#if you think i'm reaching...i know more than you

[importantpuppystarfish]

Repopulating the whole world with Wonyoung

Male reader x Jang Wonyoung

Plot : You are from a random country "X". World War 3 is ongoing. Genre : Survival, Romantic, Emotional. Includes: 69, rimjob, facesitting, wony pissing, breeding, lots of kissing.

I drag myself onto the rocky shore, my body aching from the endless swimming. My clothes are soaked, my breaths ragged, and my arms feel like they could fall off any second. But I made it.

The world is in ruins. World War III tore everything apart. Cities burned, people scattered, and survival became a desperate gamble. I don’t know how long I was in the water, moving from boat to boat, trying to stay afloat. But somehow, I reached this island near the Korean Peninsula.

I push myself up, coughing out of the salt water, and scan out my surroundings. The island is covered in dense trees, the sand untouched, the wind eerily silent. No signs of life.

Except for one.

A girl stands near the water’s edge, her long, damp hair flowing in the wind. She’s wearing a torn white dress, clinging to her body from the seawater. Even in this chaos, she looks unreallike -- gorgeous.

I blink. My brain struggles to process what I’m seeing.

It’s Jang Wonyoung!

The Wonyoung. The famous K-pop idol. The girl that once stood on dazzling stages, worshipped by millions. And now, she’s here, stranded just like me. Wonyoung also came to the same island through swimming to save herself from the war.

She notices me. Her eyes widen, and she steps back slightly, uncertain. I must look like a wreck, an exhausted or an average looking guy.

I raise my hands slightly, trying to show I’m not a threat. “Hey… I’m not here to hurt you.” My voice is hoarse.

She hesitates, then speaks, her voice soft yet sharp. “Are you alone?”

I nod. “Yeah… just me.”

A pause. The wind howls between us. Then she exhales and sits down on the sand. “Same.”

I look around again. No ships, no planes, no humans. Just us.

Two strangers. A famous lost idol and me.

Alone in the middle of nowhere. Wonyoung asks for my name~ "I'm Y/N!" Nice to meet u! We have a handshake.. Her hands feel soft.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pt1:

I take a cautious step closer. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know. A few hours, maybe. I was on a boat, trying to escape… then everything went wrong.” Wonyoung replies.

I nod. I get it. The war didn’t care who we were, celebrity or nobody, we all ended up fighting for survival.

I sat onto the sand beside her, keeping a respectful distance. My body still aches from the swim, but at least I’m alive. “We should find shelter,” I say, more to myself than her.

Wonyoung doesn’t answer right away. She’s staring at the ocean, her expression unreadable. Finally, she nods. “Yeah.”

We explore the island together. It’s small, covered in thick trees, with no sign of civilization. No food, no supplies. If we want to live, we’ll have to find a way ourselves.

We build a shelter from fallen branches near a rocky cliffside, something to protect us from the wind. It’s not much, but it’ll do for now.

I know Wonyoung is feeling hungry, I can hear the sounds from her stomach. She's embarrassed. I hunt for fruits around in the forest and give some off to her. Wonyoung smiles and thanks me for the first time.

As night arrives, we sleep inside the shelter with a distinct position from each other. I can't believe I'm sleeping nearby a famous K-pop idol!

Wonyoung must be a very clean and neat girl. As morning arrives, with no proper shelter, no soap, and no change of clothes, Wonyoung specifically start to feel disgusting. We both only got one outfit for ourselves and its also getting torn apart.

Wonyoung tugs at her damp, dirt-streaked dress, grimacing. “I can’t take this anymore. I feel gross.”

I look down at myself. My clothes are stiff with dried saltwater and sweat. “Yeah, me too.”

She crosses her arms, thinking. “We need to wash them.”

I nod, then realize the problem. “But… if we wash them, we’ll have nothing to wear.”

She sighs. “I know.”

We stand there in awkward silence, both aware of what that means.

“…Maybe we take turns?” I suggest hesitantly.

She gives me a sharp look. “You mean one of us stays naked while the other waits?”

I scratch my head. “I mean… yeah?”

She groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

I shrug. “We don’t have a choice. It’s just us here.”

She peeks at me through her fingers. “Still!”

After a long pause, she exhales sharply. “Fine!" “This is so worse!” she mutters.

I chuckle. “At least we’ll be clean.”

She grumbles but doesn’t argue.

And so, in our strange little world, even washing clothes becomes a ridiculous challenge. But somehow, we manage—awkward, embarrassed, but surviving together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But suddenly, it seems Wonyoung has realized survival takes priority over everything else. Embarrassment, modesty—those things start to feel pointless.

To my surprise, Wonyoung just… pulls her dress over her head.

I freeze. My brain short-circuits as the gorgeous Wonyoung directly takes off her clothes near me, her medium sized breasts with pretty pink nipples, a luscious curvy figure that takes my breath away. Her natural scent is divine yet there's a hint of dirt clinging to her perfect skin. Now as soon as she also takes off her smelly and dirty underwear the same time, I see her pussy is hairy, maybe she doesn't shave it often. I keep looking in at her hungrily, finding every aspect of Wonyoung naked incredibly sexy.

She throws her dress and underwear onto a sea, standing now in nothing but her bare skin, completely unbothered. “You should do the same,” she says casually. “It’s just us, anyway.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I swallow hard, staring at the ground now. “Uh… are you sure about this?”

She shrugs. “Why not? Clothes are useless if they’re this filthy. We might as well just stay like this.”

I feel my face burning. “I mean… isn’t that a little—”

She raises an eyebrow. “What? Weird? Embarrassing?” She sighs. “At first, yeah. But think about it—we’re stuck here, just the two of us. Why should we care?”

I can’t argue with that logic. She’s right. There’s no one else. No society. No rules.

Still, I hesitate.

She smirks slightly. “You’re overthinking it.”

I exhale, then slowly pull off my shirt. Then my pants. The air feels strange against my skin, but at the same time… freeing.

Wonyoung smiles. “See? Not so bad.”

And just like that, we accept our fate. No more shame, no more awkwardness—just two survivors, stripped of everything, living in the most natural way possible.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As now I'm naked as well, Wonyoung starts to look at my rod standing at attention. I caught her biting her lips and smiling, which I found adorable. She playfully teases, 'I can't help it, it's so…funny!' I blush furiously and retort, 'Hey, don't laugh!'". I'm confused why the heck Wonyoung is laughing at my dick? Maybe she has never seen one before?

"You look funny naked, especially with that thing down standing out of nowhere so hard" Wonyoung teases.

I'm sure Wonyoung knows herself why my dick is hard at the moment. It only get this way when there's a pretty hot girl around. Also the fact, Wonyoung is naked herself too. Wonyoung's stomach makes a noise again, its time for food and we realize we should start hunting for survival.

Yesterday we survived on wild fruits & coconuts, and anything remotely edible that we can scavenge. But soon, we realize that if we want to stay strong, we need real food ~ fish.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung figures out that if we trap fish in small tidal pools near the shore, we can just grab them with our hands. It’s tricky, but with patience, we manage to catch a few.

Since we don’t have pots or pans, we cook the fish directly over a fire. We create a simple fire pit using dry wood and stones. We skewer the fish on sticks and roast them over the flames until they’re cooked through.

The first bite of was Incredible. We eat in silence, both of us savoring the moment. Wonyoung licks her lips, grinning. “I never thought I’d be this happy just eating a burnt fish.”

I laugh, nodding at her words.

As night falls, the temperature on the island drops, and the once-refreshing breeze turns into a chilling wind. Its getting cold. Yesterday we had our clothes but this morning, upon Wonyoung's idea, I also threw my clothes and we're both naked still.

With no clothes, no blankets, and only a small fire to keep us warm, the cold becomes a real problem.

At first, we try to endure it, huddling close to the fire, wrapping ourselves in large leaves, anything to stay warm. But nothing works.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung shivers beside me, hugging herself tightly. “This isn’t working,” she mutters, her teeth slightly chattering.

I sigh. I’m freezing too. Then, reluctantly, Wonyoung says, “There’s only one thing we can do.”

I looks at her, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

She hesitates. “Body heat. If we stay close, we’ll be warmer.”

