#Luke force compass

[stealingpotatoes]

heres a crappy venn (??) diagram explaining the dynamics in the tl4j time travel au bc it's easier than trying to write a full plot

[allskywalkerswhine]

in fics where luke gets plopped into the prequels i want every jedi within ten metres of him to think hes the weirdest jedi theyve ever seen. he has negative lightsaber form. he doesnt know what a kata is. he handstands when he meditates. his solution to sith is to try and have a chat. hes a political radical who keeps suggesting revolution. you ask him what the jedi code is and he says "kindness and compassion and helping those in need :) ". you ask how he used the force like that and he says some shit about how you are a luminous being limited only by your mind. the councils authority is just a suggestion. he is somehow the new favourite of both qui gon and yoda

[david-talks-sw]

I'd say where the dissonance really starts, when it comes to the portrayal of the Jedi in more recent Star Wars stories, is the perception of what the Prequels are about.

They're not about the Jedi.

George Lucas said over and over that they're about:

How a democracy turns into a dictatorship, we see this in the background of the films, as the Republic descends into becoming the Empire.

That first theme is then paralleled with a second theme: how a good kid becomes a bad man. We see this in the more character-driven and personal exploration of Anakin’s fall to the Dark Side.

The Prequels’ focus is on Anakin and the Republic, these films are not primarily about the fall of the Jedi. In fact, I’d argue they aren’t about the Jedi at all!

And when you look at the original backstory, you’ll notice that it also primarily focuses on:

The political subplot of the Republic’s downfall and Palpatine becoming the Emperor.

Anakin’s turn and his betrayal of the Jedi. 

So, there too… the Jedi themselves aren’t really that big a part of the Prequels’ original idea. They aren't mentioned much, beyond their trying to save the Senate and getting wiped out.

The Star Wars movies aren't about the Jedi, they're about Anakin and Luke, they're about Obi-Wan and Padmé and Han and Leia, the Rebellion vs the Empire, the fall of the Republic.

They're not about Ben and Yoda and Mace and Ki-Adi and Plo Koon and Shaak Ti and Luminara.

Just like Harry Potter isn't about Dumbledore and McGonagall. Just like the Lord of the Rings isn't about Gandalf.

On a functional level, the Jedi are:

POV characters who witness the events unfold with their hands tied, they're our anchors, whose eyes we see through to see democracy crumble into dictatorship.

Embodiments/vectors of the message George Lucas wanted to get across through these movies, which is the conflict between selfishness & selflessness, greed & compassion (Sith & Jedi).

But that's about it.

However, if you ask today’s fans and Star Wars creatives, most will say the Prequels are about the fall of the Jedi Order.

This is a take shared by a big chunk of the fandom, including various filmmakers, authors, and executives involved with Star Wars, so much so that the time period the Prequel films cover has now been redubbed by Lucasfilm as the “Fall of the Jedi era”.

Which leaves us with a question... why? Why the dissonance?

My guess? It's because the Jedi are cool. They're awesome.

And deep down, they wanted the Prequels to be about the Jedi. About the Jedi Knights at their height, errant warriors like the Knights of the Round Table.

And they didn't get that. They got a bunch of diplomats serving a political institution. And that didn't make sense, right? That's not what they expected so it's bad. And it's Star Wars. It's Lucas. It can't be bad, right? So like... what were they missing?

Oh... wait... what if... that's the point? That the Jedi were supposed to be Knight Errants and being guided by the Force instead of like - ew - space ambassadors for the Republic. Yeah now it all makes sense.

The Jedi in the Prequels aren't what we wanted them to be and that's their failure! Like, it's not just that I didn't like them because they weren't likeable to me, it's that I'm not supposed to like them because the narrative totally says so--

-- it doesn't.

The Jedi preach and practice the same Buddhist values as George Lucas, mirroring what he says in interviews almost verbatim.

The relationship between Obi-Wan and Anakin/Qui-Gon mirrors the dynamic between Lucas and Coppola.

The designs of the Jedi and their temple had to be toned down because they looked too bureaucratic and systemic.

This is Lucas we're talking about. "On the nose" is his middle name. He named the drug-peddling sleazebag "Elan Sleazebaggano." He ditched an elaborate introduction of General Grievous in exchange for just "the doors slide open, in walks Grievous and he's ugly."

If he had really been hell bent on framing the Jedi as elitist squares who lost their way and were mired in bureaucracy, he would've made them and the Jedi Temple look like the authorities in THX-1138.

They weren't likeable to some fans because, well, they weren't developed or shown as much as someone like Anakin. Because it's not about them. It's not their story. It's Anakin's. It's Luke's. It's their respective friends'. Or maybe it's an adversity to "perfect goody two-shoes" characters (which the Jedi are not). But hey, it's a movie for kids. Some 2-dimensionality is forgivable.

Bottom line, had more time been spent on the Jedi, had Lucas made the Prequels into a limited show and give them a whole subplot, had he decided to do away with the 30s serial dialog and let someone else write the dialog, maybe the reception might've been different.

But that's what we got. And guess what it's fine.

It's more than fine, it's fucking awesome.

I proudly and confidently say that I love the Prequels, with and without The Clone Wars.

I love my space monks, I love that they're diplomat wizards, I love that there's such a variety of them, I love that Mace is a no-bullshit guy who genuinely cares about his fellow Jedi and how screwed the Republic is, and Yoda is wise and kind but also a gremlin weirdo who'll embarass you in front of a classroom full of kids, and Ki-Adi has a penis for a head, is constantly calm and yet goes down like a champ even though they take him by surprise. I love that Shaak Ti can kung fu an army full of Magna Guards and still have the energy to charge at Grievous. I love that Obi-Wan is a sass machine who is also hilariously oblivious to the fact that he's just as terrible as Anakin.

They're awesome even if they're not perfect. They're awesome because they're not perfect.

But the movies are not really their story.

They're Anakin's. They're Luke's. They're the Republic's and the Rebellion's. And the fight against a space Nazi emperor/empire.

[untitlzd]

world class sin : prologue

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

next chapter : chain reaction.

After the contract is signed, Y/n stops asking why. He just shows up—quiet, pretty, dressed in whatever they hand him. The boys don’t want him there, not really. But the cameras love him. The mirrors follow him. Every rehearsal hurts. Every silence drips with resentment. And still, they keep him. Jay writes like he’s angry. Sunghoon dances like he’s alone. Jake watches him too long. None of them speak it aloud, but the feeling is the same: Y/n wasn’t earned. He was chosen. By the wrong people. For the wrong reasons. And now he’s theirs. Just twenty-three days until debut. Twenty-three days to become a fantasy.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, industry power dynamics, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, voyeurism, obsessive behavior, gaslighting, celebrity exploitation, toxic relationships, industry elitism, ambiguous morality, dark themes of grief and identity loss, aestheticization of suffering, subtle yandere dynamics, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

CONTENT WARNING + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke.

Before the company. Before the cameras. Before the lights wrapped around his skin like a second set of hands and people began calling his silence presence — there was just Y/n.

Y/n, who used to sing under his breath in the backseat of his mother’s car while she drove barefoot, humming along to songs too old for the radio. Who used to dance in the kitchen at night while spaghetti boiled on the stove, barefoot on cheap tile, arms wide like the world couldn’t touch him. He didn’t want fame. He just liked how music felt in his chest — like proof that he existed. Like warmth. And she saw it. His mother. She used to say he was a light. A soft one. The kind that flickered gently in dark places, not to shine, but to keep people from feeling alone. She called him magic. Said if the world saw him the way she did, it would fall in love and never recover.

But the world never got the chance to meet her. She got sick, fast and cruel, like some invisible hand reached down and stole the only thing keeping his life from collapsing in on itself. One day she was folding his laundry and singing about the weather; the next, she was a name on a hospital file he couldn’t afford to print. The grief didn’t break Y/n all at once. It hollowed him. Slowly. Gently. Like a song that fades without ending. He didn’t scream or cry or destroy things. He just… stopped. Stopped talking. Stopped singing. Started disappearing one silent moment at a time.

There were nights he didn’t come home. Mornings he couldn’t remember where he’d been. Rooms he walked into that felt too hot, too cold, too loud. People touched him and he let them, but it didn’t mean anything. He didn’t feel ruined — just distant from his own body. He let strangers speak to him like they knew who he was. Let the world pull at the corners of his clothes, his mouth, his name. He wore her perfume for weeks after she died, just to remember what love smelled like. And eventually, even that faded.

So when a woman with too many rings and too white of a smile called and said she’d known his mother once, said she had a place for him, a stage, a future — Y/n didn’t question it. He didn’t even want it, not really. But he went. Because it was forward. Because it was something. Because standing still was starting to feel like dying.

They flew him to Los Angeles. No audition. No promise. Just a room, a contract, and a group that had already been chosen. A self-producing global project: stylists from Seoul, choreographers from London, a debut stage booked in MCOUNTDOWN before the ink had even dried. Jay, Jake, Sunghoon — three names carved into the industry like sharp things. Boys with scars. Boys with hunger. Boys who had given everything to be here.

And now, they had to stand next to Y/n — the boy who had given nothing but still looked like he’d been born in spotlight.

The executives were obsessed. He was everything they wanted without even trying. A beautiful, damaged blank slate. His trainee period was short — barely weeks. But that didn’t matter. They said he had that thing. The unnamable thing. They called his eyes marketable sadness. Big, glistening, expressive things that looked like he was always about to cry. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he needed saving. And people wanted to save him. Or ruin him. Or both.

He was pliable. Innocent in all the wrong ways. And when stylists dressed him in sheer shirts and told him not to smile, he didn’t ask why. When vocal trainers told him to whisper his lyrics like they were secrets, he did. When photographers posed his hands limp and his lips parted, he obeyed. There was something in him that had been emptied out. And in its place, the industry poured something else — glossy and broken and dripping with want.

They didn’t see the boy in the kitchen spinning barefoot for no one. They saw the after. The glow of something burned too long. A boy with soft wrists and pretty bones and eyes like bruises. Something not quite alive but still moving.

And Y/n let them have it.

Because it was easier than remembering. Because grief had made him quiet, and now quiet made him desirable. Because being watched felt better than being alone.

Because when you’ve been loved by someone who saw your soul, you’ll spend the rest of your life letting people take your body just to feel something close.

They didn’t meet him on a stage. Or in a practice room. They met him in silence—late afternoon, overhead lights too white, the hallway outside the recording studio carrying the sterile smell of burnt coffee and industrial air freshener. The building always felt like that. Cold, new, over-designed. Like ambition lived in the vents.

Y/n stood alone in the corridor, tucked into a corner like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space. His clothes were plain—company-issued hoodie, soft drawstring pants, shoes too clean. He looked like he’d been dropped there, like someone forgot to tell him what to do next. His hands were tucked in his sleeves, his gaze heavy and uncertain, big glassy eyes scanning the passing staff like he was waiting for someone to explain what his life had become. But no one did. People walked past him like he wasn’t real.

And inside the studio, the boys were waiting.

Jay had been mid-edit, headphones pulled halfway off one ear, track looping back on itself as he adjusted vocal layering. Jake had been at the whiteboard with a pen in his mouth, scribbling fragments of a chorus they hadn’t agreed on. Sunghoon was sitting on the floor, stretching in slow, practiced lines, watching his reflection in the glass.

When the door opened and one of the assistant managers stepped in, clearing their throat with a smile too tight, everything slowed.

“Your new member’s here,” they said. Simple. Blunt. As if it were a schedule change, not a shift in the entire balance of the room.

Jay’s eyes didn’t move from his screen. “What do you mean, new member?” His voice was flat. Controlled. But his fingers paused mid-click.

“CEO’s orders. He’s joining the lineup.”

Jake turned. Sunghoon didn’t blink. None of them said anything, but the silence that followed was louder than any protest.

And then he stepped in.

Y/n, soft-faced, quiet, impossibly still. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was there. It crept into corners. His eyes—those too-bright, too-sad things—flicked from face to face, not with confidence, but with the strange, hollow politeness of someone used to being tolerated, not welcomed. He bowed. Soft. Awkward. Like he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.

Jay’s stare was unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow lifting slightly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The tension in his shoulders said enough. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. They had trained for years together—fought, failed, rewritten songs through tears and caffeine and injury. And now this? A stranger in their studio? One they hadn’t trained with, hadn’t chosen?

Sunghoon stood. Slow. Measured. His body moved with dancer’s precision even now, coiled tight beneath the silence. His gaze swept over Y/n once, impersonal. Not curious. Just… calculating. Like he was adjusting choreography in his head to factor in a flaw.

Jake’s lips pressed into a line. He said nothing, but his grip on the whiteboard marker tightened, ink bleeding into the surface behind him like it had nowhere else to go.

And Y/n? Y/n just stood there. Looking at them. Looking past them. Not trying to explain. Not trying to smile. Just standing there with those trembling, ruined eyes like he already knew what they thought. Like he’d heard it before.

The manager gave a quick clap, like the moment needed wrapping. “Alright. I’ll leave you to it. He’s already got housing in your dorm. Training schedule starts tomorrow. Be good to each other.”

The door clicked shut.

And the silence collapsed into something heavier.

Y/n didn’t speak. He didn’t introduce himself again. He just stepped further into the room, slow, hesitant, like the floor might reject him. He moved toward the couch in the corner, sat down too carefully, as if afraid he’d take someone’s spot.

Jay turned back to his laptop. Pressed play. The track looped again.

Jake went back to the board, but didn’t write.

Sunghoon lowered himself to the floor again, more rigid this time.

No one told Y/n where to stand. Where to sit. What to do. No one asked his story. They didn’t need to. They had already decided what kind of person he was.

He was the fourth member now. A piece of a group he hadn’t earned. A replacement for someone they actually cared about.

He didn’t belong.

And in some twisted, brutal way—

That was exactly why they chose him.

The training studio was too bright in the next morning. Too clean. The kind of sterile, high-ceilinged space that didn’t allow mistakes to hide. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors on every wall, polished until they could catch even the faintest flicker of shame. The sound system buzzed faintly overhead. The air reeked of lemon disinfectant and effort.

Y/n was already there when the others arrived.

He’d shown up twenty minutes early, clutching a company-issued water bottle with both hands, like it might anchor him to the floor. He stood near the back wall, away from the mirror, staring at his own reflection like it didn’t quite match up. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at the wrists. His hair was still damp from the rushed shower. His eyes—their usual wounded-glass glaze—were unreadable, a little too wide, like he hadn’t slept.

He didn’t look like a trainee. He looked like someone pretending to be one.

Jay walked in first, earbuds still in, the collar of his jacket loose and unzipped like he’d sprinted from the studio just to be forced into this. He didn’t look at Y/n. Just dropped his bag at the wall and started stretching.

Jake came next, nodding curtly to the trainer stationed near the door, then immediately scanned the room. When his eyes landed on Y/n, something behind them tightened. It wasn’t surprise anymore. It was adjustment. A silent recalibration—how do you move around something you never asked for?

Sunghoon entered last. His expression didn’t change. It never did. He placed his water down carefully, tied his shoelaces like they were performance art, then stood in the center of the room and rolled his shoulders with the mechanical focus of a blade being polished.

“From the top,” the trainer called.

The music started.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was the track they’d been preparing for weeks, long before Y/n had been added in. Heavy bass layered over precise percussion, punctuated with vocal stabs and hard cuts in the tempo. It's a song of the French House mixed with drum & bass and dubstep. The choreography was difficult—sharp hits, tight formations, no room to fall behind. It was designed to showcase unity.

Y/n was half a beat behind from the first step.

His movements were rehearsed, yes. Memorized. But not lived in. He danced like a soldier following orders, not like someone who believed in what he was doing. His limbs moved with calculated correctness, but there was no rhythm beneath it. No breath. Just mimicry. Just survival.

Jay didn’t hide his reaction. His eyes flicked up to the mirror mid-verse, caught the staggered rhythm in Y/n’s step, and narrowed. His jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything—but the tension in his arms as he hit his mark spoke volumes.

Sunghoon’s movements were a masterclass in control. Every pop of his shoulder, every step, every lift—clean, exact, devastating. But when they transitioned to group formation and Y/n brushed his side during a cross, Sunghoon’s body tensed. Only for a second. But it was there. A recoil.

Jake kept his eyes forward, lips pressed into a line. He hit every beat—fluid, magnetic—but you could feel it in the way his hands curled too tight on the downbeats, in the way his gaze skipped over Y/n whenever the formation pulled them too close. Not quite anger. Not yet. Just a loaded silence.

Y/n didn’t react.

Even when the trainer paused the track and called out, “Y/n—again. Your timing’s off on the first chorus.”

He only nodded. Stepped back into place. Counted under his breath. Reset his feet. Tried again.

And again.

And again.

By the third hour, the mirrors were fogged at the edges and the floor was streaked with sweat. The room reeked of it now—effort, frustration, resentment stewing under fluorescent light. Y/n’s hoodie was gone, revealing the too-thin tank top underneath, damp at the collar. His cheeks were red from exertion. His arms shook faintly when he raised them. But his expression hadn’t changed. He still looked like someone doing penance.

When they finally broke for water, Jay didn’t sit. He paced, wiping his neck with a towel, the lines between his brows deepening every time he glanced back toward Y/n, who was crouched by the wall, sipping water like it hurt to swallow.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. But his silence wasn’t neutral—it was sharp-edged, purposeful, a presence in the room like a wire stretched too tight. He pulled out his phone, thumb tapping idly, but his reflection in the mirror stayed fixed on the corner Y/n sat in.

Jake stood by the stereo, arms crossed, gaze down.

No one spoke.

Because nothing needed to be said. They were rehearsing for a debut that was supposed to be theirs—just theirs. Built on history. On blood. And now the fourth was here, soft-eyed and silent, fucking up the counts and soaking up the attention.

They weren’t teammates.

Not yet.

Just strangers in matching shoes, breathing the same stale air, waiting to see who would break first.

When the trainer finally called it, the silence that followed was louder than the music had ever been. No celebration. No breath of relief. Just the hollow, collective sound of sweat hitting polished floors and lungs still burning from the last chorus. Y/n stayed where he was, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees, palms digging into the fabric of his pants. His chest rose and fell slowly. Measured. Controlled. The others didn’t look at him—not directly. They moved around him like he was a piece of faulty equipment no one had figured out how to replace yet.

Jay was the first one out the door.

He didn’t even bother pretending. His towel hit the floor beside his bag, and he stalked out of the studio with his jaw clenched and one hand already scrolling through his contacts like he was ready to start a war. Jake followed. Not as fast, but just as intentional. His water bottle was still full, untouched, swinging loosely at his side like a weapon. And then Sunghoon, calm as ever, but his gaze didn’t lift once—not to the trainer, not to Y/n. Just forward, like if he looked back, the thin thread holding his composure together would snap.

