, but you reply with a chuckle.

“I don’t plan to break it, so it won’t affect me at all.” He looks up at you, a disapproving frown on his face. You return with a smile and his face flushes before he goes back to fixing your hand.

He finishes up quickly and lets you go home.

As you finally walked back home you could feel somehow following you, but you didn’t feel threatened. You knew it was Robin.

The next few nights, you left a few art supplies on your window sill, and by the time you would wake up, they would be gone

This eventually evolved into letters that you would write to him. At first, you were met with silence, but you pursued. Eventually, you would finally see a reply and from then on, you two became friends.

Unspoken words lingered between you two.

They remained unspoken until a rumour goes around the rogues of Gotham that you knew the identities of the vigilantes.

You, not having any connections with them, lived in blissful peace. That is, until you’re kidnapped and tortured for your knowledge.

You spend hours in pain, never spilling a word. Not only because of the oath, but also to not put Damian in danger.

After a few hours, you were finally saved. High in emotions, Damian accidentally takes his anger out on you, before realising his grave mistake.

He isn’t greeted with your smirk, no, instead he sees your tears. That’s when he’s forced to confront his feelings.

During your recovery, he visited almost every day, apologising profusely.

The tension doesn’t go away even after your fully recovered, but you slowly but surely warm up to him again.

It takes a while to get your friendship to normal, but when it does, you get closer and closer.

In fact, you would say you two were closer than before. So it would come to no one’s surprise when you two eventually ended up in a relationship.

Some explanation -

The oath is basically self-explanatory. Should you break it, Lady Gotham would place a curse on you. It honestly just came to my mind while I was writing this and I liked it so I decided to add it

I also wanted to play around with the sentient Lady Gotham so yeah

Anyways, I'm so sorry this is kinda bad 😭I might rewrite this one day since I'm really not satisfied with it

I had to dance around the topic of reader being smart because I honestly didn't know how to write that

Tysm for the request tho! As much as I struggled with it, I absolutely loved the idea <3

I wanted to go into more detail but I got writers block in between and didn't want to make it multi-part so I had to do that last part like that 🥲

You guys know the drill, any mistakes are free to be pointed out and I will fix them as soon as possible

Don't know if anyone actually reads my long ahh A/N's, but if you do, asks are encouraged as I do love to interact with people and they give me motivation

[reidsmanuscript]

Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough tho because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

Alex kept her voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, her cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.” 

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. A quiet pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain and for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

　　　　 　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　　　

You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

　　　　 　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　　

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[midnightfict]

What History?

— 𓆩𓆪 —

𓆩 Lee Byung-Hun x F!reader 𓆪

Summary — Squid Game fans have been shipping two actors not knowing they have a history together.

A/N — aaaa, writer’s block is killing me. but the reqs i've been getting is starting to help. i promise i’m currently drafting for the other reqs.

request post

— 𓆩𓆪 —

The room was brightly lit, cameras positioned at every angle, and a familiar nervousness settled in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t new to interviews, but something about these promotional videos always made you a little jittery. Maybe it was the anticipation of how fans would react, or maybe it was the fact that sitting next to you was none other than Lee Byung-hun—your former high school boyfriend and now your co-star in Squid Game Season 2.

The two of you walked into the room together, followed by director Hwang Dong-hyuk, who greeted the crew with a casual nod.

“Alright,” a staff member announced. “We’re shooting two videos today. The first segment is watching fan edits, and the second is reading fan letters. Just react naturally, have fun, and remember—no breaking into hysterics.”

Byung-hun chuckled beside you. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You smirked. “You sound scared.”

“I might as well be. Have you seen those AI edits of me and Lee Jung-jae?”

The staff gestured for silence, signaling that the cameras were rolling. You introduced yourself to the camera, followed by Byung-hun and Dong-hyuk. The screen before you flickered to life, and the first video started playing.

The first edit was cinematic—a high-energy montage of Squid Game 2’s most intense moments. Gunfights, chase sequences, close-ups of steely gazes. It had everything. The booming orchestral soundtrack made every scene feel ten times more dramatic.

Byung-hun let out an impressed whistle. “Did we actually shoot something this cool?”

You nodded. “Because I don’t remember looking this badass.”

Dong-hyuk leaned forward, squinting. “Wait—when did you do that roll behind cover?”

You snorted. “That’s the one where I landed wrong and bruised my entire arm.”

Byung-hun grinned. “Ohhh, right. And you tried to play it off like you meant to do it.”

“I did mean to do it.”

Dong-hyuk shook his head. “That’s not what you said when you screamed in pain afterward.”

Byung-hun burst into laughter. Your light punch to his side silenced him, earning a dramatic yelp.

“Give respect to your elders!”

You gave the camera a look. “He’s so dramatic. We’re literally only one year apart.”

The next edit was a deep dive into In-ho’s past, set in black and white with emotional piano music. It contrasted his life as a police officer with his role as the Front Man, highlighting the tragedy of his choices.

Dong-hyuk hummed thoughtfully. “This fan basically made a better teaser than we did.”

Byung-hun nodded. “Can we hire them?”

You pointed at a particular shot. “This scene—this is when you had to retake your mask removal, what, twenty times?”

Byung-hun groaned. “Ugh. The mask kept getting caught on my hood. Every time I tried to look dramatic, I just looked stuck.”

Dong-hyuk chuckled. “We had to cut out three takes where you sighed right into the mask.”

Byung-hun held up his hands. “No need to expose me like that.”

Then came the brainrot edit. An animation of Squid Game characters dancing to some bizarre, upbeat song.

You had the biggest grin—too silly not to laugh. The video didn’t even make sense.

Dong-hyuk had his brows furrowed, an amused but not entirely entertained smile on his face.

Byung-hun, on the other hand, sat perfectly still, eyes locked on the screen. No one could tell what he was thinking.

When it ended, you all exchanged an awkward glance.

“I mean… I like it. It’s an interesting video,” you said, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, still laughing.

Dong-hyuk fixed his glasses. “Is this what people see when they watch my show?”

Byung-hun crossed his arms. “They didn’t do me justice. Why is the Front Man not included in this video?”

The staff smirked. “Don’t worry, there’s a Front Man edit in the next one.”

The next video was different. The music was softer, the pacing slower. It highlighted your character’s interactions with In-ho—subtle glances, moments of hesitation, scenes where your characters moved in sync. It wasn’t obvious in the actual show, but with the way the editor framed it…

It almost looked like something was going on.

Byung-hun blinked. “What’s this?”

Dong-hyuk raised an eyebrow. “They created scenes that aren’t even in the series.”

You squinted. “Are we too old to understand what this is?”

It was a ship edit.

Silence.

Then, Byung-hun let out a slow, amused chuckle. “Well. That was unexpected.”

Dong-hyuk crossed his arms. “You two do have really natural chemistry.”

You cleared your throat. “I mean, our characters have history, so—”

Byung-hun nodded. “Right, right. Former police officers.”

Dong-hyuk hummed. “Well, I had another love interest in mind for In-ho, but thinking about it… your characters being shipped makes sense. Maybe I should make it canon in Season 3.”

Both you and Byung-hun snapped your heads toward him.

“Huh?!”

The crew erupted into laughter. Dong-hyuk smiled and closed the segment with a thank-you and a Squid Game 2 promotion.

After a quick makeup touch-up, a staff member placed a stack of envelopes in front of you, Byung-hun, and Dong-hyuk.

Dong-hyuk stretched his arms and grinned. “Alright, let’s see what the fans have to say. If anyone insults my writing, I’m walking out.”

Byung-hun smirked. “I’d say you’re bluffing, but we all know you’re dramatic enough to do it.”

You laughed. “Place your bets, everyone. How many letters will be about Byung-hun’s attractiveness?”

Byung-hun scoffed. “Excuse me, I am a serious actor. Not just a handsome face.”

The cameras rolled.

You picked up the first letter and smoothed it out before reading aloud.

‘Dear Director Hwang, your storytelling is a masterpiece. Every scene feels like it has so much depth and emotion. How do you come up with such gripping narratives?’

Dong-hyuk’s face lit up. “Ah, A letter for me!”

Byung-hun immediately reached over, fingers grasping at the paper. “Skip it.”

You swatted his hand away. “No, let him have his moment.”

Dong-hyuk straightened his posture, adjusting his jacket with mock importance. “Well, since you asked… My process is simple. I think, ‘What is the most stressful, painful situation I can put my characters in?’ And then I do that.”

Byung-hun leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “I knew you enjoyed torturing us.”

Dong-hyuk grinned. “Absolutely.”

Byung-hun exhaled, then grabbed the next letter from the pile, unfolding it.

‘Was filming action scenes difficult? Especially the parkour scenes.’

You didn’t hesitate. “Oh, definitely. That scene where I had to jump from bed to bed? I had bruises for days.”

Byung-hun winced at the memory. “Oh yeah, you took a pretty bad fall.”

You sighed dramatically, throwing your arms up. “And no one even said ‘cut’ when I landed wrong! I had to just lie there in pain.”

Dong-hyuk raised a hand in defense. “Okay, to be fair, it looked intentional.”

Byung-hun let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. “You heard it here first, folks. The director is a masochist.”

Dong-hyuk smirked. “It builds character.”

Byung-hun rubbed his temple. “I worry for your future wife.”

You sifted through the pile and grabbed the next letter.

‘To Byung-hun, was it difficult wearing the Front Man’s mask for long periods of time? It looks heavy.’

Byung-hun groaned dramatically, flopping against the back of his chair. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Dong-hyuk snorted. “He complained about it every single day.”

Byung-hun sat up, pointing at him. “Because it was a legitimate problem! The mask was so heavy, and it pressed into my face so much that I had red marks after every shoot.”

You bit back a laugh. “And let’s not forget the time it got stuck.”

Byung-hun groaned, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, please, let’s forget that.”

Dong-hyuk smirked. “We have footage.”

Byung-hun immediately turned to the camera, eyes pleading. “Dear editors, if you have any mercy, don’t include that clip.”

They did.

Dong-hyuk chuckled and grabbed the next letter. “‘Director Hwang, who is your favorite character in Squid Game?’”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Yikes. That’s like asking me to pick my favorite child.”

Byung-hun smirked. “But we all know you have a favorite.”

Dong-hyuk tapped his fingers against the table, pretending to contemplate. “Well… I have a soft spot for In-ho.”

Byung-hun gasped, clutching his chest as if he’d been struck. “You love me?”

Dong-hyuk’s deadpan stare didn’t waver. “I said I love In-ho. Not you.”

You burst into laughter as Byung-hun recoiled in mock betrayal. “Wow, I won’t return to Season 3 then.”

Dong-hyuk ignored him, his expression thoughtful. “I love complex characters, and In-ho has so much depth. There’s still so much left to explore with him.”

You leaned in. “So, does that mean he’s safe in Season 3?”

Dong-hyuk smirked. “I mean, it’s possible, but I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.”

Byung-hun cut in, laughing. “What do you mean you don’t know? You created the story.”

Dong-hyuk simply shrugged. “Let’s just say… No one is ever truly safe.”

The next letter Byung-hun picked up seemed harmless at first.

‘I don’t know what it is, but…’

He stopped mid-sentence, chuckling as he glanced at the camera, then at you and Dong-hyuk. “I don’t know if I can continue reading this without someone getting mad.”

Silence fell over the room.

Curious, you snatched the letter from his hands and scanned it. A laugh bubbled out of you. “Who’s gonna get mad over this?”

Byung-hun gave you a knowing look, subtly hinting at someone you had dated during filming.

Your expression faltered for half a second before you quickly masked it with a tight smile. Keeping your mouth hidden from the camera, you mouthed, “We broke up.”

Dong-hyuk grinned and leaned forward to peek at the letter over your shoulder. “Well, well, well. They think you two have some history together because you make the characters so compelling together.”

Byung-hun cleared his throat, spitting out a joke before anyone could dwell on the comment. “Have you guys ever considered we are both just very good actors?”

Dong-hyuk stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Seeing how everybody seems to ship you two, maybe I should create a romance movie with you both.”

You and Byung-hun turned to him in horror, simultaneously shaking your heads.

Dong-hyuk simply shrugged. “What? The fans love it. I should give them what they want.”

Byung-hun laughed nervously and quickly faced the camera. “Okay let's end it! Thank you for watching this video. Don’t forget to watch us on Netflix!”

After finishing the shoot, the three of you parted ways—but the internet did not.

A week after the video was published, fans went crazy. The shipping theories got worse. Your social media was flooded with comments. Multiple media outlets invited you and Byung-hun for interviews together, riding the hype.

One afternoon, before another press event, you texted him.

Want to grab coffee before the next interview?

Thought you’d never ask.

At the café, he took a sip of his drink and smirked. “Remember how broke we were from getting coffee every other day in high school?”

You groaned. “Oh god, that was what? Twenty—no, thirty years ago? High school was rough. I don’t even want to remember that.”

“You’re mean. So I meant nothing to you?” He feigned hurt, holding back a smile.

“Oh, shush. You know what I mean.” You playfully pushed his forehead as he held the door open for you. “Besides, we lasted ‘til university, no—”

Click.

A camera shutter.

You froze. He froze.

Through the café window, a crowd had formed. Some held up phones. Others were whispering excitedly.

Fuck. They found you.

Byung-hun exhaled. “Well, I guess there’s no turning back.”

Then, with a smirk, he grabbed your hand, laced his fingers through yours, and yanked you out of the sea of screaming fans.

[eunseoksimp]

west coast — p.wb [vol 3]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfic

synopsis: getting over park wonbin was supposed to be the final verse, the closing note to a song that never belonged to you. you’ve buried every unspoken feeling in music, poured every lingering ache into the strings beneath your fingertips. and then beomgyu arrives—effortless, magnetic, a new harmony in a melody that was never meant to be yours alone. but the closer you move toward something new, the more wonbin begins to unravel, caught between the distance he created and the realization that it was never you who needed to let go. it was him. and now, he might be too late.

WARNINGS: more alcohol consumption (i promise i'm not an alcoholic), brief mention of substance abuse, swearing, more hopeless pining, wc is somehow now 32k which is crazy, wonbin is a little bit of an idiot

part 1 | part 2 a/n: thank you so much for enjoying the last two parts, i've enjoyed reading your comments. i originally intended for this to be the final part but i got far too carried away (as you can tell by the 32k word count), so think of this as the prelude for the finale :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the kiss is still there.

not just on your lips, but in the hollow of your chest, in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet spaces where breath should be, but isn't.

it lingers, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice, threading through your veins like something poisonous—slow, steady, inescapable. it doesn’t fade with time. if anything, it deepens, carving itself into you like an echo of something you were never meant to hold onto.

you think about how he tasted—like warmth and something intoxicating, like all the things you told yourself you didn’t need but still reached for anyway. you think about the way his fingers curled against you, just enough to make you believe that maybe, for once, you weren’t the only one feeling this. 

and for the briefest, most devastating moment, you had believed it, but hope is cruel. 

it is insidious, creeping in through the cracks no matter how hard you try to keep it out. it takes root in the deepest parts of you, whispering its sweet lies, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. that maybe this was something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence. but it wasn’t. it never was.

and now, in the quiet aftermath, all that’s left is the weight of it pressing against your skin, sinking into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it sits heavy in your throat, an ache you cannot swallow down, a grief so sharp it cuts through you like glass. you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the memory of him is burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids, an imprint you cannot shake.

you tell yourself this is the end. that whatever thread of longing still tethers you to him must be cut, no matter how deeply it severs your soul. because if you don’t let go—if you cling to this last trembling shred of hope—you know it will destroy you piece by piece. 

and you cannot survive loving him one heartbeat longer.

the studio is the same as it’s always been—four walls soaked in the echoes of late-night recordings, the scent of old wood and metal, the faint vibration of a bassline bleeding through the floor. but today, it feels different. today, it feels like a cage.

your guitar rests heavy in your lap, the strap biting into your shoulder, the callouses on your fingers pressing into the strings. it should be comforting, grounding. but nothing is. not today. the weight in your chest is heavier than the instrument in your hands, a hollow, aching thing that no amount of music can smooth over.

you sense the others in the periphery, their voices rising in half-laughed jokes and half-formed plans. their words reach your ears as though submerged in water: distorted, distant, unreal. 

you know you should join them, at least offer a nod or smile, but the simple act of speaking feels insurmountable. instead, you stare at your own hands, flexing your fingers to chase away the tremor that won’t quite fade. when it grows too strong, you close them into fists, as if to trap your own unraveling inside.

you tell yourself to focus. on the music. on the work. on anything but the way his presence stretches across the expanse of your mind, a gravitational pull you refuse to acknowledge. 

when the door swings open, the air in the studio shifts so subtly that no one else seems to notice, but you do—like a single drop of ink bleeding into water, it spreads through your senses with dizzying inevitability.

your breath snags, and a tremor ripples through your bloodstream as the walls seem to inch closer. everything around you tightens, and for an unnerving heartbeat, it feels as though you’re drawing in less and less oxygen, like the atmosphere itself is conspiring to steal your composure.

wonbin steps inside with that calm assurance that has always set him apart. nothing about him betrays any hint of turmoil, and it’s infuriating how his every movement looks effortless. his dark hair, styled in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his face, catches the overhead light, and there’s a sculpted symmetry to his features that feels almost inhuman in its perfection. 

even his eyes—dark, fathomless, and framed by lashes that seem almost too long—carry a magnetism that draws attention whether you want it to or not. 

he is all devastating beauty and disarming grace, the sort of presence that makes you want to stare even as you force yourself to look away.

you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. one glimpse of that face—one flicker of those eyes—and you know you’ll come undone. instead, you grip your guitar until your knuckles whiten, your fingers pressing so tightly into the frets that the steel strings cut into your skin. 

normally, the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, a lifeline to something steadier than your own heartbeat. but right now, it’s as though the resonance is muffled beneath the roar of the emotions you’re trying so desperately to suppress. each note you test feels like it’s being played underwater, distorted and dull, incapable of drowning out the pang in your chest.

your throat constricts, a rush of bile climbing upwards, hot and acidic, until you force it back down with a harsh swallow. you stare fixedly at the curve of your guitar’s body, trying to remember what it felt like to be calm, to be confident, to be unaffected by his presence. 

you inhale, exhale, and inhale again, mentally chanting that this is exactly what you asked for—to move on, to be indifferent, to unchain yourself from all those treacherous hopes.

yet it’s so much harder than you imagined. with every slow step wonbin takes into the room, the tension inside you twists tighter, threatening to snap. you keep your head down, straining to maintain even a veneer of composure, and pray that no one else can sense the frantic thunder of your pulse. 

you tell yourself this is how it has to be, that you wanted this distance, that you chose this detachment. but as you force your fingers into position on the fretboard and pretend to tune the strings, you can’t ignore the gnawing sense that each second you spend in his orbit only deepens the ache that’s tearing you apart.