I stare her for a second, then exhale, shaking my head. “I can’t believe this…” But then, after another shiver, I mutter, “Fine. But don’t get any ideas. I try to be positive, trying my best to be a gentleman ”

But Wonyoung seems to have something in her mind, she has been trying a little to seduce me even in this kind of survival condition ever since we both got naked.

We move closer, our bare skin pressing together. The warmth is immediate, awkward at first, but undeniable.

She rests her head against my shoulder, her body still tense. “I love this,” she whispers.

Slowly, her body relaxes against mine, and I feel my own muscles easing. The cold doesn’t bite as much anymore.

After a few moments of silence, she sighs. “You’re warm…”

I smirk. “So are you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung hugs me tigher, her chest pressing over mine. I can feel the size of her breasts, I have never grabbed them yet with my hands. I feel so good as well as her skin presses over mine more tightly..

Wonyoung and I can see the full moon together, it looks beautiful.

And just like that, we fall asleep, two survivors, pressed together against the cold, finding warmth in the only way we can.

The next morning, fever hits me suddenly. One moment, I’m fine, tired but fine. My body feels like it’s burning from the inside. My limbs are weak, my vision blurry, and every breath feels heavy.

I collapse near our shelter, barely able to keep my eyes open. Wonyoung rushes over, panic written all over her face.

“Hey! What’s wrong?” She kneels beside me, pressing a hand to my forehead. The moment she touches me, she gasps. “You’re burning up…”

I try to respond, but my throat is dry, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m… just tired…”

She bites her lip, looking around as if searching for a solution. “You’re Sick OH God!!"

Wonyoung has gotten emotional. She swallows hard, taking a shaky breath.

For the first time, I see her cry.

Even in this desperate situation, I hate seeing her like this. I slowly reach out, grabbing her trembling hand. “Hey… I’m not dead yet.” I try to smile, but even that takes too much effort.

She sniffles and squeezes my hand tightly. “You better not die,” she whispers. “I can’t be alone here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, Wonyoung stays by my side, cooling my forehead with wet leaves, giving me water, whispering words of reassurance even when she thinks I’m asleep.

And in my fevered haze, I realize something—she’s not just the famous girl I once admired from afar. She’s not just my survival partner. She might be someone special in my life.

The fever doesn’t break overnight, that day Wonyoung does all the job, cooking the fishes and finding survival resources. My body feels weak, my head heavy, and every movement sends waves of exhaustion through me. But Wonyoung never leaves my side.

She brings me water from the stream, carefully tilting a coconut shell to my lips. “Drink,” she murmurs. Her voice is soft but firm, her eyes filled with worry.

I manage a few sips before resting my head back down. “Thanks…” I whisper.

She sighs, brushing my damp hair back. “You’re burning up.”

That night, as the cold wind howls through our shelter, Wonyoung presses herself against me, wrapping her arms around my body. “This should help,” she whispers. “You need warmth.”

I’m too weak to argue, and honestly, her body heat is comforting. She rests her head against my chest, holding me close. She takes care of my body.

At some point, I groan, my muscles aching all over.

She notices immediately. “Does it hurt?”

I nod weakly.

Without hesitation, she shifts, her delicate hands moving to my shoulders. Slowly, gently, she starts massaging me, her fingers pressing into my tense muscles. She also gave me a handjob at the middle. I don’t even know if I should count it as lewd since we have been naked together and staying like this for 2 days already, but this is the first time she grabbed my dick with her hands.

“Relax,” she whispers. “You always do everything for us. Just let me take care of you.”

Her hands move down my arms, across my back, easing the knots of pain. Her touch is soft but firm, careful yet reassuring.

For the first time in days, I feel a little better.

I close my eyes, letting her warmth, her touch, her presence lull me into much-needed rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung asks, “Do you think the war is over?”

I exhale, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”

She stares at the horizon. “What if… no one is left?”

I glance at her. “What do you mean?”

She hugs herself tighter. “Last time we saw the world… there were nukes being launched. Countries were falling apart. If the war is over, does that mean someone won? Or does it mean no one is left to fight anymore?”

A heavy silence falls between us. The thought is terrifying, but not impossible.

I swallow. “Even if there are survivors, do you think anyone would look for us? We’re on some random, uncharted island. We don’t even know if this place is on any map.”

Wonyoung’s expression darkens. “We could be doomed.”

I don’t want to believe that. But deep down, I know she might be right.

She rests her head on my shoulder. “It’s just us now,” she whispers.

I wrap an arm around her, pulling her close. “Then we survive. No matter what.”

“But if we are the only ones left…” Wonyoung hesitates. “Should we… you know… repopulate?”

The word hangs in the air, heavier than anything we’ve ever spoken before.

I swallow hard. “You’re asking if we should have kids?”

She nods slowly. “It’s what humans do, right? Continue the species.”

The idea makes sense, logically. But something about it feels too real.

I exhale. “That’s a big decision.”

She glances at me, her cheeks slightly flushed. “I know. But if the world is gone… doesn’t that mean we’re responsible for rebuilding it?”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to process. “It’s not just about responsibility. We’d be bringing a child into a world with no hospitals, no medicine, no help. It’d be dangerous.”

She bites her lip, thinking. “Yeah… but if we don’t, then when we die, that’s it. The end of humanity.”

Silence. The fire crackles between us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pt2:

Wonyoung finally sighs, shaking her head. “Maybe I’m overthinking.”

After some while, Wonyoung asks, "Do you want some special comfort?"

Without understanding what special comfort she meant, I nodded yes.

Wonyoung winks and positioned her face between my legs. Her hands reach up to gently caress my thighs, sending shivers through my body. Leaning in slowly, I suddenly feel her pink tongue extends and swirls around the tip of my dick. A soft gasp escapes her as she tastes me, her eyes never leaving mine. She takes the head into her warm, inviting mouth.

I feel my full length inside her mouth. I finally realized Wonyoung is giving me a blowjob already. Wonyoung pulls back a bit. She grins, still stroking me gently. "Mmm…you like that y/n?" She teases before taking me deep again, bobbing her head with purpose now.

"Wonyoung, are you serious right now? You're a famous idol… I can't believe ur doing this!?!" I say.

Wonyoung replies, "Well, I don't think there's anyone left in the world. We should start reproducing already!." She continues taking my length more inside her mouth.

I realize Wonyoung must be feeling emotional, and that I'm the only person in her life now. It doesn't matter if I'm attractive or not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonyoung is absolutely magnificent as she works to please me with her lips and tongue. Her tongue dances against the sensitive under side of my dick each time I hit the back of her mouth. She gazes up at me with desire, her cheeks hollowing as she takes me deeper still. Every flick, suck and lick from Wonyoung feels heavenly, it's clear she was made for this. I can't hold back my cries of pleasure - "Oh wow, Wonyoung please stop, you are amazing at this!"

Wiping a strand of saliva from her chin after she finishes sucking my rod, Wonyoung sits up and spreads her legs wide. Her thick bush of dark hair beckons me forward. "Alright, enough pleasing you. I want the same feeling as well. Mind eating my hairy pussy now?" she commands.

"Are you serious? But I'm sick!" I reply to her command.

"Oh right", Wonyoung pauses, a look of determination crossing her face. "Can't stand or return the favor hmm?" She grins slyly. "No problem, I can adapt." She positions herself above me, her beautiful eyes twinkling. "Here, I'll just…sit right down."

And with that, Wonyoung lowers herself, her vertical lips parting as she envelops my face in her warmth. I feel her weight settle on my face as she slowly sits on my face, her pussy hair tickling my nose.

I get flashbacks of watching Wonyoung's performance through my screen at home last year before the war started. It's exactly that same ass! Now that ass is about to be buried all over my face.

As Wonyoung lowers herself onto me fully, I am enveloped by her feminine heat and scent from her ass… She is totally face sitting on me.. Wonyoung is now riding my face!

Eager to please, I decide to really explore Wonyoung's shithole. Gently I spread her ass cheeks further apart, gazing at her tight little bud. I push my tongue forward deep, pushing more deep into Wonyoung's most intimate place. Inside her anus, my tongue meets warm, velvety smooth walls that grip me gently. A faint musky scent fills my senses as I wiggle and stroke within her sensitive rim.