Y/n didn’t ask where they were going.

Didn’t ask if he should follow.

He sat there in the corner of the practice room, arms resting on his knees, hair stuck to his temples in wet strands. His eyes—those wide, silent, glassy things—looked straight ahead but didn’t see anything. They weren’t just tired. They were frayed at the edges, rimmed red, not from tears but from the ache of trying not to cry. It wasn’t the rehearsal that did it. It was everything underneath. The way grief builds like heat beneath the skin. The way loneliness makes your body too heavy. The way every second here felt like punishment for something he didn’t understand.

They hadn’t told him how much this would hurt.

Two floors up, the air felt different. Cooler. Quieter. The executive level of the building was all soundproof glass, imported marble, and lighting that made your skin look better than it actually was. Jay hated it. He hated the way the hallway echoed with silence, the way every piece of furniture was too expensive to sit on. He hated the waiting room outside the CEO’s office with its spotless magazines and staged smiles. But mostly, he hated that they had to come here at all.

He didn’t knock.

The receptionist barely looked up. “He’s finishing a call.”

“We’ll wait,” Jay said, already pacing. His voice was sharp, sure, dangerous. Jake didn’t say anything. He stood beside the window, arms crossed, watching the skyline like it had answers. Sunghoon sat, legs crossed, but his body was pulled taut. Even his stillness was strategic—like his breath could ruin the balance.

When the door finally opened, the CEO didn’t bother with greetings. “I assume this is about the new lineup.”

Jay stepped in first. “You assume right.”

The office was warm. Too warm. Designed to feel comfortable, inviting. But the weight of it pressed against their skin like humidity. Fake comfort. Manufactured trust. The CEO didn’t sit at his desk—he sat across from them, on a lounge chair like they were about to have a casual brainstorm session. That just made Jay angrier.

“We’ve been rehearsing this set for months,” he said. “We built this. The three of us. From scratch. And now there’s someone we’ve never trained with suddenly center in the marketing decks? You didn’t even ask.”

“He’s not center,” the CEO replied smoothly. “He’s presence.”

Jake’s knuckles flexed where his hands were folded. Sunghoon didn’t move.

“Presence doesn’t fix formation,” Jay snapped. “Presence doesn’t cover missed steps. He’s not ready.”

“He doesn’t need to be ready,” the CEO said, calm, like he was explaining something to a child. “He needs to be watched. And he is.”

Jay opened his mouth, then shut it again. There was something terrifying in how confident the man was. Like this had never even been a debate.

“He’s not the strongest dancer,” the CEO continued. “He’s not the best vocalist. But people don’t look away from him. We’ve tested it. Media, marketing, even styling. When he’s in the frame, he is the frame.”

“That’s not what we’re building,” Sunghoon said finally. His voice was low. Even. But the edge in it was impossible to miss. “This isn’t just a group. It’s a system. And he’s not part of it.”

The CEO nodded. Slowly. Like he’d heard that line before.

“And systems evolve. Especially the ones that want to last. You three are the spine. The sound. The foundation. But he’s the face.”

Jake looked away. His jaw twitched.

Jay was already standing. “You should’ve told us. Before it became official.”

“It’s been official since the day he arrived,” the CEO said. “The press release is already drafted. MCountdown is booked. You’re debuting in twenty-three days.”

Silence.

The kind that wasn’t hollow—but final.

Jay stormed out. Jake followed.

Sunghoon lingered for just a second longer.

Then he nodded once, almost imperceptibly. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment.

He understood now.

They were no longer building this group.

They were part of what had been built around someone else.

The door to the CEO’s office shut behind them with a soft click, but the silence it left in its wake was anything but gentle. The hallway stretched before them like a tunnel with no end, polished tile reflecting the muted overhead light, the buzz of fluorescent fixtures matching the hum in Jake’s ears. No one said anything at first. Jay stalked ahead, his shoulders rigid, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Sunghoon followed, his steps slow and even like he was regulating every inch of his body just to keep it from trembling. Jake walked last, still reeling from what had just been said, from the clarity of it — the certainty with which they’d been dismissed, replaced, rearranged around a single, silent newcomer with no past and no proof.

It wasn’t about talent. It never had been.

And that was the part that left a taste in their mouths like rust.

None of them had cried when their old friends were cut. When the lineups changed. When the fifth, sixth, seventh iteration of this group was dissolved and rebuilt again. They knew the rules. Knew how it worked. Survival meant adaptation. But this — this wasn’t survival. This was sabotage dressed up as strategy. They weren’t just making room for Y/n. They were being told that everything they had bled for was secondary now. That their work, their history, their nights spent collapsed in rehearsal rooms and vocal booths didn’t matter as much as the way he looked under soft lighting. The way his eyes stayed wide and sad, like he’d never learned to protect himself. Like the industry could devour him slowly and still leave room for dessert.

Jay stopped in the middle of the corridor, running a hand through his hair like he could scratch the thought from his skull. “He’s not even trying,” he muttered under his breath. “He just stands there. And they act like it’s art.”

Sunghoon didn’t respond. He didn’t have to. The line of his jaw, the quiet rage in the set of his mouth, said more than words. Jake leaned against the wall beside them, arms crossed, staring at the floor like it had betrayed him.

None of them had asked for this. And yet—there it was. That image of Y/n in the studio, barely moving, barely breathing, and still somehow commanding every eye in the room. It was offensive. It was infuriating. And it was undeniable.

The executives had seen it instantly. They hadn’t looked at Y/n and seen potential. They had seen a product already in its final form. A face that could sell out stadiums and perfume ads. A presence that didn’t need to say anything because the silence did all the work. That was the trick — the way his grief softened his features, made his mouth look vulnerable even when closed. The way his eyes stayed glassy, as if carrying a sadness that hadn’t been explained yet, but begged to be understood. They didn’t need him to be perfect. They needed him to be breakable. Beautiful in a way that made people want to ruin him, gently. Slowly. With reverence.

“He’s not even acting,” Jake said suddenly, voice tight. “That’s just how he is.”

Jay glanced at him. Jake wasn’t defending him. That wasn’t what this was. But the words hung in the air like something dangerous.

Because it was true. Y/n wasn’t calculating. He wasn’t pretending to be tragic. He simply was.

And that made it worse.

Because it made people want to keep him. To protect what looked so fragile, even if it wasn’t. Because despite the resentment curling in Jay’s chest, despite the quiet loathing in Sunghoon’s gaze, and the cold irritation in Jake’s bones—none of them wanted anyone else to have him. Not the executives. Not the stylists. Not the audience. He was theirs. He was in their group. Their story. Their songs. He hadn’t earned it, but now that he was here, the idea of someone else taking ownership of him felt like a deeper betrayal.

That wasn’t love. It wasn’t even care. It was possessiveness in its most twisted, quiet form. The kind that festers when something soft is placed in a room full of people who’ve only ever survived by being hard.

“He’s gonna ruin this for us,” Jay said flatly, starting to walk again.

But Jake didn’t move. And Sunghoon lingered.

Because ruin wasn’t always fire and blood. Sometimes, it looked like a boy with eyes full of grief and hands that didn’t know what to hold onto. Sometimes it looked like innocence laced with something sensual — not on purpose, but in the way people wanted to project their filth onto something clean. Y/n had become that. Not even a person anymore. A screen.

And maybe that was the real reason they couldn’t stand him.

Because he made everyone want things they weren’t allowed to want.

They walked without speaking.

The street was mostly empty, the kind of late where everything felt quiet in the wrong way—like the city was holding its breath. The sidewalk stretched ahead in long strips of shadow and light, blinking from the neon buzz of 24-hour storefronts and the muted glow of passing cars. Jay’s steps were fast, agitated. Sunghoon moved more slowly, deliberate, his body carrying itself with the kind of practiced calm that only barely masked unrest. Jake followed behind, not dragging his feet, but not really pushing forward either. Just… moving. Like the floor might vanish if he stood still too long.

They were still full of what had happened upstairs.

The way the CEO hadn’t blinked when he said it. He’s not the center. He’s the frame. Like they were props now, scaffolding around something else. Like the years they had poured into this — the ruined knees, the vocal strain, the callouses, the panic, the loneliness — were just context for a face with the right kind of silence behind it.

It was insulting.

And worse — it was working.

Jay had known a thousand boys more talented than Y/n. He could name five off the top of his head who were better dancers, better singers, better alive in front of a camera. And yet none of them made the room shift like Y/n did. That haunted stillness. The eyes that looked too open to be safe. A softness that wasn’t weakness — just absence. Like someone had carved out the center of him and left the shell behind, and somehow that was beautiful. The stylists whispered about it. The executives didn’t even try to hide their obsession. They were already shaping him into the kind of icon people whispered about, idolized, wanted to break just to see what kind of sound he’d make when he fell.

Sunghoon hated it.

Not Y/n, exactly. Not yet. But the imbalance. The way the system bent around him. He wasn’t supposed to be part of their equation. The three of them had been trained together like a machine — interlocking, precise. They’d shared blood, floors, years of fighting. They knew each other’s timing better than their own. And now this… soft thing had been dropped in the middle of it all like a piece of furniture no one remembered ordering.

And yet — even Sunghoon had caught himself watching him. Noticing the strange angles of his silence. The way he held tension in his throat but not his shoulders. The way his lips stayed slightly parted, always, like he was trying to breathe in something he’d never been taught how to take.

It made you want to reach for him.

Or shake him.

Or both.

Jake didn’t even want to admit what it made him feel. There was something about the way Y/n existed that made people confused about what they were looking at. He wasn’t performing, but it still felt like he was always on display. Like the air folded around him differently. Jake had been around stars before — people who knew how to command a room. But Y/n was the opposite. He did nothing. He shrank. And somehow, that was worse. Because people filled the space around him with their own desire.

And it wasn’t just them. It was everyone. The marketing team. The vocal coach. Even the interns whispered when he walked past.

They didn’t look at Y/n like a person.

They looked at him like a suggestion.

And maybe that was the worst part. Jake couldn’t stop seeing it either.

It wasn’t sympathy. They didn’t feel sorry for him. They were too angry for that. But they also didn’t want anyone else to get too close. Didn’t want to see him styled in a way they hadn’t approved. Didn’t want to hear a stranger talk about his eyes like they meant something. He was theirs now, whether they liked it or not. Their problem. Their weak link. Their… whatever he was. No one else got to decide how far he’d fall. If anyone was going to cut him down, it would be one of them.

The dorm loomed ahead — bland building, dim lights, the shape of routine glowing behind the curtains. It looked the same as always. But nothing inside felt stable anymore.

Jay didn’t stop walking until the front door clicked open.

Jake’s fingers hovered near the code box, even though he already knew the numbers. Sunghoon stood beside him, eyes flicking up toward the dark window above the kitchen. No movement. No sound.

Inside, Y/n was probably on the couch again. Or in the corner of the bedroom with his knees tucked up, headphones in, expression blank. Or maybe asleep with the light on, not dreaming. Just suspended.

They stood outside for a moment longer than they needed to.

No one said it.

But something had changed.

And none of them knew what it meant that the boy they hated most — the boy they had every reason to resent — was already starting to feel like something they owned.

There was no word for it — what he made them feel. Not jealousy, not fascination, not pity. It was something heavier, messier. Something they couldn’t talk about without sounding sick. And maybe that was why none of them spoke as they entered the building, shoes thudding softly against the tile, the hallway narrowing toward their unit like the tension between their ribs. Jay was the first one to disappear into the kitchen, pretending to check the fridge, like he wasn’t picturing the way one of the stylists had leaned too close to Y/n during fittings, adjusting the hem of his shirt like she was dressing a doll she wanted to bite. It had made Jay want to throw something. And he didn’t know why.

He’d seen idols before. Had stood in the wings while others were stylized into stardom — molded, exploited, made desirable. But Y/n wasn’t molded. He just existed. And it enraged Jay, how easily the staff folded around him. How everyone treated him like something breakable but beautiful enough to be worth it. Jay didn’t want to touch him. Not really. But sometimes, in the silence after rehearsal, he imagined what it would feel like to shake him. To crack the quiet out of his body just to see what was underneath. Was it real? That dazed innocence? That polished fragility? Or was he just acting like everyone else?

In the living room, Jake paused by the door to the shared bathroom, eyes flicking toward the dim light under Y/n’s room. Still no sound. Still no presence. Jake had spent years building himself into someone who could perform what people wanted — a good trainee, a good idol, a lyricist who knew how to turn emotion into sellable lines. But Y/n didn’t write anything. Didn’t offer opinions. Didn’t even flinch when people spoke about him like he wasn’t in the room. It made Jake feel insane. And worse — it made him curious. Because every time the PR team mentioned Y/n’s face — those eyes, that mouth, the melancholy soft enough to brand — Jake caught himself imagining it too. The way his lashes curved wetly when he was tired. The way his lips looked when he was breathing too hard after a failed take. It wasn’t even attraction. It was obsession with the idea of him. The way you want to figure out a locked door just because you’re not allowed behind it.

Sunghoon didn’t follow them in right away. He stood in the stairwell a moment longer, hand braced against the wall, replaying the moment in the CEO’s office when one of the assistants had said, “He’s the kind of face people fight over.” Sunghoon had laughed — just once — too bitterly, too sharp. He hated how right it was. How every staff member treated Y/n like a prize and a burden in one. How they cooed over his bone structure, his posture, his silence, as if it were something trained. As if it hadn’t come from being emptied out. But even Sunghoon, in the stillness of his own mind, had started to imagine it too — the way Y/n’s body moved when he wasn’t performing, the twitch in his shoulder when someone startled him, the way his voice broke on certain syllables like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was something worse. Wanting to own the shape of his ruin before someone else made a mess of it.

They didn’t like him. They didn’t trust him. But they couldn’t stop watching him. And that was the problem — not just the threat he posed, but the way he unsettled something deep in each of them.

Not as a person.

But as a question.

A symbol.

A story waiting to be owned by someone.

And God forbid that someone wasn’t them.

note: hi, it’s luke. if you made it this far — welcome, and thank you for reading. this prologue is just the beginning of what world class sin is going to be. a small taste of something heavier. i’ve had this concept sitting with me for a while now, and writing it has felt like peeling back something slow, sharp, and a little too intimate. the themes are layered — obsession, grief, beauty, control — and that’s exactly where this story lives. in the spaces between what’s seen and what’s endured. there’s more coming soon, and things will only get deeper. the emotions, the tension, the unraveling — it’s all just starting. and if you’ve been peeking around the blog, you might’ve already caught a little spoiler floating around. hehe. thank you for being here with me. and while you’re here, make sure you’re also being kind to yourself. drink some water, rest your eyes, and go easy on your heart when you need to. more soon, luke :)

[corgoship]

Fandoms vs. The inconceivable goodness of fictional cultures

It's strange and a bit worrying how (often adult) fans look at fictional marginalized cultures (in kids media) that are by default written to be virtuous, and they twist themselves into knots to try to prove how they were horrible people all along, and I'm left wondering: Why? Not to mention it's often coupled with apologism for the actual, textual bad guys, who are often straight up fascists.

This is mostly about the Jedi (Star Wars) and Air Nomads (Avatar: The Last Airbender) but feel free to add more if you know any.

My analysis and observations are under cut! Fair warning, this is a long post, and I'm writing this on the fly, so please forgive me if this isn't as coherent as it was in my head.

(Sidenote: It appears as though both of these cultures were inspired by Buddhism to certain extents, way more blatantly in atla. However, I would argue that the some of the philosophical conflict regarding attachment in atla was pretty heavily influenced by Star Wars: the season 2 finale is emotionally almost the exact same thing as the climax of Empire Strikes Back! But that's a story for another post...)

In a nutshell

Both of these cultures are described as wise and peaceful. They both put a lot of emphasis on meditation and enlightement. The Air Nomads are pacifists and vegetarians. The Jedi preach love and compassion, as per Anakin in Attack of the Clones. Both of them value love, but are discouraging of attachment - which a lot of people wrongly conflate with love in these texts, I believe. It is not specified whether or not Air Nomads could marry, but they lived in monasteries separated by gender, and the Jedi were not allowed to marry. Both of these cultures were victims of genocide by a fascist regime. And both the stories of Avatar and the original Star Wars trilogy are about an individual, who can be considered the last of their extinct kind, and the resurgence of their forgotten beliefs of kindness bringing peace to a war-torn world.

(Sidenote no. 2: they both have Mark Hamill. On the actual opposing sides of the spectrum, too. He went from being the hero electrocuted by the Emperor to... Being the Emperor electrocuting the hero. Which is kind of funny to me.)

With all that said, it will always boggle my mind how people will say these fictional cultures were conservative, arrogant, harmful towards children, dogmatic in their religion, and worst of all, DESERVING of being murdered. This is something I will NEVER understand or agree with.

The many crimes of the elemental monks and the space wizards

Let's dig into the criticisms they often receive, shall we?

To rapid fire list off a few: being too isolated from the rest of the world, indoctrinating children, having strict rules that restrict freedoms, deeming feelings to be inconsequential and a bad thing, considering themselves to be superior, and being too arrogant to notice their coming demise, which some consider to be justified by the aggressor.

Now, I will say not all of it is without merit, and some of these things could be taken as real flaws that were intended by the creators of the respective stories. The Air Nomad elders are dismissive of Aang's fears and that fear is what essentially forces him to run away at twelve years old. The Jedi Council tells nine years old Anakin that his fear for his slave mother could potentially lead him to the Dark Side and make him evil. Both cultures teach their children from a very young age, and the children are raised communally - which isn't in itself a bad thing, but I can see how some people mind find that uncomfortable, especially with the Jedi, who take in children from various cultures. Both Luke and Aang are advised to not only forego attachment towards the people they love, but they are actively asked to stand by and potentially let their loved ones be hurt or killed. (Take this last point with a grain of salt because neither Aang or Luke were ready to do what they did, and they both paid for it dearly, so the advice does have real merit, despite what some people might tell you.)

This is about the extent of the textual flaws I could find. So what do fandoms do? They take these flaws and completely blow them out of proportion. I have seen takes that claim both the AN and Jedi steal children from their families. That they are dogmatic in their religious beliefs, ostracize those who don't conform (or don't have their special powers), and they are condescending to other cultures, even considering themselves to be superior to others. That their ideologies were harmful and that they deserved to be eradicated for it.