“morning.” 

the single word drifts into the room, warm and easy, yet somehow jarringly out of place. you hear wonbin’s greeting directed toward everyone at once, spoken in that gentle, laid-back tone he’s always had—like the world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, like the ground didn’t fracture beneath your feet the last time the two of you were alone. 

from the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of him moving closer: the casual stride, the subtle brush of fabric, the rhythmic tap of soles on the floor. he stops right in front of you, and the air turns thick as syrup. your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out the rest of the band’s chatter. 

then you hear it—your own name, quietly shaped by his lips. he says it like he’s testing the fragile calm you’re clinging to, like any misstep might shatter what little resolve you have left. the guitar in your lap feels like a dead weight; your hand is locked around the neck, strings biting into your fingers. 

you want—need—to look up, to meet his gaze with something resembling composure, but your eyes remain fixed on the scuffed floor. suddenly, the room seems too small, the walls pressing inward, leaving barely enough space to breathe.

you force a sharp inhale through your nose, summoning what remains of your courage to speak, to pretend that everything is perfectly fine, but your throat constricts, and the words refuse to form. 

not when wonbin stands so close, not when the space between you feels like a gaping wound still raw and exposed, like a chord left unresolved—hanging in the air, vibrating on a note you can’t bear to let go.

he says your name again, his voice quieter this time, so tentative it feels like he’s reaching out with trembling hands, uncertain of what he’s grasping for. instinctively, you tighten your hold on the guitar’s neck, as though the firm press of steel strings against your fingertips could somehow tether you to reality. you focus on that bite of metal and the ridges beneath your calluses, desperate to drown out the way his voice caresses each syllable—a sound at once familiar and utterly wrecking.

you don’t need to look at him to know what expression he’s wearing. you’ve seen it countless times before, an intensity in his gaze that demands a response you can’t muster. it’s suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest, threatening to crack the fragile shell of composure you’ve managed to piece together. with your ribs barely containing the storm of turmoil inside you, you can’t afford to let him see even a fraction of what you’re feeling.

but for some reason—maybe habit, maybe masochism—you glance up. it lasts all of a breath, but it’s long enough to register the dark, searching depths of his eyes, just as they were that night. something raw flickers there, hidden behind unreadable shadows, and it knots your stomach in a violent twist of memory and regret. 

not long ago, you would have let yourself sink into that look until it consumed you completely. never again, you tell yourself.

you choke down the tightness in your throat and manage a smile so thin it barely qualifies—just a hushed “hi” that sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else. 

before he can respond, you tear your gaze away, pretending that the guitar’s tuning pegs suddenly require your undivided attention. it’s a flimsy defense, but it’s all you have.

even without looking, you can sense the small furrow that forms between his brows, the slight tension drawing his features together. you feel the pause that settles around him, heavy and complicated, tinged with an almost unbearable fragility. 

and for the first time since you met him, you allow that silence to stand. you make no move to bridge the gap, to smooth over the discomfort. you simply let it exist, a quiet testament to the wound between you—still raw, still bleeding, and impossible to ignore.

hongjoong clears his throat, the sound slicing cleanly through the suffocating silence like a blade meeting taut string. 

“alright,” he says, keeping his voice deceptively light yet carrying that familiar edge of authority—the same tone he uses whenever he senses the delicate balance in the room is about to tip. 

“let’s get into positions. we’ve got a lot to run through.”

the energy shifts in an instant. 

gunil responds with a dramatic groan, scuffing his feet against the floor as he trudges toward his drum kit. minjeong mutters something inaudible, likely another complaint about how early it is for “all this emotional tension,” and yunjin silences her with a sharp look, before she glances back and forth between you and wonbin. her quick, discerning eyes flick over the two of you, sensing the undercurrent that crackles in the air, thick as humidity before a storm.

but wonbin doesn’t budge. he lingers where he is, gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stumble. it’s as if he’s waiting for a sign—for your eyes to lift, for some unspoken acknowledgement that might mend the rift between you or at least let him know where you stand. 

you keep your attention riveted on your guitar, every muscle in your body locked, determined not to surrender an inch of composure.

eventually, you hear him exhale. the sound is caught somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, a delicate mixture of frustration and resignation that pricks at your heart even as you force yourself to remain still. 

“yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before taking a measured step back. 

without another word, he turns toward the mic stand at the front of the room, moving into position with a forced nonchalance that does nothing to mask the tension simmering between you.

and just like that, the rehearsal moves forward—everyone falling into their roles, the crushing weight of unresolved feelings hovering in the space you refuse to share.

the instant he steps away, the grip around your lungs loosens, and you finally manage a tremulous inhale. that’s when you feel it—a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. you glance up, and there’s hongjoong, gaze calm but threaded with concern.

“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear, asking the question again.

you nod—too fast, too reflexive. 

“yeah. fine.”

his fingers linger a beat longer, a gentle pressure that speaks of quiet understanding. he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pry into the whirlwind of emotions you’re struggling to keep hidden. he simply offers another gentle squeeze before releasing you, moving back to adjust his guitar strap as though the moment never happened.

he wasn’t there that night; he never witnessed the wrenching intimacy that now weighs on every breath you take. but somehow, he knows. he sees the fracture lines you’re trying to spackle over with silence. and for now, his simple acknowledgement—that unspoken kindness—is enough to steady you just a little longer.

the first notes ripple through the room, filling every inch of space, but they feel distant—like something playing from another lifetime, slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. your hands move on autopilot, fingers pressing against the familiar grooves of the strings, but the music doesn’t reach you, doesn’t settle into your bones the way it should. 

it feels like playing inside a dream, a step removed from reality, floating somewhere just outside of your grasp. and you know exactly why.

he’s there. he’s always there. just a few feet away, standing at the mic with his head dipped low, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, his fingers curling loosely around the stand in a way that should seem effortless but doesn’t. there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a weight in the air between you that makes your breath come just a little too fast, your heart beat just a little too loud.

you try not to look at him, try to drown yourself in the melody, in the steady pressure of steel strings against your fingertips, but your body betrays you. your eyes flicker toward him without permission, and he’s already watching.

the second your gaze meets his, the world tilts.

it’s barely a glance, a flicker of a moment that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does. his brows knit together slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s something there—something searching, something unreadable.

but you can’t do this. not now.

you force your gaze away from him, willing your attention back to the guitar in your lap and the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath—anything to ignore the way his stare seems to linger, as though he’s perched at the edge of a confession he can’t quite put into words. 

but then the chorus arrives, your cue to join in, to braid your voice with the melody the way you’ve done a thousand times before. except this time, the words lodge in your throat. they stick, trapped under the ache in your chest, and your fingers slip just enough to produce a sharp, dissonant chord. the sound cleaves through the music like a fracture through glass, and everything stutters to a halt.

hongjoong’s head snaps up first, his expression pointed with a sudden awareness. minjeong’s posture shifts, and though she doesn’t speak, her scrutiny is palpable, reading the tension in every rigid line of your body. the amps still hum in the silence, but nobody rushes to fill it. 

not until wonbin’s voice—lower than usual, quiet enough to feel private—trembles through the room: 

“hey, are you alright?”

his words catch you off-guard, pressing into the rawness you’re desperately trying to hide. for a moment, you can’t breathe. he’s not too close in a physical sense, but the concern in his gaze closes the distance regardless, wrapping around you with a weight that leaves no space for air. 

it’s as though he sees more than you’re ready to show, and your heart buckles under the intensity of it. you curl your fingers around the guitar’s neck until they sting, forcing a semblance of a smile. it feels flimsy and hollow, but you hope it’s enough to satisfy him.

“sorry,” you whisper, voice tight, forcing yourself to exhale the static that’s clawing at your mind. 

“just lost focus for a second.”

hongjoong looks to yunjin, something subtle and unspoken passing between them, but neither calls you out. and wonbin—he doesn’t so much as budge, his gaze still pinned on you with that unsettling blend of uncertainty and resolve. you can almost sense him gathering questions he doesn’t know how to ask.

refusing to meet his eyes for any longer than necessary, you adjust your grip on the guitar and find your breath. 

“let’s go again,” you say, your words firmer now, as though you can brute-force the tremor from your voice. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a pause—the faintest hesitation—before hongjoong nods and resets his hands on the keyboard, yunjin aligning herself at the mic with one last worried glance in your direction. wonbin doesn’t argue, but you feel the weight of his stare as he lifts his own mic, the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes. 

then the music swells once more, and you cling to the sound like a lifeline, hoping it drowns out the jagged reminder of how precariously everything hangs between you.

practice finally grinds to a halt in a discordant blur of unfinished chords and awkward silence. all eyes land on you—the one who never falters, the perfectionist who can coax flawless sound from six strings without so much as a glance. 

and yet, you faltered.  you, the one who normally spots everyone else’s slip-ups, are suddenly the center of concerned stares. a heated flush creeps up your neck as you blink rapidly, pretending to fuss over the tuning pegs of your guitar. it’s easier to focus on the tiny adjustments, to count the turns and pretend each one steadies your heart rate. 

still, you can feel their gazes piercing your peripheral vision, scrutinizing you with a mix of confusion and worry. you swallow hard, pressing your lips into a tight line, hoping the rush of blood in your ears drowns out the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air.

gunil taps a drumstick against the edge of his snare, lifting his eyebrows with a mischievous smirk. 

“well, well,” he drawls, “guess little miss perfect finally joined the club, huh?” he waggles the drumstick in your direction. 

“nice to know you’re human after all.”

he barely finishes the sentence before minjeong’s hand darts out, delivering a sharp slap to the back of his neck—her silent command for him to stop talking. a startled laugh dies in his throat, and the studio settles into another strained hush. 

gunil rubs at the sting, muttering, “alright, alright,” under his breath while trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

amid the tension, you become acutely aware of wonbin. 

his grip on the mic wavers, knuckles white with urgency as he tries to mount it onto the stand. it only half latches in place, nearly tipping over before he catches it, eyes never leaving you. the concern in his features is raw, unguarded—completely at odds with the polished frontman you know.

your pulse rattles in your ears as he starts toward you, closing the distance with deliberate strides. it’s as though the rest of the band ceases to exist; every inch of him focuses on you and the inexplicable break in your usual composure. 

your heart thrums a frantic warning—too close, too soon, too much.

“uh… i need some air,” you blurt, pulling your guitar strap over your shoulder. 

the words tumble out so fast they almost sound like one, not waiting for a response as you slip past yujin’s concerned gaze, past gunil’s half-formed protests and the weight of everyone else’s eyes. 

you don’t stop until the studio door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the static hum of amplifiers and half-swallowed tension. out here, the hallway is nearly silent—just a muted throb of lingering music bleeding through the walls. you lean against the cool cement, letting the chill press hard into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat in your cheeks.

your palms drift to your face, fingertips skimming over the contours of your skin as if you could somehow rub away the ache that’s lodged itself beneath your ribs. the chill is biting, but it does nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to your lungs.

beyond the door, you can still hear the faint buzz of bandmates reorganizing themselves for another run-through, their muted chatter rising and falling like distant thunder. that gentle hum of routine only makes the ache sharper; it’s a reminder that they’ll go on, that the music will continue, even while you’re out here trying to hold yourself together with breath after shaking breath. 

you close your eyes and pray this moment of solitude will be enough to keep you from fracturing completely—just a heartbeat of silence in which to remember how to breathe.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you used to believe that music could mend any wound, that every chord change and carefully chosen lyric was a kind of alchemy—turning your deepest aches into art. and now, it’s the only thing holding you together. 

late into the night, long after your bandmates have left the studio, you stay behind, coaxing heartache into melodies that shimmer with vulnerability. you press your fingertips against the strings until they’re raw, shaping chords that vibrate with longing, pouring every unspoken thought and jagged emotion into the mic. 

the result is a collection of songs so nakedly honest, they leave you trembling in the aftermath of each recording—yet they are undeniably beautiful in their pain, a tangible testament to the heartbreak you can’t seem to escape.

and so the lyrics take on a life of their own, sprawling across the pages of your notebooks in fevered handwriting—scribbled lines that map out every pang of sorrow, every ounce of desperation you’ve wrestled with in the still hours of the night. you catch yourself pouring over them at odd moments, fingertips grazing the ink as if touching the words might somehow ease the heaviness clamped around your heart. 

it doesn’t, of course—but writing them down becomes the only breath of relief you can find. these fragile sheets of paper become your confessional, a safe space where grief can take shape without censure, where heartbreak is allowed to be as overwhelming and unrelenting as it truly is. 

it’s not about seeking closure, not yet; it’s about survival. because in the wake of love that slipped through your fingers, every chord progression, every line of verse, feels like a tether keeping you from drifting into a darkness that threatens to swallow you whole. the pain might be soul-crushing, but channeled through pen and strings, it transforms into something almost beautiful—if only because it’s the raw, undeniable truth of how deeply you once dared to feel.

at night, when the city is hushed and every streetlight seems to glow with its own private sorrow, you find yourself wide awake, thoughts circling like moths around a single flame. sleep becomes an elusive dream, trailing just beyond your grasp. 

but instead of lying there, suffocated by what-ifs and never-weres, you reach for your notebook. in the thin glow of a bedside lamp, you let each lingering thought of him trickle down your arm, gathering ink at your fingertips until it spills onto the page. 

there’s a catharsis in it—in scribbling down memories that ache like fresh bruises, in shaping them into words and phrases that pulse with hidden yearning. whenever the pain gets too close to unbearable, you scrawl another line, another verse, until the torment feels contained, anchored by the weight of ink on paper. 

and in that fragile, solitary ritual, you discover that maybe, just maybe, these sleepless nights hold the key to something transcendent: turning heartbreak into art, grief into something that can be sung instead of silently endured.

yunjin and minjeong notice the way your gaze drifts off during rehearsals, how your fingers itch for the pen tucked behind your ear instead of the instrument in your lap. they exchange glances full of quiet concern, and sometimes, one of them will call your name softly, as if hoping to coax you back from wherever your thoughts have taken you.

“everything alright?” minjeong tries one afternoon, leaning in close and tapping a gentle rhythm on your notebook.

you force a small smile, nodding in what you hope is a reassuring way.  “i’m good,” you murmur, your voice catching on the lie. “just… working out some ideas.”

it isn’t that you don’t appreciate their worry. in fact, a part of you aches with gratitude for friends who care enough to ask. but you’ve come to prefer this realm of ink and paper—a sanctuary where you can shape the pain, control its borders, and hush the roiling anguish inside you. 

here, in the hush of your own scribbled words, you can be honest about how lost you feel. out there, in the real world, that honesty threatens to splinter you wide open in front of people who might never understand. so you keep your eyes down, scrawl out another line, and let the comfort of creation shield you from the weight of a reality you’d rather not face.

another day, another unsteady round of practice filled with frayed nerves and half-formed ideas. drums stutter to a stop, and the hiss of an amplifier crackles into silence. hongjoong scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in the downward curl of his lips.

“we’re stuck,” he mutters, glancing around at everyone. 

“i don’t know if we’re burnt out or just missing something, but…” he trails off, his gaze landing on you in silent question. 

you feel your pulse quicken—your notebook is clutched protectively in your arms, pages overflowing with songs you’ve written in the lonely hours, words you’ve never shown anyone.

minjeong notices the hesitation in your eyes and nudges your elbow. 

“come on,” she says softly. “it can’t hurt to share.” 

your heart hammers against your ribcage, and for a moment, you almost refuse. these lyrics aren’t just scribbles on paper—they’re pieces of you, soaked in raw, unfiltered heartbreak. 

but the band’s desperation presses in on you, thick and urgent, and you catch the flicker of hope in hongjoong’s gaze. with a shaky breath, you loosen your grip on the worn cover. 

“it’s… it’s not exactly polished,” you whisper, voice trembling.  “but maybe there’s something you can use.” 

hongjoong nods, expression solemn. “we’ll take whatever you’ve got.” 

carefully, you hold out the notebook, fingers reluctant to let go even as you extend it his way. when he finally takes it, you swear you feel a piece of your heart leaving your hands. he offers a small, grateful smile—a delicate gesture of trust that makes your chest tighten painfully. 

you step back, arms folding around your middle as if to protect the hollow ache still pulsing inside you. someone flips the pages, scanning lines of ink etched by your sleepless nights, and the room goes quiet—respectful, expectant, and heavy with the vulnerability you’ve just laid at their feet.

a hush falls over the room, the quiet so deep it nearly rattles you. your pulse thunders in your ears, and a tremor curls around your spine—the urge to snatch the notebook back from hongjoong’s hands is almost more than you can bear. you can’t decide if it’s dread or hope swelling inside your chest, a tension so taut you wonder if everyone else can feel it, too.

hongjoong turns another page, eyes flicking across your scribbled verses with a kind of reverent intensity. finally, he looks up at you, and what you see in his expression leaves you breathless: a glimmer of recognition that feels both comforting and terrifying, as though he’s glimpsed the raw nerve pulsing behind your words.

he exhales slowly, lips parting in something close to wonder. 

“it’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hushed but brimming with emotion. “really. you’re a genius.”

the words collide with your heart, sending a quiver through your stomach that’s equal parts pride and panic. you press your lips together, overwhelmed by a swirling tangle of relief, fear, and the faintest spark of validation. 

you’ve spent so long scribbling confessions into these pages—never imagining they’d be read with such understanding. yet here hongjoong stands, holding your deepest ache in his hands like it’s something precious.

a collective urgency ripples through the room as minjeong and gunil close in, desperate to see what has their usually composed leader looking so struck by emotion. they crowd around, leaning in over hongjoong’s shoulder, scanning your words with hushed exclamations. the air thickens with excitement, almost electric.

in any other context, the band’s awe would send warmth flooding through your veins. but now it feels like a spotlight, burning through every carefully built defense. their voices rise, echoing with praise, and you force a small, shaky smile. 

part of you craves their acceptance, their validation that you can create something worth hearing. yet another part reels at the thought of them glimpsing the bruised core of your heartbreak, spelled out in verse and chord progressions.

your gaze drops to your feet, and a flush heats your cheeks. for a fractured moment, all you want is to run—to yank the notebook free and hide your confessions away forever. but you don’t. 

you stand there, arms folded across your chest, absorbing their words as best you can, torn between the desperate need to keep your secrets safe and the faintest spark of hope that, maybe, they finally get it.

it’s not until the others step away that wonbin finally moves in, slow and measured, like he’s bracing himself for whatever he might find between those pages. you can’t look at him. your heart is already pounding at the base of your throat, each beat warning you of the closeness—the possibility that he might realize the truth behind your words. 

yet as he takes the notebook, something gentle lights in his expression, a quiet awe that forces your breath to stutter. he flips through the lines one by one, dark eyes scanning with a calm intensity that makes your nerves tingle.

for a moment, no one else seems to exist. the hush feels louder than any applause you’ve ever heard, your pulse hammering an unsteady rhythm against your ribcage. then he looks up and, slowly, hands the notebook back to you. 