My tongue inside her asshole is absorbing up every sticky morsel. The taste is intense, earthy and undeniably naughty. I delve deeper, driven by an urge to clean every inch of her filthy depths.

Her inner walls clench and grip my probing tongue as I feel the wet, dirty texture inside her tight little shithole. It's a decadent mess inside here. Oh fuck, Am I really eating her wet messy holes as she commands?

Shee gasps but then urges me, "Deeper...stick your tongue in!".

I oblige, slowly working my tongue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her ass shakes over my head with a playful excitement from taking in charge, she still asks teasingly, "Is OK?"

I nod, surrendering to pleasure her. My tongue extends, lapping up her slick nectar. She tastes divine. I feel her move, grinding against my mouth harder. She shifts a bit and my tongue finds her hairy wet pussy, making her bite her lip and smile wider.

I eagerly lap up every drop of her juices, my tongue tracing her folds and circling her engorged clit. I suck the bud into my mouth, flicking it while my hands press against her thighs for balance. Wonyoung gasps, riding my face harder. I insert my tongue as deep as it will go inside her within her wetness.

Wonyoung grinds down harder, inviting me to continue. I oblige, gently probing at her holes with more intention now. The salty-sweet taste of mixing her essence on my tongue drives me wild. Wonyoung cries out, clearly enjoying using me completely.

"Mmm…you're so good with that tongue, I just can't resist returning the favor!" Wonyoung cries. She leans down, taking my throbbing length back into her mouth. Now our bodies form a delightfully lewd 69 position - me eating her treasure while she continues to suck me off.

Her hips move in a sensual rhythm, grinding her wetness all over my face as I feel the base of my shaft hit her throat each time she takes me deep.

Our 69 is smooth and rhythmic now, both of us falling into it as the ecstasy builds. My tongue works her clit in firm circles while I thrust my tongue as deep as possible into her tight back doorway. Wonyoung's mouth moves expertly along my shaft, her lips sealed tight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just when I think it can't get more intense, I feel a warm fluid against my chin and mouth. "Oh my god, I'm sorry!" Wonyoung cries out. But I don't pull back - I simply extend my tongue, catching her pee with every skillful lick. She trembles above me as she finishes, spent. A mixture of her fluids coats my face but I don't mind one bit, still savoring her completely.

Against my will, I'm forced to drink down her warm, tangy urine. It's strong and acrid on my tongue but I obediently swallow, NOT wanting to displease Wonyoung. She seems shy now, her cheeks flushed crimson.

"Here, let me make it better." She whispers. Wonyoung begins gently licking my face with her soft, pink tongue. She methodically cleans every inch, the bitter taste slowly fading. When she reaches my lips she takes me into her mouth again, our tongues meeting. She swallows some of her own urine back from my mouth as we have a mouthful french kiss. Her eyes closed, slipping her tongue into my mouth. There it mixes with my saliva too, a lewd, taboo French kiss. When she finally breaks the kiss, her eyes search mine - a mix of apology and invitation.

She again engages me in a deep and soulful kiss. Wonyoung breaks the kiss, her eyes glinting with newfound desire. She stands up now. "I hope you can forgive me," she purrs before sitting over my shaft. Wonyoung positions herself now ready to ride my dicm. "Now fuck me…fuck me hard, its time for reproduction already! Forget the humanity outside! Theres no one left!" she screams.

She cries out as I claim her. I watch my rod disappearing between her thighs, feeling her walls tighten around me. "Yes, that's it!, Oh my god I can't believe I'm having my first time!" Wonyoung moans as she rides my dick hard. Our bodies connect with a primal rhythm as I punish her core. I know I won't last long after that intense buildup. "Don't stop!" she gasps, pulling me deeper. I'm determined to satisfy us both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tears spring to her eyes but she keeps crying out "Yes yes yes!".. Wonyoung is literally screaming and riding me at the middle of the island. We don’t know what's happening outside in the real world. But here, it seems we both are actually enjoying. Birds and insects are watching us fuck in the silent island. The island is full of her screams and cries in pleasure.

Wonyoung starts bouncing on my rod harder. Each deep thrust draws out prolonged, wailing cries from Wonyoung's lips: "AHH! AHHH PLEASE!". Wonyoung leans down upon my mouth for a kiss now.

She breathes, "You're taking me so well", "but I'm not nearly done with you yet until u cum inside me."

Wonyoung's forcefully kisses me deep and moans. "Ahh, please, I can't.. Cum already.!" she cries desperately, a mix of fear and excitement in her voice.

Wonyoung screams again, her voice rising in pitch as I cum inside her "OOOOHHH!"

Wonyoung feels the sticky white cum fill inside her. Its a big load. She still continues riding, but now Wonyoung feels something tear inside her… "You…you tore me," she whispers, eyes wide.

I push her away from my dick, I see a mess down in her pussy. Its full of my sperm and cum, her insides must have broken and torn apart since its her first time. "It hurts but we succeeded. I'm probably finally pregnant!." Wonyoung cries.

I get emotional too. I hug Wonyoung, and as she hugs me back, we hold each other with love, and I can feel her warmth and heartbeat. Inside Wonyoung is a complex mix of emotions and physical sensations.

I can't believe it, did I actually breed Wonyoung, the most popular K-pop girl? This feels so real, it’s definitely not a dream! Yes, thats right! If I and Wonyoung are really the only humans left, the next world generation will be descendants of us!

[strwbrychffoncke]

"i just wanted to tell you incase you forgot... 'i love you',, 3k words ⸺ event masterlist synopsis: the ways in which you tell sylus "i love you" and ways in which he reciprocates contains: lnds sylus x mc?reader (fem in mind but she/her is used like once or twice) ,fluff! ,kitten/sweetie used as pet names ,domestic!sylus feel ,cuddling ,playful banter ,baker sylus ,incorrect evol use but its wholesome ,sylus chases u around ,twins feature ,not much to say other than soft!sylus being in love w u / both of u being lovesick for e/o + twins shenanigans at the end (i think thats it) note: (mostly edited ,will check back later) added this track last minute but immediately knew who i wanted to write it for. first fic of the event woooo~ :x

-

sylus wasn't a man of love-filled sentiments.

or at least, that's what you'd initially thought.

a man like him, the big bad leader of onychinus, someone who was above everyone else and the most sought-after criminal, wielding a steel-cold gun in one of his bloodstained hands...

someone like that didn't know love, surely.

but oh, how wrong you were.

you were the only one that knew, under all of that tough exterior, the true tenderness that lied beneath it.

and you were the sole subject to it, from the very beginning.

-

you woke unceremoniously in a bed that was not your own, surrounded in a blanket of warmth but not solely due to the comforter surrounding your plush body:

it was mainly due to the otherworldly individual beneath you, who you were using as your personal body pillow of sorts.

you stir, letting out a small groan before peeking your eyes open to catch a glimpse of the man before you.

the big, bad leader of onychinus, sleeping soundly in bed next to you, arm firmly wrapped around your waist and your head comfortably planted on his chest— your favorite makeshift pillow.

you can't help but to smile at the sight.

feeling a touch mischievous, you begin trailing your fingers, touch featherlight, up from his waist towards his chest and back down, slowly shifting to drawing mindless shapes in the expanse of exposed skin.

he doesn't react to your touches, still deep in sleep, so you change your tactic.

you drag a single index finger up, up, up past his slender waist, then his slowly rising and falling chest, his pretty neck then up towards his sharp jawline to poke at his cheek.

he grunts in his sleep, but nothing more.

you let out a huff, lifting your head up and staring at the serene expression on his face— even lost in the land of dreams, you couldn't help but to admire every feature of his visage.

a couple of minutes pass by just like this until you decide you're feeling a little bored again.

so you repeat your earlier action, dragging your finger up slowly, slowly, just about to poke his cheek again—

when your wrist is swiftly caught by a warm hand before you reach it.

"it seems my dream of a kitten mistaking me for a toy wasn't a dream after all."

sylus' crimson eyes crack open to look directly into your bright (albeit still slightly-sleepy) ones, heart full at the little playful smile you're sporting.

"she seems bored," he muses, thumb from the hand still gripping your wrist gently caressing your knuckles back and forth— a subconscious habit whenever his hands hold yours.