How do you make a leap like that? In a story made for children, no less? We are presented with these cultures as being good, and the text never urges us to question their goodness. And this is by design - because again, these are stories for children, so there isn't much moral ambiguity when it comes to the murdered peaceful pacifists and the evil imperial super power threatening the world. So why do people still twist the narrative in spite of this?

Grey morality only gets a story so far

My best guess is that they DO want that moral ambiguity to be present, even if there is none, because that's "more realistic" and "better storytelling". I can agree with both of those statements to a point, but realistic doesn't automatically equal better. Sure, added nuance can often enrich stories and prompt more philosophical questions and more interesting conflict within the story itself, but is it always necessary? Does it always enhance the themes the story is trying to tell?

We are told to take the fact that the AN/Jedi are are a force of good at face value. And why wouldn't we? What is it that makes people question this, despite there existing little canonical information to disprove the innate goodness of these cultures built on love and compassion? Again, I believe that people - mostly adults - crave for things to not be black and white. Real life usually isn't. But stories aren't real life. There isn't some hidden secret that proves these bad-faith right. There are some flaws present at worst, but that is enough to spin headcanons and straight up lies that further the idea that there is no such thing as a paragon of goodness. Because of such a thing not existing in reality, it cannot exist in fiction either.

To love or not to love

The biggest issue people take with these two cultures, as far as I have noticed, is their view on love and attachment.

And then there is the most extreme version of this - the people who claim these cultures were the true evil all along, and that they were deserving of being victims to genocide by the imperial power. This is more rampant in atla fan spaces, and the agenda there is a bit more spite-motivated, because while the Air Nomads didn't hurt anybody (unlike the Jedi who could be seen as hurting Anakin, as far-fetched as that claim is), Aang is an Air Nomad, and a certain part of the atla fandom really doesn't like him (not gonna beat about the bush: it's certain zutara shippers). By painting his dead culture - which Aang loves and holds in high regard - as bad, they either make him supportive of harmful beliefs, or naive and ignorant, unwilling to take criticism, therefore stubborn and bigoted.

This is of course connected to his romantic relationship with Katara, which a lot of people claim is a bad thing. I will not get into the specifics here, but a large chunk of the fandom doesn't understand what the act of "letting go of your attachment" means, and that Aang achieves this in the s2 finale (which is what allows him to enter the avatar state on command), and that he's not, in fact, unhealthily obsessing over Katara. A different shade of this criticism is that in being the Avatar (similarly in Star Wars, a Jedi), Aang cannot love Katara in a full, meaningful way, because he is held back by his duties, and he must put the world over her.

Much like in Avatar, in Star Wars, attachment IS an obsessive form of love that impacts people negatively and should be avoided. In the more extreme cases, such as the case of Anakin, it leads to ruin, and it is his inability to let go of his feelings and think rationally that creates problems. In the case of Luke (and Aang in s2) and his love for his friends, he gets punished by the narrative for indulging his fear - he gets mutilated as a direct result of choosing his friends over taking the time to become stronger and have a better chance against his enemies.

Now look me in the eye and tell me where do either of these stories state that love is bad. You can't, because that's not what the stories are claiming at all (there is a reason why Aang ends up with Katara, and why Luke redeems his father through his love), and some people are incapable of drawing that distinction. They would rather claim that the AN/Jedi are dismissive of love and feelings as a whole, than to admit that the sort of love THEY personally value might be unhealthy.

Because I do honestly the believe that most of these detractors are the type to find "i would burn the whole world down for you" to be the truest form of love and devotion... When that, is in fact, the exact thing these stories caution about, and by pointing that out, they're not claiming that love is bad, but that it has the potential to grow into obsession, which we can all agree, is objectively bad.

Lastly, let's look at the other side of the equation...

Long live the empire!

The evil Fire Nation and the evil Galactic Empire are just that - point blank evil. This has never been put in question by either piece of media. There is nuance to be found, sure, with the Headband episode in atla and Zuko as a character, and... I actually can't think of a single not-blatantly-bad thing about the Empire/Sith in the original trilogy + prequels, lol. Maybe that the separatists had a point, and that the republic was collapsing in on itself under bureaucracy and corruption - but that's still no brownie point for the Empire nor Palpatine, lol.

Palpatine's derision and disdain for the Jedi is used to manipulate Anakin to... Become evil. And while his words may have a grain of truth in them, they are deliberately twisting the Jedi ideology and making the Dark Side look not only palatable, but necessary for Anakin to save Padmé, something the Jedi had failed him in (as far as Anakin himself believes). Why would people readily believe the bad guy, who has been lying and deceiving everyone, about the things he deliberately said to manipulate Anakin? Because it makes Anakin's turn seem more... Justifiable that way? It sure did in his eyes, but we as the viewers are supposed to see past that, since we have all the context, and he doesn't.

Atla takes a bit of a different approach and tackles the anti-Air Nomad propaganda head on. In the afforementioned episode The Headband, we go inside a Fire Nation school, and we see how they are being taught lies in order to justify the FN's attack on them (claiming they had an army, etc.). And yet there are still people who claim otherwise, that the FN was indeed right to do what they did, despite canon making it very clear that they are lying about what happened! (Also, let's just throw away the entirity of s1 episode 3 where Aang comes across the charred bones of his people and his mentor... Let's just not touch that, I guess. Don't worry about it.).

In both cases, the common thread is that the FASCIST bad guys are given grace, while the marginalized minorities are demonized. They are excused for their crimes time and time again, because what? Their aesthetic is cool? Their weapons/fighting style are cool? They're badass? You can appreciate these things for what they are, sure, but when does liking how something looks swing over into condoning the very bad things these people are guilty of? Probably when you start preaching how they, in fact, "did nothing wrong", and how the resistance are terrorists, and that people are inclined to be on their side only because the narrative paints them as the good guys... Yeah. You've lost the plot.

Or... Maybe you just like the person committing the atrocities...

It's not my fault my blorbo is a fascist warmonger!

This is the last point I will go over, I swear. There certainly is an overlap between fans who hate said marginalized cultures, and fans who love a certain character... Who happens to be a part of the fascist regime. Respectively for these fandoms, it's Zuko and Iroh in atla, and Anakin/Vader in Star Wars. Now, I am not saying Zuko is a bad person by the end of atla, don't get me wrong, but he spends the majority of the show flaunting the fact that he's a prince, and he's actively oppressing and terrorizing people in the first season. A huge part of his growth is recognising how the Fire Nation is crushing the world in an iron fist and reigning terror - Zuko says as much in his conversation with Ozai before he defects. I feel like the vast majority of people recognise that his words ring true, and that he's become a better person by confronting his father and his evil regime. But there are still some, who will bend over backwards to make the Fire Nation look better, so that Zuko and/or Iroh are absolved of their earlier crimes. Because god forbid my favourite character did bad things in the past, right? It's blatantly clear when people do this, and why they do this. An extended version of this is when they make the FN seem less evil so that Zuko can be shipped with Katara without any hang ups about her becoming the Fire Lady or similar common tropes in the zutara fandom.

And then we have Anakin. To keep it short, a lot of people view Anakin and Vader as two different people (Anakin didn't murder the younglings. Vader did!) and believe that he's not responsible for his actions after falling to the Dark Side. How to deal with his actions pre-fall, you ask? Well, he was justified, because the Jedi were holding him back, because they lied to him and belittled him, and refused to help him. All of Anakin's actions up to that point are the Jedi's fault, of course! I'm not saying their treatment of him was inconsequential to how things turned out, but he was very much in control of his actions and chose to do the things he did. The Empire wasn't going to magically fix the problems of the republic (and by extension, the Jedi) and I have no idea why certain people would think so.

Just kidding, I know why...

So... Where do we go from here?

I don't know man, I don't have a conclusion drafted. I just think this phenomenon is quite sad to see - people are refusing to see past their own biases, and they would rather twist the story to their liking than engage with the text in a more meaningful, constructive way.

I do think this needs to be called out when you see it, because it's a very relevant issue today. Fascism isn't cool just because the people doing it are someone you identify with in some way. Genocide isn't cool because the people affected are someone you disagree with.

It's just fiction, but these problems are present in the real world, too. People are very quick to forgive someone they support, and very eager to stone anyone they disagree with. They are not past creating and spreading misinformation about those they hate, just to get more people to agree with them.

It's quite worrying to me, especially since in these fandoms in particular, it boils down to the same thing - if people can't understand right and wrong when it is being spoonfed to them by a story crafted to be understood by children... Then how will they act in the real world, when met with more complicated matters?

Thanks for coming to my ted talk.

[jedi-enthusiasm-blog]

"Luke is different from the dogmatic PT Jedi! He saved his father with his attachment!"

Wrong. Luke didn't save Vader with his attachment, Luke saved Vader with compassion. Y'know, the unconditional love that is central to every Jedi's life.

Luke being attached to Vader would imply that Luke needs his father in his life to be happy. It would imply that, when Anakin asked his son to take off the mask, Luke wouldn't do it and would keep dragging Anakin to the shuttle. Perhaps that would have saved his father's life.

Attachment, despite looking like love on the surface, is not only a different thing, it's love's complete antithesis! Attachment is selfish, self-centered, it focuses more on your happiness than the other person's wellbeing. It's fear of loss, greed of wanting to stop the inevitable, and anger and hate when it eventually fails.

But… Luke doesn't do that. Luke stops and listens, and follows with his father's last request. In a way, you could argue that Luke killed Anakin, because he took off the life support that prevented Vader from dying. Luke does that because he respects his father's wishes, what his father wants, and puts it above his desire to have his father in his life.

When Anakin dies, Luke grieves for him, mourns for his father and for a life lost because he's that much of a saintly, kind-hearted soul.

But then he sees the Force Ghosts of his father and his Jedi Masters.

Luke smiles, his spirits lifted, and joins Han, Leia and the rest of the rebels on the celebration.

Because that's what compassion, true unconditional love is, not needing people in your life, being able to be happy without them, but loving and caring for them anyways.

That's what the Jedi believe, and that's what Luke embodies more than anything else.

[antianakin]

I think it's fair to say that Andor, despite having no Jedi in the show, makes the greatest argument as to why the Galaxy needs the Jedi! I mean, look what happened to Bix!

See, that's not really how I take it. Andor is hardly the first piece of media to show the Empire being completely awful and showcasing that they're a force that needs to be stopped. The first piece of media to do that was A New Hope when it literally showed them massacring an entire ship, burning down the Lars home, torturing Leia, and then blowing up an entire planet.

The message that Andor is trying to send is much more about COMMUNITY and solidarity and commitment to a cause greater than yourself as being the things that will truly save you from oppression.

The way I connect it to the Jedi is that THIS IS WHAT KILLED THEM. People DIDN'T have a sense of community and solidarity and commitment to something greater than themselves. They RELIED on the Jedi to solve all of their problems and if anything bad happened to them at all, then it was the Jedi's fault for not stopping it somehow, despite all of the many many reasons why the Jedi logistically could not stop every single ill in the galaxy.

Things like what happened to Bix were likely happening every day even during the Jedi's hey day. Plenty of planets likely had corrupt officials in their local governments, and obviously plenty of normal people are just bad people who have no issue with hurting others for their own gain or pleasure. The Jedi cannot and should not be expected to somehow be able to keep all of it from happening. The Jedi RELIED on regular people being willing to stand up to corruption and oppression and injustice themselves. The Jedi were intended to be an INSPIRATION to others to fight back against their own darkness and the darkness around them, not the end all and be all of the solution to darkness.

And THAT'S what allows the Empire to fall eventually. The Jedi were gone, so people finally had to stand up to darkness on their own. There was no one left to hide behind and shield them from the consequences of their own cowardice. And not only do they stand up, but they ultimately win because we see them standing BESIDE THE JEDI. In Rebels, it's all of the regular people in the Rebellion working with both Kanan and Ezra that takes down Thrawn and saves Lothal. In the Original Trilogy, it's Luke using the Force and working alongside the other Rebel pilots that destroys the first Death Star and saves the Rebellion from total destruction.

What's interesting to me about the situation on Mina-Rau is that we see the community around them get scared and uncertain, same as we did on Ferrix, and we aren't entirely certain how the shop owner is going to react when the stormtroopers finally show up, but instead of falling prey to his own fears and selfishness the way Timm did last season, he actually STANDS UP and helps Brasso and Bix and Wil as much as he can. He gets them a way to escape, he refuses to sell them out, despite whatever he may or may not feel about them as undocumented immigrants. And it's not enough, obviously, it doesn't save Brasso or Bix, but it's still important that he DID make that choice to help them when he didn't have to and it put himself and his own family at risk to do it.

And that's what's important here. It's not a message that this is why the galaxy needs the Jedi, but a message that this is why it's important to continue to stand up for each other, to protect the people in your community, regardless of how you might feel about their choices or their politics personally. Maybe it won't save everyone, but that doesn't make it less worth doing. It's important for everyone, even regular people, to ACT like the Jedi, to have that compassion towards others, because THAT'S what's going to save us in the end, THAT'S what's going to defeat the darkness.

[fy-perspectives]

"Never let your sense of morals prevent you from doing what is right." 

Isaac Asimov

Reciprocity

The full quote is usually stated as "Whatever you are looking for is also looking for you," and it essentially means that the thing you actively seek in life is also actively seeking you out, often interpreted as a message of optimism and the power of intention. 

Key points about this quote:

Origin: While not definitively attributed to one person, it's often linked to the philosophy of Sufi poet Rumi, whose famous line is "What you seek is seeking you." 

Interpretation: This quote is generally understood as a positive affirmation, suggesting that if you put your energy towards finding something, it will likely appear in your life as well. 

Law of Attraction: Some people connect this quote to the concept of the Law of Attraction, which states that your thoughts and intentions can attract corresponding experiences into your life.

ethos

/ˈiːθɒs/

the characteristic spirit of a culture, era, or community as manifested in its attitudes and aspirations.

"a challenge to the ethos of the 1960s"

Similar: spirit, essence, character, quintessence, motivating force, morality, principles, ethics

"Actions speak louder than words" 

is an idiom that means what someone does is more important than what they say. It's often used to describe a situation where someone's actions don't match their words. 

Karma is an ancient Indian concept that refers to an action, work, or deed, and its effect or consequences.

Karma

Karma, in its essence, is the principle of cause and effect, rooted in ancient Indian philosophy. It suggests that every action—whether physical, verbal, or mental—has consequences that shape an individual's future, either in this life or in future incarnations. The idea is that positive actions lead to positive outcomes, while negative actions lead to suffering or undesirable consequences. Karma is often seen as a law of the universe that encourages ethical living, responsibility, and mindfulness, urging individuals to act with compassion, integrity, and awareness of the interconnectedness of all beings.

“I am a unique individual human being, breathing into the vastness of space and the essence of time, shaping my reality and affirming in existence.”

― A Abraham

This quote by A Abraham expresses a profound sense of self-awareness and empowerment. It acknowledges one's individuality as both a vital part of the universe and an active force in shaping reality. The words emphasise the significance of personal agency, as if each person is a living force that contributes to the unfolding of time and space. It reminds us that our existence is not just passive but transformative, affirming the unique mark we leave on the world through our actions, thoughts, and presence.

“Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolised.”

― Albert Einstein, Einstein on Politics: His Private Thoughts and Public Stands on Nationalism, Zionism, War, Peace and the Bomb

This quote by Albert Einstein emphasises the importance of recognising each person’s inherent worth while avoiding placing anyone on a pedestal. Respecting individuals for who they are, without elevating them to an unrealistic or unattainable status, promotes equality and a sense of shared humanity. It encourages us to appreciate people's unique contributions without turning them into idols or expecting perfection. This perspective fosters a more grounded, humble approach to relationships, where admiration doesn't lead to undue reverence, and individuals are valued for their true selves.

Whatever is hurtful to you, Do not do to any other person.

A command based on words of Jesus

This teaching, often referred to as the Golden Rule, aligns with Jesus' words in the Gospels: "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" (Matthew 7:12, Luke 6:31). It’s a profound moral principle that encourages empathy and compassion. The idea is simple yet powerful—before causing harm to others, we should consider how it would feel if the same were done to us. It promotes respect, kindness, and understanding, urging us to treat others with the dignity we wish for ourselves.

“Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love. I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.”

― Langston Hughes

This quote by Langston Hughes beautifully captures the balance between life's simple pleasures and the pursuit of knowledge. It reflects a holistic approach to living, where enjoyment and love coexist with work, learning, and personal growth. Hughes celebrates the richness of both the sensual and intellectual aspects of life, emphasising the importance of savouring each moment while also striving for deeper understanding. It’s a reminder that life is about finding harmony between the things that bring us joy and the things that help us grow.

“If you can't explain it to a six year old, you don't understand it yourself.”

― Albert Einstein

This quote by Albert Einstein speaks to the importance of clarity in understanding. If we can explain complex ideas in simple terms, it indicates a true mastery of the subject. The ability to break down concepts to their most basic, understandable form reflects deep comprehension and insight. It encourages us to seek simplicity in communication and understanding, ensuring that we don't just know something, but that we can effectively share it with others, regardless of their age or background.

“Life is a journey through space and time. 

Time is the ever-present moment in motion. 

Invest in minds that are full of ideas, concepts, and resolve. 

Together, we can create a better future for ourselves and for generations to come.”

― A Abraham

This quote by A Abraham beautifully captures the essence of life as a continuous journey, where the present moment is a constant flow of time. It emphasises the value of investing in the minds of those who are driven by ideas, concepts, and determination. The message inspires collective effort toward building a better future, highlighting the power of collaboration and forward-thinking. It reminds us that each step we take, guided by purpose and knowledge, shapes not just our own destiny but also the world we leave behind for future generations.

"Sometimes you have to distance yourself to see things clearly.”

― A Abraham

That's a powerful statement. Taking a step back or distancing oneself from a situation can often provide the clarity needed to gain perspective. It allows for a broader view, free from the emotional or immediate impulses that may cloud judgment. This space can foster better decision-making, insight, and understanding, especially when navigating complex situations or relationships. Do you find yourself reflecting on this idea in relation to something specific?

“Don't ever fill Silence and Empty Spaces with Evil Voices and Useless Objects respectively. 

One will Infect your Mind, The other will Make You A Slave.”

― A Abraham

That's a powerful quote, reflecting the importance of being mindful of both external influences and the things we allow into our lives. Silence is a space for reflection and clarity, and empty spaces, when filled with distractions or meaningless possessions, can hold us back from true freedom and purpose. It seems to encourage cultivating wisdom by guarding both the mind and the environment.

“People will love you. People will hate you. 

And none of it will have anything to do with you.”

― Abraham Hicks  

This quote by Abraham Hicks encapsulates a profound truth about human relationships and perception. It highlights the idea that people’s feelings toward you often stem more from their own perspectives, experiences, and inner worlds than from who you truly are. It’s a reminder to stay authentic and not be overly influenced by external validation or criticism.