“he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” wonbin says, voice low and laced with a hint of warmth. 

the words stagger through your chest, colliding with the painful realization that he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t see that he is the one you’ve been tearing your heart out for.

there’s a flicker in his gaze—something almost vulnerable, almost questioning—before it smooths over into his usual calm. your stomach drops, your fingers curling around the worn edges of your notebook like a lifeline. 

if he felt anything at all, it’s swallowed by his assumption that these are just words spun from a distant heartbreak, a story that couldn’t possibly be about someone standing right in front of you. and the pain of it—of knowing he thinks your confessions belong to someone else—chisels deeper into the crack in your chest.

you feel your shoulders sag the instant he turns away, a wave of hollow disappointment robbing you of breath. 

of course he wouldn’t guess the truth. why would he? 

you’re barely keeping your own emotions stitched together, let alone brave enough to let them spill beyond the safe confines of your notebook. part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity—to mock yourself for the audacity to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d see through the ink and realize you wrote each line for him. 

instead, your heart throbs with the realization that this one-sided longing has become your own private prison. you clutch the notebook to your chest, foolish for ever believing its words could speak louder than the walls you’ve built around your longing. even your own pulse feels like a betrayal, still hammering for someone who might never feel the same.

for a fleeting moment, it had seemed possible—he might see the truth beneath the metaphors, might hear his name in every chord you’d strummed until your fingertips bled. but his departure, casual and unknowing, leaves behind a cavernous emptiness. reality crashes over you, brutal and unrelenting: he doesn’t realize you wrote those words for him, and maybe he never will. 

a ragged exhale rattles through you, and in the quiet that follows, you feel something inside you break. because if he can’t see it now—if he can’t sense that the music you’ve spun from sleepless nights and unquenchable longing belongs to him—then there’s no point in clinging to the tiny, wavering flames of hope. 

you press your lips together as tears threaten to spill, willing them back because crying here, now, might tear you apart completely.

you tell yourself it’s time to stop, to tear yourself away from the gravitational pull of his smile, his voice, his unknowing presence in every note you play. it’s time to let go of a future that was never meant to be. 

and in that moment, the resolve sinks in—heavy, devastating, final. pain coils around your heart, searing and sharp, and you can almost taste the loss in the back of your throat. yet you cling to it with white-knuckled determination, because moving on is the only way to survive a love that leaves you hollow.

so you choose to let him go—even if it means leaving a piece of your soul behind with every chord you’ll never again write for him. you close your eyes against the ache, telling yourself that it’s for the best, that the agony of walking away is easier to bear than the agony of hoping in vain. 

and in that moment, a single silent promise reverberates through your mind: you will learn to breathe again, even if it feels like dying first.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you do everything in your power to sever the connection between you and park wonbin—a polite nod in passing, a half-muttered reply when he asks a question, your gaze skittering away the instant his dark eyes threaten to snare you. 

it’s exhausting, pretending you don’t still feel the ghost of him in every chord you play. some part of you wants to give in, to let your guard slip just enough to catch that crooked smile, but the memory of how devastating it felt to realize he would never truly be yours keeps you resolute. 

so you steel yourself with shallow breaths and quick goodbyes, forcing your heart to accept a distance that chafes with every moment spent in the same room. it’s not easy—your pulse kicks every time he crosses your line of vision, and you find your hands trembling on the fretboard when he stands too close. 

yet you cling to this self-imposed barrier, convinced that holding him at arm’s length is the only way to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve been bleeding into unrequited love. slowly, you pray, the ache will fade into something more bearable, and you’ll finally be free from the weight of loving someone who can’t—won’t—hold you in return.

he steps toward you at the end of today’s rehearsal, hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that feels almost too intimate for the moment, shirt hanging from his shoulders as though it might slip free if the tension snapped any tighter. 

the pungent mix of stale coffee and sweat-soaked air hovers like a suffocating blanket, amplifiers still humming with the echo of that half-finished bridge you never quite nailed. he draws in a breath, and his voice resonates with the adrenaline of performance, tinged by a confusion he can’t quite hide. 

“we sounded off during that last part,” he murmurs, eyes darting between you and the rest of the band, “should we run it again?” 

the question sets your pulse tapping wildly against your ribs, but you keep your gaze pinned on the guitar cable you’re meticulously looping between your fingers. each coil feels like a lifeline—a distraction from the heat radiating off him, from the quiet scrutiny you can sense in his stare. 

“ask hongjoong,” you snap, a hardness in your tone that almost surprises you. 

“he’s the leader.”

it’s a single strike, like a pick snapping against a string, and the look on his face wavers, uncertainty mixing with an unspoken plea you refuse to acknowledge. around you, the others fall silent, the air so thick with tension it feels like a physical pressure against your chest. 

you sling the coiled cable over your shoulder, letting it pull you back a step, aware that the distance between you and him is more than just a few feet of studio floor. the unspoken tension in the room presses in, like the unresolved chord progression still ringing in your ears, waiting for a resolution that, in this moment, you can’t—or won’t—provide.

he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot as though your clipped response has momentarily robbed him of speech. his brows pull together in a way that makes your heart lurch, like he’s sifting through every subtle shift in your demeanor for answers you can’t afford to give. 

the final chords of rehearsal still hang in the air—a phantom echo blending with the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue—and you force yourself not to inhale too deeply, not to catch the faint trace of cologne and sweat that clings to him. you can feel the electricity of his presence, almost see it crackling in the space between you, and it takes every fiber of your being not to let that pull unravel your carefully maintained composure.

“was there anything else?” you say, sharp and hollow, injecting as much distance into those two words as you can. 

there’s no denying how your pulse stutters when you glance at him—damp hair tousled in a way that borders on heartbreakingly angelic, the overhead lights turning the faint sheen of sweat on his skin into something luminous. 

for a second, you hate how effortlessly beautiful he is, how he can appear so ethereal even in the gritty aftermath of practice. you hate, too, how your own heart thrums in response, as if it’s trying to remind you of all the reasons you once let your guard down around him.

he opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates. the furrow between his brows deepens, a crease of confusion and maybe a trace of hurt. you half expect him to question you—to demand to know why you’re shutting him out, why your tone bristles with a chill that could freeze the sweat on your skin. 

but he says nothing. 

his silence seems to hum in your ears, louder even than the faint static from the amplifier behind you. your grip on the coiled guitar cable tightens, a too-familiar tension building at the base of your spine, and you silently beg your trembling knees not to give way beneath the weight of this moment.

somewhere behind you, a door hinges open, letting in a rush of cooler air, but neither of you move. it’s as though the rest of the world has receded, leaving just the two of you in this charged standoff. you feel the erratic beat of your heart like a distant drum solo, rattling inside your chest, threatening to betray the calm façade you’re fighting to maintain. 

you consider walking away—taking two steps back into the hallway, anywhere he isn’t, so you can pretend it doesn’t feel like you’re being torn in two. but a stubborn part of you refuses to budge first, refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he can still unsettle you.

at last, he exhales, dropping his gaze to the floor in resignation. the thick tension between you doesn’t vanish so much as shift, contorting into something painfully unresolved, like a chord progression forever missing its final note. he runs a hand through his hair, damp strands raking back from his forehead, and it’s almost too much to bear—seeing him look so human, so caught in the fallout of whatever invisible line you’ve drawn.

your chest feels too tight; even breathing is a conscious effort. for a heartbeat, you consider reaching out, bridging that gap just to smooth the worried crease in his brow. but the memories of what was—and wasn’t—come rushing back, and your resolve snaps into place like a shutter slamming down over your features. 

“i’ve got to get back to playing,” you mutter, voice tense enough to cut the thick air. 

wonbin’s lips part, breath hitching like he’s about to say something—maybe an apology, maybe the question you’re dreading—when the door bangs open and your manager barrels in, derailing the moment with brisk efficiency. 

“alright, perfect, you’re all here,” he exclaims, voice echoing across the room. 

in his wake follows a figure whose presence seems to steal the remaining oxygen: he strides into the room with a quiet, self-assured grace that seems to pull every pair of eyes his way. at first glance, you notice he’s tall—easily six-foot-two, towering over most of you without even trying. 

he exudes an aura of restless artistry and enigmatic charm, like a storm frozen in time. 

his auburn hair cascades in unruly waves, catching the light like wildfire trapped in his tresses, each strand whispering tales of rebellion and untamed freedom. the messy layers frame his sharp jawline, a sculpted edge that speaks of quiet intensity, while his pale skin glows with an ethereal softness, as if he’s just stepped out of a dream.

a nose piercing flashes against his sun-kissed skin, a tiny spark of silver that gleams even in the shadowy corners. 

his eyes, deep pools of unsaid emotion, are a contradiction of vulnerability and defiance—twin galaxies reflecting both the burden and beauty of chasing greatness. they seem to catch every glint of light, pulling you into their orbit, while the shadows in their depths whisper secrets he may never share. the tilt of his lips, soft and melancholic, carries a haunting allure, like a love song left unfinished, hanging on the edge of bittersweetness.

he wears a crisp white shirt that skims his lean frame, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal muscled tattoed forearms and a hint of band-aids wrapped around two or three of his fingers—little badges of hard work that suggest he’s no stranger to late-night guitar sessions.

there’s an electricity about him, a raw, magnetic energy that feels like the moment before a guitar string snaps—a tension that holds you captive, waiting for the inevitable crescendo.

as he steps closer, you catch sight of a delicate trail of moles that sweeps along the column of his neck like tiny constellations scattered across a sky at dusk. for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath; even the usual hum of amplifiers and squeak of cables recedes into the background, enthralled by his unexpected arrival. 

minjeong and yunjin exchange quick looks—part curiosity, part fascination—while hongjoong straightens up, offering a polite greeting. 

but you barely register their reactions, too aware of how his gaze drifts your way, a soft smile curving his lips. it’s a smile that promises sincerity rather than arrogance, a subtle invitation to be at ease around him despite his striking looks.

unbeknownst to you, wonbin’s attention sharpens at your side, his expression unreadable as he notes the slight widening of your eyes, the faint hitch in your breath. you can practically feel that tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring—ready to snap at the slightest push. 

but you’re drawn to this guy’s easy confidence, the way he shifts his guitar case, the utter lack of pretension in his movements. even the quiet hush that settles over the space seems charged with possibility, making your pulse skip in a way you thought you’d forgotten.

“the company finally heard our prayers, he’s our new rhythm guitarist.”

“hey,” he finally says, directing his voice squarely at you, his tone warm and genuine. “i’m beomgyu. been following this band for a while—especially you.”

his gaze locks onto yours, open, genuine, the weight of the words settling in the space between you before he adds, almost like an afterthought, “huge fan.”

he offers his hand, slender fingers marred by those band-aids, and the gesture feels strangely personal, deliberate.

there’s a beat of hesitation before you take it, fingers brushing against the rough patches of his skin, against the heat that lingers beneath the bandages. for a second, the world narrows to the contrast of textures—the callouses against your smoother fingertips, the faintest tremor that isn’t quite nerves, but something else entirely.

“glad to have you in the band,” you say softly, forcing your voice to stay even, to mask the swirl of emotions in your gut.

the rest of the room stills, the shift almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

from the corner of your eye, you see the way minjeong watches with quiet curiosity, yunjin with barely veiled amusement. gunil has his arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at his lips. it’s not lost on anyone, this moment stretching between you and beomgyu, the way his hand lingers just a fraction too long before he finally pulls back, tucking a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, revealing the constellation of moles scattered across the line of his throat.

“hope we can make something great together,” he murmurs, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. 

behind him, your manager beams, launching into a monologue about tours, albums, and new beginnings. but your attention wavers between the newcomer’s confident stance and the barely contained tension rippling through wonbin, who remains rooted in place, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between you and beomgyu as if the new guitarist’s arrival has thrown open a door he wasn’t ready to face. 

there’s a momentary lull in conversation—just long enough for gunil to pipe up with a mischievous grin, drumming his fingers on the nearest amp. 

“careful, wonbin,” he teases in a sing-song tone, “looks like pretty boy is about to take your spot.”

the quip lands in the still-charged air like a spark in dry tinder, the unintentional double meaning not lost on either of you.

you watch it happen—the flicker of something sharp passing through wonbin’s expression, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the near-imperceptible clench of his jaw. it’s brief, a flash of heat before the mask settles back into place, but you see it, and so does beomgyu.

he doesn’t say a word, but the shift in his posture is unmistakable, a simmering kind of frustration that betrays more than he likely intends. even beomgyu catches it, eyes flicking between wonbin’s stony expression and gunil’s attempt at levity. 

as the laughter from gunil's joke fades, the manager swiftly intervenes, redirecting the focus back to business. he launches into the practicalities of band life—rehearsal schedules, upcoming gigs, studio expectations—guiding beomgyu through the nuances with the ease of a seasoned conductor. 

the session winds down, the sharp clang of cymbals and the soft rustle of cables being coiled into loops filling the space with a familiar, rhythmic dissonance. cases click shut, tuning pegs are given last-minute adjustments, and the hum of idle chatter wraps around the room like the lingering reverberation of a final note that refuses to fade.

in the midst of it all, yunjin sidles up to you, her movement fluid, seamless—like she’s been waiting for the right moment to slip in unnoticed. she leans in close, her perfume a soft contrast to the stale scent of sweat and metal that clings to the air, her gaze flicking from beomgyu, who is effortlessly charming his way through conversation with gunil, then back to you, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

with a discreet wiggle of her eyebrows, she murmurs just low enough for only you to hear, "he's definitely hot, right?" 

there’s a teasing lilt to her voice, lighthearted on the surface, but you know yunjin—know the way she watches, the way she picks up on the smallest shifts in dynamics before anyone else even registers them. this isn’t just idle commentary. this is her testing the waters, waiting to see if something in you cracks open, if there’s something worth prying into.

you pause, fingers still curled around the neck of your guitar, debating your response. beomgyu is attractive—undeniably so—but acknowledging that feels like stepping onto shaky ground, like introducing something you’re not sure you’re ready to entertain. so instead, you settle for a small, noncommittal smile, tilting your head in vague concession.

yunjin, never satisfied with half-hearted reactions, nudges you lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. “oh, come on,” she presses, voice barely above a whisper but still somehow managing to sound incredulous. “don’t act like he isn’t.”

you exhale a soft laugh, lifting your hands in mock defense. “i didn’t say anything.” the gesture is both a concession and a deflection, an admission that, yes, the new guy has a noticeable allure without giving away anything more personal about your thoughts. 

“exactly.” she narrows her eyes at you, a knowing gleam sparking in them, as if she’s already forming her own conclusions regardless of what you do or don’t say.

the exchange lasts only a few fleeting seconds, but as your gaze flickers instinctively across the room, it snags—inevitably—on him.

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back straight, arms loosely crossed, posture seemingly at ease. but you know wonbin. you know the sharpness in his jaw when he’s tense, the way his fingers twitch against his biceps when he’s holding something back. he’s listening, even if his eyes remain on the manager, even if he looks entirely unaffected.

hongjoong, ever the diplomat and peacemaker of the group, seizes a moment of calm to usher in a new tradition. 

“team lunch,” he announces with an authoritative nod, his voice carrying over the residual noise of packing. “it’ll be good to get to know beomgyu.” 

the idea is met with a chorus of enthusiastic approvals, the underlying unspoken truth being that hongjoong is famously generous when the bill arrives—his treat often being the sweetener that draws unanimous agreement.

as the band members start to chatter about where they might go, you focus on securing your guitar in its case, fingers working deftly at the latches. yunjin is still hovering, her presence a reminder of the conversation you’d rather let fade, when beomgyu approaches again. 

his timing is impeccable or perhaps intentionally calculated to catch you alone, just as you linger by your guitar case, about to close it, beomgyu circles back to your side, his approach quiet but intentional. 

he pauses, nodding towards your instrument with an appreciative tilt of his head. 

“mine’s black too,” he comments, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “best color there is, right?” 

his tone is light, yet there's a nuanced undertone of camaraderie, as if this small shared preference might bridge the gap between newcomer and established band member.

you look up, caught slightly off-guard by his proximity and the unexpected warmth in his voice. 

“yeah, it’s classic, probably my favourite colour” you respond, your words measured, but not unfriendly.

beomgyu doesn’t step away, doesn’t shift back into the polite distance most new members might maintain. instead, his fingers brush against the case’s handle, grazing your own in a fleeting touch that lingers longer than it should..

“let me help with that,” he offers, and before you can protest, he lifts the guitar with effortless grace, his other hand gesturing towards the instrument room. the ease with which he hoists the weight makes it seem as light as air, a display of strength that doesn't go unnoticed by yunjin who watches, her eyes wide and a bit dreamy, from a few steps away.

you follow him, your steps matching the rhythm of his, aware of every glance thrown your way by the other band members. the corridor to the instrument room stretches out, lined with the muted colors of the studio walls, a backdrop that suddenly seems to highlight beomgyu’s presence—a vibrant contrast, like a vivid stroke of paint on a dull canvas.

inside the instrument room, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood and metal, the sacred quiet of a space dedicated to the tools of your craft. beomgyu sets the guitar down gently, handling it with the care of a true musician respecting the soul of another’s instrument. 

“you have a great setup here,” he observes, turning to scan the array of gear and instruments, each piece a testament to countless hours of practice and performance.

his comment draws a nod from you, the simplest acknowledgment, yet there's a depth to the exchange, a sense of shared understanding about the life of musicians bound to their art

“thanks,” you say, feeling the space between you charged with an unspoken recognition of your mutual dedication. “we’ve built it up over the years.”

beomgyu's eyes meet yours again, and in that moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls inching closer as if to eavesdrop on this quiet moment of connection. 

“i’m really looking forward to adding to it,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, almost lost in the hush surrounding you. 

his gaze is steady, inviting a level of sincerity that you hadn’t anticipated, pulling you into a narrative that suddenly includes him in ways you’re still trying to understand. you manage a smile, small but genuine, touched by the earnestness in his tone.

as you and beomgyu emerge from the instrument room and reenter the main studio, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. the others are clustered near the door, seemingly caught between preparing to leave and the palpable buzz of curiosity about the new dynamic you and beomgyu might bring. 

you catch the tail end of a shared chuckle, their heads turning toward you with an array of mischievous grins. it's as if they've been waiting for this very moment to tease you about the apparent ease with which you and the new member have started to bond, their eyes sparkling with the kind of playful complicity that usually prefaces a round of good-natured ribbing.

however, amidst the laughter and whispered side conversations, wonbin stands slightly apart, his attention tethered to his phone. his fingers swipe absently across the screen, a frown knitting his brow as if he's engrossed in something far removed from the light-hearted banter filling the room. 

every so often, his eyes flick up, scanning the room with a detachment that borders on disinterest. 

why would he care? the thought stabs at you with an unexpected pang of regret. 

despite everything—the tension, the past connection, the unresolved words hanging between you—it stings to see him so deliberately disconnected from the moment, so unaffected by the camaraderie that has always been a cornerstone of the band's spirit.

you pause, the weight of his indifference settling over you like a cold shadow. in contrast, the others seem almost eager to draw you further into the fold, their laughter a warm invitation back into the light. 

minjeong nudges you gently, leaning in to whisper with a conspiratorial wink, "looks like someone made quite the impression." 

her gaze flicks meaningfully toward beomgyu, who is now chatting with hongjoong about potential song ideas, his enthusiasm palpable even from a distance.

"give it a rest," you mutter, though your words lack real heat. despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, softened by the familiar comfort of your bandmates' teasing.

meanwhile, wonbin's isolation grows more pronounced, his presence like a note held too long in a song, creating a dissonance that even the laughter around you can't quite drown out. it's clear he's made his choice to remain aloof, perhaps as a shield against the complexities of change or as a defense against a pain he won't acknowledge. 

as the group begins to move toward the exit, chatting about where to go for lunch, you cast one last glance at wonbin. his eyes meet yours briefly, a flash of something indecipherable crossing his features before he looks away, turning back to the inscrutable safety of his phone screen. in that fleeting moment, the distance between you feels wider than ever, filled with unspoken truths and missed connections. 

the evening air is thick with the remnants of summer, warm and heavy, curling around your skin like a second layer. the sky is a dusky violet, the city stretching long and endless in front of you, neon signs flickering like distant constellations against the deepening horizon. the band walks together, clustered in pairs, their voices filling the streets with easy laughter and lingering conversation. there’s something familiar about it, the way the five of you fit together like notes in a song, but tonight, there’s a new rhythm beneath it all—one that wasn’t there before.

beomgyu walks beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours, the warm streetlights casting golden reflections in his brown hair. his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his figure relaxed but somehow still commanding, the sharp angles of his jawline softened by the glow of the city. he nudges you lightly with his shoulder, an action so casual you almost don’t register it until he speaks.

“tell me, how did you get into playing guitar?,” he asks, voice smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity. his eyes flick toward you, searching, like he actually cares to hear the answer.

you hesitate, caught between the comfort of the conversation and the weight of an audience you don’t quite trust yourself to forget. 

“it's a long story,” you deflect, but there’s no real reluctance behind your words.

beomgyu hums, tilting his head. “i’ve got time.”

you exhale, glancing ahead at the others. yunjin is caught up in an animated conversation with hongjoong, hands gesturing wildly as she argues about something that makes gunil bark out a laugh. but Wonbin—he’s quieter, walking slightly ahead, shoulders taut, his gaze flicking back every so often, lingering in a way that’s almost imperceptible. almost.

still, you return your focus to beomgyu, offering him a small smirk. 

“my uncle used to play. when i was little, i’d sit in the corner of the living room just watching him. he’d never let me touch his guitar, said i had to earn it first.” 

you glance down at your fingers, trailing them absently along the strap of your bag. “so I taught myself on a cheap secondhand one. it was awful—buzzing strings, action so high i thought my fingers were gonna bleed.”

beomgyu grins, clearly entertained. “let me guess—bar chords were your mortal enemy?”