"should i entertain her?"

his question goes unanswered as he shifts over on his side while letting your hand go at the same time, causing you to slip from your spot on top of him to behind him, facing his back.

"—or leave her to her own devices?"

"sylus!"

your laughs are airy, quickly enveloping the spacious bedroom, and sylus finds himself smiling at the sound.

you don't leave him alone for long, quickly pressing against him and hugging his large frame from behind.

sylus releases a playful scoff. "is this a new attack of yours?"

"yeah, you can't escape, i'm going to stick to you like this forever and ever!"

"how touching," his voice is filled with amusement. "i think i can get used to this..." he trails off, smile evident in his words.

you stay that way for awhile when you decide to repeat your earlier actions in the new space, retracting a hand as you begin to draw shapes into his back this time. at the same time, sylus begins to hum whatever song is on his mind, eyes shut as he revels in your touches, neither one of you in a rush to get up from this sacred space for two.

"what are you drawing, kitten?"

your finger dances across the bare canvas of his back.

"guess," you answer simply as you continue.

he lets out a huff of a laugh. "not going to make it easy for me, are you?"

you hum in response, dragging your fingers to create imaginary lines over the muscles.

"is this... a kitten?" you can almost hear the raise of his eyebrow and see the funny yet curious expression on his face.

"oooh, i didn't think you'd get that one. how about..."

your finger traces several lines again, taking your time before you stop and wait for his answer.

"hmmm..." the way he's concentrating trying to figure it out fills you with amusement like no other.

"a... plane?"

"wrong, it was mephisto!"

"..it was close."

"are you calling mephisto a plane..?"

"..let's move on to the next one."

a hearty laugh rings out as you pretend to erase the image.

"wait until i tell him~"

"you wouldn't dare," he jokingly threats, causing you to only giggle back in response.

you decide on something much simpler this time.

your movements are slowed as you start near the center, drawing a tilted line outward and up before curving it inward and mimicking the same on the opposite side, connecting them to form a heart.

i love you.

a short, amused laugh leaves him, immediately recognizing the shape, but shaping a question instead of an answer.

"i'm not too sure, sweetie. might have to try that one again," he says, voice soft and tender, a hint of a smile within it.

say it once more.

so you do.

you repeat your action, slower, drawing another imaginary heart on his bare skin and within it, your unspoken promise of devotion towards him.

i love you.

this time, he turns around to face you, pulling you flush against him. you let out a short laugh before its devoured by his lips on yours, caught in a dance of love and devotion, giggles bubbling out of you between the breaks as you try to catch your breath while he needily chases your lips.

and the message he wishes to convey is clear as day.

i love you, too.

-

someone like him was the last person you thought you'd ever associate sweets with.

but after the time spent together, you find it hard to imagine anyone else cautiously reading the instructions, mixing the ingredients precisely, and carefully readying the icing for the fresh cupcakes that have come out of the oven and are left cooling nearby, except for him.

you tiptoe into the kitchen, watching him prepare a piping bag for the freshly-made icing he's made while he hums (when you asked him why he goes through the trouble of making it from scratch, he countered by asking "doesn't it taste better when you put in the work for something?" and despite playfully scoffing at the little smirk he offered, you couldn't help but to agree with him).

you smile at his focused expression, reading glasses perched on his nose, some remnants of ingredients spotting his clothes as he decides on which icing tip to use for these particular cupcakes (the last time he made them, they resembled simple flowers. based on the icing tip he was inspecting now, it seemed he was going to try for roses this time).

now just a step away from his back, you reach out both hands, index fingers out as you poke both sides of his lower back at the same time.

he jolts at the sensation, small gasp emitting from his lips and shock washing over him as he cranes his neck over his shoulder to catch your satisfied smile.

"another sneak attack, kitten?"

"i couldn't resist."

you step up beside him, taking a peek into the bowl filled with icing.

"red this time? i would've never guessed."

he scoffs, smiling.

"am i that predictable to you?"

"well, after spending so much time together, its only natural, right?"

"its bad if an enemy learns to read you so easily; who knows what trap will be set in the future."

"you're right," your words trail off as you step back, causing the sly crow before you to raise a brow.

"they can plan an attack when you're vulnerable, like—"

behind him again, you jump forward, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"this!"

his hearty chuckle rings through the kitchen.

even if he saw your intention from the start, he made no move to stop you. he'd surrender to you if you so much as asked.

"so? what will you do with me now that i'm caught?"

"hmmm..."

you hum in thought, noticing sylus has picked up the piping bag and was inserting the icing tip into it, getting ready to fill the bag with the red icing.

he's waiting for your answer when one of your hands reaches forward, dipping your finger into the icing bowl and quickly withdrawing your arms, swiftly turning around—

when you feel yourself being lifted into the air.

you let out a surprised squeal, giggling as you thrash around in the hold of sylus' evol, said man's attention still on the icing bag as he scoops a dallop of red into it.

"such a naughty kitten," he says, evol pulling your suspended body over to him slowly as you laugh the entire way.

"and naughty kittens deserve a punishment," as he speaks, he dips his own finger into the bowl of icing, red now gathered onto the tip before looking up at you through the rims of his glasses.

realizing what he's planning, you thrash around to no avail within the confines of his evol, trying to create distance between you two.

"nooooo! im sorry! please- aha, hahaha! sylus!"

your attempt is futile, sly smirk curling on sylus' lips as his finger moves closer and closer to your smiling face that's trying to inch further and further away, pressing his finger right onto your nose, painting it in red.

"noooooo!" you whine, sylus chuckling in amusement.

"how cute," he muses. "maybe this will teach you to behave in the kitchen."

he finally lets you down with his evol, eyeing you as you're standing upright and before him once again.

"now, go and wait till i'm finished, i'll even let you have the first taste," he bargains, turning his back to you and walking back towards the icing bowl.

despite this, a smirk plasters itself onto your face as you creep your way up behind him once again, red icing still staining your finger from moments ago stretched out, ready to paint his cheek—

"i thought i told you to behave."

despite the countless attempts to catch him by surprise attacks, he knows what you're saying through them:

i love you.

your wrist is easily caught in his grasp, stopping your attack before it can hit his cheek, a displeased groan emitting from your throat.

he brings your icing-covered finger close to his lips, lapping at the red. you watch as it momentarily stains his lips before his tongue licks them clean, humming at the flavor.

"it seems.. better this time, don't you think?" he turns, looking down at you.

you huff out a breath, trying to hide your embarrassment at his little action.

"be patient, kitten, i'll be done soon enough..." he trails off, hand unraveling from your wrist. "or do i have to restrain you?"

"i'm going, i'm going!"

with that, you scurry out of the kitchen to wait in the living room, sylus' amused chuckle surrounding the kitchen soon replaced by his soft, mindless humming once again.

i love you more.

-

a man of his caliber having a playful side seemed like a far-fetched idea.

until you experienced it for yourself.

and since the very first time, you're convinced he may be the most playful person on the entire planet.

to be fair, you kind of expected this, after all, its not like it was the first time.

but when you snatched a cupcake when his back was turned and took a bite, you didn't expect him to notice— at least, not right away.

but he did, and when he began counting, you instinctually bolted out of the kitchen, cupcake still in hand, giggles trailing behind you, determined to not be caught by him.

you dashed past the living area, two crow masks peeking up from their spot on the sofa and shifting to another figure— their boss— who was trailing behind you, watching until your figures disappeared down the long corridor of the hall.

"i give her five minutes," kieran pipes up, turning towards his brother.

"i give her three!"

"you're on!"

. . .

even as you dash down the halls, careful not to hit anything and running in scattered directions, it doesn't take long for sylus to close in on you.

you make it to a lounging area, movements slowed from the amount you've ran in the past couple of minutes, beginning to catch your breath after not sensing him around when you feel a weight on your shoulders.

"caught you."

"...!"

he's equally out of breath, taking a few moments to even his breathing, leaning against you more and more before pushing your body down onto the sofa. you fall back on the cushions with a short oof! still in the midst of catching your breath before sylus lays what feels like his entire weight right on top of you.

"sylus!"

you push against his broad chest, completely crushed by his beautiful build of a body, laughter ringing through the living space at your futile struggle against the smirking man above you.

"it seems a little kitten is stuck," he heaves a couple of breaths. "what are you going... to do about it?"