“You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realise how seldom they do.”

― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

This quote beautifully highlights the human tendency to overestimate how much others focus on us. It's a liberating reminder to prioritize self-awareness and authenticity over the fear of external judgment. Most people are preoccupied with their own lives, which means we often have more freedom to be ourselves than we might think. It's a cornerstone of confidence and personal growth.

“You can make more friends in two months by becoming interested in other people than you can in two years by trying to get other people interested in you.”

― Dale Carnegie, How to Win Friends & Influence People

This quote from Dale Carnegie underscores the power of genuine curiosity and interest in others as the foundation of meaningful relationships. It reflects the idea that people are naturally drawn to those who make them feel valued and understood. By shifting focus from seeking attention to giving attention, you build trust and rapport more effectively.

“Any fool can criticise, complain, and condemn—and most fools do. 

But it takes character and self-control to be understanding and forgiving.”

― Dale Carnegie, How to Win Friends & Influence People

This quote highlights a profound truth about human interaction: it is far easier to judge and find fault than to exercise understanding and forgiveness. Dale Carnegie emphasizes that these qualities—character and self-control—require emotional maturity and strength. Practicing understanding and forgiveness not only nurtures relationships but also fosters personal growth and resilience.

“Live amongst people in such a manner that if you die they weep over you and if you are alive they crave for your company.”

― Ali Ibn Abi Talib

This quote by Ali Ibn Abi Talib highlights the importance of living with kindness, integrity, and generosity. It encourages us to build relationships that leave a lasting impact—where our presence is cherished, and our absence is deeply felt. The essence is to live in a way that others appreciate, respect, and miss us, both in life and in death. It's a reminder to be present and meaningful in the lives of others, fostering love and genuine connections.

“No two things have been combined better than knowledge and patience.”

― Hazrat Muhammad

This quote attributed to Hazrat Muhammad (peace be upon him) beautifully encapsulates the synergy between knowledge and patience. Knowledge allows us to understand, make informed decisions, and grow, while patience ensures that we endure challenges, give ideas time to mature, and navigate life's complexities with wisdom.

The combination of these two virtues is a recipe for success, as knowledge without patience can lead to haste, and patience without knowledge can lack direction. Together, they empower us to persevere and make meaningful contributions.

“The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.”

― David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest

David Foster Wallace's quote from Infinite Jest encapsulates a profound truth about the nature of self-awareness and growth. It suggests that truth is transformative but often disruptive—it doesn’t grant liberation until we fully confront and grapple with it, no matter how challenging or uncomfortable.

This can resonate deeply with anyone pursuing personal growth, as true freedom often requires facing hard realities and breaking through illusions about ourselves or the world.

“Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you. Be grateful it happens in that order.”

― David Gerrold

This quote by David Gerrold brings a darkly humorous perspective on the inevitability of life’s challenges and death. It’s a reminder of the transient nature of our existence, suggesting that despite life’s hardships, the order of events allows us to experience life before its end. It’s a way of encouraging gratitude for the time we have, even if it seems fleeting or difficult. The humour in it may also serve as a coping mechanism to remind us not to take life too seriously, embracing both its struggles and its brevity.

[flutesolo]

george lucas gave us the knowledge that a force user can use the force to impregnate someone. on a completely unrelated note, does the fact luke skywalker is obsessed with being a part of a family make anyone else want to eat drywall? or is it just me? he’s so desperate for a connection to his parents, his father specifically (but I suspect that’s only because his aunt and uncle could actually say something about him) that it’s basically the carrot obi wan and yoda dangle on a stick in front of him to compel him to train with them (not that it’s really necessary). he takes after his father in his need to belong to something, and have it belong to him in turn. and he has his mother’s compassion, his heart is so big he needs other people to help him carry it. anyway so how likely do you think it is that luke would use the force on himself to knoc—

[gffa]

Star Wars: From a Certain Point of View: Return of the Jedi | "Brotherhood" I NEED YOU TO UNDERSTAND THAT I STRAIGHT UP CRIED REAL TEARS AT THIS MOMENT. IT WAS EXACTLY WHAT I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO READ AND IT HIT ME RIGHT IN MY EMOTIONS. I was so wary going into this story, because the concepts of Force Ghosts are deeply important to me on a narrative level, that the Force and Lucas' philosphy in the movies and for the worldbuilding is that the message is: You need to let go when it's time. You can't hold on beyond anything or anyone's time, it will only cause you and others suffering. So, when Anakin's fiery determination seemed to be what kept him around as a Force ghost, I sighed a bit and kept shouldering on. I did not expect to be hit by the one-two-three-four punch of Obi-Wan's gentle guidance to get Anakin to the other side of the Force, Anakin's regret for what he'd done and the heart-wrenching way he instinctively turns to Obi-Wan and listens to him, Anakin looking on over his children with pride and faith in what they would do next, and then the ultimate message: "Finally, Anakin Skywalker let go." I AM EMOTIONAL. MY BOY FINALLY GOT TO THE PLACE THAT GAVE HIM PEACE. It was a perfect build-up to where Anakin needed to be in this moment, that this story is centered around the depth of his connection to Obi-Wan, that it's instinctual for him to reach out and grab onto the hand Obi-Wan is holding out to him, to turn to Obi-Wan and listen, like a flower turns towards the sun, now that he's out of the worst of the haze of the dark side. To seeing his children, seeing Padme in them, seeing both of them in the twins, and finally, finally letting all that noise in his head go. Trusting that Luke and Leia and their friends would make their own way forward. "It just took one final nudge from Obi-Wan to get there. Finally, Anakin Skywalker let go." What a perfect summation of Anakin's character and his difficult journey, his relationship with Obi-Wan, and one of the most central themes George Lucas intended for Star Wars. Becoming a Force Ghost is about letting go--Qui-Gon said that in the original ROTS script, he said it in TCW, the OWK show basically had the same message, and now Anakin has gotten there, too. That it acknowledged his part in everything that happened and did it with tremendous compassion, because that's what Jedi are all about. Obi-Wan has let go as well, he doesn't hang onto the hurt or the suffering, especially not when he will gain so much by letting go and embracing compassion for Anakin. He gently guides Anakin to understanding that he wasn't solely responsible for everything, only for the choices he made. Those choices were terrible, he bears that mark, they aren't erased just because Anakin is sorry, but holding onto all that guilt and pain is just more suffering. Obi-Wan has let go and, through that, he can guide Anakin to let go as well, and regain his friend. This is everything the Jedi have always taught coming to fruition. So, I'm emotional for my baby boy, that he finally got there after a lifetime of struggling, that he's finally at peace, and I'm emotional as a Star Wars fan, that the themes of my favorite franchise were just knocked out of the park.

[tryandbehappy]

NICK CHOSE GILEAD? So if they really wanted to run with this idea that he chose power or chose Gilead, they should’ve actually built it up. At the very least, they definitely shouldn’t have given him a wife and a son because that immediately undermines the idea that he’s loyal to Gilead itself. It shows he’s loyal to his family, to his personal responsibilities, and that he’s a deeply faithful person. Which is exactly what we saw throughout the series. And that doesn’t make him a villain, no matter how hard they try to twist it. You cannot say someone is evil just because he didn’t abandon his wife and child. (They even showed in the finale that he only got on the plane because his wife manipulated him using their son, guilt-tripping him, emotionally pressuring him. So even when they tried to frame him as some cold traitor, they still couldn’t manage it—because clearly, he wasn’t choosing power or career.)

If they wanted to sell the idea that he was loyal to Gilead because he believed in its ideology or loved the power he wouldn’t have outside of it, then fine—don’t give him a family. And do show him betraying June in some serious, intentional way. Maybe have him try to pull her into New Bethlehem by force, or manipulate her with Nicole, or do something that clearly places him on the other side. Actually build that conflict. Maybe he should’ve prioritized his own political future over June’s needs. Maybe he shouldn’t have helped save Luke and Moira on the very day of his fucking promotion. But instead, he did help. He did risk everything.

So yeah, it’s unbelievably dumb. And what’s worse, it feels like they just slandered him out of nowhere. We’re watching this character get dragged and smeared in-universe and in promo articles and trailers, where he’s now lumped in with the villains. And I just—like—what the actual fuck is going on? It seriously feels like a global gaslight. Like everyone’s pretending this man was a monster when he never was.

And look—if you want to turn someone into a villain, fine! Do it. But do it properly. Build an arc. Show us how and why he changed. That would be interesting. That would be worth analyzing. But what they did was turn a victim into a scapegoat and then bullied him like that was totally normal.

All Nick haters are bullies pretending they have some moral compass including the writers and the cast of course

[david-talks-sw]

Back in 2021, @writerbuddha wrote this amazing post where he interweaved Lucas' words in his meta post defending the Jedi. I'd like to take a page out of their book and start a 4-part series of posts on Anakin. Here we go! Here's PART 2 and PART 2.5 !

In George Lucas' words: The Fall and Return of Anakin Skywalker

- Episode I -

Episode I exists to show us that Anakin Sykwalker makes it into Jedi school, becomes free, and realizes his dream. But in the process, he has to go through a lot of painful sacrifices.

When we meet Anakin, he is a young slave boy who dreams of becoming a Jedi. Lucas makes it a point that, he’s a really wonderful, angelic little kid.

This is intentional. The reason George started the story where he did. He played with having Anakin start out in his late teens like Luke, or age him down to twelve-years-old. The problem was that a twelve-year-old leaving his mother - as Anakin does - is not nearly as traumatic as a nine-year-old leaving his mother. And there is a key story point that revolves around the fact that he was separated from his other at an early age, and how that has affected him.

The whole point of Anakin’s arc in the Prequels is that Anakin is a normal, good kid. And how does somebody who is normal and good turn bad? What are the qualities, what is it that we all have within us that will turn us bad?”

Well, Anakin has some flaws - and those flaws ultimately do him in. Those flaws are hard to see in Episode I, but they are there. He’s cursed by the same flaws, and issues that he has to overcome, that all humans are cursed with. There's a lot going on there. 

In Episode I, we see that there are a lot of parallels between Luke and Anakin. In Episode IV, Luke does struggle with his commitment to his uncle and his commitment to a larger destiny. His heart is to go and go off on this adventure, but he's caught in his obligations to the mundane, so to speak.

Eventually, Anakin takes a different road than his son takes, but it’s been set-up for you to almost expect that they will go— that Luke will follow in his father’s footsteps. Once again, these are issues that Anakin, Luke, and anyone can confront.

After all, once he liberates himself through a Podrace, Anakin is confronted with the fact that he will need to leave his mother, Shmi, behind. Shmi is caught in a struggle. She loves her son, but she wants a better life for him and has to let him go.

So she does. Right off the bat, the first movie shows Anakin’s mother display a type of selfless love - which Lucas refers to as “compassion” - that Anakin will only really be able to learn in the last movie.

Now, when they get to Coruscant, Anakin needs to be tested to allow him to be accepted as a Jedi, eventually. Because he has the powers… but as Yoda points out, there’s a lot of fear in him, and anger. That’s why they actually deny him the chance to become a Jedi. But it’s also - when they relent later on - it’s the thing that ultimately begins to describe some of his downfall.

In theory, the child should have been trained by Yoda until he was about seven or eight years old. And then when he was seven or eight, he'd be given a Jedi, he'd become the Padawan learner to a Jedi. 

But Qui-Gon wants Anakin to skip the early training and jump right to taking him on as his Padawan learner, which is controversial, and ultimately, the source of much of the problems that develop later on.

It is obvious that Qui-Gon is wrong and made a dangerous decision, but ultimately this decision may be correct. Anakin is indeed the chosen one.

That doesn't mean that the Council's prediction is wrong. The tale meanders and both the prediction and Qui-Gon are correct. Anakin will be taken over by dark forces which in turn destroy the balance of the Galaxy, but the individual who kills the Emperor is Darth Vader— also Anakin, who brings peace at last with his own sacrifice.

Once Qui-Gon dies, ironically enough, it’s Obi-Wan that has to train Anakin and take care of him and take over the responsibility that Qui-Gon has started. The Jedi Council let Anakin in and they make him Obi-Wan's Padawan.

Sources:

The Phantom Menace Commentary Tracks #1 and #2, 1999

Cut Magazine, 1999

Premiere, 1999

The Making of The Phantom Menace, 1999

Star Wars Insider #52, 2000

A New Hope, Commentary Track, Special Edition DVD, 2004

The Making of Revenge of The Sith, 2005

The Cinema of George Lucas, 2005

Starlog Magazine #337, 2005

BONUS: How George describes Obi-Wan's initial thoughts on Anakin

Throughout the film, Obi-Wan is at odds with Qui-Gon, who rebels against the Jedi rules. So when he meets him, Obi-Wan does not trust Anakin. He’s not a big fan, he has a suspicion, this initial skepticism toward Anakin which is why Lucas didn't want to overplay the scene where they first meet.

He’s like the reluctant elder brother saying, “You’re not leaving him with me. I don’t want to babysit anymore, I want to go out and do something good.”

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan disagree about using what one would call in mythological terms "the guide." One believes in the guide. The other one doesn't. Obi-Wan’s argument is that taking on characters like Jar Jar or Anakin with them on the trip is “going to slow us down. This is not a wise thing to do.” 

It's a classic mythological motif but at the same time, it's conflict. The characters have to grow so what happens is that eventually the character that is very much against doing this has the obligation transferred to them. 

So by the end of the film, Obi-Wan has become Qui-Gon, by taking on his rebellious personality and responsibilities.

Obi-Wan commits, and tells Anakin that he’s going to train him. He has character and takes responsibility. Han Solo would’ve left him out on a desert planet somewhere.

Sources:

The Phantom Menace Commentary Tracks #1 and #2, 1999

The Making of The Phantom Menace, 1999

The Making of Revenge of The Sith, 2005

The Star Wars Archives: 1999-2005, 2020

[untitlzd]

world class sin : 1 chain reaction

sim jaeyun, park sunghoon, park jongseong x male reader.

The cameras move in before the dust settles. What used to be their dorm is now a set — lights softened, angles planned, and every movement up for broadcast. The reality show begins with four boys, three rooms, and too much tension packed into too little space. Jay stays behind the lens. Sunghoon keeps quiet. Jake watches more than he should. And then there’s Y/n — the last to arrive, but the first thing the camera chooses. He doesn’t ask why he’s there. He just settles in. And by the end of the night, nothing feels like it belongs to them anymore.

warnings: idol!reader, objectification, noncon(?), voyeurism, possessiveness, psychological tension, industry power dynamics, masturbation, emotional manipulation, subtle gaslighting, obsessive behavior, celebrity exploitation, toxic dorm dynamics, dark themes of identity loss, performance vs. reality, aestheticization of grief and desire, morally gray characters, elitism within the industry, unresolved jealousy, subtle yandere behavior, inspired by The Idol and Anora.

please read before continuing:

Content Warning + Author’s Note World Class Sin is a fictional story. It is not real. The characters portrayed here are fictionalized versions inspired by public figures, but they do not reflect the real personalities, actions, or values of anyone in real life. This story is created purely for fictional storytelling and emotional exploration — nothing in it should be read as truth, reality, or a commentary on real people. This fic is made of dramatized emotions, and heightened dynamics set within a stylized, pressurized version of the global idol industry. Though it explores intensity, control, and desire, it is not intended to reflect what is healthy, safe, or good in real life. This story includes themes that may be emotionally heavy or difficult for some readers — such as emotional manipulation, objectification, isolation, possessiveness, psychological pressure, voyeuristic or obsessive dynamics, and moments where characters are treated as products instead of people. It also includes mature or NSFW scenes that reflect those imbalances — shaped by tension, not tenderness. The characters are morally gray. They are flawed, reckless, and often driven by desire more than compassion. They do things that are not admirable. And while those choices may be compelling in fiction, they are not excuses for real behavior — and they are not meant to romanticize harm. If you’re someone who’s sensitive to themes of control, emotional coercion, unwanted attention, or being dehumanized — please read with care. If at any point something in this story feels too close to home, too sharp, too familiar — you are allowed to stop. You never need to push through discomfort to prove anything. There is no story more important than your peace. You are not someone’s fantasy. You do not have to be ruined to be seen, or hurt to be held. If this story ever makes you feel small, unsafe, or alone — please, please take space. Close the tab. Drink water. Text someone who sees you clearly. Come back only if and when it feels right. And if it never feels right again — that’s okay too. Please don’t force yourself to return. This story does not deserve more of you than you’re able to give. From writer to reader — I care about you. I care about your well-being more than this plot or any fictional moment. You matter more than anything written here. Your softness, your boundaries, and your safety are always worth protecting. Please take care of yourself. You’re never alone in choosing yourself. With care, Luke

It had only been a handful of days since the meeting, but time inside the company moved like something warped and liquid — slow in the waiting, brutal in the doing. They trained like machines. Jay kept the music looping until their muscles burned. Sunghoon broke down formations until breath became something secondary. Jake rewrote lyrics over and over until the pages started to look like bruises. No one said Y/n’s name if they didn’t have to. And Y/n, for his part, didn’t interrupt the rhythm. He moved like a ghost through the hours, a blur of long sleeves and careful nods. He showed up on time. He stayed quiet. He tried.

But even when he tried, he was always out of step. And still, the cameras seemed to love him.

The staff didn’t bother hiding it anymore. The stylists fixed his hair longer than anyone else’s. The lighting crew adjusted setups when he stepped in frame. The vocal coach softened her tone when giving him corrections, as though his body might bruise from a single raised voice. And it wasn’t just coddling. It was curation. Every outfit was slightly too tight at the waist, too low at the collar. Every pose leaned closer to exposed. His shirts clung. His gaze lingered. Even his stillness — that soft, inward blankness that had once been grief — had been reframed as something ethereal. Desirable. The kind of quiet people wanted to hear scream.

Y/n didn’t flirt. He didn’t even look people in the eyes for long. But it didn’t matter. He was being edited into something consumable, frame by frame, and he didn’t know how to stop it. They said he was dreamy. Delicate. Sad in a way that made people want to reach through the screen and touch his mouth. They called it presence. They meant marketability. And whether he understood it or not, Y/n was becoming something they could sell.

The other boys felt it too — that sick pull in the room whenever Y/n was in frame. It wasn’t just jealousy anymore. It was something stranger. A tension that twisted between wanting him gone and not wanting anyone else to have him. Jay barked orders at him during practice but stood too close when the camera was rolling. Sunghoon corrected him with ice in his voice and then watched him through the mirror when he wasn’t supposed to. Jake wouldn’t even meet his eyes half the time, but the silence between them buzzed like static.