“they still are,” you admit with a laugh, the sound light, almost foreign coming from you lately. it feels easy, talking like this, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest isn’t weighed down by something you can’t quite name.

“you got there, though,” beomgyu points out, nudging your elbow. “and now you’re playing in one of the best bands i’ve ever heard.”

“are you two planning on getting lost back there?”

wonbin.

his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, something controlled, clipped. you glance up, catching the way his eyes dart from you to beomgyu and back again, his features unreadable. his phone—his ever-present distraction—is nowhere in sight now, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders drawn just a little too tight.

you blink, thrown off by the sudden intrusion. “relax, we’re right behind you.”

he doesn’t respond, just lets out a breath, turning away as if the conversation already isn’t worth his time. but the tension lingers, curling like smoke in the air, and when you step forward to match pace with the rest of the group, you swear you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

beomgyu doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s just found something interesting—something he intends to figure out.

wonbin stays near the front, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, just as he’s been since beomgyu arrived. he doesn’t joke with the others as much as usual, but no one seems to notice except you. you tell yourself you’re imagining things, that the momentary glance he cast your way was nothing, that the way he cut into your conversation with beomgyu was merely coincidence.

beomgyu, however, is as relaxed as ever, unfazed by anything, his presence effortless as he continues walking beside you. as you near the restaurant, he leans in slightly, voice pitched just for you. 

“that neon sign’s about to give up on life,” he muses, nodding toward the flickering glow above the entrance, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you snort, shaking your head. “looks like it’s been dying for a while.”

his laugh is easy, rich, and as the two of you step forward, you don’t notice Wonbin’s fingers twitch subtly at the hem of his sleeve, his gaze flicking—just for a second—toward where Beomgyu stands at your side.

the restaurant glows with a warm, golden ambiance, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space as you all approach the entrance. just before any of you can reach for the handle, beomgyu jogs ahead, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly. he pulls the door open with a small flourish, grinning as he gestures for everyone to step inside first. 

“after you,” he says smoothly, his voice rich with easy charm.

gunil claps him on the back as he passes. “oh, he’s one of those guys. i see how it is, trying to win over our girls”

beomgyu only smirks, but when you step up, his expression softens just a fraction, the warmth in his eyes lingering just a second longer. 

“for you, especially,” he murmurs, and there’s something playful, almost teasing in the way he says it, but it still manages to send a ripple of awareness through you.

you barely notice the figure at the back of the group, the one who’s watching in silence. wonbin, arms still tucked into his hoodie, remains near the entrance, his lips pressing into a faint frown before he steps inside last, the shadows of the doorway trailing behind him.

once inside, the group weaves through the crowded restaurant, past candle-lit tables and the scent of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen. hongjoong leads you toward a long table near the window, and before anyone can claim a seat, gunil claps his hands together, loud enough to make a few nearby patrons glance over.

“alright, new guy,” he declares, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to orchestrate something truly chaotic. 

“since it’s your first official meal with us, you get the honor of choosing who you want to sit next to.”

beomgyu barely hesitates. with an easy grin, he pulls out the chair right beside him—your chair. he tilts his head toward you in invitation, fingers curled lightly around the back of the seat. 

“do me the honours,” he says easily.

the reaction is immediate.

minjeong lets out a dramatic gasp, yunjin waggles her eyebrows with zero subtlety, and gunil downright howls, throwing his head back as he clutches his chest. “ohhh, smooth,” he groans, while hongjoong shakes his head in amused disbelief.

“jesus,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you slide into the chair, ignoring the exaggerated reactions happening around you. “you guys act like i’ve never sat next to a guy before.”

beomgyu only laughs, dropping into the seat beside you with a smug ease. “i don’t know,” he muses, resting his chin in his palm. “you do seem pretty flustered.”

you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “i—what? i am not—”

but it’s already too late. the table erupts in laughter, gunil banging a fist against the wood while yunjin throws a knowing glance toward minjeong, who looks downright delighted by your reaction.

and somewhere, in the middle of it all, you fail to notice the way wonbin sits stiffly across from you, gaze dark and unwavering as he observes the entire exchange without a single word.

the restaurant hums with a comfortable buzz, a blend of distant chatter and soft instrumental music filtering through the warm air. the scent of grilled meat and spices lingers, curling around you as menus are passed around and drinks are ordered. but despite the distractions, it doesn’t take long for the teasing to start again, because gunil—predictably—has no self-control.

“so,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes flickering between you and beomgyu with unmistakable amusement. 

“do we think the new guy’s a natural flirt, or is he just awfully smitten with—”

you shoot him a warning look, already bracing for impact. “gunil.”

he grins, unfazed. “what? it’s a valid question! beomgyu, be honest—was this a strategic choice? or are you just naturally drawn to our very own resident rockstar?”

minjeong chokes on her drink. yunjin smacks a hand against the table dramatically. “oh, he definitely planned this,” she declares, and gunil nods enthusiastically in agreement.

beomgyu—who thus far has taken everything in stride—simply exhales, shaking his head as if in deep contemplation. then he turns to you, expression far too pleased. 

“you know,” he muses, tilting his head, “i could say it was coincidence, but i don’t think you’d believe me. not with the way she’s looking at me.”

you narrow your eyes at him, fighting the heat threatening to creep up your neck. “wherever he came from,” you mutter, flipping through the menu with unnecessary force, “we need to send him back. i can’t deal with a gunil 2.0.”

gunil gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if you’ve physically wounded him. “i am deeply offended,” he proclaims, but then immediately beams at beomgyu, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“but also, what an honor! welcome to the club brother.”

beomgyu leans into it, smirking. “happy to be here.”

“oh my god,” you groan, slumping back in your chair while the rest of the table bursts into laughter. even hongjoong—who usually tries to be the responsible one—shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle, muttering something under his breath about how he already regrets bringing everyone out.

meanwhile, across from you, wonbin remains quiet, idly stirring the ice in his drink. his posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicker toward you and beomgyu every so often—quick, barely perceptible glances. 

if anyone else notices, they don’t comment on it. 

the night continues, the teasing persists, and beomgyu continues basking in every bit of attention thrown his way, playing along like he was always meant to be here. you exhale, setting down your menu with a finality that makes yunjin smirk at you. 

this is going to be a long night.

the arrival of the food brings a brief but welcome pause to the relentless teasing, the scent of sizzling beef and rich spices stealing everyone’s focus. plates are set down with soft clinks, and for a while, the only sounds that fill the table are the clatter of utensils and the occasional satisfied hum from someone enjoying their meal. the conversation quiets, replaced by the rhythmic lull of eating, the warm air thick with the comforting aroma of grilled meat and simmering broth.

you shift in your seat, concentrating on your plate, but the beef in front of you proves to be more of a challenge than expected. the cut is thick, the texture a little tougher than you’d anticipated, and you find yourself struggling against the resistance of the meat as your knife barely makes a dent. 

you huff, gripping the handle a little tighter, trying not to draw attention to your struggle, but before you can wrestle with it any further, a hand reaches into your space.

beomgyu, wordless and unbothered, plucks the knife and fork from your grasp with effortless ease. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even glance at you—just presses the edge of the blade into the meat and slices through it with a few smooth, practiced movements. the precision is almost irritating, as if the food is bending to his will out of sheer respect. you blink, stunned into silence as he casually transfers the perfectly cut pieces back onto your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

gunil sees—because of course, he does—but, mercifully, the food in his mouth saves you from whatever wild remark was undoubtedly forming behind it. you watch as he raises an eyebrow, as if making a mental note to circle back to this later, but he’s too occupied stuffing another bite past his grin to comment right away.

however, what you don’t anticipate is yunjin, who swallows a sip of her drink, tilts her head toward beomgyu, and asks, far too casually, “do you have a girlfriend?”

the question lands like a drumbeat in the middle of the table, and suddenly, all attention shifts back to him. minjeong pauses mid-chew, hongjoong’s chopsticks hover in the air for half a second longer than necessary, and gunil, despite still chewing, makes a muffled noise of interest.

beomgyu, unfazed as ever, finally looks up from his plate, lips curling in amusement. 

“that’s kind of a loaded question,” he muses, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

yunjin doesn’t blink. “it’s really not.”

he laughs at that, shaking his head. “no, i don’t,” he admits, resting his elbow against the table as he leans in slightly. “but if i did, would that change the way you’re all looking at me right now?”

gunil swallows dramatically. “i’d be devastated, personally.”

the table bursts into laughter, even hongjoong chuckling as he shakes his head.

the table is still buzzing with laughter from beomgyu’s response when gunil, in his never-ending quest for chaos, suddenly shifts his attention across the table. his eyes narrow slightly, as if just now noticing something off in the atmosphere. 

he leans forward, elbow propped on the edge of the table, and calls out, “hold on a second. why is wonbin so quiet tonight?”

at that, the laughter trickles off slightly. a few pairs of eyes flick toward wonbin, who has barely spoken since you all sat down. he had been eating at an even pace, head down, shoulders relaxed—but now that the attention is on him, he moves with deliberate ease, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it back down, as if completely unfazed.

hongjoong shoots gunil a sharp look across the table, the warning subtle but clear: drop it. but gunil, ever the instigator, is oblivious as usual.

“seriously, man,” gunil continues, grinning. “you usually have something to say. what’s up?”

wonbin exhales through his nose, casual as ever, and shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “didn’t get much sleep,” he mutters, the words smooth, effortless. 

his face gives away nothing, his expression a mask of nonchalance as he stirs the ice in his glass with his straw.

gunil’s eyes immediately light up with mischief, his mind already running wild with the implications of that statement. “ahh,” he hums knowingly, leaning in like he’s just uncovered some great secret. 

“not enough sleep, huh?”

you groan, already knowing where this is going.

“bet i know why,” gunil continues, undeterred. “some girl kept you up last night, didn’t she?” he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly before turning to beomgyu, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years. 

“since you’re new here, let me introduce you properly. this—” he gestures dramatically toward wonbin, who merely watches him with an unreadable expression, “—is the real casanova of the group. he’s the original heartbreaker, the pretty boy, the one the girls are always lining up for.”

beomgyu, playing along effortlessly, raises an intrigued brow. “oh? the original?” he flicks a glance toward wonbin, his smirk teasing but unreadable. “so, you’re my competition?”

wonbin scoffs, shaking his head as he finally lifts his gaze from his drink, but there’s something else in his expression now—something too subtle for anyone to name, but just sharp enough for the energy at the table to shift. 

he meets beomgyu’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and for a split second, something flickers beneath his usual apathy.

then, with a lazy shrug, he mutters, “i’m not competing with anyone.”

gunil howls at that, clapping his hands together like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night. 

“classic wonbin,” he cackles. “always pretending he doesn’t care.”

the others chuckle along, and just like that, the tension dissolves into playful laughter again. as the teasing finally dies down, the conversation shifts naturally toward the one thing that binds you all together—music. 

hongjoong, ever the responsible leader, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “alright,” he says, voice steady, cutting through the last remnants of laughter. “before we all get too full and lazy, let’s go over practice schedules again. we’ve got a lot to fine-tune before the showcase next month, and we can’t afford to slack.”

there’s a collective groan from gunil and yunjin, but it’s half-hearted at best—they all know hongjoong is right. minjeong nods in agreement, already mentally calculating her schedule. 

“we’re still aiming to finalize the album recordings by the end of next month too, right?” she asks.

“yeah,” hongjoong confirms. “and i want everyone at the studio early on friday. we’ll do a full run-through of the setlist with beomgyu this time and some recording too.”

at the mention of his name, beomgyu straightens, and for the first time since he walked through the doors of the studio earlier today, that playful glint in his eyes fades into something else—something sharper, more focused. his posture shifts ever so slightly, no longer that of the carefree flirt basking in the attention of his new bandmates, but of a musician, a professional. the change is subtle but striking, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with something undeniably passionate.

“i’ll be ready,” he says, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “i’ve already gone through most of the recent setlists. i’ll put in extra hours to catch up on anything new, just send me whatever tracks you want polished by friday, and i’ll make sure i’m up to speed.”

the sheer determination in his voice catches you off guard. you weren’t expecting him to take things lightly, of course—no one makes it to this level without hard work—but seeing the shift happen in real time, watching the flicker of ambition light up behind his eyes, is something else entirely. admirable. maybe even a little intoxicating.

you don’t realize you’re staring.

it’s a bad habit, one that hongjoong recently pointed out with an exasperated sigh and an amused, “you really need to work on not getting lost in thought while making direct eye contact. it gives people the wrong idea.” 

and yet, you do it again, caught in the quiet force of beomgyu’s intensity, the way his expression softens just slightly when he notices your gaze lingering.

but he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t smirk or make a snarky comment. he just smiles, warm and knowing, and then—without hesitation—reaches over and gives you a light pat on the head.

the gesture is brief but firm, enough to jolt you out of your daze. it’s also enough to send the entire table into another round of chaos.

“i love this guy,” gunil cackles, wiping at his eyes as if the moment was too much for him to handle.

yunjin leans into hongjoong, gripping his arm as if she’s about to faint. “hongjoong, do something, i can’t—”

you, meanwhile, are left gaping at beomgyu, blinking in disbelief. “what—what was that?”

beomgyu shrugs, entirely unbothered. “you were staring.”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “i—”

“anyway,” hongjoong interjects loudly, fighting a losing battle against the chaos unfolding at the table. He lifts his glass, signaling for everyone to settle down. 

“before we all spiral into madness, let’s wrap this up properly.” he turns to beomgyu, giving him a nod of approval. “welcome to the band.”

everyone follows suit, raising their glasses, the clinking sound ringing warm and bright between you all.

“welcome to the band,” they echo, voices overlapping, some dramatic, some genuine, but all filled with the same shared sentiment as beomgyu grins and lifts his own glass.

you watch as the drinks are tipped back, laughter spilling into the dim-lit restaurant, the camaraderie between you all settling into something real, something permanent. as beomgyu meets your gaze one last time over the rim of his glass, you feel it—the shift.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio hums with quiet energy, the soft buzz of amplifiers and the faint clicking of drumsticks against the rim of gunil’s snare drum filling the space as everyone settles into another late-night session. 

three weeks have passed since beomgyu joined the band, and in that time, he’s more than proven himself. what started as a cautious integration has transformed into something seamless—effortless, even. he’s blended in like he’s always belonged, picking up the intricacies of your sound with a sharp ear and an undeniable talent that keeps surprising even hongjoong.

even minjeong, typically reserved and hard to impress, has warmed to him. there’s a lightness to her now, a softer curve to her lips whenever beomgyu cracks a joke or nudges her playfully during rehearsals. he has that effect on people—making them feel like they’ve known him forever, like it’s impossible to imagine the band without him now.

and you? you’ve grown closer to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

music, as it turns out, is more than just a shared passion between you—it’s a language you both speak fluently, an unspoken connection that keeps pulling you into late-night jam sessions long after everyone else has gone home. he challenges you in ways no one else has, pushing you to refine your riffs, encouraging you to experiment, to play outside the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. his presence is magnetic, not just because of his charm, but because he understands—really understands—what it means to live and breathe music.

“alright, let’s run it again from the top,” hongjoong calls out, adjusting the levels on the mixing board.

beomgyu, leaning against his guitar, glances at you with an easy smirk. “ready to show me up again?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. “oh, please. you’ve been trying to outplay me since day one.”

he grins, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the body of his guitar. “maybe i just like the challenge.”

the words are lighthearted, teasing, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your fingers tighten around the fretboard, a heat creeping up the back of your neck. before you can respond, gunil counts off, and the studio is filled with sound, drowning out everything else—except for the sharp awareness of the man sitting across the room.

wonbin is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand idly toying with the condensation on his water bottle. he hasn’t said much all night, but now, as beomgyu leans in just a little closer to show you something on the fretboard, his voice cuts through the space between songs.

“you two lovebirds done flirting?” he quips, his tone smooth, offhanded—meant to be just another easy joke, like the ones he used to make with you before everything started feeling like this.

but the reaction isn’t what he expects.

you don’t laugh, don’t even roll your eyes the way you once might have. instead, you barely acknowledge the comment at all, offering only a fleeting glance in his direction before refocusing on your guitar. 

“let’s just run it again,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, your voice steady but distant.

something sharp tugs at the edges of wonbin’s composure.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that you’re just focused. that you didn’t mean to brush him off like that. that whatever this weird distance is—it’s temporary, just a passing thing. he leans back further, plastering on an easy grin, masking the nagging weight in his chest with the same lightness he always does.

“damn,” he muses, swirling his water bottle absently between his fingers. “didn’t realize i’d be a third wheel in my own band.”

gunil snorts, beomgyu just smirks, and you don’t react at all.

wonbin exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed, to wear his usual air of indifference. but something feels off—has felt off for weeks now, but he’s only just starting to acknowledge it.

it’s the distance. the subtle, creeping realization that things aren’t the same between you.

you don’t linger near him in the studio anymore. you don’t joke around with him between takes like you used to. the moments you once stole in passing—trading lazy comments, nudging each other in between sets, sharing quick smirks over inside jokes no one else caught—those moments are gone. 

and, if they still exist at all, they don’t belong to him anymore. they belong to beomgyu.

wonbin isn’t stupid—he’s watched it unfold with his own eyes. beomgyu is the one you walk into practice with now, your conversations bleeding into the room long before the rest of them arrive. he’s the one you stay late with, bent over notebooks, strumming through ideas until the rest of the world disappears. the one standing next to you when hongjoong gives new instructions, the one laughing beside you when gunil cracks some dumb joke, the one moving into the space where wonbin used to be.

it’s a shift he didn’t notice at first. or maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s one he refused to notice. but it’s impossible to ignore now, the proof laid out in front of him in every lingering glance, every shared smirk, every small touch that passes between you and beomgyu like second nature.

the closeness unsettles him. it shouldn’t—he knows that. he has no reason to care, no claim to stake, no right to question it. but it does bother him, even if he doesn’t understand why.

so he does what he’s always done—masks it in ease, drowns it in something weightless, pushing his emotions down.

the moment rehearsal starts, the studio transforms. the lingering weight of conversation, the undercurrents of tension—all of it is swallowed by the sheer force of sound.

beomgyu settles into the music effortlessly, his rhythm weaving seamlessly alongside the steady thrum of minjeong’s bass and the deep, pounding heartbeat of gunil’s drums. it’s uncanny, the way he fits into the structure of the songs like he’s been here all along, like his presence was always meant to fill the spaces between each note. every chord he plays is precise but never mechanical, carrying the weight of a musician who doesn’t just play music—he feels it, breathes it, lets it seep into his bones.

wonbin watches from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice steady as he sings, but the tightness in his chest remains. he can’t deny it—beomgyu is good. frustratingly good.

his timing is impeccable, his execution flawless, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he connects—how he doesn’t just play the right notes but moves with the song, like he understands every nuance without needing to be told.

then comes the second song, your song.

the one where your guitar takes center stage, where your fingers move effortlessly over the fretboard, pulling sharp, electric notes from the amp with practiced ease. the kind of solo that demands attention, commands the room with its precision and fire. you lean into it naturally, your body moving with the pulse of the song, feeling the music instead of just playing it.

but this time, you’re not alone.

beomgyu catches your movement, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. he shifts slightly toward you, fingers skimming his own fretboard with the same effortless confidence, matching your energy beat for beat. he mirrors you—not just technically, but in spirit, taking up the unspoken challenge like it’s second nature.

the air crackles between you, charged with something unspoken, something electric. the sound of your guitars twists together, harmonizing and clashing all at once, the melodies dancing between your fingers like lightning against a dark sky. your bodies move in tandem, drawn into the same rhythm, the same pulse of sound that vibrates beneath your skin.

gunil, catching onto the moment, grins behind his drum kit and drives the beat even harder, pushing the tempo just slightly, challenging the two of you to keep up. minjeong watches with an amused smirk, barely needing to adjust as she follows your lead, letting the bassline ground the wild energy sparking between you and beomgyu.

when the song finally crashes to a close, leaving the studio buzzing in the aftermath of reverberating notes, there’s a pause—a beat of silence where everything settles, leaving only the faint hum of amplifiers in its wake. The air is thick with something electric, something raw, the kind of energy that lingers even after the music has stopped.

beomgyu exhales, flashing you a grin. 