"get... off!" you laugh.

"i'm tired after all of that chasing... not to mention this is comfortable for me," he takes a couple more breaths, looking down at your slightly-sweaty face. "so i'd rather not."

"you're heavy, sylus!"

you weakly hit at his chest when he closes his eyes, pretending to fall asleep on top of you.

"sylus!"

slowly, he lifts himself up with his arms, hands planted flat on either side of your head.

"attacking me after making me chase you? how very cruel of you, sweetie."

your breaths are mostly even now, watching for sylus' next move.

he slowly begins moving his head down, and your eyes naturally flutter closed, expecting a kiss.

he takes this opportunity to plant his knees into the sofa, shifting his weight onto them as he leans down, breath fanning your lips.

"you trust me, sweetie?" he whispers against your lips.

"always," you whisper back.

he suddenly lifts his head, arms lifting at the same time before his fingers immediately begin dancing over your midriff.

your eyes shoot open in shock and betrayal, laughs immediately ripped from your throat as you thrash beneath him, trying your best to get away despite being caged into the sofa.

"s-sy-sy- ahahah! sto-o-p! s-stop! hahaha!"

his fingers continue their brutal attack on your sensitive skin, bubbling laughter infectious as sylus joins you, pleased smile adorning his face at your current state.

he relents shortly after, allowing you to catch your breath again as he looks down at you in a daze, reaching out to straighten your hair.

"kiss..." your voice is breathless, but he catches it.

"hm?"

"you still owe me... a kiss...." you breathe out, looking up at him expectantly. "from earlier."

"ah, of course."

he leans down, capturing your lips with his, hovering over your body as your arms snake around his neck, pouring your hearts into the action. you both kiss with equal fervor, chasing each others lips, never able to get your fill of the other.

i love you.

he pulls away slowly, your legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close in fear of him leaving you all of a sudden. the look in his eyes says i'm not going anywhere, his forehead touching yours as you both breathe each other in before he tucks his head into your shoulder.

"lets stay like this... just for a bit," his quiet, husky breath hits your ear and you shiver at the sensation.

"okay," you smile, hands petting through his silver locks.

i love you, most.

and you stay together, just like that, losing track of time in the world reserved for two, heartbeats syncing up as you meld against one another, both with the shared sentiment of never letting go.

(only at your insistence of taking a shower and slipping into some fresh clothes when you think he's dozed off does he relent, slowly getting up and scooping you into his arms, making his way down the hall towards his room).

-

sylus wasn't a man of love-filled sentiments.

at least, that's what you'd initially thought.

a man like him, the big bad leader of onychinus, someone who seemed to be above everyone else, the most sought-after criminal wielding a steel-cold gun in one of his bloodstained hands—

the same hands that cradled your face, caressed your hair any chance he got, tickled you when you least expected it, carried you so lovingly at your beck-and-call, hugging you close to his chest, close enough that you could feel his beating heart—

the heart of a man who loved so wholly and completely, devoting his entire being to you.

so, despite what anyone else may think, may also assume at first glance, you knew the truth:

despite the odds, sylus was someone that knew love the best.

-

epilogue:

"so... who won?" luke turns to his brother under the crow mask.

"i did, obviously," kieran is all-too confident.

"what?!? nuh-uh, she was definitely caught in less than five minutes!"

"did we watch the same thing? that was maybe six!"

"are you.... stupid?"

"rude!"

"i didn't think you'd try to lie your way to win," luke crosses his arms over his chest.

"i am not lying!"

"are too!"

the bickering continues for a couple more minutes until luke pipes up again.

"wait, what was the prize for whoever won the bet?"

"......"

kieran is the first to speak up again.

"you know what, since you won, you can be the one to tell boss the reason so many cupcakes are missing."

"WHAT???"

later, the cameras in mephisto's eyes would relay the twins chasing each other around— just amongst the footage of them scarfing down the freshly-made rose-icing cupcakes.

-

a/n: spreading the soft sylus agenda... this is inspired by a number of domestic art/tweets ive seen if i find them ill add but.. he's so soft..... i adore him

-

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak into the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"But if they don't manage to kill her... her punishment for me will be worse." "Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

[harrysfolklore]

31st - hs

happy birthday to the one and only love of my life 🥹🥹 31 omg! i hope he has the best day ever <33

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

You woke up early on February 1st, carefully slipping out of bed without disturbing Harry, who was still peacefully sleeping. The morning sun was just beginning to peek through the curtains, reflecting light across his face. At 31, he was somehow even more beautiful than when you'd first met him - a few more laugh lines around his eyes, his curls slightly shorter now, but still undeniably your Harry.

Making your way to the kitchen, you began the birthday breakfast preparations you'd been planning for days. You started brewing his favorite coffee and pulled out the ingredients for the banana pancakes he loved so much.

As you worked, you couldn't help but smile, remembering his 30th birthday last year - the big party, all their friends and family gathered together. This year, though, Harry had asked for something quieter, more intimate. "Just us," he'd said, "maybe dinner with family later."

The sound of footsteps made you look up, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe in his pajama bottoms and that old Rolling Stones t-shirt you loved so much.

"You're supposed to be sleeping," you scolded playfully, whisking the pancake batter.

"Bed was cold without you," he mumbled, voice still rough with sleep. His hair was adorably mussed, and he had pillow creases on his cheek. "Besides, something smells amazing."

"Happy birthday, love," you said softly, abandoning your cooking to wrap your arms around him.

He hummed contentedly, pulling you closer and burying his face in your neck. "Thank you, baby."

"Thirty-one," you mused, running your fingers through his hair. "How does it feel?"

"Honestly?" He pulled back to look at you, his green eyes twinkling. "Pretty much the same as thirty. Though I did find another grey hair yesterday."

You laughed, reaching up to touch the single silver strand at his temple. "I think it makes you look distinguished."

"Distinguished?" He raised an eyebrow, trying to suppress a smile. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Mhmm," you nodded seriously. "Very sophisticated. Very George Clooney."

"Oi!" He tickled your sides, making you squeal. "I'm not that old yet!"

The pancakes were momentarily forgotten as you both dissolved into laughter, play-fighting in the kitchen like teenagers. Finally, Harry pulled you close again, pressing soft kisses along your jaw.

"You know," he murmured, "this is already my favorite birthday."

"It's barely started!"

"Doesn't matter. I'm here with you, in our kitchen, and you're making me breakfast. What could be better?"

Your heart swelled with love for this man who could find joy in the simplest moments. "Well, it might get even better when you see your presents."

His eyes lit up like a child's. "Presents? But you said we weren't doing big gifts this year!"

"And we're not," you assured him, turning back to the pancakes before they burned. "Just a few small things. Though..." you paused for dramatic effect, "there might be tickets to that vintage guitar show in Nashville you were talking about."

Harry's gasp of delight made you laugh. "Really? The one with the '59 Les Paul?"

"Maybe," you sang, flipping a pancake. "You'll have to wait and see."

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, watching you cook. "Have I told you lately that you're the best wife ever?"

You felt your cheeks flush at the word 'wife,' still not quite used to hearing it spoken aloud. After nearly a year of marriage, it was still your precious secret, shared only with family and closest friends. The ring on your finger was usually hidden away in public, and you'd both become experts at careful wording in interviews.

"Shh," you teased, though your heart fluttered at his words. "The walls might have ears."

Harry chuckled, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "You know, I've been thinking about that actually."

"About what?" you asked, sliding the last pancake onto the plate.

He turned you around gently, his expression thoughtful. "About keeping it secret. Don't get me wrong, this past year has been incredible, having something that's just ours. But sometimes..." he paused, running a hand through his hair, "sometimes I just want to tell the whole world that I'm married to the most amazing woman."

You set down the spatula, studying his face. "Really? You want to go public?"

"Only if you're ready," he said quickly. "But yeah, I do. It's been almost a year, and honestly, I'm tired of not being able to call you my wife whenever I want to. Of having to take my ring off for appearances. Of watching you do the same."

Your heart raced at the possibility. "It would change things," you said softly. "The privacy we've had..."

"I know," he nodded, taking your hands in his. "But maybe... maybe it's time. And what better day than my birthday? We could post something simple, just us."