It was all building to something they hadn’t named yet.

So when the producer walked into the room that morning — clipboard in hand, fake-smiling like she was about to sell a lie — no one was really surprised.

“The company’s putting together a reality show,” she said, eyes bright. “A dorm-style series. Just a few weeks of filming while you prep for debut. We want fans to see your bond. Your chemistry. You’re all going to be living together full-time for the cameras.”

Jay didn’t say anything. His jaw flexed once.

Jake set down his pen too hard.

Sunghoon crossed his arms and tilted his head, unimpressed.

The producer kept smiling.

“It’s already in production,” she said. “Think of it as a soft launch. You’re not idols yet — this is how they’ll learn to fall in love with you.”

Her eyes landed on Y/n.

“And you — you don’t need to do anything. Just be yourself.”

Y/n blinked once.

The others didn’t look at him. Not right away. But the silence that followed said everything.

Just be yourself.

It was a joke. A trap. An invitation and a dare.

Because Y/n didn’t have a self anymore. He had an image. One the company was already scripting. One that leaned too close to pain. One that made strangers whisper about how soft his lips looked when he wasn’t talking. One that wrapped grief in lace and called it charisma.

And now the others would be expected to orbit him. To smile for the cameras. To play the game.

Even if it meant tearing themselves apart in private.

The dorm hadn’t felt like home in weeks, but now it didn’t even feel like theirs.

They were told the cameras would be subtle. Discreet. “Just a little footage,” the producer had said with a practiced smile. “A few quiet moments, some chemistry in the dorms. Fans love to see the group dynamic this close to debut.” What that translated to was an invasion — not dramatic, not loud, just insidious enough to settle under the skin. It started with the sound techs: quiet shoes, careful wiring. Then the rigging teams, slipping cameras into corners like they were installing smoke detectors. One above the fridge. Another tucked behind the potted plant in the entryway. A third embedded in the hallway wall, barely the size of a thumbprint, but pointed just right to catch whoever left their bedroom at 2 a.m. in a shirt too thin and eyes too tired. The lenses were invisible unless you knew where to look — and they all knew where to look.

No one asked them if it was okay.

Jay had stood in the middle of the kitchen as it was happening, shoulders square, jaw locked, eyes following every movement like he was waiting for a reason to snap. Jake didn’t say anything. He just hovered by the window, arms crossed, pulse sharp in his throat. Sunghoon watched quietly from the hallway, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable — but his silence wasn’t passive. It was the kind that simmered.

It only got worse when the stylist arrived.

She wasn’t new — they’d seen her around the building, usually hovering near shoot sets, clipboard in hand, always smiling. This time, she brought clothes. A rack for each of them, but it was clear who the centerpiece was.

“Just something comfortable for the dorm scenes,” she said, breezy and bright, like she wasn’t placing a pile of sleeveless knits and sheer fabrics in front of Y/n. “You all have strong images, but we want him to feel…” She trailed off, searching for the word. “Soft. Natural. Like warmth, but also… fragile.”

Y/n stood by the couch, silent, arms at his sides. His hair was still damp from rehearsal. There were red marks on his knees from the flooring. He hadn’t spoken much all day, just followed instructions like always. When the stylist stepped toward him, holding up a barely-there tank top with a faint blush of pink at the seams, he didn’t flinch. Just nodded. Took it in both hands like he was used to being handed things he didn’t choose.

Jay didn’t look away.

“Why’s he the only one getting ‘fragile’?” he said finally, voice sharp. It wasn’t even a question. It was a warning.

The stylist blinked, caught off guard. “No, no — it’s not like that. He just… looks better in these cuts. It’s what works for his vibe.”

“His vibe,” Jake echoed, low, like he was testing the sound of it just to see how much he hated it.

“He’s barely worn anything on camera,” Sunghoon said coldly. “And you already know what his vibe is?”

“He doesn’t need to do much,” the stylist replied, still smiling. “That’s the beauty of him. Everyone sees it.”

And that was the problem. Everyone did see it.

Y/n didn’t resist. He didn’t argue. He only nodded again, clutching the fabric gently like it might break in his hands. Like he was the one who would break it. His expression didn’t change — those same wide, unreadable eyes, glossy and hollow in a way that wasn’t performative. Just present. He looked like someone who was used to being looked at. Who had learned to disappear in the space between admiration and consumption.

Jay hated that he recognized it.

Jake hated how his gaze kept drifting back to the stretch of skin just under Y/n’s collarbone. Sunghoon hated that he was already imagining the camera’s angle when Y/n wore that shirt — how the fabric would shift when he sat, how it would ride up when he walked barefoot to the kitchen at night.

They weren’t supposed to care. Not like this. They were supposed to be angry. They were. Furious. But tangled in that fury was something deeper. Some low, bitter thread of wanting. Not affection. Not curiosity. Possession. And it made them sick.

Y/n hadn’t even debuted, and already people were touching his image like it was theirs. Molding it. Dressing it. Whispering things behind production screens, writing captions for footage that hadn’t even aired yet. “He’s the soft one.” “He’s the dream.” “The one people want to hold or hurt.” All of it designed to make him into something the world could hunger for.

And Y/n let it happen.

Not because he was naïve — but because he’d stopped expecting the world to ask for permission.

He went to change without a word.

The boys sat in silence.

Jay’s knee bounced. Jake stared at the corner of the room where the lens blinked red. Sunghoon dragged a thumb across his lip, slow and tight.

None of them said what they were thinking.

That the industry wanted Y/n to be breakable — and they were afraid of how badly they wanted to be the ones to break him.

Not for cruelty. Not even for revenge.

Just to prove that no one else could.

The bedroom door creaked open, and the sound cut through the dorm like a match dragging across stone. Nothing dramatic. Just quiet. Small. But every head turned at once. Y/n stepped out like he wasn’t being watched, which only made it worse. He wasn’t performing. He wasn’t even looking up. His gaze hovered somewhere near the floor, and he tugged at the edge of the hoodie sleeve still hanging from one wrist, like maybe he’d forgotten how to feel covered. The tank top fit like it had been cut into him. Thin, soft fabric clinging to his ribs. One strap had already slipped down again, caught on the curve of his shoulder like a secret. The shorts — loose, pale, cheap — hung dangerously low. His skin looked flushed from the changing room, still warm in patches like he’d rushed. Like he was embarrassed. But his expression didn’t match. Those eyes — too big, too sad, too aware — weren’t embarrassed. They were blank. Dreamy. Almost haunted. He looked like someone who had gotten used to being told what he was, instead of asking who he could be.

Jay’s breath hitched. Not audibly, but enough. He shifted where he sat and tried not to look like he was looking. The anger was still there — of course it was — but beneath it, something worse. Something that crawled under the skin and made it hard to breathe. Y/n wasn’t even doing anything. That was what made it unbearable. He just existed like this. Soft and quiet and somehow devastating. The kind of beautiful that made you feel violent.

Jake stared too long. Then looked away. Then looked back. His knee bumped the table and made the water bottles rattle, and no one said anything. Y/n hadn’t even spoken yet. He was just standing by the wall, adjusting the hem of his shirt like maybe it felt wrong — or maybe it felt exactly right, and that scared him more.

Sunghoon’s jaw was tight. He stood, slowly, and walked past the coffee table like he needed to stretch his legs. But his eyes didn’t leave Y/n, not once. It was the way the light from the hallway hit the side of his face. The way his lips parted slightly every time he breathed in, like the world still surprised him. Like he wasn’t used to being here. Like he was waiting for someone to wake him up.

A soft chime echoed from the entryway — the signal the cameras were live.

“Rolling,” said a voice from the hallway.

And just like that, they were no longer alone.

They were castmates.

They were chemistry.

They were whatever the public needed them to be.

Y/n blinked once, slow. He moved toward the kitchen counter, barefoot, quiet, posture tucked in on itself like he hadn’t figured out how to take up space yet. He pulled open the fridge like it might fight him, pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it open. The cameras followed. Not close — not yet. But steady. Unblinking. The lens didn’t cut away. It just… stared. The same way everyone else did.

And the boys watched it happen. Watched the way the camera loved him — not because he was confident or flashy or trained, but because there was something wrong with him. Something unfinished. And that was what made people want to touch him. Not to comfort him. To leave fingerprints.

Jay shifted forward, elbows on his knees. He didn’t trust this. Didn’t trust the footage, or the way it would be edited, or the way people would talk about Y/n like he was some fragile little secret the world had finally earned. But more than that, he didn’t trust himself — the part of him that wanted to be the one on screen with Y/n. The part that wanted to push him up against the counter and ask him what the fuck he thought he was doing, walking around like that. Looking like that. Belonging to no one.

Jake’s throat was dry. The camera operator moved a little closer now, trying to catch a better angle of the group — but the lens lingered. It always did. Jake hated it. But he also understood it. It was how Y/n made you feel: like you had to keep looking, or you might miss something. Like you were about to fall in love with a bruise.

Sunghoon said nothing. Just leaned against the back of the couch and watched the screen where the live feed played. And what he saw made something inside him twist. Because it wasn’t fair. Not to any of them. And yet, he didn’t want to give it back. Didn’t want anyone else to have it. He didn’t even know what “it” was. Just that Y/n had it. And now they did too — by proximity. By accident. Or by design.

The dorm was quiet except for the buzz of fluorescent light and the low hum of the lens tracking movement. Y/n sat down on the couch without speaking. The fabric of his tank top creased faintly when he leaned forward to place the bottle on the floor. His shoulder blade pushed up beneath the cotton. His neck bent gently. He didn’t look at them.

But they were all looking at him.

And that was the real beginning.

The camera was already rolling by the time Y/n sat on the couch — one leg folded beneath him, the other stretched out loosely in front. His tank top shifted with the movement, dragging up the line of his ribs, the fabric bunching just high enough to show a sliver of skin above the waistband of his shorts. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he was just trying not to. The shorts, loose and low and barely held by the elastic, shifted with every shift of his hips. He tugged at the hem absently, not to cover himself, but out of habit — like someone who still wasn’t used to clothes that weren’t meant for comfort.

Jay noticed immediately.

Not because he wanted to, but because he was already watching.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and without saying anything, reached across and tugged the edge of Y/n’s tank top down slightly. Not enough to be rough. Not enough to be noticed by the cameras. Just enough to fix what Y/n hadn’t. His fingers brushed too close to skin, and Y/n blinked — startled — before quickly looking away.

Sunghoon was standing nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight. When Y/n shifted again and the fabric of his shorts rode up too high on one side, Sunghoon stepped closer — not to speak, not to reprimand, but to nudge the corner of the blanket draped over the couch so it fell across Y/n’s legs. Smooth. Silent. Protective, but sharp. Like he was marking territory in a language only they understood.

Y/n gave them a small smile, barely-there, like he knew what they were doing and didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or grateful. He tugged at the tank top again, self-conscious now. His fingers trembled slightly against the cotton.

“They told me to be comfortable,” Y/n mumbled, half-laughing. “This is… comfortable, I guess.”

Comfortable. But not to him. That much was obvious.

The stylist had called it soft. Vulnerable. Said it would “invite the audience in.” But all it really did was make him look like he hadn’t dressed himself at all — like someone had styled a doll and told him to pretend he lived in it.

And now he was sitting under hot lights, smile faltering, too many limbs and too much skin in clothes he didn’t choose.

Jay’s stare didn’t soften. Jake kept his distance, but his eyes kept catching on the edge of Y/n’s knee, the soft skin where his thigh met the inside of the short’s hem. A flush crept up Jake’s neck. He didn’t speak until the silence thickened too much.

Then, like a blade drawn slow — “Oh, right. Y/n has a short trainee period.”

The words were casual on the surface. But the edge was clear.

Y/n looked down, smile faltering for real now. He nodded, almost like an apology. “Yeah. Just a couple weeks.”

And that was it.

The sentence sucked the air from the room.

Because it wasn’t just a reminder — it was a message. He hasn’t earned this. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Look at him. Look at how he sits. Look at how he’s dressed. He’s not one of us.

But the camera still loved him.

And that made it worse.

The lens didn’t flinch. It watched Y/n tug gently at the edge of his shorts again. It caught the way he smiled, soft and a little crooked, and turned slightly toward the group as if to invite conversation — like he was trying. Like someone had told him he needed to make people want to talk to him.

“Do you guys always eat together?” Y/n asked after a beat, trying again. His voice was light, but the nervous lilt was there. “Like… dinners? Group meals? Or is it more everyone-does-their-own-thing?”

The question wasn’t awkward. Not really.

But it sounded awkward coming from him.

Jay shrugged without looking at him. “Depends on the day.”

Jake muttered, “We used to. Before the cameras.”

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. Just watched. And Y/n nodded, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to shrink under the weight of it all.

He sat back slowly, spine against the couch. The tank top slipped again — barely. A glimpse of collarbone. The top of his chest. One shoulder fully bared.

And none of them moved this time.

None of them touched him. But they all noticed. All of them saw it. Felt the impulse crawl under their skin.

He wasn’t doing anything.

But somehow, everything about him looked like an invitation.

And none of them were brave enough — or cruel enough — to say what they really felt:

That they wanted to cover him up.

Or touch him first.

Before anyone else tried.

The silence hung too long after Y/n’s question, like the air had to bend around the discomfort before it could move again. And then, as if summoned by tension alone, the door opened — one of the production crew slipping inside with a clipboard and a bright, rehearsed smile.

“Hey, boys,” she chirped, too cheerful for the time of night. “We’re rolling, so we thought it’d be fun to warm things up a little! Something easy, casual. Just a quick game to break the ice.”

Jay didn’t even look up. “We’ve known each other for years.”

She laughed like that was charming. “Exactly! But the audience hasn’t. It’ll be good for chemistry. Let’s get the viewers invested, right?”

Sunghoon’s fingers tightened around the back of the couch.

Jake muttered something under his breath — too quiet to catch, but sharp.

The woman ignored it. She pointed to a card on the table that hadn’t been there earlier. “It’s simple,” she said. “Get-to-know-you questions. Some light movement. A little tag game built in, just for fun. Run around a bit. Keep it cute. Energy’s everything!”

Jay’s gaze snapped to her then. Cold. Disbelieving. “You want us to play tag.”

“In a way!” she chirped. “With a twist. Loser has to answer a personal question. The camera loves unscripted moments like this.”

And then, turning toward Y/n, her tone softened. “Especially from you, sweetheart. Just be natural, okay? Don’t overthink it. You look great already.”

Y/n blinked slowly. He still hadn’t moved from the couch. His shoulder was still bare. His tank top had slipped again. He was trying not to notice.

Sunghoon did.

So did Jake.

Jay’s stare hadn’t shifted.

But the game was happening now, whether they liked it or not.

The crew gave them their cue. The camera panned. A red light blinked to life above the hallway corner. Someone clapped off-screen. “Go ahead. Just play.”

Y/n stood reluctantly. His knees bent carefully, the shorts already sliding too far down his hip bones. He tugged at the waistband once. Twice. No use. They were too loose. They weren’t his. The tank top clung to his torso like it was painted on — thin enough to show the faintest outline of his ribs when he turned toward the light.

It wasn’t that he was trying to show skin. He just didn’t know how to hide it.

The others clocked it instantly.

Jay rose with a sharp exhale. He didn’t say anything, but the way he moved — fast, abrupt — made it clear this wasn’t a game to him. He stepped between Y/n and the camera for a second too long before walking to the far side of the living room. A quiet, territorial motion. Deliberate.

Sunghoon followed. His eyes hadn’t left Y/n since the crew started talking, but now his expression had changed. Not just cold. Protective. Appraising. Like he was calculating how much footage they could get before someone called it too much.

Jake hung back. Still by the kitchen, but watching Y/n’s every movement. Every shift. Every adjustment of fabric. The way he bent slightly when the card was picked up — the way his shirt lifted in the back, the curve of his spine catching in the light.

He wanted to say something. Fix something.

But he didn’t.

Because the game had already started.

Y/n was “it.”

“Tag someone,” the crew called cheerfully.

Y/n laughed once — awkward, a little too light — and stepped forward. His bare feet padded softly across the laminate floor. He reached out and tapped Jay’s arm. “You’re closest,” he said, half-smiling.

Jay didn’t flinch. Just held Y/n’s gaze for a beat too long, then darted across the room — sharp, practiced motion like he’d been waiting for something to burn off the frustration still riding his ribs. Y/n chased. Or tried to. The shorts rode low again. He stumbled slightly, hands gripping the hem to keep from flashing too much skin. The cameras caught it. Of course they did. They were angled for it. Framed for it.

And the boys saw that, too.

Jake swore under his breath and moved toward the edge of the frame. He passed by Y/n in the hallway, brushing his wrist as if by accident — but what he really did was tug the tank top back down slightly over Y/n’s stomach.

“Fix your shirt,” Jake muttered, eyes on the floor.

Y/n nodded, flushed.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything when Y/n passed by him next, but when the tank top shifted again, he reached out — two fingers tugging the strap back over Y/n’s shoulder. The touch was feather-light. Almost dismissive. But the glance he gave the camera afterward was anything but.

Stop watching him.

Stop turning him into something he isn’t ready to be.

The game wrapped quickly. The crew laughed. The questions didn’t matter. No one remembered the answers. All that would survive in the edit were the moments: the stretch of a spine, the brush of fabric, the way Y/n’s eyes looked confused and soft and overwhelmed all at once.

The boys sat again when it ended.

Y/n pulled the blanket over his lap, still breathing lightly from the running.

Jake sat stiffly on the floor near the coffee table, fingers twitching against his knee.

Sunghoon leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes distant.

Jay didn’t speak.

He just stared at the director in the corner, like he could burn a hole through the wall with silence alone.

Because none of this felt like a debut.

It felt like a test.

And Y/n was the product they were all being measured against.

Not as a member.

But as something else.

The dorm lights were low and golden, like they were meant to flatter rather than illuminate. The cameras had stopped rolling hours ago, but the atmosphere hadn’t lifted. It never really did. The corners of the room still hummed with the residue of performance. Tape from body mics clung to the walls in fragile curls. Footsteps echoed too cleanly off the floor. Everyone moved like they were still being filmed — even when they weren’t. Especially when they weren’t.

Y/n was in the bedroom alone when he saw it: the rack pushed neatly against the far wall. Garment bag open, not fully unzipped. Like someone had delivered it quietly while no one was looking. Inside was exactly what they’d expected. Or maybe worse. A curated blend of vintage-sporty and designer-cheap — cropped hoodies, low-cut tanks, shorts with elastic that had clearly been stretched for effect. Some pieces looked like replicas of something you’d wear to gym class. Others looked like something you’d fuck in and then leave behind. The color palette was soft: washed-out blues, pale creams, nostalgic reds — like childhood if childhood had been styled by an random intern with a Pinterest board labeled softcore athlete.