“not bad.”

you scoff, shaking your head as you adjust the strap on your shoulder. “you’re getting cocky.”

he tilts his head, considering. “or maybe i just think we bring out the best in each other..”

before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated sigh fills the room.

gunil, still seated behind his drum kit, leans back with his sticks resting against his thighs, shaking his head dramatically. 

“man,” he drawls, “i don’t know what kind of soulmate-level connection you two just tapped into, but i think i actually felt something. i was moved.”

minjeong chuckles, rolling her eyes. “gunil, shut up. you’re so dramatic.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, grinning. “it was like—bam, musical telepathy. the chemistry? undeniable. i think i might start believing in fate or some shit.”

beomgyu lets out a breathy laugh beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours in playful agreement. “guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head at their antics—but it’s only when you hear them, really hear them, that something shifts in your chest.

it was the first time you had played that song—the one you wrote for wonbin—and your chest hadn’t tightened. no lump had risen in your throat, no invisible weight had pressed down on your ribs. it had been just another song, just music, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but then, without thinking, your eyes flicker across the room—to him. wonbin..

the world doesn’t stop spinning, but it feels like it does. for just a moment. for just the stretch of a single breath.

his gaze isn’t piercing, isn’t burning with anything sharp or scathing. no, it’s something else entirely—something unreadable, something that tightens in your chest like a slow-building crescendo, pressing against ribs that have already known too much ache.

this is the moment where he should say something. where he’d usually saunter over, voice low and teasing, an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he murmured, “damn, you really are my favorite little rockstar.”

where he’d nudge you just enough to make you roll your eyes, to make you swat him away only for him to stay close anyway. where he’d remind you—without ever really saying it—that he sees you.

but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. just stares. and it hurts.

it’s a quiet, gnawing pain, the kind that doesn’t strike all at once but settles deep, threading itself into old wounds that never fully healed. you’ve spent weeks trying to break free of the weight he left behind, trying to scrape the remnants of him out of your skin, out of your lungs, out of the spaces in your mind that still whisper his name when you’re alone.

and yet, with a single look, it all comes rushing back. you shouldn’t care, but you do.

you do, because for all the ways you’ve tried to let go, there’s still something in you that aches for him to notice. to say something. to remind you that he was once the one who knew you best, who stood by your side, who made you feel like you belonged before everything cracked and left you trying to piece yourself back together.

instead, silence stretches between you like an unplayed note—dangling in the air, unresolved. then, a hand on your shoulder.

beomgyu.

his touch is light, grounding, but it doesn’t break the tension—it only makes you more aware of it. “come on,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, as if he senses the shift, even if he doesn’t understand it. 

“water break.”

you don’t respond, just let him steer you toward the bottles laid out on the other side of the room. and still, wonbin doesn’t look away. he doesn’t stop watching. he doesn’t say a single word.

the laughter from the others continues behind you, filling the space you leave behind, but as you reach for the cold plastic of the water bottle, the chill sinking into your fingertips, you feel it—that quiet, aching twinge deep in your chest.

the cool water slips down your throat, but it does little to soothe the fire simmering beneath your ribs. It’s not the kind that burns bright and all-consuming—it’s slower, deeper, the kind of heat that lingers long after the flame has been snuffed out. the kind of ache that settles into your bones, into the spaces between your lungs, making it harder to breathe without feeling it pressing there, unshakable.

beomgyu settles beside you easily, his presence a stark contrast to the storm still curling in your chest. he exists in a way that doesn’t demand anything of you, that doesn’t make your wounds feel like open targets. you should be grateful for that. maybe you are. 

but when hongjoong speaks, your pulse stumbles over itself, because his words are about to crack open something you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

“alright,” he starts, voice dipping into something serious, steady. “the showcase is in a week, and i’ve been thinking—we should introduce one of the new songs, my personal pick is flatline.”

“it would be good to get people excited about the album.”

the moment fractures.

a week. that’s all the time you have left before you’ll be standing on a stage again, before the weight of every chord, every lyric, every heartbeat you’ve ever poured into your music is laid bare under blinding lights. it wouldn’t be the first time. performing is second nature to you.

but this—this—feels different, because the song hongjoong is talking about isn’t just another track in your repertoire. it’s not something you wrote in passing, not a melody plucked from thin air.

it’s a song for him.

for the love you lost before you ever truly had it. for the nights you spent drowning in the silence he left behind. for every almost, every nearly, every whisper of something real that never quite reached the surface. it’s ink and blood, strings and scars, stitched together into something that still feels too raw to touch.

the air shifts and the hesitation is almost tangible. hongjoong notices it too, catching the flickers of unease from the others before his gaze finds you. he hesitates, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what he’s suggesting.

“i mean—we don’t have to,” he amends quickly. “i just thought—”

“no, it’s fine.”

the word leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. it rings louder than you expect, unwavering, slicing through the hesitation thickening the air like a blade.

for a second, you wonder if it’s a mistake. if you’ve said it too quickly, too forcefully. if it’s a lie. but it isn’t, because the truth is—if you don’t do this now, you never will.

if you keep avoiding the song, if you let the ghost of wonbin’s presence dictate the things you create, you’ll never really be free of him. you’ll always be running, letting his absence linger in the spaces meant for music, meant for you.

and you’re so, so tired of running.

“it’s a good idea,” you say, this time softer, but still sure. “we should play it.”

there’s a beat of silence, but before the silence can stretch too far, hongjoong nods. “alright. we’ll lock it in, if everyone else agrees”

a murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs. because now, for the first time, it’s real.

the song is no longer just a relic of your grief, buried within the pages of your notebook. it’s going to be sung and wonbin is going to hear it.

the studio is winding down, the charged energy of rehearsal unraveling into something looser, more relaxed. the clatter of cases being latched shut, the zip of backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of voices blending into the low hum of amplifiers still cooling from the heat of performance. it’s familiar, routine. but even in the comfort of familiarity, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—something unspoken.

you’re winding your guitar cable with slow, practiced movements when you feel them before you see them—yunjin and minjeong, hovering just close enough to make their presence known. they’re watching you like they know something you don’t, eyes sharp, lips poised on the edge of mischief.

"what's the plan for tonight?" yunjin asks, arms crossed as she leans in slightly, the movement casual, but her expression anything but. 

"we were thinking of grabbing food—maybe that rooftop bar after. you in?"

minjeong tilts her head, studying you with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers, the kind that makes it impossible to lie. there’s something expectant in her stare, like she already knows the answer before you give it.

you shift your guitar case higher on your shoulder, wincing slightly. "i promised beomgyu i’d stay behind," you admit, not missing the way their eyes immediately flicker toward each other, like two sharks scenting blood in the water. 

"we wanted to go over a few things for the showcase."

"even better," minjeong hums, her smirk unfurling slowly, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke.

yunjin grins in agreement, rocking back on her heels as if she’s just won something. "if anything, this is a step in the right direction."

your stomach twists at the implication, but before you can argue, a burst of laughter echoes from across the room.

beomgyu.

his voice is warm, rich with amusement as he throws a casual arm around gunil’s shoulder, grinning at whatever conversation they’re tangled in. he fits into the space like he was meant to be here all along, moving between everyone with effortless ease. his presence is a stark contrast to the space left behind—the empty seat, the missing words, the silence that used to be filled with someone else.

yunjin follows your gaze, then nudges you with an exaggerated wiggle of her brows. "he's cute," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. "and not him."

you know exactly who him is and you don’t respond, but the absence of protest is answer enough.

minjeong steps closer, voice lower now, softer, like she’s trying to ease you into something you haven’t fully accepted yet. "look, we're just saying—he’s good for you. you guys seem to get along so well and he definitely isn’t bad on the eyes. and if he’s not, at least he’s something new. something that won’t keep you depressed and in your room for weeks on end"

there’s a weight to her words, something that makes your breath hitch for just a second too long. because new means moving forward. it means carving out a path that doesn’t end with the same heartbreak, the same regret.

it means leaving the past behind.

you exhale, shaking your head, feigning exasperation as you shove your coiled cable into your bag. "you guys are ridiculous."

"and right," yunjin corrects, her smirk widening.

but the teasing fades as she studies you, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, reading the reluctance in your body language, the way your fingers still tense when wonbin’s name is even implied.

and the truth is—you don’t know what this is.

you don’t know if beomgyu is anything more than a distraction, if the comfort of his presence is anything more than a temporary bandage over something that still bleeds. 

the moment is barely yours before yunjin seizes it, ever the dramatist, ever the instigator.

“oh, leave the lovebirds alone,” she declares, voice cutting through the air like a cymbal crash, exaggerated enough that it echoes off the studio walls.

your shoulders stiffen, but beomgyu only snickers beside you, unbothered, used to their antics by now. the rest of them follow her lead, one by one filing toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst themselves about late-night plans, about food, about anything but the weight lingering in this room, in the space that stretches between you and the man who hasn’t left yet.

wonbin stands near the doorway, slower to leave than the others, gaze flickering between you and beomgyu with something unreadable in the dim lighting. there’s nothing playful in his stance, nothing lighthearted in the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

then, casually—too casually—he speaks.

“do you guys need a singer?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, something careful, like a hand hovering over a flame, unsure whether to pull back or press forward. 

“i wouldn’t mind staying back if so.”

beomgyu barely hesitates, his answer coming as easily as his smirks, effortless but firm. “wouldn’t want to keep you from your friday night plans,” he muses, adjusting the strap of his guitar, his tone playful but not entirely weightless. 

then, with a glance toward gunil, who had been the loudest voice at practice earlier, he adds, “he told me about the girl you’re supposed to be meeting.”

the words drop into the space between you like a stray note—just sharp enough to cut and you freeze.

everything in you locks up—your breath, your pulse, the way your fingers suddenly feel too heavy where they rest against your guitar.

friday night plans. a girl.

of course. of course, he’s meeting someone. of course, there’s another name, another voice waiting on the other side of his time. because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? wonbin is charming, wonbin is untouchable, wonbin is everyone’s favorite—the guy who belongs to no one but still manages to leave his mark on everyone.

but the worst part isn’t that he has plans, it’s that it hurts.

because even after all the nights spent convincing yourself you’re done grieving him, done chasing something that was never yours to keep—your body betrays you. your stomach knots, your lungs squeeze too tight, your gaze drops to the floor because you can’t—can’t—risk looking at him right now, not when the ache is raw and too exposed.

there’s a beat of silence and then, movement.

wonbin steps forward, but not toward beomgyu. toward you.

your breath stutters, but you don’t lift your head, don’t meet his gaze, don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of whatever cologne he wears—the same scent you still associate with late-night drives and half-finished conversations, with laughter pressed against your temple, with the fleeting ghost of something that once felt like home.

he doesn’t speak right away, just reaches into his bag, the sound of the zipper barely registering past the static in your head. and then—gently, carefully—he presses something into your hands.

a bread snack, something from the vending machine down the hall.

“don’t forget to eat a proper meal after,” he murmurs, quiet, almost like a secret. his voice doesn’t hold its usual teasing lilt, doesn’t carry the arrogance of someone who knows he’s impossible to ignore. it’s just soft, like the wonbin you know behind all of the rockstar fame and string of girls. the one who stayed behind that night of tour to make sure you were eating well. the one who always seems to notice when you slip out of a room.

your fingers tighten around the wrapper, but you say nothing. you can’t say anything.

because your heart is pounding wildly, chaotically, like a song with no tempo, no rhythm, no way to steady itself. and then—just as quickly as he came—he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only his words, his scent, his absence pressing heavy against your ribs.

the door clicks shut, and the weight of wonbin’s absence presses into the room like an echo, something unseen but impossible to ignore. the silence stretches, stretching over your skin, curling in the spaces between your ribs. your heart refuses to still, still beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm, as if trying to process what just happened, as if trying to make sense of the way his voice still lingers in the air, soft and careful, like a melody that refuses to fade.

you stare at the bread in your hands, the crinkled plastic now warm from your grasp. your fingers curl around it too tightly, knuckles stiff, as if the pressure might somehow ground you, might steady the way your stomach churns, the way your mind spins in too many directions at once.

across from you, beomgyu watches.

he doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t press, doesn’t even shift where he’s standing. he just observes.

then—carefully, lightly, like he’s testing the weight of his words before letting them fall—he asks, “hey. is everything alright?”

his voice is gentle, void of teasing, void of the easy smugness he usually carries. it’s a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, like it’s laced with something more, something close to understanding.

your grip tightens, fingers stiff against the plastic and you don’t want to answer. because no, you’re not alright. you haven’t been alright for a long time. not when it comes to him.

but that’s not something you can say, not now. not when beomgyu is looking at you like he’s waiting for something you’re not ready to give.

so you force a small, stiff shrug, lowering your gaze as you tear open the packaging, letting the sound of crinkling plastic fill the air instead of the things you should say. 

“i’m fine,” you murmur, the words flat, hollow. “probably just the lack of food.”

the silence returns, thick and unmoving, stretching between you like an unresolved chord, something waiting to be resolved but never quite landing. beomgyu doesn’t fill it with another joke, doesn’t move to distract or shift the subject. he just stands there, quiet, watching.

the weight of his gaze isn’t suffocating—not like wonbin’s. it doesn’t wrap around you like a vice, doesn’t make your throat close up or your heart trip over itself in confusion. it’s patient. steady. like he’s waiting for the right moment, for the right words to come to him.

and when he speaks, his voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"is there something going on between you and wonbin?"

your fingers freeze mid-motion, bread half-raised to your mouth. the question hangs there, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the walls, into the air between you, into the rapid pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

for a moment, you don’t breathe.

he says it like he already knows the answer. like he’s just confirming something he’s already pieced together in the quiet moments, in the glances he’s caught when he thought you weren’t looking, in the way your name sounds different when it falls from wonbin’s lips.

you should deny it, should laugh, should scoff, should say no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

but you don’t because the words don’t come. because you don’t know what to say.

the silence stretches, long enough that it should be uncomfortable, but again he doesn’t fill it. he just watches, the question still hanging in the air between you, waiting, waiting, waiting—like he already knows you won’t answer.

and when you don’t—when the words sit frozen on your tongue, too tangled to unravel—he exhales softly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“and those songs,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less sure. “the ones you showed me?”

his fingers drum absentmindedly against the body of his guitar, slow, deliberate. he doesn’t sound accusatory, doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pry something out of you that isn’t already there. if anything, his voice holds something closer to realization, like he’s only now putting the last pieces of the puzzle together.

“they’re about him, aren’t they?”

your breath catches because it’s not a question. not really. it’s a statement.

a truth, laid out plainly in the dim light of the studio, in the spaces between your hesitation and the way you keep gripping that damn bread like it’s an anchor keeping you tethered.

and still, you say nothing, because what would be the point in denying it?

he’s seen the way your hands shake when you play certain chords, heard the way your voice wavers when you sing the words you wrote with him in mind. he’s watched you shift, hesitate, look away when wonbin enters a room, has caught the way you try too hard to seem indifferent when his presence pulls at you like gravity.

beomgyu isn’t stupid, he’s known, even before this moment.

but now, he’s asking you to say it, to admit it

the room feels smaller now, the air heavier, pressing against your lungs like a weight you can’t shake. the bread sits in your mouth, tasteless and dry, lodged in your throat like the emotions you’ve spent weeks—months—trying to swallow down.

you don’t speak you can’t. instead, you nod. slowly. it’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s enough, enough for beomgyu to see what you can’t bring yourself to say aloud. enough for him to understand that every lyric, every melody, every carefully placed chord in those songs wasn’t just music—it was him. it was all him.

wonbin is the grief in your harmonies, the ache in every verse, the echo of something unfinished ringing between the notes, the weight of him still stuck in your chest, clinging to your ribs like an old melody you can’t unlearn.

you swallow thickly, forcing the bread down, but it doesn’t go down easy.

beomgyu doesn’t react right away. he just watches you, his eyes tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl tightly around the plastic wrapper, the way your breath comes a little too shallow, like you’re fighting to keep something buried.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if he’s choosing each word carefully before letting it slip into the space between you.

“i won’t press,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but steady. “i won’t ask for details. i can already tell how hard it is for you to talk about this.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, forcing your breath to even out, forcing yourself to swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

beomgyu exhales, a slow, thoughtful breath, and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, “unrequited love sure is a killer.”

there’s something in the way he says it, something weighty and familiar, that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around the bread in your lap.

it’s not just an observation, it’s an admission. a confession without a name, without a past attached, but you hear it for what it is.

you finally lift your head, just a fraction, just enough to meet his gaze, and for a moment, there is nothing but shared understanding—a quiet recognition of two people who have suffered the same ache, carried the same weight, swallowed down the same grief in silence.

he doesn’t pity you and you don’t pity him.

because you both know that nothing about this kind of pain warrants pity, only endurance.

“he’s a lucky guy,” beomgyu says after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper. 

“to have songs written about him like that. to have someone feel so much for him that they carved it into melody, into words, into something permanent.”

you look away again, because the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you.

but then he exhales softly and adds, “but from what i’ve read… he’s a fool too. the kind that only realizes what he had once it’s already gone.”

a breath leaves you, sharp and unsteady, something between a laugh and a sob, something too raw to be controlled.

beomgyu doesn’t push any further. he doesn’t try to make you talk, doesn’t try to unravel what’s left of you tonight.

instead, he just reaches out, gives your shoulder a small, firm pat—not comfort, not reassurance, just a silent promise that he understands.

and then, as if sensing that the air between you is far too heavy, far too fragile, he leans back, shifting the conversation towards something lighter, something safer.

you don’t thank him, but when you finally lift the bread to your lips, taking a small, hesitant bite, you think maybe he already knows.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the air hums, thick with the promise of something electric, something on the verge of breaking open. the crowd is restless, shifting in waves, anticipation crackling through them like static before a storm. the scent of sweat, liquor, and faint traces of cigarette smoke curls through the space, mixing with the neon glow that flickers against the walls, casting everyone in ephemeral reds and blues—colors of heat and longing, of something fleeting yet unforgettable.

this is the moment before the plunge.

the moment where everything still belongs to you, before the first note rings out, before the music swallows you whole. it’s a delicate thing, this stillness before the sound—like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the drop, the wind whispering at your back, coaxing you forward.

your fingers tighten around the neck of your guitar, the weight of it an anchor, grounding you when the chaos threatens to pull you under. it should feel the same as it always does—should soothe the nerves that tangle in your stomach, should remind you that once you start playing, once the music floods your veins, there will be nothing else.

but tonight is different, because tonight, beomgyu is beside you.

he steps into place, his presence settling next to yours like it’s always been there, like the space he’s filling was never empty to begin with. where there used to be a breath of distance, now there is only proximity—his shoulder brushing against yours, a warmth that seeps in despite the cool bite of adrenaline in your veins. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping low beneath the crowd’s rising roar.