You thought about it for a moment. The past year had been magical, your private bubble of newlywed bliss protected from the public eye. But he was right - there was something exhausting about constantly hiding, about choosing your words so carefully, about slipping your rings off before stepping outside.

"Okay," you finally said, a smile spreading across your face. "Let's do it."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you laughed as he pulled you into a tight hug. "But after breakfast! These pancakes are getting cold."

Later, after breakfast and presents, you both sat on the couch, phones in hand. You'd chosen a simple photo from your wedding day - just your hands intertwined, both wearing your rings, nothing too revealing but unmistakably a wedding photo.

"Ready?" he asked, his thumb hovering over the 'post' button.

You took a deep breath, nodding. "Ready."

With a click, your secret was out in the world. You both turned your phones to silent, knowing they would explode with notifications any second.

"How does it feel?" Harry asked, pulling you close.

You twisted your ring, which for the first time wouldn't have to come off when you left the house later. "Liberating," you decided. "Scary, but good scary."

"No more hiding," he agreed, kissing your temple.

"No more hiding," you repeated, then laughed. "Your mum's going to be thrilled. She's been dying to post those wedding photos."

"Oh God," Harry groaned good-naturedly. "She's probably already sharing them as we speak."

You snuggled closer to him, enjoying this quiet moment before the world would inevitably explode with the news. "Happy birthday, H. Sorry I kind of hijacked it with our announcement."

"Are you kidding?" He grinned down at you. "This is the best gift you could have given me. Now everyone knows I'm the luckiest man alive."

"Charmer," you muttered, but you were smiling.

"Your charmer," he corrected, then added with obvious delight, "Your husband."

"My husband," you agreed, loving how it felt to say it out loud, knowing you wouldn't have to whisper it anymore.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by zayn, yourinstagram and 20,876,449 others

harrystyles Best birthday gift was marrying my soulmate almost a year ago. Thank you for keeping our secret. ❤️

February, 2024

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username1 WHAT THE HELL

username2 IS THIS A JOKE

taylorswift Finally!! 🥂 Keeping this secret was TORTURE. So happy for you both ♥️

gemmastyles Bbout time you two told everyone!! now i can finally post all the cute photos from the wedding 😭💕

lizzo YALL I WAS AT THE WEDDING AND HAD TO PRETEND I WASNT THIS WHOLE TIME 😭 CONGRATS AGAIN BESTIES

niallhoran The most beautiful day! Love you both!

yourinstagram Finally 🤍 Happy birthday to my husband (!!!) who makes every day feel like a love song. Thank you for choosing me, always.

username3 HUSBAND???????? MARRIED????????? IM SHAKING AND CRYING AND THROWING UP

username4 OH MY GOD THE SIGNS WERE THERE ALL ALONG. REMEMBER WHEN HE KEPT TOUCHING HIS RING FINGER IN THAT ONE INTERVIEW??

username5 not me zooming in on every detail of this photo 👀 THE RINGS ARE SO BEAUTIFUL IM SOBBING

username6 the way they kept this secret for a YEAR?? we love a private couple

username7 HARRY STYLES IS A MARRIED MAN. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I REPEAT. HARRY STYLES IS A MARRIED MAN

username8 im so happy for them but also crying in the club rn 😭

username9 THE WAY YN JUST CALLED HIM HUSBAND IM SCREAMING

username10 not me thinking about how they had a whole secret wedding and we had no idea 😭 they're so powerful

username11 "best birthday gift" STOP IM CRYING THIS IS SO ROMANTIC

[cecebeanie]

I was literally thinking about this, as the best hider in the group I would have been so sad if they just stopped looking for me. The game is about finding each other, after all, if you stop looking it makes no sense.

I'm not sure if we all play the same game with the same rules, but my friends and I would actually play hide and seek normally until there was only one person left to find. At that point, the game changed, because the last hiding person had to come out and try and reach the counting spot where all the other hiding people who had been caught had been "imprisoned", before the seeker. If they managed to touch the counting spot they would free everyone else, and the hiders would win, if the seeker managed to find the hider and win the race to the counting spot, the seeker won.

I don't know, I think I like our version more than the normal one, no one got left behind, the last hider was considered a hero and they had the chance to free everyone else, and no one stopped looking. Abandoning a kid who just happens to be good at hiding seems like the most cruel thing one could do in hide and seek.

Goddamn. Okay

[solxamber]

Valentines day event woowoowoo (dont burn yourself out aye!!)

Idia, romantic, "absolutely smitten" by Dodie (if i got that right-) :]

Hope it could be a fun one ! Stay safe ayeaye

i love the pining potential in the song!!! hope you like my interpretation of it <3

"I'm absolutely smitten" || Idia Shroud

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Absolutely Smitten by Dodie

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 670

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers

Idia first sees you during orientation. Not in person, of course—there’s no way he’d willingly subject himself to a room full of loud, unpredictable people—but through his tablet, streaming the event from the safety of his dorm.

It’s routine, really, just scoping out who he’ll inevitably be avoiding for the next few years. But then the camera pans across the crowd, and he sees you.

And something unfamiliar stirs in his chest.

It’s a strange, unquantifiable feeling, something too big for him to handle, too much for his ribs to cage in. His fingers tighten around the tablet as he watches you smile at something someone says, and a thought creeps into his brain before he can stop it.

I wish that were me.

It’s over for him. Absolutely, completely, no-respawn doomed.

And when he actually gets to know you? Oh, he’s done for. Every interaction with you is a critical hit to his heart. You are bright where he is shadowed, warm where he is cold, a force of nature where he is content to be static.

And yet, somehow, you seem to like being around him. You talk to him, seek him out, sit with him even when he fumbles through his words and hides behind his hood.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Idia Shroud, the ghost of Ignihyde, the one who would rather face a boss battle on the highest difficulty than make eye contact with another human being, wants nothing more than to be close to you.

He wants to talk to you about everything that makes his mind race at 3 AM, wants to know what makes you tick, wants to kiss you until he forgets what loneliness feels like.

But he can’t. Because you are you, and he is him, and the idea of ruining what he has with you is a fear greater than any horror game could ever conjure.

So he does nothing. He pines. He wonders.

Are you just being nice?

Would you ever see him that way?

Is he even worth your time?

And yet, he doesn’t know that you are just as smitten.

The day you met him is engraved in your brain like a prophecy fulfilled. You think he’s the one. It sounds ridiculous, impossibly romantic, something straight out of a visual novel, but you can’t shake the feeling that you and Idia are meant to be.

And so, one day, when you’re sitting next to him in his room—shoulders almost touching, his leg bouncing like a loading screen buffering at 99%—you slide a little closer.

“Idia.”

He stiffens. “W-what?”

“I like you.” A pause. “I really like you.”

His brain blue-screens.

You barely have time to process his expression—wide golden eyes, parted lips—before he starts tearing up.

“Wait, wait, are you okay?” You panic, reaching for him, but he shakes his head rapidly, hands clutching his hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

“You—” His voice cracks. “You actually—?”

You nod. “I mean, yeah. Kinda thought it was obvious.”

Obvious? Obvious? He’s been agonizing over this for months, drowning in his feelings, convinced you were nothing more than a dream he was too scared to wake up from. And yet, here you are, looking at him like he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to you.

He doesn’t know what to say. But you do.

So you pull him into a hug, letting him bury his face in your shoulder as he trembles. His hands hover before finally clutching the fabric of your shirt, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he holds on too tightly.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Idia feels whole.

He pulls back slightly, and when he looks at your soft smile, something inside him clicks into place. He’s never letting you go.

And when you look at his teary-eyed grin, you think the same thing.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[bboricha]

hot damn!

➳ pairings: caleb x afab!reader ➳ cw: NSFW, caleb eats pussy, that's really it

you're laying on the couch on your stomach, playing a game on your phone. and caleb is... well, caleb is staring at your ass. to be fair, they look great in those shorts and you know it, which is why you deliberately brought it with you to caleb's apartment in skyhaven.

he sits down next to your legs, picking up one of them by the ankle and draping it over his lap, his eyes never leaving the curve of your ass. you can feel his gaze, but you ignore it. or at least you try to until he suddenly grips the back of your thighs, slowly dragging his fingers upwards, letting them slide underneath the fabric of your shorts, finally reaching the goal. he starts to knead your cheeks softly, his hands larger than them because he has really big hands. he begins to put a bit more power into it, almost as if he were giving you a massage. you feel a mischievous finger hooking the hem of your panties, finally making you pause your game and look back at him with a cocked eyebrow.