There was a note pinned to the inside, the handwriting bubbly and insincere:

“For this week — comfortable & casual vibes :) Don’t worry, you look amazing in everything.”

Y/n didn’t react. He didn’t sigh or frown or touch his face. He just stared at it. Then he reached for the top piece — a zip-up cropped hoodie — and tugged it off the hanger like he was used to dressing in someone else’s idea of him. He didn’t change out of it. He didn’t try to find an alternative. Just ran a hand through his hair, shook it out, and walked barefoot to the kitchen.

Jay was the first to look up.

And then he couldn’t look away.

Y/n looked… obscene. Not in a dramatic way — not like he was trying. That was the problem. It was careless, accidental, and it made Jay feel something sharp in his stomach. The hoodie was loose but short, hitting just above the waistline of his shorts, and every time he lifted an arm, it rode up just enough to flash a strip of skin above his hips. The shorts were worse. Thin and pale and so fucking low, they didn’t sit so much as hang off him, like they belonged to someone bigger, someone careless. The waistband dipped too far in the front. But it was the back that got to Jay. The way the fabric stretched when Y/n leaned over to reach for the sauce packet, tight across his hips, pulled high in the middle like it was clinging to him. The dip of his spine. The curve of his ass.

Jay felt his jaw lock. Then his thigh tense.

And then his dick twitch — just once, but unmistakable.

He looked away. Immediately. But not fast enough.

It was the kind of wrong that didn’t even try to hide — just walked in wearing shorts that made him look like a fantasy someone else had paid for. And Jay was furious. Not at Y/n. Not exactly. But at the way it worked. At the way Y/n didn’t fight it. At the way he didn’t seem to know what he looked like — or worse, did know, and didn’t care.

He barely tasted his food after that.

Y/n sat cross-legged on the floor, so fucking pretty it made Jay ache. The collar of his hoodie was loose, slipping to one side. His legs were long, smooth where the shorts hit high on his thighs. He looked smaller like that. Tucked in on himself. Quiet. Like something valuable left unattended.

Jay’s gaze kept dropping. To the waistband. To the way the cotton puckered around his hipbone. To the curve of his thigh when he shifted his weight.

It felt disgusting. And good.

He stood up fast, half-muttering something that wasn’t really a sentence. His stomach was tight. His mouth dry. His hard-on pressing thick and unbearable behind his waistband.

“I’m showering,” he lied — voice hoarse, too low. He was already halfway down the hall before anyone could reply. The bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

Jake looked down at his water bottle. Pretended not to notice.

Sunghoon’s gaze followed Y/n’s hand as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. Slow. Too slow. Then he looked away too, like he’d been caught staring at something indecent.

But none of them said anything.

Because they all knew the stylist hadn’t dressed him like that by accident. They all knew the company was building him — shaping him — into something to be watched. And they all knew what it meant that they couldn’t stop watching, either.

Y/n didn’t say much during dinner. Just nodded a few times. Laughed, softly, at something no one heard. His smile was pale and practiced, the kind you wore for commercials or goodbye kisses. It didn’t reach his eyes. But then again, it didn’t need to. His eyes had already done the damage.

And Jay — locked in the bathroom now, hand pressed hard against the sink, panting, angry, hard as fuck — couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to touch the skin under that fucking hoodie.

To yank the shorts down.

To see if Y/n would still smile like that when someone finally stopped pretending he was just a product.

The bathroom was too small to hold it. The heat. The pressure. The way Jay’s body felt tight enough to split open at the seams.

He turned the water on — hot, sharp, loud — not to bathe, but to drown the sound. The sound of his breathing, already jagged. The way he unzipped his pants like it hurt to wait another second. The elastic of his boxers dragged roughly down his thighs. His cock sprang out heavy, flushed red at the tip, already leaking. Already aching. He didn’t touch it yet. Not right away.

He needed the image first.

And it came without effort. Without mercy.

Y/n, bent just slightly at the waist, hoodie riding up over the small of his back, shorts stretched taut across his ass like they’d been painted there. Not on purpose. That was the fucking problem. None of it was on purpose. He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t posing. He just existed like that — loose, soft, undone. Like the world had already peeled him open and hadn’t even bothered sewing him shut.

Jay’s fist curled around his length and groaned — low, breathless, obscene.

He stroked slow at first, dragging his palm up over the flushed head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft with a hiss through his teeth. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tender. His grip was rough, punishing, the kind you’d use if you hated what you wanted.

And he did.

God, he did.

Because it wasn’t just the way Y/n looked. It was the fucking passivity. The way he sat with his legs tucked under him like a doll, like a thing. The way he blinked, slow, mouth a little parted, tank top slipping off one shoulder like it had been begging to fall. The curve of his throat when he leaned back on his palms. The fine line of his waist, barely visible under fabric too soft, too sheer — clothes that clung like sweat, like want.

Jay’s hand moved faster. His other braced against the sink as he fucked into his fist, hips jerking just a little. The water kept running, but the sound was far away now. What mattered was the fantasy — sharp-edged, vivid, awful.

Y/n underneath him. Bare. Breathless. That dumb little tank top bunched around his ribs. Shorts pushed down to his thighs, caught at the knees, useless. Skin flushed pink. Hair stuck to his temples. Those eyes — wide, dazed, unfocused. Not scared. Just… pliant. Like he didn’t know how to say no. Like he wouldn’t even try.

Jay imagined pressing his palm over Y/n’s mouth, holding his hips down with the weight of his body, fucking into him slow at first just to hear the catch of breath, the whimper that would escape despite him. Would he cry? Would he beg? Or would he just take it — silently, like he took everything else?

The thought made Jay groan, head tipping back, jaw clenched as his cock twitched in his grip.

He pumped harder now, slick sounds mixing with the hiss of steam, his breath loud, sharp, filthy. His thighs were trembling. His stomach tight. The mirror had fogged over completely, thank God, because he couldn’t stand to see himself like this — red-faced, sweating, panting like a dog over a boy he claimed to hate.

But he didn’t hate him.

He wanted him in the worst fucking way.

Not sweet. Not slow.

He wanted to see those pretty legs shake. Wanted to ruin the quiet. Hear his name spill out of Y/n’s mouth like he didn’t know what it meant — like it had only ever belonged to the person who made him feel like this.

“Jay—” he imagined it, low, breathy, wrecked. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t—”

Didn’t what?

Didn’t know how hot he looked with his thighs spread?

Didn’t know what it would do to Jay to see him like that — wet, open, needy? Basically begging for cock?

Fuck.

Jay’s orgasm hit like a wave crashing through his spine — sharp, unrelenting, hot. His body snapped forward, one hand gripping the sink so hard it hurt, the other still jerking as he came all over his fingers, his wrist, the edge of the counter. He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes squeezed shut, hips twitching with aftershocks.

It was filthy. Messy. Shameful.

Exactly how he liked it.

He didn’t clean up right away. Just stood there, breathing heavy, come streaked across his stomach, heartbeat pounding in his ears louder than the water.

Because the worst part — the sickest part — wasn’t just that he’d thought about Y/n like that.

It was that he already knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

Jay didn’t move at first.

The bathroom was humid with the stench of guilt and chlorine-clean water, his body still humming with the aftermath of something he didn’t want to name. His hand rested against the sink, still tacky with the remains of what he’d done, knuckles pale, chest rising too fast. He could hear the water rushing down the drain like it was trying to take the evidence with it. But nothing washed off. Not really. The heat hadn’t scalded it away. The friction hadn’t softened it. His cock was soft now, heavy and limp against his thigh, but the ache was still there — behind the eyes, in the chest, deep in the stomach where shame liked to settle.

He took a shower anyway. Not because he needed it. But because he needed something to do. Something to rinse, to repeat, to pretend he was still in control. The water was too hot. It steamed the mirror over until his face vanished completely — a mercy. He lathered soap over his neck and collarbone with fingers that trembled faintly, rubbed his thighs raw until the red streaks turned angry. It wasn’t punishment. But it wasn’t far from it. There was something in him that wanted to bleed this out — to sweat it, cry it, scrub it out of his skin — this want. This filthy, helpless want.

When he finally stepped out, dripping and raw, he wrapped the towel around his hips like a man half-flayed. He didn’t look in the mirror. Didn’t need to. He could feel what he looked like — flushed and used, twitchy with the aftershocks of something that hadn’t even been real. Just a vision. A fucking fantasy of a boy who didn’t even know what he was doing. Or worse — did.

The knock came at the door before he’d even finished pulling on his sweatpants.

Jake’s voice was low and clipped. “Meeting in the living room. Dorm thing. Film it like a vlog.”

Jay opened the door just enough to nod, towel still hanging over his neck. Jake didn’t look at him. He was already walking away, jaw tight, fists jammed into his hoodie pockets like he was holding something in. Maybe they all were.

The dorm already looked like a set when Jay stepped inside — more polished than lived-in, more curated than warm. The overhead lights had been softened to a cinematic gold, casting the whole room in a falsely cozy hue that made everyone look a little prettier, a little more breakable. The camera on the tripod in the corner was already blinking, the red light blinking like a steady pulse — a reminder that everything was being recorded, even now, even in this breath between movements. The couch had been pulled forward slightly, like it had been instructed to participate in the scene, and the three of them were spaced around it like strangers pretending not to be.

Jake stood near the window, his reflection smeared across the glass, teeth working a spot on the inside of his cheek raw. His arms were folded too tightly, like he wasn’t holding himself together — just keeping something in. Sunghoon was perched on the arm of the couch, his body coiled into an effortless pose of disinterest, legs crossed at the ankle, fingers laced together in front of him like a performer waiting for his cue. And then there was Y/n — sitting on the floor like he hadn’t realized he was supposed to ask for furniture.

He looked too soft to be real. Hoodie zipped halfway, loose enough to suggest comfort, but still shaped around the curve of his chest and the slope of his collarbones like it had been chosen deliberately. His sleeves were pushed up to the elbow, exposing thin wrists, veins that pulsed faintly under pale skin. The same shorts as before clung to his thighs, cheap fabric made indecent by how high it rode, how thin it stretched when he shifted his weight just slightly. He sat cross-legged, bare knees bent delicately, his ankles tucked under him like he didn’t quite know how to take up space without apologizing for it. His hair looked mussed — not styled, just touched too many times, like someone had run fingers through it while telling him what to be. His gaze stayed down. Lashes dark and heavy, brushing the tops of his cheeks like shadows. He looked like something forgotten in a warm room.

Jay didn’t sit. He hovered behind the couch, hands in the pockets of his sweats, heart still ticking hot behind his ribs from the shower — from what he’d done before it. The room smelled faintly like disinfectant and leftover ramen. Like a place where people pretended to live. He watched the red light of the camera. Watched the way it blinked. Watched how Y/n didn’t flinch under it, didn’t even seem to notice it anymore.

Then Jake spoke.

“We’re supposed to assign beds,” he said flatly, not even glancing at the camera. “On video.”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “We already did.”

Jake’s mouth twisted, bitter. “Manager wants a reset. Now that we’re all here. Said it’d be ‘cute’ if we filmed it like a bonding moment.”

Jay let out a low breath through his nose. “Cute.”

“They changed the rooms,” Jake continued. “Rearranged shit for the cameras. Said it made more sense, visually.”

Jay tilted his head. “What kind of rearranging?”

Jake hesitated, then looked away — not at the camera, not at any of them. Just somewhere else. “There’s one double bed now. Rest are singles.”

The words hit like static.

Jay’s stomach pulled. His pulse, already too high, spiked again. Sunghoon made a low sound of disbelief and ran a hand down his face. No one needed clarification. They all knew what it meant. What it was meant to look like.

“Of course there is,” Sunghoon muttered. “Gotta have that fanfic moment.”

Jay didn’t respond. He moved instead. Crossed the room, grabbed the handheld camera the crew had left half-charged on the shelf, flipped the screen toward himself. The red light blinked to life again — a second eye. Unblinking.

He turned it toward them.

“Let’s make it real, then,” he said, voice low and flat. “Say your name. Say what bed you want.”

Sunghoon scoffed. “You sound like you’re reading the script.”

Jay didn’t answer. Just raised the camera and turned it slowly toward Jake.

Jake gave the lens a look like it had insulted his family, then shrugged. “Jake. Window room.”

Sunghoon leaned forward, stretching slightly. “Corner. Doesn’t matter.”

Jay panned right.

Y/n.

The boy blinked once, lashes fluttering. When he spoke, it was soft — so soft it didn’t sound like it belonged in a sentence meant for choosing sides. “I don’t mind sharing,” he said. “If someone wants to.”

His fingers tugged at the hem of his hoodie like he’d only just realized how much skin was showing. He wasn’t even looking at anyone. Just the carpet. Like the floor might offer him a better choice than the people sitting around him.

The silence afterward wasn’t cruel — not directly. But it wasn’t gentle either. No one rushed to fill it. No one jumped to volunteer.

Jay kept filming. Kept the lens trained on Y/n like the company taught him to — close, but not too close. Focused on the edges of vulnerability. Capture the breath, not the answer.

Jake’s voice came next, lower now. “You okay with that?” he asked. “Sharing?”

Y/n nodded slowly, like he didn’t trust the movement. “It’s just a bed,” he murmured. “It doesn’t matter.”

Jay’s stomach turned.

It mattered.

More than any of them could say.

“So…” Jake started again, the words caught in his throat before he pushed them out. “Who?”

Y/n looked up. Blinked. Confused. “What?”

“Who do you want to share with?” Jake asked, eyes fixed now on the floor. “If it doesn’t matter.”

Y/n looked between them. Slowly. Carefully. Jay could see it — the indecision painted across his face like bruises not yet fully bloomed. Like he was weighing risk, not preference. His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. He didn’t answer.

The silence stretched long enough to feel unnatural.

Then — without lifting his head — Jake let out a low breath.

“I’ll do it.”

Everyone looked at him.

Jay’s grip on the camera tightened.

Y/n turned toward Jake, eyes a little wider. He looked surprised. Maybe even relieved.

“You sure?” Y/n asked, voice small.

Jake shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Jay lowered the camera just slightly. The blinking red light still burned. But the scene had ended.

The shot had been locked.

And the bed was no longer up for debate.

Jay didn’t follow them.

He just stood there — unmoving, silent — in the shell of the scene they’d left behind. The couch was still sun-warmed from bodies. The camera, now off, stared blankly at nothing, but Jay could feel its afterimage. Like it had filmed more than it was meant to. Like it had seen inside his head. He still hadn’t taken his hand off the camcorder, fingers curled tight around the grip like it had been fused there. His jaw ached from clenching. His chest itched like something inside was trying to get out.

He wanted to say it didn’t matter. That it was just a bed. That Jake had volunteered because someone had to — because the moment needed closure and Jake was good at being useful. But Jay knew better. Jake had looked at him. Not at Y/n. Not even at the floor. At him — just for a second — and in that second there was something sharp. Something victorious. Not overt. But cruel. And it had been enough.

Jay dropped the camera on the table like it burned him. The sound of plastic hitting wood was too loud in the silence. He stared at it for a beat longer — not because he wanted to pick it back up, but because he wanted to destroy it. Shatter it. Grind the lens under his heel and scatter the memory it had just captured into a thousand shards.

He didn’t. He turned.

Walked down the hall, each step heavier than the last, each breath sitting higher in his throat like a scream that couldn’t find a mouth.

Sunghoon heard him pass. Didn’t look up.

He sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might shift if he watched long enough. His fingers curled into the fabric of his own sweatpants, pressing crescents into his thighs. He hadn’t unpacked. His bag sat unopened against the wall, shoes still half-tucked inside. Nothing about the room felt permanent. Or private.

He didn’t need to see the footage to know how it would play.

Y/n on the floor, legs bent just so. Shorts riding high. Collarbones catching light. The kind of beauty that looked accidental — like he didn’t know what his body was doing, which made it worse. Made it work. And the audience would eat it alive. Not because he flirted. But because he didn’t. Because he blinked instead of smiled. Looked away instead of speaking. His silence was a blank slate people could write their fantasies across. And the company knew it.

Sunghoon wasn’t surprised Jake had stepped forward. Jake had been hovering since day one — not close, not obvious, but always there. The kind of presence that built itself like pressure: slow, quiet, unbearable. And now he’d secured proximity. Not by force. But by implication.

Y/n hadn’t even picked him.

But he hadn’t said no.

Sunghoon closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. The ceiling blurred. His breath slowed. His stomach churned. He didn’t want the bed. He didn’t want the heat that came with it. But he did want the power. And for the first time in a while, it felt like he didn’t have it.

The shared bedroom felt too clean.

Sterile in a way that reeked of staging. The sheets were stiff. The pillows fluffed like hotel props. The camera in the corner blinked again, patient and unblinking, mounted discreetly above the wardrobe to make the room feel “natural.” Jake stepped in first, phone in hand, expression unreadable. Y/n was already inside, kneeling by his bag on the floor like he was trying not to take up too much space. Again. Always again.

Jake hated how rehearsed it felt.

Even the way Y/n sat looked like a set piece — hoodie slipping off one shoulder, back curved, thighs pressed close like he wasn’t aware how much skin was showing. But he was. Jake knew he was. No one walked around with that much on display and didn’t know what it looked like. That kind of body didn’t go unnoticed. And it pissed Jake off that he’d started noticing it without meaning to.

The camera wasn’t even filming yet, but it didn’t matter. Jake felt it like pressure on his teeth. On his spine. Y/n reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of photographs — real ones, small, printed matte. No frames, no filters. He handled them like they were fragile, like the creases meant something. He started laying a few out on the desk. One by a window. A hallway bathed in blue light. A stairwell with no one in it.

“Do you want me to start filming?” Y/n asked, not looking up.

Jake shrugged. “You were already doing it. Might as well keep going.”

Y/n smiled. Not at him. At the photos.

Jake turned the camera on. The red light lit up again.

And the scene began.

“Hey,” Y/n said softly, voice faintly performative now. “I’m Y/n. This is my half of the room. Um… I brought some photos. Took them a while ago, not sure why I kept them, but…” He trailed off, placing another one on the desk. “They help. I guess.”

Jake stayed off to the side, keeping him in frame. Watching the way his fingers hovered over the prints. Watching the way his thighs pressed together when he leaned forward. He zoomed in slightly. The shot was too good. Too soft. The public would lap it up. Comment sections would explode. Y/n aesthetic. Y/n dreamy. Y/n looking so small next to Jake hyung!!