"you ready?” 

the words should be reassuring, should be nothing more than habit—because this is what he used to do. this is where he used to stand, where he used to murmur a lazy, knowing "don't mess up, little rockstar," just to see you roll your eyes, just to hear you scoff before the first note.

but now, it’s beomgyu.

before you can answer, before you can swallow down the tangled feeling rising in your throat—his hand finds yours. it’s brief, fleeting, barely a squeeze, but it roots you. a silent promise. a reassurance that you’re not stepping into the unknown alone.

and from across the stage, wonbin sees it.

he’s standing just a few feet away, yet it feels like a world apart. the mic stand is loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, unreadable—but his eyes linger, fixed on the space where beomgyu’s fingers curled over yours.

where he used to be, where he used to stand.

the moment stretches, tension weaving itself into the dim-lit space between you, thick and suffocating. but then, the house lights drop, and the crowd erupts, and there’s no more room for hesitation.

a sharp pulse of bass rolls through the speakers, reverberating against the walls, sinking into the marrow of your bones. the stage floods with light, neon blues and deep purples casting long shadows, slicing through the dark like lightning fracturing the sky. the crowd erupts, a wild, breathless wave of noise—screams, cheers, the unmistakable pulse of a hundred bodies moving as one.

hongjoong steps forward, claiming the moment with the ease of a frontman who knows exactly how to wield the weight of anticipation. he lifts the mic to his lips, and even before he speaks, the response is deafening.

"we missed you, you crazy motherfuckers!"

the crowd roars, fists pumping in the air, voices crashing against each other in a feverish symphony. the venue is alive, pulsing, breathing—fueled by adrenaline, by the promise of the music about to tear through the room.

then, hongjoong grins, his voice dipping lower, laced with something playful, something teasing.

"now, before we blow your minds, we’ve got a new face on stage tonight."

the screams rise in pitch, high and electric.

beomgyu, beside you, shifts slightly, rolling out his shoulders, the dim stage lights catching the glint of his silver piercing, the streak of sweat-darkened strands falling into his eyes. if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. there’s an ease to the way he stands, the way his hand rests on the curve of his guitar, the way his lips quirk into a smirk just before hongjoong makes it official—

"give it up for our new rhythm guitarist—choi beomgyu!"

and the response is instantaneous, the moment beomgyu’s name leaves hongjoong’s lips, the venue erupts.

the sound is deafening—high-pitched screams rolling through the space like a wave, wild and relentless. his presence is magnetic, his confidence effortless, the energy around him swelling with every second that passes. he stands beneath the stage lights like he was built for this, basking in the feverish adoration pouring from the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he already knew this was coming.

and for the first time, someone else is rivaling the presence that once belonged to wonbin alone.

because wonbin—on stage, wonbin commands the space like a golden god, every movement deliberate, every note he plays dripping with an effortless cool that sends shivers down your spine. he has always been larger than life under the lights, a force that burns and soothes all at once, the weight of him undeniable. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating him in a way that makes him look untouchable, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves, his existence a thing of myth and legend.

but now—now, the stage has another presence.

beomgyu doesn’t just hold himself well—he owns the moment. he stands tall beneath the golden wash of the overhead lights, his long hair catching the soft glow, his silver piercing glinting with every tilt of his head. he moves with ease, with certainty, like he already knows the crowd will adore him.

and they do. they devour him, the way they used to devour wonbin.

the shift is undeniable, like the stage itself is recalibrating, realigning the way it breathes, the way it pulses beneath your feet. and for the first time, wonbin isn’t the one standing in the brightest light.

you don’t have to look to know he’s aware of it.

before the weight of it can settle, before the tension can coil any tighter, hongjoong throws his fist in the air, signaling the start of the set.

the moment the first chord rips through the air, the venue explodes.

the drumline is relentless, a pounding heartbeat that syncs with the wild energy of the crowd, fueling their movements, their screams, their desperate need to be consumed by the music. the bass thrums low and deep, shaking the floor beneath your feet, while the wail of guitars cuts through the chaos, sharp and electric.

and at the center of it all—you and beomgyu move like a force of nature.

the shift is subtle at first, effortless in the way that only comes with instinct. it’s in the way you lean toward him during the opening riff, in the way he mirrors the movement without hesitation, playing off your energy as if the two of you have been doing this forever. the chemistry is instantaneous—a back-and-forth exchange of sound and motion, a conversation spoken through fingers against strings, through the way your bodies pull toward each other in perfect rhythm.

the crowd notices. they feel it.

the pitch of their screams rises, sharp and frenzied, a reaction to the unspoken electricity crackling between you and beomgyu on stage. when you step forward, he meets you halfway. when you tilt your guitar upward, he angles his in the same way, the two of you lost in the moment, lost in the music. it’s intoxicating, the way it flows so naturally, the way it just works.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, just barely visible in the shifting lights, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes it further, crowding into your space just enough to drive the audience into a frenzy. he’s teasing them, teasing you, pushing the dynamic to its edge. he plays with a kind of confidence that borders on reckless, grinning as the crowd screams louder, as they feed off the connection you’re giving them.

your eyes meet beomgyu’s, and it’s like striking a match—instantaneous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

his gaze is wild, untamed, burning with something reckless as his fingers dance effortlessly up and down the strings of his guitar. the glint of the stage lights catches on the silver of his noise piercing, on the damp strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, on the raw, exhilarated grin tugging at his lips. he’s thriving in this moment, in the way the music swallows everything whole, in the way the energy between you pulls tighter, tighter, a thread stretched to its limit.

then, the silent challenge begins.

you push yourself further, fingers sliding over the fretboard, pressing harder, moving faster, your guitar wailing in response. beomgyu doesn’t hesitate—he matches you, keeping pace with ease, teasing the melody just enough to goad you, just enough to dare you into pushing beyond the edge.

the music drives you together, bodies drawn into the rhythm like magnets, until there’s barely any space left between you. the heat of the lights, the fevered pulse of the crowd, the sheer intensity of the moment—it’s intoxicating, drowning out everything else, everything that isn’t this.

the rest of the band? they feel it too.

gunil pounds the drums harder, the beat slamming through the venue like thunder rolling across an open sky. minjeong’s bass vibrates low and heavy, a pulse that thrums deep in your chest, anchoring the chaos, keeping the storm contained. hongjoong and yunjin’s voices rise above it all, their harmonies growing rougher, more unruly, feeding into the wild, raw energy tearing through the set.

it’s a performance unlike any before—untamed, unhinged, an awakening of something new, something raw, something the crowd can’t get enough of.

but just beyond the heat of the lights, just past the charged space between you and beomgyu—wonbin is still watching,

wonbin has never been just another piece of the stage.

he’s always been the moment, the gravitational force pulling every gaze, the golden focal point of the band’s energy, the one who commands attention without even trying. his presence alone has always been enough—his voice, his movement, the way he bends the music to his will. he has never had to chase the spotlight, it’s always belonged to him.

but tonight, he is not the one they are watching. for the first time, wonbin fades into the background and he hates it.

his grip tightens around the mic stand, knuckles whitening, his jaw locked so tight it aches. he tells himself it’s just the music, just the adrenaline—that’s why his pulse is hammering in his throat, why his body feels wired, off-kilter, out of sync. but the more he watches, the more he realizes it’s not the music that’s throwing him off.

it’s you. it’s beomgyu.

it’s the way you two move—effortless, in sync, pulling toward each other like magnets caught in the same orbit. it’s the way your bodies lean into the rhythm, the way your eyes meet with something charged, something unspoken, something new.

it’s the way he matches your energy, challenges you, dares you to push harder, play faster, lean in closer. the way the crowd sees it, feels it, screams louder because of it.

it’s the way he—wonbin—isn’t part of it. the realization unsettles him more than it should.

he shifts his weight, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into the moment, back into the role he’s always played with such ease. but it’s not the same. the energy of the stage is shifting, the music bending in a way that doesn’t center around him anymore. and it’s not because of the crowd. 

it’s not even because of the music. it’s you.

you, who used to seek him out during performances without even thinking. you, who used to turn to him during the high points of a song, locking eyes in the way that made it feel like the stage belonged to just the two of you.

but tonight, you’re not looking at him, you haven’t looked at him once.

wonbin swallows, throat dry, frustration curling hot and tight in his chest. he doesn’t even realize how stiff he’s become, how his grip on the mic stand has turned iron-clad, how his body is thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name.

for the first time, he’s losing something on stage and the fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—why this is different—only makes it worse.

the music swells, rising toward the inevitable climax, and the stage becomes something untamed—alive, unhinged, drenched in heat and motion.

your fingers blaze over the fretboard, coaxing a wail from your guitar that rips through the heavy, pulsating air like a jagged streak of lightning cracking open the night. the solo is yours—no, the stage is yours—and beomgyu knows it. he steps back, hands lifting from his own instrument, offering the spotlight like a silent tribute to a god. but 

he doesn’t leave, he doesn’t retreat.

instead, he leans in.

close. too close.

the breath between you is shallow, trembling, and the space that separates you shrinks until it feels like the entire universe has narrowed down to just this moment, just him. his presence is a force, a magnetic pull that wraps around you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his gaze locked onto you—onto your fingers dancing across the strings, onto your lips parted in focus, onto the way your body twists and moves, reckless and raw, with the music that’s tearing through you.

his eyes burn, and he’s drinking you in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

and when you think he’ll relent—when you think he’ll step back, give you the air you so desperately need—he does the opposite.

he dips his head, his breath grazing your ear, his voice cutting through the chaos like velvet sharpened into a blade. “let it out.”

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a plea. it’s a command wrapped in a dare, spoken like he knows you’re capable of unraveling the world if you just tried.

something ignites deep inside you—something volatile, something electric, something that feels like it could burn you alive if you let it. his eyes are still on you, dark and devouring, watching you like you’re the only thing in existence, and it’s too much. it’s suffocating. it’s intoxicating.

and then you snap.

your fingers fly over the fretboard with a fury you didn’t know you had, each note searing through the air, leaving fire in its wake. the sound is untamed, filthy, and the tension between you and beomgyu swells, thick and almost unbearable, like a storm gathering strength. he doesn’t back away; instead, his body moves with yours, mirroring your rhythm, matching your energy, as if you’re tethered by something invisible but unbreakable.

the crowd loses themselves, their screams fusing with the music, but they’re background noise now. nothing exists except for the heat spiraling between you and the boy standing so close it hurts, so close it feels like he’s burning into you, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists.

the solo crescendos, wild and relentless, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world might come undone under the weight of it—the sound, the crowd, the suffocating gravity of his presence..

the energy of the concert shifts as the final notes of the previous song fade into the air, the crowd still riding the high of the relentless tempo, their cheers echoing through the venue like a roaring tide. the stage lights dim, washing everything in a softer glow, cooling the fever pitch just enough for something more intimate, more vulnerable to slip in.

this is the moment you knew was coming.

and then the first notes ring out, soft, aching, unmistakable.

"flatline"

your song.

the one you wrote in the dead of night, with fingers trembling over the strings, with your heart cracking open beneath the weight of every lyric. the one that poured from your chest like a confession, like an unraveling, like something too raw to touch but too important to keep buried.

the opening chords of the song hum softly, a melancholic thread weaving through the noise, pulling everything into focus. the crowd’s energy doesn’t drop—it changes. they sway now, their voices quieter but still present, singing along to the melody that holds the weight of something fragile, something broken.

your fingers tremble slightly as you play, but you hide it well, forcing yourself into the rhythm, letting the music guide you. this song—it’s yours in every sense of the word. the lyrics, the melody, the ache woven into every note—it’s the confession you could never say out loud.

the confession that still lingers between you and him.

and though you try to focus on the crowd, on the stage, on the way the music feels beneath your fingertips, you can’t ignore the weight of wonbin’s presence just a few feet away.

it’s in the way his voice curls around the first verse, warm and honeyed, just rough enough to carry the ache. the words sound different when he sings them—like they mean something else, something entirely his own. but you know the truth.

he doesn’t know.

to him, this song is just another piece of the setlist, another melody to pull the crowd deeper into the performance. he doesn’t hear the confessions stitched into the lyrics, doesn’t see the raw edges of your heart still bleeding beneath the surface.

“you call my name like a bad habit, like a cigarette at dawn light me up, breathe me in, then forget that i was ever gone…”

the words slip from your lips, barely above a whisper, but they are heavy—drenched in something raw, something unspoken. the weight of them pulls you back to that night, the one you’ve tried to erase from memory, the one that still clings to you like an old bruise refusing to fade.

curled up in your bed, sheets tangled around your limbs, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. the ceiling above you had blurred, your vision swimming, hot tears slipping into your hair as you begged—to what? to god? to the universe? to something unseen that could wrench the ache from your chest and leave you hollow enough to move on?

"morning will come and i'll do what's right just give me till then to give up this fight..."

wonbin’s voice threads into the song, seamlessly slipping into harmony with yours. it should be beautiful. it should be effortless, like all the other times before.

but it’s different now, because he’s still singing a song he doesn’t know is about him.

"there's a million things there's a million things i could say..."

your hands tighten around the neck of your guitar, the callouses pressing deep against the steel strings, grounding you in something tangible, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers like he did.

there were so many words left unsaid. so many almosts, so many if onlys.

you should have told him. you should have let the words escape when they burned at the back of your throat, should have let them tumble out when his fingers brushed yours, when his gaze lingered too long, when he stood close enough for his breath to warm your skin. but you never did.

"but you never really knew that but you never really knew i felt this way..."

wonbin’s voice is steady, unaware, untouched by the meaning woven into every lyric. he doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate the way you do.

because to him, this is just a song.

"wanna take it back wanna take it back to when we had it just like that, had it right on track..."

you blink, forcing yourself back into the present. beomgyu is beside you, fingers moving fluidly over his guitar, his presence a steady rhythm against the turmoil brewing beneath your skin.

the crowd is swaying, lost in the moment, unaware of the battlefield unfolding within you.

"and i keep falling in this darkness..."

the final note lingers in the air, fading into the roar of the crowd, a crashing wave of voices screaming their devotion, their exhilaration, their need for more. the stage is bathed in golden light, the remnants of something electric still crackling in the space between your fingers, between the breaths you haven't quite steadied yet.

hongjoong steps forward, lifting his mic one last time, his voice cutting through the haze of sound. "you guys were fucking insane tonight!" his words are met with another deafening wave of screams, bodies surging, hands reaching, voices raw with the aftermath of something unforgettable. "we’ll see you soon, west coast—until then, keep the music loud and the nights even louder!"

the lights dim, the energy of the stage shifting, pulling back, retreating into the shadows as you all step away from the edge, away from the blinding heat of the crowd.

and just like that, it’s over, your first showcase since the tour.

the second you’re backstage, the weight of it all comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the sweat clinging to your skin in damp rivulets. your body hums from the performance, from the music that still thrums deep in your bones, but more than anything, you feel the ache of that song, the ghost of it still pressing against your ribs like it doesn’t want to let go.

your fingers move automatically, yanking out your earpiece, the sensation of it still ringing in your head even as you toss it onto the nearest surface. beomgyu is beside you, pulling at the collar of his shirt, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"holy shit," he mutters, still buzzing, still alive with it. "that was insane."

before you can respond, gunil claps a hand on your shoulder, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. "oh, and don’t think we didn’t see that—"

you blink, still half-lost in the haze of the performance. "see what?"

gunil’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu with something obnoxiously knowing. "that sexual tension. you two were all over each other."

heat rushes to your face faster than you can process, your pulse skipping in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

beomgyu, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat—just leans in slightly, tilting his head toward you with a teasing lilt in his voice. "yeah?" he muses, a grin playing at his lips. "didn’t hear any complaints from her side."

you narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but the laughter from the others—the way gunil howls, the way yunjin snorts into her water bottle—tells you the damage has already been done.

wonbin is standing a few feet away, half-turned toward minjeong’s open guitar case, his movements slow, deliberate. he’s not joining in on the teasing, not cracking a joke or rolling his eyes. he’s just watching.

and when your eyes finally meet—just for a second, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his features—he looks away.

but not before you see the way his fingers tighten against the edge of the case, the way his jaw tenses, the way his entire body reacts to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

and suddenly, the heat from the stage isn’t the only thing making your head spin.

the room erupts into celebration, laughter spilling into the air as bottles are passed around, the sharp pop of champagne punctuating the moment like the final note of a song still lingering in the air. the energy is still electric, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the performance, the adrenaline not yet burned out from your veins.

but something is off.

it happens so fast you almost miss it—wonbin, who should be here, at the center of it all, basking in the aftermath of the stage, is slipping away.

no words, no offhand remark, no teasing jab at gunil’s terrible attempt at pouring champagne without spilling it. just quiet. a subtle shift, a retreat into the shadows when no one is looking.

but you see it.

the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. the way his shoulders are drawn tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen. the way he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore, like it’s slipping through his fingers, like you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

and against your better judgment, against the logic that tells you to stay, to let him walk away, to not follow him down whatever road this is leading to—you go after him.

it feels too familiar, too much like déjà vu, like history folding over itself and replaying the same scene with different colors, different wounds.

the last time, it had been you slipping away first, heart aching, lungs squeezing too tight as you had left the waiting room, the celebration ringing hollow in your ears. the weight of your feelings had been too much, had pressed too heavily against the raw edges of your heart, and you had run before it could suffocate you.

and now—now, wonbin is the one leaving. and you don’t know why, but you need to.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling in from the gaps beneath the dressing room doors, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls. the air is cooler here, untouched by the feverish heat of the performance, but it does nothing to ease the fire simmering beneath your skin, the one still burning from the way he had looked at you on stage, from the weight of his absence in that room.

wonbin stands at the far end of the corridor, half-leaning, half-bracing against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. his knuckles press against his ribs, white from the force of it, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. but his breathing is shallow, uneven, like it’s taking effort to keep standing, to not collapse under the weight of whatever storm is raging inside him.

you’ve never seen him like this before.

wonbin, who walks through life with the kind of effortless ease that makes the world bend to his rhythm, who commands attention without ever demanding it, who never lets anyone see past the façade—now looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

and it terrifies you.

the cold wall against his back should be grounding, should anchor him, but the tremble has already started—deep, uncontrollable, unraveling him thread by thread. he swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow movements, like he can’t quite get enough air.

and when he finally lifts his gaze, when his eyes meet yours—it’s not the wonbin you know. it’s not the golden boy of the stage, not the effortless flirt, not the boy who grins like the world belongs to him.

it’s someone else, someone breaking.

"what are you doing out here?" his voice is quieter than you expect, rough at the edges, like the words are scraped from the back of his throat.

you take a step closer, pulse pounding. "i could ask you the same thing."

his laugh is hollow, humorless. "go back inside. you should be celebrating. you and beomgyu killed it today."

“wonbin-”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then—you see it.

it started as a faint hum in wonbin’s chest, a restless vibration he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. it slithered up his spine, creeping beneath his skin, an insidious thing that whispered something is wrong before he even knew what was happening. the feeling spread like wildfire, setting every nerve alight, an unbearable tightness blooming in his ribcage until his heart began to race—erratic, frantic, thunderous—beating so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.

his breath hitched, coming in shallow, sharp bursts—too fast, too little, not enough. it was like trying to inhale through a pinhole, like no matter how hard he sucked in air, his lungs refused to expand.

then the room tilted. the walls warped and stretched, blurring into meaningless shapes, and his pulse spiked, his body betraying him in real time. his palms pressed against the cold surface of the wall, desperate for something solid, something real, but even that felt distant—his own fingers tingling, numb with static. the oxygen in his brain depleted too fast, turning everything hazy, unreal.

he clutched his chest, sure his heart was breaking apart.

he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, his knees trembling beneath him, his muscles locking up. sweat slicked his temples, dripping cold down the back of his neck despite the heat burning inside his body. the panic was swallowing him whole, dragging him under with clawed fingers, whispering the kind of terror he couldn’t fight off—you’re dying. you’re dying. this is it.

"make it stop," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his voice breaking, barely audible. but the panic didn’t listen.

it never did. and then—hands. soft, warm, real.

they landed on his arms, firm but careful, grounding. a voice, steady and low, cut through the storm, slicing through the chaos like a lifeline tossed into the dark.

"wonbin—look at me."

he tries, but his vision swims, colors bleeding into one another.

“i-i think i- i’m d-dying.”