"caleb?" you ask.

"...yes?" he answers.

"what do you think you're doing?" your honeyed voice, filled with mocked oblivion, makes his cock twitch in his basketball shorts.

"i'm just trying to make you feel relaxed," his voice is filled with false pretenses, making your cunt drip a bit. his hands travel further up your panties, silently asking if he could continue. when you respond by lightly grinding your knee against his clothed cock, he grins, yanking your shorts off.

he sniffs at your pussy through your underwear, lapping at the wet spot that formed before pulling it aside with his teeth, stretching your ass cheeks apart to get a better look at how wet you are. he buries his face into you, groaning as he slurps up your arousal.

"calebbbb, you're being too noisy," you whine, gripping one of his couch pillows tightly as you try to drown out the wet noises and groans from him.

"can't help it," he moans between licks, "you taste too good, baby."

his tongue dips inside your hole, trying to drink up all the nectar that's flowing out. your toes curl as that coil in your stomach becomes taut, becoming tighter when he suckles on your clit.

"c-caleb, i'm—" you stutter, biting the cushion, moaning into it as your eyelids flutter. your eyes roll back as you cum, your legs attempt to twitch but caleb holds them down, lapping up your release. once you finally come down from your high, your try to move your legs, but caleb's hold on you is strong. you turn around to look at him, tilting your head in confusion when all he does is respond with a smile.

"i haven't had my fill yet."

an: i just like to think that caleb really likes eating pussy

[ateezscupid]

can you write smth with sub mingi and a curvy reader, and like he picks her up and she tenses and gets all awkward and insecure and he basically just reassures her?💕

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST mingi w/ body worship ♡

"I'm home-!" Mingi yelled, dropping his bag by the door. You came scurrying around the corner, holding your arms out with a cheeky smile.

"Min!" you squeal, throwing your arms around his neck. He laughs, returning the embrace before setting you down gently. "I missed youuu!"

"Aw, really? How much?" he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and giving a playful squeeze. You pretend to think hard, your eyes squinting as if the answer is just out of reach.

"Well, let's see… a lot!" You giggle, feeling the warmth of his smile against your cheek.You pull away and tilt your head, pulling at his hoodie. "But you smell like garage."

"You love it." he chuckled, out of nowhere deciding to lift you up. You yelped, a bit -- surprised. He's never tried to lift you before, and the thought of him doing so always lingered in your mind but you never actually asked him to. You kind of assumed he wouldn't be able to because of your weight. But here you are, off the floor, your legs dangling as he swings you around in a circle.

"What-?" he noticed the hesitant look on your face. "Did I do something wrong?"

"N-No! It's just.." You gulp, trying to find the right words without sounding too overwhelmed. "It's just that… I didn't think you could lift me." A blush creeps up your cheeks as you admit your doubt.

Mingi's smile widens, a glint of pride in his eyes. "You're not that heavy," he says, spinning you around one more time before carefully setting you down.

"You don't have to lie. I know I'm heavy, I just -- you never tried to do it before and I didn't know what to do!"

"Well I thought you just didn't like being picked up," Mingi said, his eyes searching yours for a hint of truth. You couldn't help but laugh at his innocence, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

"Maybe I just didn't know how to ask," you confessed, playing with the strings of his hoodie. "But I've always wanted you to."

"And now I did and you're happy so I'm definitely going to do it again." He said, grinning. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he tickled your sides, making you squirm and giggle.

"You're adorable," Mingi says, his grin never faltering as he watches you try to regain your composure. He grabs your hand and pulls you towards the living room, his grip firm but gentle. You follow willingly, feeling lighter than you have in a while. The TV is on in the background, playing a show you both enjoy, but he quickly mutes it with the remote.

"I mean, I don't get why you're insecure. You're really fucking hot," Mingi says, his voice sincere as he sits you down on the couch. He plops down next to you, his hand resting on your thigh.

You roll your eyes, but the blush doesn't leave your cheeks. "Thanks, but you know it's not just about that," you murmur, looking down at your lap.

"I know but have you seen yourself? You're gorgeous," Mingi insists, gently lifting your chin with his finger so that your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes away a stray hair that's fallen across your forehead, the gesture surprisingly tender. "I mean, not to sound like a pervert, but I've had to stop myself from staring at you sometimes."

"Really-?" You whisper, your voice quivering slightly with disbelief. "So, what do you do when we have sex? Close your eyes?"

"Obviously not. But you see how I like you sitting on my face," Mingi teases, his voice dropping to a murmur. You slap his chest playfully, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pleasure at his words. The tension in the room shifts, the air thickening with something unspoken.

"What! Your thighs are so fucking soft. Imagine having them around your head," he says, his voice taking on a more serious tone. You laugh nervously, trying to break the tension that's starting to build between you.

"You're a freak." You giggle, trying to push him away, but his hand remains firm on your thigh. "But a charming one."

"And you loveeee it. I'd do whatever you ask. If you want me to pick you up, carry you, whatever the case may be - just ask. Please. I'd do it in a heartbeat." He leans closer, his warm breath brushing against your cheek. You can feel your heart racing, and your palms start to sweat.

"I'm-- okay, I just changed my underwear. Give me a break," you retort, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays your excitement. Mingi laughs, his eyes never leaving yours, his hand still resting on your thigh.

"You're gonna have to change them again!" he jumps up, pulling you up and lifting you over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. You shriek with laughter as he starts to walk down the hallway, your body bouncing slightly with each step he takes.

[holyguardian]

Aerith exhaled a contented little breath, watching Alba with a small tilt of her head. If only it could feel that easy for them... to just, join in, happily, without any fear. Lucis had been full of excitement at first but then she found herself feeling daunted by so much, so soon.

Somnus must have felt it too. Like it would be impossible to ever map out this new home.

She barely got to turn around when that yelling perked her attention. "RORAN!" she called, her tone accusatory as her little brother came close to bowling her off her feet. She shocked a laugh and immediately, as if reflex, closed her arms around him in a squeezing hug.

Little man was not supposed to be here. Their mother was strict at the best of times, and look at him, flying the coop! Not that she could fault him too harshly. He didn't understand the full picture. He was shielded, as best he could be, these were exciting times where good would triumph over bad in his mind.

"I'm calling the next dragon ride you little cheek, and when I find that pumpkin I'm going to shove it on your head so we never lose you again — get back inside!" she chased him playfully, right into their father's waiting arms. The look on his face when he exited the stable to see his son flagrantly going against the rules was one she would remember for a long time.

Teeth showing in a sharp little grin, Aerith calmed a little when Somnus stepped closer to her side. Her hand brushed his, her fingers gently scooping his up to hold his hand with a small, reassuring squeeze.

"Roran is the whirlwind here, we don't have to rush. First I will take you to the barracks, the soldiers who travelled with us will get the beds inside, sheltered and warm, and then we can check in at the infirmary. They're both close walks so we don't have to go far. Let's put our minds at ease and then we will make our way inside. We'll smell ripe and awful and that's fine, we'll only be seeing my mother and no one else, and she would rather receive us as we are. Then I will show you to our room. Normally I would say it's a good time to rest before the evening meal, but I think we should get cleaned up, get dressed, and I can give you a small tour while there's still daylight. Come on." she gently pulled his hand to follow, her other hand raising to give her father and brother a wave. "We will be inside shortly. Make sure Roran doesn't let the dragon loose in the few minutes we're gone~"

Aerith guided Somnus as promised. When they reached the barracks, she respectfully remained further back, urging him to check on his men and to assess the barracks for himself. Then they changed course to the infirmary. All of the injured soldiers had already been tended to, they were in beds that looked fluffier and cozier than even those of the barracks, and they were already being assessed for potions, dressings and further treatment. It made her briefly turn her attention on him, nudging to see how he was feeling. He was good, he claimed. Better than good.

Then she was guiding him to the inner-palace. Even made to pause, coaxing Gilgamesh closer so he would have no troubles with access from the Queensguard. It was immediately obvious how strict they were — a sad necessity.