Jake clenched his jaw and stepped into frame.

He sat on the edge of the bed, letting the camera catch it. The weight shift. The slight tension in the mattress. The suggestion. Y/n didn’t move. Just kept rearranging his things like he didn’t feel the room bending around him.

Jake spoke without smiling. “I’m Jake. I sleep here now.”

Y/n laughed a little, awkward and faint. “Hopefully not in the middle.”

“Depends how much you kick.”

Their eyes met. Brief. Loaded.

Y/n looked away first.

Jake’s throat felt dry.

The thing he hated most wasn’t how Y/n looked. It was that he didn’t try. That he wasn’t performing. He wasn’t leaning into it. And somehow that made him more desirable. More consumable. Jake could already see the gifs. The edits. The slow zoom on Y/n’s hand brushing the side of his knee.

He turned back to the camera.

“We’re unpacking,” he said flatly. “That’s the vlog. Great content.”

Y/n didn’t laugh this time.

He just kept his eyes down and nodded.

The camera caught everything.

And the bed stayed perfectly made — for now.

But they both knew: the real footage would come later.

When the lights went off.

When the microphones didn’t.

But for now, the cameras still blinked, steady and unfeeling, catching the final scraps of their forced intimacy. The bed looked too untouched, too symmetrical, and the silence between them begged to be dressed up in fake casualness — the kind the fans liked. Jake leaned over with mechanical precision, flipping the screen toward them again and adjusting the framing like this was routine, like his heartbeat wasn’t hammering through his ribs. He didn’t look at Y/n as he spoke, gaze locked on the lens as if it were the only real thing in the room. “Alright,” he said, voice flat with fatigue and something else, something heavier, “this is the part where we say goodnight.” A pause. “Dorm reality show, episode one. Sleeping in the same bed. Cute, right?”

Y/n shifted beside him, drawing one leg up onto the mattress with slow, quiet movements. The oversized hoodie he wore bunched around his hips, sleeves covering his hands, his body disappearing beneath layers that still managed to emphasize everything Jake didn’t want to notice. The soft cotton of his shorts curved gently around his thighs — loose, not vulgar, but they pulled just enough when he moved to reveal skin that looked stupidly smooth in the low light. And then there was that hoodie. Always that hoodie. It clung to the slope of his shoulder, the neckline dipping just enough to expose the top of his collarbone, one tiny curve of bone that Jake had found himself staring at for far too long. Y/n glanced at the camera with a smile that barely touched his lips. “I guess we’ll survive,” he said softly, and the camera picked up every word, every syllable wrapped in breath and something unreadable.

Jake didn’t answer. He just let the camera capture the silence stretching between them. Even when Y/n leaned in toward the lens, hoodie sleeves dragging over the sheets, and murmured a low, “Goodnight,” the words landed like a weight on Jake’s chest. That voice. That face. The way his body folded into itself like it didn’t know it was being watched. Like he didn’t know he was designed to be watched. Jake’s throat was dry. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it. Every instinct screamed to look away, to stop noticing, but it was too late. He had been noticing for hours.

Y/n leaned forward, brushed his fingers against the camera with a soft click, and the red light vanished.

Silence fell instantly — deeper now, fuller. The kind of silence that presses against the walls and slides under the skin. Jake didn’t move as Y/n stood, still barefoot, the hem of the shorts catching slightly as he crossed the room toward the bathroom. The soft pat-pat of his steps echoed in Jake’s ears like a slow, steady metronome. Every motion was quiet, ordinary, but Jake watched it like it was a performance. Y/n didn’t sway. Didn’t look over his shoulder. Just disappeared down the hallway, a wraith in dark cotton.

Left alone, Jake sat on the edge of the bed, palms flat against the sheets, staring at the dent Y/n had left in the mattress. The scent lingered — barely-there shampoo, something faint and clean, the softness of sleep clinging to the fabric. His thoughts looped without mercy. The way the boy moved. The way his body curved when he leaned forward. The way his breath caught sometimes between words. Jake felt it low and heavy in his stomach, curling hot behind his ribs — a sick, twitching pull he refused to name. He leaned back slowly, spine stiff, settling into the other side of the bed with a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Y/n returned a few minutes later, the sound of the faucet trailing behind him. He didn’t speak. Just turned off the lamp on his side and slipped beneath the blanket in one motion, his body folding into the sheets with a practiced kind of stillness. His hoodie stayed on, zipped halfway, and the loose hem of his shirt slipped up just a bit as he shifted onto his side. His back now faced Jake. The soft curve of his shoulder blades rose and fell with every breath, the edge of his spine barely visible beneath the thin cotton. His legs were tucked up toward his chest, and the blanket pooled low around his waist, exposing the line where his hoodie met skin.

Jake stared.

He knew he shouldn’t.

But he stared.

Every detail burned into his skull — the shape of him, the weightless curve of his hip beneath the sheets, the dip of his waist where the hoodie lifted slightly. It was just a body. Just another boy. But something about how vulnerable Y/n looked in sleep — completely unguarded, unaware, untouched — lit something violent and starving inside Jake. His breath came shallow. His muscles tense. He hated that he was reacting. Hated how his fingers twitched against the pillow. How his eyes dragged over the exposed line of Y/n’s neck like they had no right to. He hated the way his thoughts curled dark and slow like smoke in the back of his mind, sticky and hot and impossible to shake.

He turned toward Y/n — slowly, silently — letting his knees shift beneath the blanket until they brushed against the back of Y/n’s thigh. No reaction. Nothing. Jake watched the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. The slope of his back. The softness of how he lay there, completely unaware that someone less restrained might take more than just a glance.

And then Jake inched closer.

The space between them evaporated, and his chest met Y/n’s back with barely-there contact — just warmth, just breath, just presence. He didn’t dare place a hand. Didn’t dare shift more than an inch. But his hips lined up with Y/n’s now, his face inches from the curve of his neck, close enough to see the small wisps of hair curling against skin.

Y/n exhaled in his sleep.

Jake didn’t.

He held his breath, every nerve in his body pulsing like static, teeth clenched, eyes wide in the dark.

He didn’t move again.

But he didn’t pull away.

And beneath the quiet hum of the air conditioner, the sound of blood rushing through his ears, the sheets barely rustling between them—

Jake burned.

With need.

With hate.

With everything he couldn’t say.

Because Jake had always wanted too much. Everyone knew it — the way his sex drive edged past all the others, never subtle, never easily ignored. It was the thing they teased him for in passing, but deep down, even his friends knew better than to joke too much. It made everything harder to hide. Harder to control. And lying here now, this close to him, to that quiet, pretty, frustrating boy breathing evenly in his hoodie and cheap sleep shorts — this was unbearable. Every inch of restraint Jake had ever known was fraying at the edges.

Want curled behind his ribs like heat, low and slow, aching.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

Not with Y/n asleep beside him like that — untouched, unaware, and too fucking beautiful for someone who never even tried.

Y/n didn’t stir.

He stayed in that perfect stillness, breath slow and even, face turned toward the wall, half-buried in the pillow. The blanket had slipped just enough to reveal the back hem of the hoodie bunched slightly at his waist, riding up with the subtle shifting of sleep. His shorts clung softly to the curve of his ass, the fabric thin and creased by the shape of his body — not tight, not flaunting, just there, molded by gravity and heat and the natural way softness folds over itself when someone forgets they’re being looked at. Jake hadn’t moved in minutes. Not really. But his cock had — stiff and aching beneath the waistband of his boxers, pressing now against the low slope of Y/n’s body, separated by too little cotton, too little decency.

He told himself not to.

Told himself just to turn over, close his eyes, let it pass — but it didn’t. It never passed. The heat in his gut only sharpened with every second that ticked by. He hated the way Y/n looked in sleep. Hated that his body was always framed like something for consumption — quiet, lean, pale skin flashing in fragments between fabric. That hoodie, always slipping off one shoulder like it was made to reveal him in pieces. That softness at his waist where the shirt no longer covered him. The way his thighs bent slightly forward, opening space behind him that felt too intentional, even if it wasn’t.

Jake’s hips shifted forward, subtle but needy — not a thrust, just a test, just pressure. His cock rubbed against the warmth of Y/n’s backside, and Jake’s whole body flinched from the wave of sensation. It was sick. It was wrong. It was him. He pressed in again, slower this time, letting the friction pulse through him, pretending it wasn’t happening while letting it continue anyway.

His mouth hovered over Y/n’s shoulder. The skin there was smooth and faintly warm, lit only by the ghost-glow of the hallway light leaking in through the cracked door. Jake didn’t kiss him — not really — just let his lips press close enough to feel it. The heat. The shape. The temptation. His breath dragged against the hoodie, lips ghosting down to where the fabric ended and bare skin began. The crook of Y/n’s neck. The faint line of bone. He wanted to taste it. He wanted to bite. He wanted to mark it with something that would stay until morning.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he pushed his hips in again, the slow grind of desperation — no rhythm, just contact. Just that maddening, unbearable friction that didn’t belong here. His cock pressed into the curve of Y/n’s ass, only thin layers separating them now, and it felt like hell. Every nerve in Jake’s body screamed at once. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning, because Y/n was still asleep. Still breathing steady. Still innocent in the way only sleeping people could be.

Jake’s eyes shut tight. He tried to stop.

Tried to still his hips.

Tried to back away.

But his body betrayed him. It always had.

His hand clenched in the blanket near Y/n’s side, every muscle trembling with restraint. He kept his face close to Y/n’s neck, breathing him in — laundry soap, warm skin, the faintest hint of something sweeter. It was unbearable. It was perfect. And Y/n didn’t move.

Didn’t wake.

Didn’t know.

Jake kept still after that — painfully still — trying to force the arousal back down, the guilt, the disgust, the fire curling low in his stomach like it was eating him alive. His cock throbbed, pressed hard and obvious against the curve of the boy in front of him, but he didn’t move again. Didn’t dare. He stayed there, trembling and sweating, one breath away from losing it, and the only thing keeping him from snapping was the fact that Y/n stayed silent.

Sleeping.

Untouched.

He stayed there, motionless, except for the grinding thud of his heart against his ribs. Y/n hadn’t stirred. Still curled forward slightly, knees pulled in, the back of his hoodie bunched just enough to expose the smooth slope of his spine and the pale dip above his waistband. His breathing was soft and steady, lips parted just slightly against the pillow. He looked delicate like that. Unprotected. Unaware.

Jake’s eyes dragged over every inch of him. Every place the fabric clung, every curve outlined by bad lighting and cheap cotton. It was torture. His cock was pulsing beneath the waistband of his shorts, heavy and straining, soaked with need. He hadn’t been this hard in weeks — maybe longer — and the worst part was, he didn’t even mean to let it happen. He hadn’t touched him. Not really. But his whole body was screaming for friction, for pressure, for something to push back.

His hips rolled forward — barely — just to feel. Just to press his cock into the soft heat of Y/n’s back, to grind the aching weight of it against the curve that had been teasing him all night. The friction made his teeth clench. It was too much, too good, too dirty. His skin was hot, damp under the covers, chest heaving now with breath he couldn’t slow. Every inhale pulled in Y/n’s scent — faint shampoo, warm skin, something familiar and too intimate.

Jake couldn’t stop.

His hand slipped beneath the covers, fingers dragging down his stomach with a pressure that felt filthy — shameful — but necessary. He gripped himself through his shorts first, just to feel how hard he was, how badly he needed it. He was throbbing. Faint, slick heat already pooling there from how long he’d been straining against the fabric. His hand slipped lower. Inside. Wrapped around.

He exhaled sharp through his nose, forehead pressed to Y/n’s back now, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his breath. Jake worked himself slowly at first, dragging his hand with a rhythm that matched the pulse in his ears. The tension made his eyes water. His cock twitched with every pass of his palm, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. His hips rocked forward again, this time fully, a roll of heat and pressure that made his body jolt.

Y/n didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Jake fucked himself into his fist under the blanket like a secret. The sick heat of his arousal crawling up his spine, pulling him tighter with every slick stroke, every slow grind of his cock against the mattress — against Y/n. The boy right there. Barely dressed. So fucking soft.

And Jake broke.

The orgasm hit hard — fast — sudden like a crash. His whole body locked up, jaw clenched, breath held in his throat as he came hot and silent, buried deep in the dark, trying not to shake the bed. His hips jerked, once, twice, pressed close against Y/n’s back as the aftershocks dragged through him. Sticky heat spilled into his hand, soaking through cotton and skin and whatever restraint he had left.

He stayed there, panting into the back of Y/n’s hoodie, skin flushed, guilt rising like bile even as the relief numbed everything else.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t move.

Eventually, his breathing leveled out.

His hand slipped back under the covers.

And for the first time that night — finally — he slept.

The crew arrived before the sun fully climbed over the windows.

The sound of the front door clicking open was soft, professional — the way the production team was trained to enter like ghosts. A quiet shuffle of camera bags, soft footsteps against the laminate floor, murmured greetings exchanged behind hands already adjusting lens caps. There was no need for loud claps or wake-up calls. They’d captured this before. The slow unraveling of a house stirring. It was all part of the show — the illusion of reality, perfectly lit.

In the kitchen, light spilled golden through the blinds, slicing the counters into rectangles of warmth. The producer gestured without speaking. One of the camera guys nodded and moved into position, setting up a soft shot of the hallway. Another tracked soundlessly toward the bedrooms.

Sunghoon was the first to move.

He always was.

His eyes blinked open without effort, years of schedules and discipline making him aware of presence before sound. The room was still dark, his limbs cool under the sheets, but something told him they weren’t alone in the house anymore. A distant rustle. The subtle change in air pressure. A sixth sense built from too many mornings spent on set.

He sat up slowly, feet pressing to the floor, hair flattened on one side. The cameras hadn’t come in yet — not to his room — but he knew they were here. He pulled a hoodie on, moved through the hall in practiced silence, and entered the kitchen with the kind of presence that didn’t need announcement.

Coffee first.

That’s what they always liked.

He opened the cabinets slowly, not rushing, every movement deliberate. No frantic noise. No sloppy angles. Just enough mess in the hair. Just enough shadow under the eyes to remind the audience they were tired, but still looked good. He clicked the coffee machine on, let the camera catch the blink of the light, the steam curling upward like the beginning of something ritualistic.

By the time he’d cracked four eggs into a pan — two hands, one at a time, no shell — the footsteps behind him were soft.

Not sleepy.

Measured.

Sunghoon didn’t turn right away. He already knew who it was.

Y/n’s presence moved like gravity — quiet, slow, impossible to ignore. There was no loud yawning, no dramatic entrance, no fake cheer. Just bare feet against the tile and the sound of cotton stretching as he adjusted the hem of his hoodie. The same one from last night — oversized, navy, sleeves pushed up slightly, neck loose from wear. His shorts were longer today, or maybe just folded less, but still sat low on his hips. His hair was a mess. Not styled. Just flattened from sleep, parts of it falling into his eyes in a way that didn’t look designed, only devastating.

The camera caught it.

The shift in Sunghoon’s shoulders.

The way the early light hit the side of Y/n’s face — cheekbone cut sharp under soft morning haze. There was a quiet pause as he hovered near the counter, thumb brushing the rim of a mug already set out. He looked like a memory, or a photo someone forgot to take. Effortless. Unbothered. Sexy in the way that got under your skin precisely because it didn’t try to be.

“I can help,” Y/n said, voice hoarse from sleep.

Sunghoon looked over then, briefly, just long enough to catch the light catching in Y/n’s lashes. “Yeah?” he said, flipping the eggs. “You cook?”

Y/n gave a small shrug, stepping forward, fingers brushing the handle of the fridge. “Not really. But I’m good at pretending.”

The crew would use that.

They’d cut it clean — that half-smile, that flash of vulnerability, the suggestion of domesticity — and set it to some warm track for the online clip. Y/n helps Sunghoon make breakfast. Their bond grows. They’d tag it with hearts. With longing. With whatever fantasy the fans wanted to see.

Sunghoon didn’t comment on it.

He just handed him the spatula.

Let the camera roll.

And let Y/n take up space in that kitchen the same way he always did — gently, subtly, beautifully — until even the morning felt like it belonged to him.

The sizzle of eggs hitting the pan filled the quiet like a breath being held. Y/n stood beside Sunghoon now, posture relaxed, hoodie sleeves rolled just enough to show the line of his forearms, fingers delicate but sure as he tilted the spatula through soft whites. It wasn’t perfect — not the way Sunghoon moved — but it didn’t need to be. Y/n’s hands looked good when they fumbled. That was part of the brand they hadn’t officially designed but already understood. There was something magnetic about watching him try. Not with confidence, not with flair — just focus. Quiet effort. The kind of thing that turned mundane footage into a slowed-down loop with a sad song underneath.

From the monitor behind the island, the producer watched through narrowed eyes. Not in doubt — but in calculation. She already knew what she was looking at. There was no need to whisper to the editor or signal the camera op. Everyone knew instinctively when they were capturing something worth keeping. And this was it. The beginning of the day. The softness of dawn. Two beautiful boys — one elegant, one untouchable — working shoulder to shoulder in sleepy silence.

Sunghoon made the kitchen look like a magazine spread. Everything he touched felt clean, deliberate, composed. Even the way he poured tea into a chipped white mug was controlled, precise. Beside him, Y/n was the opposite — raw texture. Hood up, then down. Shirt hem creased from sleep. Hair flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. A little puffy under the eyes, a little flushed. It was ridiculous how good he looked doing nothing. And worse how unaware he seemed of it.

The cameras rolled and rolled.

One of the PAs leaned close to the producer and whispered, “Fans are gonna ship this so fast.”

The producer didn’t answer. She just smiled slightly, eyes still fixed on the screen.

Because she knew.

They didn’t need a storyline. The visuals were enough. That soft glance Y/n gave when Sunghoon corrected his grip on the handle. The quiet hum he made when he tasted something and nodded, even if he wasn’t sure. The way Sunghoon stood slightly behind him while they plated — just enough to make the frame look balanced, maybe even intimate. The edits would cut themselves.

By the time the food was plated, the eggs golden, toast stacked in perfect disarray, and a few bowls of fruit on the side, the house had begun to stir. A low creak in the floorboards. A bathroom door clicking open somewhere down the hall. Still, neither of them rushed. Y/n wiped his hands on a towel and looked toward the hallway, face lit from the side, jaw still soft with sleep.

And then he spoke.

No dramatics. No “hey guys!” or loud morning energy.

Just:

“Breakfast’s ready,” said like it wasn’t even for the cameras.

“Come eat before it gets cold.”

It wasn’t loud. But it was heard.