"you need to slow down. just focus on me, okay? you’re not dying. it’s a panic attack."

he let out a strangled breath, shaking his head, because it felt like dying, because his chest hurt like something was caving in, but then, fingers curled around his wrists, gentle yet insistent. anchoring.

"breathe with me. follow my rhythm."

he felt it before he could see it—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the deliberate slowness of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your hands, grounding him in something outside of his own unraveling mind.

slowly, painfully slowly, he tried to match it.

in—one, two, three.

out—one, two, three.

"that’s it," you whispered, your voice softer now, steady as a heartbeat. "just keep going. i’ve got you. i’m right here."

the words nearly undo him.

his back slid further down the wall, his muscles giving up under the sheer exhaustion, his trembling hands gripping at the edge of the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. the storm was ebbing, the jagged edges smoothing just enough for him to take in a breath that didn’t feel like a knife to the lungs.

but the aftermath was just as heavy. his limbs felt useless, his body aching like he had run miles just to end up in the same place.

and through it all, you never let go.

you stayed, your presence unmoving, unwavering, your hands still curled around his wrists, your breaths still slow, even, guiding him back to something solid.

"you’re okay," you murmured again, quieter now, a reassurance just for him.

wonbin exhales, slow and uneven, his body slumping forward as if the last bit of fight has drained out of him. the tension that had held him together, that had kept him upright despite the weight of his own unraveling, finally snaps.

and he leans into you.

at first, it’s hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, not sure if you’ll pull away, not sure if it’s okay to need someone like this. but when you don’t move, don’t stiffen or break the moment, he gives in completely.

his head presses against your chest, his breath warm and damp against the fabric of your shirt. his arms, shaky but firm, slide around your waist, pulling you closer—like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the vast, terrifying nothingness that had swallowed him moments ago.

your arms wrap around him, one hand slipping into his hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, the other resting lightly against the curve of his back, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breaths. his heartbeat is still too fast, thudding erratically against your ribcage, but it’s slowing. steadying.

the silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things neither of you are ready to say, all the things that are being said without words. it’s intimate in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

not in the way you once imagined it would be—not in the way your heart once ached for. this is something different, something raw, something fragile.

it’s in the way his body softens against yours, like he’s giving himself permission to let go. it’s in the way he buries himself deeper, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. it’s in the way neither of you move, just existing in the moment, letting the quiet hold you together.

his voice is quiet when it comes, so soft you almost think you imagined it, muffled by the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek.

"you don’t speak to me anymore."

the words settle between you, fragile yet heavy, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to shatter. your fingers still in his hair, your breath catching for just a second too long.

because of course he noticed.

you don’t know why that surprises you. maybe you thought he never would, that he’d be too wrapped up in his own world to feel the growing space between you, the widening gap that you’ve so carefully constructed.

you hesitate, lips parting, but you don’t know what to say because he’s right. you have been pulling away, you have been distancing yourself. and now, here he is, raw and vulnerable in your arms, forcing you to acknowledge it in a way you weren’t ready for.

"it’s like you want there to be distance, like you don’t like being around me anymore" he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, his arms still wrapped around you, his body still pressed against yours like he doesn’t want that space to exist at all.

there’s something almost broken in his voice, something hesitant, like he doesn’t quite understand it himself. like he’s trying to piece it together, to make sense of the space he swears wasn’t always there.

your throat tightens because you could tell him the truth.

that you do want distance, that you have been pulling away, because what other choice did you have? because your heart couldn’t take the way it felt to be close to him, to want him and never have him, to always be caught in his gravity but never in his arms. because the alternative was unbearable, because staying meant hurting and leaving meant surviving.

but instead, you say nothing.

"talk to me, please angel. help me make things right." his voice cracks, just slightly, but it’s enough.

enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make your fingers twitch where they rest against his back, enough to make something deep inside you waver, just for a moment.

he whines it, breathy and desperate, like he’s starving for something—like your silence is the thing unraveling him now, not the panic attack, not the weight of the night, but you.

you want to speak, you do.

but how are you supposed to, when your thoughts are a tangled mess, when every word that tries to rise to the surface gets caught somewhere in your throat, refusing to take shape?

wonbin doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just holds on, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens even a little. he’s never been like this before—never been anything other than confident, than effortless, than so sure of himself.

but right now, with his head against your chest, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his panic, his words spilling out with no filter—

he’s just wonbin. not the golden boy, not the untouchable performer, not the center of every room. just him. and he’s begging for something from you but you don’t know what to give him.

your lips part, but nothing comes out, the words still tangled somewhere between your mind and your mouth, unspoken, unformed.

you don’t know how to speak to him.

wonbin sighs, the sound barely more than a breath, but you feel it—the weight of it, the way it presses against your skin, the way it settles between you like something unfinished, something breaking.

he knows you won’t reply.

he lifts his head slowly, his arms loosening around you just enough to put space between your bodies, but not enough to let go. and when his gaze finally meets yours, the sight knocks the air from your lungs.

his eyes glimmer, the soft promise of tears lining his lashes, though none have fallen. there’s something unbearably fragile about him in this moment—his breath uneven, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something, like the words are right there, just waiting to spill.

then, the pout forms—small and barely noticeable, but there, pressing against his lips in frustration, in hesitation, in the quiet kind of sadness that lingers long after the moment has passed.

he opens his mouth—stops. shakes his head.

then, in the way only wonbin can, he forces a smile. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t hold the usual cocky lilt, doesn’t brim with mischief or charm. it’s small, weak at the edges, faltering even as he tries to hold it in place.

"go back in, before gunil wastes all of the champagne" he murmurs, voice softer now, the weight behind it making your stomach drop. "i’ll be fine."

"but wonbin—"

you don’t even know what you’re protesting, not really. maybe it’s the way his voice sounds when he says it, too light, too hollow, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. maybe it’s the way he’s already slipping away, like this moment never happened, like the way he held onto you for dear life was just a fleeting mistake.

but before you can say anything else, he’s already moving, already peeling himself away, already putting that distance back between you.

the warmth of his body disappears as he pushes off of you, straightening his posture, rolling his shoulders back like he’s shaking the vulnerability off. His hands drag down his face once, quick and sharp, as if trying to erase the evidence of whatever just unraveled between you.

 just like that—he’s fine again. or at least, that’s what he wants you to believe.

"i’’m fine now," he says, flashing you a small, easy grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his voice is steadier now, smoother, slipping back into the effortless cool that he wears like armor. 

"seriously. just needed a second to breathe."

you don’t buy it. not when his hands are still stuffed into his pockets a little too tightly. not when the faintest trace of unsteadiness still lingers in his breath. not when his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back.

"i’ll join you in a minute, i promise" he says, voice so casual it almost sounds convincing.

before you can argue, before you can make him talk to you, make him admit that he’s not okay, he turns his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, as if that alone will make you drop it.

and maybe that’s the worst part of all—that even after everything, after the way he had clung to you just moments ago, after the way his breath had stuttered against your skin, after the way he had begged you to talk to him—

he’s still choosing to lock you out.

every instinct in you screams to stay, to push, to demand more—more honesty, more answers, more anything that isn’t this half-hearted deflection, this quiet retreat back into the version of himself that he wants you to see.

but you don’t. because you know wonbin. and you know that once he’s decided to put his walls back up, there’s no breaking through them.

so, against every aching part of you that wants to reach for him again, you force yourself to step back, to respect the distance he’s asking for—even if it feels like a knife between your ribs.

the hallway feels colder now, emptier, like whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you just moments ago has already been erased, buried beneath the weight of his carefully composed indifference.

you swallow hard, turning toward the door, toward the muffled laughter and clinking of champagne glasses waiting for you inside. your hand lingers on the handle for just a second too long, fingers pressing into the metal like you can ground yourself with it, like you can hold onto something solid when everything inside you feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

wonbin is still standing there, still leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly downward. he’s staring at the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn tight, like he’s holding something in—like he’s holding everything in.

for all the distance he’s putting between you, for all the words left unsaid—

he looks so incredibly alone.

your chest tightens, but you say nothing. you just watch him for one last moment, letting the silence between you settle, heavy and final.

then, with a deep breath, you turn away, stepping back into the waiting room, back into the noise, back into a world that hasn’t shattered the way yours just has.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

a week has passed, but the shift in him lingers like an open wound, raw and impossible to ignore.

the unraveling starts slow, so slow that even wonbin himself doesn’t notice at first. it’s just a shift, a minor dissonance in the otherwise effortless rhythm of his life, an unspoken imbalance he convinces himself is temporary. but temporary things are supposed to fade, and this—this only festers.

at first, it’s just the sleepless nights. the ones where he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running in loops he can’t escape. he tells himself it’s fine, that exhaustion is nothing new, that it’s just a phase, a passing restlessness. but then the days start to blur, a slow erosion of time slipping through his fingers. the world moves around him, conversations flow, laughter spills from the mouths of his bandmates, but it all feels distant, like watching through glass.

and then there’s the drinking.

it starts with one, just something to take the edge off, something to quiet the relentless thoughts, something to dull the sharp ache that settles too deep in his chest to shake off. but one turns into two, then three, and suddenly the bottom of a glass becomes familiar, the burn of whiskey a comfort he never thought he’d need. he drinks to forget, but it only makes everything more vivid—the way you used to look at him, the way you don’t anymore, the way beomgyu is always there, always close, always in the space that once belonged to him.

the more he drinks, the less control he has, and control has always been wonbin’s lifeline. he’s spent his whole life making sure no one gets too close, keeping the world at arm’s length, making sure that nothing touches him deep enough to matter. but it does matter. you matter. and the realization is suffocating.

it spills over into rehearsals, where his focus wavers, where his voice catches at the wrong moments, where his fingers press too hard against the mic stand like he’s trying to ground himself in something tangible. the others notice, their glances stretching longer, their murmurs more frequent. hongjoong watches him like he’s waiting for him to break. gunil isn’t subtle with his frustration. yunjin, despite her usual teasing, has started to hold back, as if sensing that whatever this is, it’s beyond a joke now.

beomgyu doesn’t say much, but wonbin catches the looks, the way his gaze lingers in quiet assessment, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. and maybe that pisses him off the most—how composed he is, how unshaken, how he doesn’t seem to feel the same weight crushing him from the inside out. it makes wonbin reckless, makes his fingers tighten into fists when no one is looking, makes him crave the rush of something that will make him forget, even if only for a moment.

the parties get longer. the nights stretch into early mornings, bodies pressed too close, lips that aren’t yours brushing against his skin, hands that don’t mean anything pulling him in, and yet none of it sticks. none of it fills the empty space inside him. he surrounds himself with people, with music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, with drinks strong enough to blur the sharp edges of reality, but nothing—nothing—feels right.

and then there’s the substances.

wonbin has always known where his limits are, has always been the one with a handle on things, but now? now he’s not sure he cares. there’s something about the haze, about the way his mind drifts just far enough away that he doesn’t have to feel anything at all. 

it’s reckless, dangerous, and somewhere deep down, a part of him knows this isn’t sustainable, that he’s unraveling faster than he can hold himself together. but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means facing the one thing he can’t afford to admit.

he’s losing you.

not in the way he lost the others, not in the way he’s used to, not in the way that’s easy to brush off with a laugh and a careless shrug. this loss is different. this loss is slow and painful, a knife twisting in real time, an ache that doesn’t dull no matter how much he tries to drown it. because it’s not just your warmth that’s gone—it’s the way you used to wait for him, the way you used to look at him with something close to devotion, the way your presence had always felt like something certain, something his.

and now, beomgyu is in the space he didn’t even realize he had taken for granted.

now, when you walk into a room, you aren't looking for wonbin first. now, when you laugh, it’s beomgyu who leans in closer. now, when you smile, it’s not for him.

he’s a mess.

the tabloids have started whispering, the grainy photos of him spilling out of clubs at ungodly hours surfacing too frequently now. the stories are always the same—drunk beyond recognition, slurring words against the lips of another girl, another distraction, another body to fill the space that’s eating him alive.

wonbin, who never drank beyond control, is drinking himself to death.

wonbin, who was always the last to leave the studio, is stumbling in late, sunglasses perched on his nose, wincing at the sharp clang of drumsticks hitting metal, flinching at the sound of his own name. 

today is no different.

he enters practice almost an hour late, sunglasses shielding whatever wreckage lies beneath, the collar of his hoodie pulled high enough to hide the bruising exhaustion carved into his skin. there’s a heaviness in the way he moves, like even his limbs are weighed down by something unbearable, like gravity has its claws in him and won’t let go. he doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t acknowledge the way every conversation halts the second he steps in, doesn’t even pretend to care that the air is suffocating with tension.

gunil is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat, but his voice lacks its usual playfulness. "rough night?"

wonbin barely reacts, just drops into his seat like he’s been holding himself up for too long, like he doesn’t trust his own legs to keep him standing. "you could say that."

the words are lazy, slow, like they barely belong to him. his voice is rough, scratchy at the edges, like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes and washed it down with something stronger. there’s something eerie about it—how detached he sounds, how far away he feels even though he’s sitting right in front of them.

no one laughs. no one even smiles. because it’s not funny.

and then—his sunglasses slip slightly down his nose, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look like they hurt. not just from the lack of sleep, not just from whatever he drowned himself in the night before, but from something deeper, something hollow, something broken.

he doesn’t push them back up, just exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers trembling just slightly, a ghost of the damage trailing behind him like a shadow. the moment gunil’s drumsticks tap against the rim of the snare, he visibly winces, his entire body flinching like the sound physically hurts.

"can we not?" wonbin mutters, squeezing his temples between his fingers, his voice quieter now, frayed at the edges.

the silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything wonbin refuses to acknowledge, with the worry and anger that has been festering in the room for weeks. everyone is waiting for him to snap out of it, waiting for him to explain himself, waiting for the version of wonbin they all know to reappear, to shake this off like he always does, like nothing ever touches him too deeply.

but this time, he doesn’t. this time, it lingers.

"jesus christ, wonbin."

minjeong, always the first to say what everyone else is thinking, leans against her bass with arms crossed, her expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, but there’s worry there too, buried beneath the sharpness. "you look like hell."

wonbin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift his head. just smirks lazily, a half-hearted, empty thing, the kind of smirk that’s more armor than amusement. "good to know. minjeong, forever the oracle of truth."

hongjoong exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration barely restrained beneath the forced composure of someone who’s been holding himself back for too long. "this isn’t sustainable, wonbin. we can’t keep pretending like you’re fine when you show up like this."

wonbin finally lifts his head, but the movement is sluggish, like every second is costing him more than it should. "you worried about me, hongjoong?" his voice drips with sarcasm, but it falls flat, cracks at the edges like brittle glass.

the response is immediate, sharp, like a blade cutting through air. "yeah, actually. we all are. but i don’t think you care enough to do anything about it."

that, at least, earns a reaction. wonbin’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he scoffs, shaking his head, tapping his fingers against the table beside him as if the conversation bores him. but his hands are still shaking.

"you don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are slipping out before he can stop them. "none of you do."

but yunjin has had enough.

"then help us understand, wonbin." her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, firm, laced with something raw, something real, something that cuts through the haze clinging to him. "because all we see is you destroying yourself. and we’re supposed to just sit back and watch?"

wonbin doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have one.

yunjin exhales sharply through her nose, not as blunt as minjeong, but her frustration simmers just beneath the surface, restrained only by the sheer weight of her concern. "you’ve been doing this every night, huh?" she mutters, shaking her head, like she already knows the answer. "how long are you gonna keep this up?"

wonbin shrugs, slow and indifferent, like it’s not even a question worth considering. "until it stops working, i guess."

"working?" hongjoong’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something like disappointment, like exhaustion. "you call this working?"

wonbin finally reacts to that, tilting his head just slightly, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to reveal the tired, bloodshot eyes beneath. for a second, he just looks at hongjoong, gaze unfocused, pupils blown too wide, as if he’s trying to process the weight of the words but can’t quite grasp them.

"what’s your point?" his voice is almost teasing, almost playful, but it rings hollow, stretched too thin to hold any real weight.

"my point is that you’re barely here, wonbin," hongjoong says, exasperation bleeding into his tone, his fingers drumming against the edge of the piano. "you show up late, you don’t focus, you can’t even keep your head up half the time. we have a showcase coming up. our album is basically done. this isn’t just about you."

the words should cut, should get through to him, should force him to care.

but wonbin just scoffs, leaning back against the couch, arms spreading out like he’s weightless, like he’s untouchable, feigning a nonchalance so flimsy it barely holds together. "relax. i’ll be fine when it matters."

gunil, who had been mostly quiet, finally exhales and tosses his drumsticks onto his snare with a sharp clack. "do you even hear yourself?" his voice is laced with frustration, but underneath it, there’s something softer—something dangerously close to fear. "you’re not fine, wonbin. and you know it."

wonbin stills for half a second.

it’s barely noticeable, but they all see it.

the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, the way his jaw locks just a little tighter, the way his breath comes in just a fraction too shallow before he forces a slow exhale through his nose.

but then, just like that, he shakes it off, slipping back into the role of someone who doesn’t care, who can laugh this off, who can pretend he isn’t unraveling thread by thread.

"look, can we just get through practice?" his voice is lighter now, like the conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight at hongjoong. "i know i’ve been off, but i’ll clean it up in time. just drop it, yeah?"

nobody looks convinced. and neither does he.

but hongjoong doesn’t press further. he just sighs, rubbing at his temples, nodding once before adjusting the height of his piano bench.

"fine. let’s get to work."

but the conversation doesn’t die there—not really. the tension lingers, stretching into every note played, into every pause between songs.

the final note after practice lingers in the air, fading into the steady hum of amplifiers, the only sound breaking the silence that stretches too long, thick with unspoken words and the heavy weight of exhaustion that isn't just physical. 

normally, rehearsals end with laughter, with the band still buzzing from the energy of the music, with gunil flipping his drumsticks between his fingers and minjeong muttering about how he’s bound to break another one, with yunjin slinging an arm around you and making some offhanded comment about how you went too hard on that last riff, with wonbin—wonbin—somewhere in the middle of it all, that lazy smirk on his face, his presence as natural as breathing.

but tonight, the moment the last note fades, he moves like he can’t get out fast enough, his hands working quickly to unplug his mic, winding the cable in tight, controlled circles, shoving it into his bag with a sharp efficiency that makes something curl uneasily in your stomach. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a single sarcastic remark, doesn’t offer even the barest acknowledgment of the tension that has taken residence in every corner of the room. 

he simply pulls his hoodie over his head, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the fact that there’s nothing but dim studio lights casting a soft glow over the space, and slings his bag over his shoulder before walking out.

the door clicks shut behind him, quieter than you expected, and the silence he leaves in his wake is suffocating.

minjeong exhales first, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a blade. “okay, that was fucking depressing.”

yunjin mutters, running a hand through her hair before shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest in frustration. 

“no shit. he barely made it through practice. it’s like he doesn’t even want to be here.”

gunil runs a hand through his hair, stretching his arms out in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders, though it does nothing to dull the lingering frustration in his voice. “this is bad. he’s never been like this before.”

hongjoong doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers resting idly against the cord of his microphone, the look in his eyes far away, lost in thought. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but there’s a weight to it that makes the words settle heavily between all of you. 