It echoed down the hallway, warm and quiet and present, and something about the way he said it — low, gentle, careless — made the whole house feel like it was orbiting him.

And it was.

Because even half-asleep, in a hoodie and shorts, Y/n made morning look like something you wanted to wake up in.

And the crew captured every second of it.

The call drifted through the hallway like steam off hot tea — gentle, unfussy, but thick with presence. “Come eat before it gets cold.” Not a command. Not even a real invitation. Just a statement — soft, half-mumbled, barely loud enough to carry — and yet it pulled at the stillness of the dorm like a thread through fabric.

Doors creaked. Blankets shifted. The crew barely moved, already anticipating the choreography. Another camera floated back toward the bedroom hallway, catching the blur of sleep-heavy steps and tousled hair. Voices were still quiet — no jokes yet, no chaos — just the muted shuffle of boys beginning to exist again, called back to the world by the scent of food and the sound of him.

Jake heard it from the bed.

His eyes had been open long before that.

He hadn’t really slept — not in any way that mattered. His body had collapsed into stillness, yes, worn down from the spiral he’d given into hours earlier, but his mind had kept going, feeding on itself like a slow fire. Even now, he felt the dull heat low in his stomach. His shorts clung in the wrong way. His mouth was dry. And Y/n’s back was no longer pressed to his chest.

He was already gone.

Jake turned his head toward the empty side of the bed. The blanket still carried the dent of Y/n’s shape, the faint trace of body heat like a ghost. His hoodie had shed a single dark thread onto the white pillowcase. Jake stared at it for a second too long. Then he sat up, pressing his palms into the mattress to ground himself before standing.

The smell hit him as soon as he stepped into the hallway — warm eggs, toast, something sweeter — and behind it, low voices and soft camera movement. He padded barefoot toward the kitchen, pulse kicking up with each step, not because he was hungry, but because he already knew what he was about to see.

And there it was.

Y/n was standing at the counter, sleeve rolled slightly past his elbow, wrist bent as he poured juice into glasses like he belonged there. The hoodie still hung off him like it had been cut for someone twice his size, but he filled it in all the right places. The camera lens framed him perfectly — that morning glow on his cheekbone, the slight crease of his lips as he concentrated on not spilling. His shorts weren’t revealing, just there — high enough to show the long line of his thigh, low enough to sit casually on his hips. Unintentional. Dangerous.

Jake’s jaw clenched.

Sunghoon was beside him, moving with quiet ease, brushing past to place the plates on the table — steady hands, soft silence. Their elbows bumped once. Y/n looked over and smiled faintly. Just a twitch of his mouth. But the camera caught it. Jake saw the red light blinking just behind the fruit bowl.

The producer did too.

Jake leaned against the doorway, just outside the frame. Watching.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t step forward. Just stared.

Because Y/n, in this light, surrounded by quiet domesticity and half-smiles and the false intimacy of reality TV, looked untouchable. He looked claimed. Not by anyone — not explicitly — but by the room. By the angle of the shot. By the edit that was already forming in the minds of everyone behind the camera.

And Jake knew it wouldn’t matter what happened in the dark last night.

Because this — this morning softness, this easy warmth, this version of Y/n — was what the world was going to fall in love with.

And he fucking hated it.

It took a moment for Y/n to notice.

The kitchen was warm now, alive with the gentle sounds of breakfast being plated and filmed. The others had started to emerge — footsteps trailing in, sleepy greetings, murmured thanks as bowls were passed around. The table began to fill. The room took shape the way it always did when people gathered around food — natural, unfussy, soft with distraction. But as Y/n looked up from the tray he was sliding into the center, something didn’t sit right.

Jay wasn’t there.

It wasn’t obvious at first. He wasn’t loud in the mornings, never had been, and he wasn’t the type to make himself the center of any room — but his absence was still felt. Like a chair pushed too far under the table. Like a coat missing from the rack. Y/n glanced toward the hallway, then to the bedroom doors beyond it. There hadn’t been any movement from that side of the house.

He didn’t say anything.

He just quietly stepped away from the counter, left a hand resting lightly on the edge of the sink as if to steady himself, then padded barefoot into the hall without asking. The cameras stayed behind, their lenses following the faces that were still in frame. No one stopped him. No one noticed he’d gone.

But Jay did.

Jay had been awake long before the rest.

He lay flat on his back, arms crossed over his stomach, eyes locked on the ceiling like it might change shape if he stared long enough. The light creeping through his blinds was dull, grey-blue — nothing like the warmth spilling through the kitchen. He hadn’t moved. Not when the crew arrived. Not when he heard the shuffle of the others getting up. He’d heard Sunghoon pass his door first, then the footsteps that followed — lighter, slower. Familiar.

Y/n.

Of course it had been him.

Jay clenched his jaw. His room smelled like sleep and sweat and the faint memory of whatever brand of cologne he’d sprayed the day before. It felt stagnant. Like something forgotten. Like the inside of a shell left out in the sun.

He imagined the scene playing out in the kitchen right now — the one they were all shooting. The one the crew was eating up with their quiet, blinking cameras. Y/n standing at the counter, hoodie too big, hair sticking up. Sunghoon beside him, effortless and calm, playing the older-brother-with-an-edge role he always defaulted to. The two of them framed in a quiet domesticity that would look perfect on a timeline. Jay could already hear the music they’d use in post.

And Jake.

Jake wouldn’t say a word, but he’d be there. Watching. Sulking. Waiting.

Jay’s stomach twisted.

He’d seen that look in Jake before — the way his eyes burned low when he wanted something he shouldn’t. Jake had always had the highest sex drive of any of them, never subtle about it, and worse: he acted on it. Took what he wanted, in ways Jay couldn’t unsee. And Y/n? That boy was the kind of soft that invited it — unintentionally seductive, constantly slipping out of his own clothes, quiet in a way that made people want to make noise around him. Jake must’ve felt like he was sleeping beside temptation.

Jay hated the thought.

He hated that he hadn’t said anything last night. Hated that Jake had looked at him — that moment before volunteering for the double bed — like it was some kind of move. Some kind of warning. And now, whatever happened after that… Jay didn’t want to know. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He was still staring at the ceiling when the door cracked open.

Soft.

Gentle.

“Jay?” Y/n’s voice — quiet, like he wasn’t sure if Jay was still asleep. “You didn’t come eat.”

Jay blinked once. His heart hitched.

Of course it was him.

He didn’t answer at first. Just closed his eyes for half a second too long before sitting up, pushing the covers away in one smooth motion. His hoodie was wrinkled. His jaw tight. His hair a mess of curls flattened in odd directions. “Yeah,” he said. “Just wasn’t hungry yet.”

Y/n didn’t question it. He just lingered for a beat in the doorway, his silhouette framed by soft hallway light, the hem of his hoodie brushing the middle of his thigh. His eyes flicked toward the floor, then back up to Jay’s. “We saved you some. It’s still warm.”

And just like that, he was gone.

Jay exhaled like he’d been underwater. His pulse still thrummed too close to the surface.

He stood slowly, stretching once to shake the tension from his limbs. Then he pulled a sweatshirt over his head, straightened his posture, and stepped into the hallway like he hadn’t spent the morning unraveling.

The breakfast table was full.

But Jay would sit down anyway.

Even if there was no room for him in the edit.

The cameras still moved, quiet and hungry, but the conversation had stalled. Not obviously — no one would call it silent — but there was a shift, a hum beneath the surface like the house had tilted one degree to the left and no one wanted to be the first to say it out loud. Dishes were cleared, but hands hovered. Voices slowed. The air tasted like anticipation.

Y/n sat between them still, oblivious or pretending to be. He reached for a piece of toast, one hand sliding across the table, and in that second — before he could stretch too far — Sunghoon reached out and pulled him back. Not roughly. Not gently. Just… with decision. One hand wrapped around the hem of Y/n’s hoodie, just behind his waist, fingers pressing in for half a second before he let go.

Y/n froze in place.

Then sat back.

Didn’t say a word.

Sunghoon didn’t look at him.

He just returned to his tea, eyes fixed on the swirling surface like he hadn’t just done something that shifted the energy of the room. But in his chest, something buzzed. Not satisfaction. Not regret. Something darker. Something bitter. He hated that Y/n moved like he didn’t notice the effect he had. Hated the softness, the way he folded into spaces that didn’t belong to him and made them feel earned. But there was a deeper hate under that — one he didn’t want to name — the part of him that didn’t want anyone else to touch him like that. Y/n wasn’t soft. He wasn’t helpless. But Sunghoon still had the sick, stupid thought that someone had to protect him anyway. Especially from them.

Jake’s fork hit his plate harder than necessary.

It was barely a sound, but it echoed in his head.

His jaw was clenched. His fingers were white around the edge of the table. He’d been pretending not to look for the last ten minutes, and now there was nothing left to pretend. That hand on Y/n’s side. That quiet pull. That reaction — stillness, obedience, acceptance — as if it had happened before. Jake’s stomach turned. His brain short-circuited. He wasn’t supposed to care. He didn’t even like Y/n. He hated him. Hated the way he dressed. Hated the way his thighs looked in those shorts. Hated how his voice was soft even when he lied. But he hated even more how easy it was to picture someone else’s hand there. Or worse — that maybe it hadn’t been the first time.

His thoughts blurred.

And for the first time since stepping into that bed last night, Jake didn’t know what to do.

Say something?

Ruin it?

Touch him first next time?

He didn’t know.

But he knew he had to do something.

Or he’d lose.

Jay hadn’t spoken since Y/n left his bedroom.

He watched it all from the far end of the table, expression unreadable, one knuckle pressed against his mouth like he was thinking — or trying not to speak. His thoughts were slower. More methodical. He didn’t react to the touch, didn’t flinch at the tension, but catalogued it all like a ledger filling up. Jake’s twitch. Sunghoon’s subtle shift. Y/n’s body language — neutral, docile, too well-practiced for someone who didn’t know what that moment meant.

Jay didn’t care about breakfast. He didn’t care about teasers, or morning cameras, or group dynamics.

He cared about control.

And he didn’t have it right now.

Jake was unpredictable.

Sunghoon was territorial.

And Y/n?

Y/n was starting to look like the centerpiece of something no one had invited Jay to.

And that wasn’t going to work.

The producer’s voice sliced through the tension like a blade.

“We’ll be setting up in the living room,” she said, bright, false, perfect. “The creative team’s ready to show you the MV concept. This will be your first look at what we’re building.”

Nobody spoke.

Nobody moved.

The silence between them wasn’t empty anymore.

It was a decision waiting to happen.

And all three of them — Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon — were already deciding how to play it.

Bermuda Has Four Corners Now?

🧾 [theqoo] “Bermuda Has Four Corners Now?” – These predebut trainees are seriously insane…

author’s note: okay, so… i may have come back a little sooner than planned hehe. but the response to the last chapter seriously had me grinning like crazy. i got so excited reading your comments and asks that i couldn’t help myself — i had to sit down and keep going. i’m really happy with how this one turned out, and i hope you all like it too. it’s definitely a bit warmer than usual....... i had so much fun writing the tension in this one — like, so much fun — and i think that’s starting to show. also, just a little thank you to everyone who’s been supporting the series so far. your messages, reactions, even just seeing the little notifications pop up — it really makes my day. if you ever feel like dropping by the inbox, feel free to share your thoughts or theories, or just come chat. no pressure, of course. but i love hearing from you. okay, that’s all for now. hope u enjoyed the chapter! luke :)

[lookingbetteringlasses]

I think Star Wars becomes a lot more entertaining when you realize that Anakin is basically a shonen anime hero. Spikey hair, Chosen One, extremely powerful force of will, protective of his loved ones, reckless & overconfident, singular love interest, he's got it all.

Then we get Luke, who's basically the successor to his father's legacy as the hero to save the galaxy, and he's even more of a shonen protagonist: spikey hair, no real love interest, insignificant background before being thrust into greatness (yeah, yeah, Hero's Journey, just stick with me), reckless & overconfident, all-loving, receives training from two cranky old guys, power of friendship.

That last bit is especially significant, because using this frame, we see that Anakin's fall was because he lived within an isolating environment where being a Jedi was an expectation he often failed to live up to. This allows Sidious to take advantage of him & address his concerns in a way that the Jedi never could, promising him what he believes he needs most: the power to do what he wants, because if love is wrong according to the Jedi, then why should domination be?

In contrast, Luke succeeded because he explicitly lacks those expectations and is free to become a Jedi on his own terms, without the institutional rigidity of the Order that allowed them to get massacred. This makes Sidious' temptations more desperate because Luke already has people who he knows supports him without reservation, so he tries to unsuccessfully pry away at his compassion & appeal to his underlying rage.

Anakin is the Failed Shonen Anime Hero to Luke being the Successful Shonen Anime Hero. Anakin and Luke were both angry young men & determined fighters, but the problem with Anakin is that he was raised in a world where being human was seen as imperfection, while Luke succeeded because he was brought into a world where being human was seen as worth defending.

So I guess what I'm saying is: an animated series about Han, Luke, & Leia in between the original trilogy, one season between 4 & 5, one season between 5 & 6, and one season between 6 & the Battle for Jakku (maybe even remaking parts of the original films, who knows). Maybe the second season can have a simultaneous arc about the Crimson Dawn, because I know that happened in the comics, also maybe having one of the last Inquisitors confront Luke. The big finale can be at the Battle of Jakku, because apparently Luke did a Starkiller there. Then the series can end with Luke going off to the galaxy to learn more about the ancient Jedi & find Force-users like himself (yes, I know the irony of having such an optimistic ending before the sequels, but it still works for the most part).

I feel like a series like this would help, including for further fleshing out the friendship between Luke & Han, getting to explore Luke & Leia's bond both before & after Episode 6 (WITHOUT A ROMANCE BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE WEIRD), Luke's place within the Rebellion as a Jedi & effect on others (how do people react? what does his place become in the Rebellion?), if Luke & his father actually got to discuss anything like Luke & Obi-Wan, what the Rebellion was like as an actual sizable faction post-build-up seen in Andor & Rebels, seeing the Empire in its final days, expanding the dread of there being a second Death Star (given the retrospective prominence of the first one, imagine the horror of someone revealing "They're building another one..."), and host of other things.

Edit: For the Inquisitor, it would be pretty neat to have Luke face down an adversary because it would provide interesting character development, or at least flesh it out. The Last Inquisitor fights less respectfully than Vader, more desperate, yet acts as a symbol of everything Luke must fight against. Yet upon defeating him, Luke realizes the tragedy of the Inquisitors: they were flawed people either taking the only option they had or being manipulated into becoming their worst selves, setting the stage for Luke to have such faith in Anakin avoiding that fate when having to make that choice.

Then there's the Ahsoka in the room. We don't know much about when Ahsoka came back, but it would be interesting to have her meet Luke from time to time, first as a "There's something special about you" meeting, then as a "There's something I have to tell you" meeting, then finally as a "so what do we do now?" meeting. I think it's safe to say that we don't know at this point whether Ahsoka came out at the same time as she left, the same time as Ezra, or sometime later, so freedom for storytelling is there. And I don't think I'm the only one who would want to see an Ahsoka x Leia team-up episode. Also: the third season can show the Great Purge of Mandalore as the grand tragic event it was in terms of Mandalorian history (and maybe Sabine if she appears in the third season), but also for Luke as a potential failure - he should've been there to stop it, because that's what a Jedi is supposed to do.

Luke's big struggles in each of the seasons could be as follows: proving himself in the Rebellion as a capable fighter & determining whether to embrace his heritage as a Jedi, training himself as a Jedi with Yoda and becoming a more prominent figure in the Rebellion, and determining what his place should be in the wider galaxy after his father's sacrifice & the Emperor's defeat. Insert each episode of the original trilogy as major events to revolve around.

[rainintheevening]

When Yoda talks about the dark side 'forever dominating your destiny' once you've used it, I don't think he means that you can never choose differently again, that you can never get back on the path of goodness. I hear him saying that giving into the dark side even once, will have consequences that affect the rest of your life. That it will be harder for you to turn your back on the dark side when it beckons again, and that any actions taken while walking in the dark side will have consequences that affect you for the rest of your life. Using the dark side isn't like smoking a cigarette to see what it's like. It's a smear, a scar on your very soul, it NEEDS to be taken very seriously. The dark side is hunger, lust, greed for more of itself, and the more you feed it, the more it demands. When you feed it, give into it, it takes a part of you, you're feeding it with yourself, and you can never get those parts back, you can never undo anything.

Of course there is hope. Of course when one makes a choice, one can make a different choice next time, later. You can find your way back to the good path, there can be forgiveness and hope and new growth.

Because Luke immediately asks, "So is the dark side stronger, then?"

And Yoda replies, "No. No. No." Three times. Big emphasis. But then he says the dark is easier. 'More seductive'. That choosing the good requires discipline.

That's why Jedi have such high standards, need that discipline. If one is developing one's powers, one needs checks and balances to keep that power in line.

"With great power, comes great responsibility," in the words of Uncle Ben.

Particularly with Luke, who is the second or third most Force-sensitive ever, Yoda’s trying to drill in the awareness of what the boy’s getting himself into. Luke not developing his power is fine, he's a solid kid. But if he just jumps in to find out how powerful he is, without understanding the need for boundaries and a moral compass that match his strength with the Force, he could run off the rails in the blink of an eye. Because the dark side is Easy Street.

So yeah. I don't hear Yoda saying, "There's no hope of coming back from using the dark side", I hear, "Using the dark side is an incredibly serious and terrible thing, once you've done it, it is very hard to leave that path, and the repercussions will be felt for the rest of your life. So it's much better to never do it at all."

[thecleverqueer]

I love how much Obi-Wan loves Anakin and Padme’s kids.

We see it all throughout his series.

He spends what little money he has to buy Luke a toy space ship. He dutifully watches over him everyday as he lives in a desolate, isolated desert scape.

He goes after Leia… fearful that he doesn’t have what it takes to save her any longer. He risks himself and everything else to find her. He taps into the force again after breaking himself off from it. He trusts her. He looks at her fondly. She reminds him of Padme.

Then, at the end, after Vader buries him alive, for a moment, he acts as if he has lost the will to live. He’s defeated. He thinks of the past. He feels that he failed Anakin. Flashbacks of their final moments on Mustafar plague him. Right as he’s about to give up completely, he thinks about the children. He sees flashes of Luke and Leia in his mind, and he draws upon the force. He is strengthened by his love and compassion for them. Even though he’d lost his family, lost Anakin, he still has an obligation to the kids. They provide hope to both he and the rest of the galaxy.

I don’t know. I just get all sentimental when I watch it. I just love Obi-Wan so much.