“he’s spiraling.”.

beomgyu, who has been unusually quiet, finally shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the wood of his guitar before he finally speaks. “has something happened to him recently?”

gunil sighs, shaking his head. “not that we know of. but it’s not like wonbin to act like this.”

not this self-destructive, not this reckless, not this distant. wonbin has always been larger than life, the kind of person who could light up a room without even trying, but now, it’s like he’s actively trying to dim himself, trying to disappear into the chaos he creates, trying to outrun something none of you can see.

yunjin leans forward, her brows furrowed in frustration, but her voice is lined with concern. “he’s out every night. have you seen the pictures? he’s drinking like he’s trying to drown himself.”

you’ve seen every blurry paparazzi photo, every tabloid headline detailing his reckless nights, every video that captures the way he stumbles out of clubs in the early hours of the morning, draped over another stranger, another distraction, another temporary fix that will never actually heal anything.

you’ve seen the hollow look in his eyes, the way he smiles without meaning it, the way he carries himself like he’s untouchable, like nothing matters, but it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that it’s all just an illusion, that beneath the surface, he’s barely holding himself together.

whatever wonbin is trying to drown, whatever weight is sitting on his chest, whatever demons are clawing at his ribs—none of it is going away. it’s festering, sinking deeper, poisoning him from the inside out.

hongjoong sighs, standing up, stretching his arms over his head, but it does nothing to shake the exhaustion weighing on him. when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, heavy with something resigned. “he’ll be at the party tomorrow night. looking just as wrecked, if not worse. at least if we’re there, we can stop him from doing something too stupid.”

gunil drums his fingers against his knee, the rhythm sharp, restless. “at least it’ll be contained,” he mutters, but the words don’t hold any conviction.

the room is still. no one speaks. but the weight of it all lingers—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

wonbin has always been the center of this band. the gravitational pull that keeps everything steady, the force that holds it all together, the one who lights up every room without even trying.

but now, that pull is weakening, slipping away, unraveling thread by thread.

and you can feel the distance widening between you, feel him slipping through your fingers like something intangible, something fleeting, something you don’t know how to hold onto anymore—no matter how much you want to.

later, the air in the venue is thick with celebration, laughter spilling from every corner, the scent of champagne clinging to the walls, and the low pulse of bass-heavy music reverberating through the floor, but none of it reaches you—not really, not in the way it should, not in the way it does for everyone else who is lost in the high of the night, in the thrill of the album finally being finished. 

the weight in your chest presses heavier the moment your gaze lands on him. he’s slouched against the bar, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers, the remnants of something dark clinging to the ice at the bottom.

but it’s not just the alcohol that makes your breath catch—it’s the mess of him, the disheveled, undone way he exists in this space, like he doesn’t belong here, like he’s something misplaced, a fallen idol with a cracked crown, still beautiful, still magnetic, but in a way that feels almost tragic. 

his hair, always so carefully styled, is an unruly mess, strands falling into his eyes as if he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times out of frustration or exhaustion or something you don’t want to name, and his shirt, unbuttoned just a little too much, clings to his frame in a way that suggests he couldn’t be bothered to dress with the usual effortless precision he’s known for.

but it’s his eyes that undo you the most.

wonbin has always carried himself with an ease that made him untouchable, with a gaze that always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. every glance carefully measured, every smirk deliberate, every movement drenched in an effortless confidence that made the world bend to him, but this—this is different. 

this isn’t control. this isn’t the golden boy who commands attention without trying, who holds the stage like it belongs to him, who lives like he is incapable of faltering.

this is someone lost.

his eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused, drifting from the rim of his glass to the woman pressed against his side, her fingers ghosting along his forearm, her laughter loud and empty, ringing false in the way that makes your stomach churn.

because he isn’t listening, he isn’t present, he isn’t there. he’s detached, watching everything unfold around him as if he’s separate from it all, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, too far gone to care, too far gone to stop whatever self-destruction he’s spiraling into. 

and yet, despite the dull glaze in his gaze, despite the way his body sways slightly as he lifts the glass to his lips, there is a sharpness that returns the moment he sees you, a slow shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible tightening in his grip as his gaze latches onto yours.

he doesn’t look away. for the first time in a week, he doesn’t run.

he just stares, long and unblinking, his expression unreadable, something tangled and raw sitting just beneath the surface, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes it impossible to move, impossible to breathe, impossible to pretend that you don’t feel it too.

the room is still loud, the celebration still pulsing all around you, but in that moment, in the space that exists between you and him, there is only silence, thick and suffocating, the unspoken words of an entire lifetime pressing into the air like a storm waiting to break.

beside you, beomgyu shifts, passing you a drink you barely register, his voice low and careful, laced with something knowing.

"well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen."

you don’t answer, can’t answer, fingers tightening around the glass, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink in your hand, because you know he’s right, know that this is something fragile and dangerous. something sharp-edged and ruinous, something that has been teetering on the edge for too long, waiting for the moment it finally crashes down.

as wonbin lifts his glass to his lips, his gaze still locked onto yours, dark and heavy and utterly unreadable, you know—you know—that tonight, it’s going to happen.

the party moves around you in waves, a blur of champagne flutes clinking, voices rising in laughter, the steady thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the air, but none of it registers—not fully. not when every nerve in your body is tuned to the presence of the man across the room, the one you should be ignoring, the one who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

wonbin is drinking. hard.

it starts as a slow build, the kind of indulgence that could be mistaken for celebration, for letting loose after months of work. but you see the way hongjoong watches him warily, the way yunjin subtly switches his drinks for water when he isn’t looking, the way gunil mutters something under his breath when wonbin stumbles slightly while leaning in to say something to a passing label executive. 

they all see it, the way his fingers tighten around the bottle he’s holding, the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he tips his head back too easily, swallowing down the burn of alcohol like he’s chasing something, like he’s running.

maybe he is. maybe he’s been running for weeks now, drowning himself in anything that makes him forget, in anything that makes him numb.

but it’s not working.

not when he keeps looking at you like that, not when every sip of liquor only seems to make the tension in his shoulders grow heavier, the weight behind his gaze more volatile.

and you—god, you—you can feel it sinking into your skin, into your lungs, into every breath you try to take, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too constricting, pressing down on you like an invisible force. you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists, attempt to focus on anything other than the way wonbin’s attention burns into the side of your face, but beomgyu, ever perceptive, ever attuned to your unease, notices.

you feel him shift beside you, the warmth of his presence suddenly closer, the scent of cologne and something inherently him enveloping you as he dips his head just enough for his breath to fan against your temple.

“you seem off. what’s going on?” he murmurs, his voice smooth, laced with something gentle but firm. his lips barely move, his tone low enough that no one else hears, a quiet offering just for you. 

“come outside with me. let’s get some fresh air,” he says, before you can even give him a half hearted response that he knows will be a lie.

the suggestion is simple, harmless, but the proximity—the sheer closeness of him—makes something in your chest stutter. his gaze flickers down to yours, warm and steady, his face only inches away, his posture relaxed yet entirely present, entirely aware of the tension coiling in your muscles.

maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up to you, maybe it’s the weeks of unraveling, of pretending, of biting your tongue until it bled, but you find yourself nodding before you can think twice, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

"yeah," you murmur, already turning towards the doors that lead to the balcony. "that sounds—"

you don’t get to finish as a hand wraps around your wrist. firm. unrelenting.

it’s not forceful, not bruising, but the grip is strong enough to halt your movement entirely, strong enough to send a sharp jolt of something electric straight to your spine. the contact stills you, freezes you mid-step, and when you turn—when you look up—your breath snags in your throat.

wonbin.

he’s closer than you expected, closer than he’s been in a week, and though the scent of alcohol lingers on his breath, on his skin, it’s his eyes that hold you captive—the way they burn with something untamed, something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. for the first time in so long, he looks fully present, fully here, though you almost wish he wasn’t.

because his expression—god, his expression—it’s unreadable, but charged. dark and burning, something untamed flickering behind them, something raw, something fraying at the edges, barely contained. his lips are parted slightly, his jaw tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as if he’s grinding his teeth, as if he’s forcing himself to stay still.

"where are you two going?" his voice is low, rough at the edges, words slurring just slightly, but the grip on your wrist doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen, doesn’t let you go.

you hesitate, pulse kicking against your ribs, the weight of his fingers searing into your skin, and for a moment, you can’t find the words, can’t force them past the sudden tightness in your throat.

but then beomgyu steps forward, voice steady but cautious. “she just needs some air, man.”

wonbin’s jaw tics, his fingers flexing around your wrist before his grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make a statement, enough to say not with him.

"you don’t need air," he murmurs, and it’s not just the words that shake you, but the way he says them—quiet and strained, like he’s pleading, like he’s not talking about fresh air at all.

like he’s talking about you leaving. like he’s talking about you leaving him.

suddenly, the party around you fades, the music, the laughter, the chatter—it all melts away, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your ribs, only the weight of his touch, only the look in his eyes that says don’t go.

the air around you feels thinner, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. not from the crowd, not from the thick perfume and alcohol in the air, but from him—from the way his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, from the way his grip tightens the more you hesitate, from the way his gaze burns into yours, dark and unreadable, something tangled and frantic flickering behind the whiskey-stained haze in his eyes.

you swallow, chest rising and falling too quickly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, an unbearable pressure you can’t escape, and suddenly, the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the space between you like a blade.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

his expression doesn’t shift right away, his fingers still clutching onto you like he needs to, like letting go isn’t an option, like he’s holding onto something more than just your wrist, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, you’ll disappear into the night, into him, into someone else, and he won’t be able to stop it.

"no." his voice is hoarse, barely above a murmur, but there’s a desperation threaded through the single syllable, a quiet plea disguised as refusal.

then, as if something inside him snaps, his jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his grip hardens, not painful, but possessive, his knuckles white where his fingers press against your skin. 

his gaze flickers past you, to the figure still standing at your side, and suddenly, his expression twists—the rawness, the vulnerability, the broken look in his eyes morphing into something sharper, something furious.

"you’re leaving me again." his voice drops, rough and bitter, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

then, his glare locks onto beomgyu, and his lips curl, resentment dripping from every syllable, from every jagged edge of his words as they fall from his mouth like something venomous.

"for him."

the way he spits it out, like it’s an accusation, like it’s a crime, like beomgyu is his mortal enemy and not his bandmate, not your friend, not someone who has simply been there in all the ways wonbin refuses to be—it makes something in your stomach churn, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs, makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

because it’s not true, it’s not fair, and yet, with the way he looks at you, with the way his body vibrates with something close to anger, close to desperation, close to grief, you know that he believes it.

he believes that you’re the one slipping away from him.

and worst of all, he thinks you’re doing it for someone else. as if you didn’t spend months, years, breaking yourself apart trying to stay close to him, trying to matter to him. as if you weren’t the one left behind, always the one left behind.

and suddenly, your chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not from the weight of his touch.

beomgyu shifts beside you, the tension rolling off of wonbin thick enough to suffocate, crackling like static in the air, sharp and unpredictable. he moves cautiously, hands lifting in a gesture of calm, his voice measured but firm, his tone laced with the same quiet patience he always carries, but this time, there's something beneath it, something warning, something protective.

"wonbin, let her go. you’re drunk," he says, careful but unwavering, his eyes flicking to where wonbin’s fingers are still wrapped around your wrist.

wonbin doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t acknowledge anything but the storm raging inside him, the one that has taken over completely. the one that makes his grip tighten even as his breathing grows more erratic, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to contain something uncontainable, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

he laughs.

but it’s not real, not amused, not even close.

it’s hollow, sharp at the edges, bitter enough to leave an aftertaste, his lips curling into something resembling a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his head tilts slightly, gaze flickering up and down beomgyu with something cold, something calculating, something that makes your stomach twist with unease.

"look at you," wonbin murmurs, voice low, almost mocking. "so fucking noble."

beomgyu stiffens, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t react the way wonbin wants him to. instead, he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful, his expression unreadable.

"you’re drunk, man." beomgyu’s voice is steady, too steady, the kind of forced composure that only someone fully aware of how bad this could get would use. "let go of her."

that’s what sets wonbin off.

maybe it’s the implication that he isn’t himself, that he’s lost control, that someone else—someone like beomgyu—has the audacity to stand in front of him like he knows better, like he understands something about you that wonbin doesn’t.

or maybe it’s the simple fact that beomgyu is right.

either way, it happens too fast.

the moment wonbin’s fist collides with beomgyu’s jaw, the world around you fractures, the once-muted pulse of the party fading into nothing but the sickening sound of impact, of flesh meeting flesh, of a mistake that can never be undone. 

everything feels slower, heavier, the weight of the moment settling in your bones even as the force of the hit sends beomgyu stumbling back, his head snapping to the side, his balance shifting for just a fraction of a second before he rights himself, rolling his jaw as if to test for damage.

before anything else can happen, before wonbin can even take another breath, before he can react to what he’s just done, before his own mind can catch up to the reckless destruction his body has already enacted, strong hands are already gripping him from both sides, pulling him back with force, holding him steady before he can spiral any further.

"what the fuck, wonbin?" hongjoong’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, his hands digging into wonbin’s shoulders as he shoves him backward, the sheer force enough to send him reeling, barely staying upright as gunil moves in, gripping his other arm, his hold just as firm, just as unrelenting.

gunil’s expression is unreadable, but his grip tells you everything—this is enough, this is over, this cannot go any further. his fingers dig into wonbin’s bicep, the tension in his jaw visible even beneath the dim lighting of the venue, his brows furrowed deep, his frustration palpable, but there’s something else beneath it, something like shock, something like disbelief.

wonbin doesn’t fight them, doesn’t struggle, but his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic movements, his fingers twitching at his sides as if they don’t know what to do, as if they’re still trying to hold onto something—onto you. 

his eyes are wild, unfocused, flickering between beomgyu and you, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to justify the unjustifiable, like he wants to pull himself out of the wreckage he’s just created, but no words come, nothing but the sound of his unsteady breath and the quiet tremor in his shoulders that not even the alcohol can mask.

but you don’t have time to think about him.

because beomgyu is still standing there, his hand pressed against his jaw, fingers tracing the bruising skin, his expression unreadable as he exhales slowly, deliberately, as if trying to contain something sharp, something dangerous, something that, if let loose, would burn through this entire moment like wildfire.

you don’t hesitate, don’t think twice before stepping closer, your hands moving on instinct, reaching for him with careful, urgent movements, the touch gentle but intentional, checking for injury, for anything deeper than the surface-level damage that already begins to bloom in shades of red and purple beneath his skin.

"shit beomgyu. let me see—does it hurt?" the words slip out before you can stop them, before you can even register them, but they are real, they are raw, laced with concern that you don’t have the energy to hide, because right now, none of the tension, none of the complicated emotions you’ve spent weeks suppressing, none of the chaos swirling around you matters more than the fact that beomgyu is standing here, having taken a hit he never should have had to take.

he exhales through his nose, his hand dropping from his jaw as he meets your gaze, and for a second, just a second, something softens—his eyes still dark, still laced with something unreadable, but no longer sharp, no longer challenging, just tired.

"it’s cool," he murmurs, though his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he doesn’t fully believe it himself, like maybe he’s saying it more for your sake than his own.

you don’t believe him.

not when you can see the way he’s rolling his shoulders, the way his fingers are still flexing at his sides, the way his jaw tightens again when he swallows. but you don’t push, don’t press, don’t say anything else, because the moment between you is already too fragile, too delicate, and the weight of wonbin’s gaze, despite everything, despite everyone, is still burning into the side of your face.

the air is still charged, thick with tension that clings to your skin like humidity, making it harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to stay. the weight of everything—the punch, the way wonbin had looked at you with something closer to devastation than anger, the fact that you had to choose in a moment that should have never happened—settles heavy in your chest, but right now, all you can focus on is getting beomgyu away from it, away from the mess that was left in the wake of wonbin’s unraveling.

you don’t say anything as you grab beomgyu’s wrist, your grip firm but not forceful, guiding him through the crowd that is already whispering, already buzzing with speculation, their eyes darting between the scene that had just unfolded and the three of you—like they are watching a tragedy play out in real time, desperate for the next act.

he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, just follows, his steps easy but measured, his other hand still pressing lightly to his jaw, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights of the hallway as you pull him into one of the private backrooms, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise, from the weight of all the eyes still watching.

you exhale slowly, pressing your palms against the cool marble counter for a brief second before turning back to him, taking in the way he leans back against the counter, his legs slightly spread for balance, his hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing himself. 

the luxurious space around you is a stark contrast to the scene outside—low lighting, sleek fixtures, the kind of expensive décor that belongs to people who don’t flinch at the sight of chaos, but none of it matters, none of it registers, because all you can see is him, the way the bruise is already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, darkening against his sun-kissed skin.

"sit up here," you murmur, motioning toward the counter beside you, and beomgyu lifts a brow but obeys, gripping the edge as he hoists himself up, the movement easy despite the soreness that must be settling into his jaw.

you step closer, pressing an ice pack—found in the minibar—to his cheek with careful fingers, watching the way his lips part slightly at the initial shock of cold before his expression evens out, his lashes fluttering briefly as he adjusts to the sensation.

"you didn’t have to do that, you know," you say after a beat, your voice softer now, lower, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but dulling into something more manageable, something tired.

he lets out a quiet chuckle, though it comes out a little rough, a little worn, a little strained from the tension still lingering between you. "what, take a punch for you?" his lips twitch slightly, his usual playful glint returning just enough to remind you that he’s okay, that despite everything, he’s still him.

you shake your head, pressing the ice pack a little more firmly against his cheek, watching the way his brows furrow slightly at the sensation before continuing. "step in. try to talk him down."

beomgyu exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly into the ice, his voice dropping into something more contemplative. 

"he was hurting you."

the words settle between you, weighted, laced with something unspoken, something that neither of you are willing to unpack right now.

outside the room, standing in the dim, sterile glow of the hallway, wonbin watches you leave.

his chest still heaves from exertion, from the anger that has nowhere left to go, from the alcohol burning through his veins, making everything feel too sharp, too blurred, too much. his hands curl into fists at his sides, not out of rage, but out of something else entirely—something hollow, something aching, something that claws up his throat and sits heavy on his tongue, suffocating him with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t been fast enough to fix.

wonbin barely registers the hands gripping his arms, barely hears hongjoong’s voice telling him to breathe, barely notices the way gunil steps in front of him like a barricade, trying to ground him, to stop him, to keep him from unraveling further. but it’s already too late—his head is spinning, his breath is shallow, the walls of the room shrinking around him, and every desperate inhale burns like he’s choking on the weight of something he doesn’t know how to hold.

because this is what drowning feels like.

not the kind where water fills your lungs, but the kind where something inside you is collapsing, pulling you under, dragging you deeper into something dark, something inescapable, something you can’t fucking fight because you don’t even understand when it started.

don’t even understand when it started.

but now—now he understands.

now, as he stands there with the ghost of your wrist still burning against his palm, with the dull ache of his own reckless violence pulsing in his knuckles, with the image of you tending to beomgyu playing like a cruel loop behind his eyes, he knows.

it was you. it had always been you.

you were the reason for the unease, the sleepless nights, the sudden hollow ache where something unnamed used to be. you were the reason why every breath felt heavier, why his chest tightened when he saw you laughing with someone else, why his stomach twisted when you stopped looking at him the way you used to. you were the reason why nothing felt right anymore, why he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost, why the space beside him—where you should be, where you had always been—felt empty.

and now, with the taste of whiskey thick on his tongue and the weight of realization slamming into him like a freight train, wonbin finally, finally understands the one thing he had been too blind—too stupid—to see.

park wonbin, golden boy, untouchable, adored, reckless with hearts that were never his to keep—had finally fallen in love, after years of  convincing himself that love—real love—was something fleeting, something temporary, something meant for other people, but never for him. he had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, of moving from one touch to the next, never lingering, never holding on, because holding on meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability, and vulnerability—god, vulnerability meant giving someone the power to leave.

the thought makes his pulse stutter, makes his knees threaten to buckle, makes his vision blur at the edges, and suddenly, the room isn’t big enough, the air isn’t enough, the walls are closing in too fast, too violently, suffocating him, crushing him, forcing him to face the one truth he cannot outrun.

he stumbles back, hongjoong calling his name, gunil reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe—because if he stays here, if he sees you touch him again, if he sees you smile at him, if he has to watch beomgyu be the one standing beside you, with you, while he stands here alone—

he might break apart completely.