"I don't know what your normal arrangements are in Lucis, but we'll make sure you aren't far from Somnus. Eeeeeven if we have to put you in my pretty pink bedroom, but I'm certain my mother has that all worked out." Aerith spoke to Gilgamesh, apparently more than comfortable with a one-sided conversation.

"Here we are." she nodded to the Queensguard, who opened up the final door. The inner-most palace, where her mother waited with an incredibly worried look on her face. While Roran escaped, she received an update about the caravan from her elite guards.

"Oh, Aerith, Somnus," Ifalna uttered, sounding exactly as she looked, a deeply worried mother. She approached them without any titles or air of royalty, simply gathering them both into a hug. Her left arm held a strong grip around Somnus, though her right was weaker where she held Aerith. "Are you okay?" she asked, looking between them.

Aerith melted immediately. Her lips pursed as she smiled, her brows creased, and she tried her best to keep herself held together. She had been standing straight for so long, but one worried word from her mother and she felt like a delicate flower again. "Mum... we'll be okay, it's okay," she reassured, hugging her back. She cast a quick glance to Somnus at her side, cleared her throat a little. "I was going to show Somnus where our room is. After everything that happened, we really need to have a good scrub and new sets of clothes. We can talk about it later, if you want, but we could also just not talk about it too. It really sucked. Now we're home."

Ifalna gave her daughter a look. Of course she would dodge the talk, her specialty was dodging the talks. But the Queen nodded her consent nevertheless. She could get the full story from her husband, after all. "Alright. Off you go. But I do expect to see you at dinner."

There was so much to take in. Everything was familiar – and yet entirely different. Somnus recognize the way the capital was built up. Though the castle was closer to town. With higher walls. And many mor stories. Only the tower of the divine could reach that high back at home. Somnus had to make an effort not to stare with an open mouth constantly.

He tried to keep everything in mind that Aerith told him – but it was overwhelming.  Usually he was so good at retaining information… but now… Somnus was just quietly grateful he could lead Alba to a good place. The Chocobos there really were treated like royalty. Back at home the gysah greens were all they got as treats and anything above that? Somnus had scavenge for that himself. Here, they got handed produce from the endless fields beyond the walls.

The farmlands really were a gigantic basket of goods. That was what his mother had once called these lands. So fertile and giving, that the entirety of Eos could be fed here. Mayb that was an overestimation. But now Somnus really could see, why others wanted these lands so badly.

He would have to visit all these places. The Queenswoods. The Ancient Forest. If he was permitted, of course…

Alba seemed happy, squeaking sweetly at Aerith when she was fussed again, before she proudly trotted off to join the other Chocobos at the feeding trays.

Somnus looked after her for a moment, still holding onto her reigns – and hoping he would have a similarly easy introduction into the court here as his feathery friend, who was already ruffling her feathers among the others.

Just as he turned to follow Aeirth, teher was a loud yell and someone came barrelling through the guards and soldiers.

Blond spiky hair with arms thrown up and a smile so big, as if it was Roran’s birthday and nameday at once.

“AERIIITH!”, the boy knew no mercy, running for his sister and he would have probably overthrown her with a hug, had he not come to a skittering halt right in front of her. His arms thrown around her, he seemed to cuddle against her with the biggest glee.

“Finally you’re here! It was so boring! Have you seen all the soldiers gathered outside?! I flew over them with uncle Leif, I was allowed outside once! It was amazing! And we have a giant pumpkin from the harvest! It’s as big as Nidhogg’s head, you have to come and see it! And tell mom to make pumpkin soup from it, not roast it! The cooks don’t listen to me! Oh, hello, Somnus!”

Wow. Somnus did not even know what to say. The boy was like a whirlwind and Somnus could barely lift his hand, when he was passed by the prince consort, who picked the boy from the hug with a sidenoted: “Prince Somnus, Roran.”

Though there was no real scolding, the boy just continuing his laughter, when picked up and hugging his father, who tried to chastise him for not staying in the inner palace and listening to his mother.

Somnus used that opprtunity to step to Aerith's side once more, whispering questions: "Are we expected to wash and dress up first? Into what?"

[eitaababe]

Could I request a Jj x reader angst but with a happy ending ? Reader and Jj get into a fight and he says nasty things to her and they don’t speak for days until he sees her at a party where someone is flirting with her and they talk it out ?

TALK IT OUT.

jj maybank x kook! reader.

[ a/n ; this took entirely way too long for me to finish but lol hope you enjoy! ]

—

"JJ?" you called out softly, hearing the familiar onset of knocks at your bedroom window.

You could spot him through the glass– wearing a new bruise on his cheek. Sleepiness long forgotten, you jumped out of bed, quickly opening your window and ushering him in.

"Hey, Princess." He grinned the same toothy smile, as if his left cheek wasn't currently throbbing. Complying with your fussy movements, he sat at the edge of the bed, watching you rummage quietly around for a first aid kit.

You huffed, heading to your bathroom before coming back, the small bag in hand. "Jesus, what happened?" You muttered, more of a hypothetical question than anything else.

"You should see the other guy." He lightly jokes, avoiding the question altogether. It was like this every time– he'd show up, beaten and bruised, refusing to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. And you knew it was coming from home, but JJ never let you catch onto more than that.

"JJ." You finally sighed out, tone stern.

"Y/n." He responded, grinning like a fool.

"I'm serious," you huffed. "You gotta tell me what's going on. This- this isn't healthy-"

"What, you want me to stop coming over here? I don't got anywhere else to go!" He scoffed, suddenly defensive.

"I want you to be honest with me!" You pleaded, still sitting at the edge of the bed, looking up as he paced throughout your room. "I know there's something going on at home, and I want to help, JJ-"

"You want me to be honest?" He breathed out, tongue poking at his cheek before he spoke up again. "Alright. Yeah, here's honesty- you live such a perfect life, princess. Nice house, nice family, living on figure 8. And you're what- hanging out with me? Some dirt bag from the cut? You wouldn't get what my life's like- alright? You can't understand."

"But I want to understand," you breathed out, standing and trying to meet his eyes. "If you'd just let me-"

"God, Y/n, I'm not some charity case! What, you gonna call CPS on me? Try and fix me? I'm already fucked up, I get that. But I don't need your fake pity. This- I don't know what you thought this was," he scoffs, each word digging further into your chest like a blade, "But this isn't a relationship, princess. It was just fun, okay? So stop tryin' to get all sappy-feely on me."

You recoiled at his words, going quiet. Your mind raced through all your times together, the pillow talks, late night rendezvous at the beach, or even the small and intimate moments where he'd come over, relying on you to patch him up and inevitably staying the night in your bed.

"Right," you agreed softly, missing the subtle regret on his face. "Sorry."

"Princess-"

"No, no, you're right," you shook your head, breathing out. "It's just casual. I shouldn't have overstepped," you cleared your throat, nodding towards the window. "You should go."

He went quiet, mouth opening and closing as if he tried to think of what to say in response. But he settled for a quick nod, crawling back out the window.

You don't reach out the next couple of days, ignoring JJ's attempts of trying to make small talk. But you'd caught yourself sulking in bed, deciding you needed to make a change. Sarah had coaxed you out of bed, deciding that a party with the kooks would be the best way to let loose.

You had your doubts, but she wouldn't take no for an answer.

So there you stood, next to the bonfire with a beer in hand. The night had been completely uneventful, until you were approached by some other party goer. You knew of the boy, his name has started with an E. Ethan? Evan? You racked your brain, plastering on a polite smile as he greeted you.

"Hey, Y/n," he grinned, nodding your way. "Having fun?"

"Hey, E..." you trailed off, a shy, slightly bashful smile on your face.

"Eden." He finished for you, chuckling. "Where's your bodyguard?"

You furrowed a brow, confused before it clicked. You and JJ always ended up at parties together, many aware of the unofficial official relationship you two had. It was another cruel reminder of his absence, but you pulled yourself out of it.

"Maybank? He's not- we're not really.."

"So you're available?" Eden grinned, his once boyish grin morphing into something that could only cause discomfort. You glanced around, hoping for an outlet out of the conversation.

"Okay, even if I was-" you scoffed, eyes widening when he took a step closer, the alcohol all consuming from his breath.

"Nah, cmon, let's go-"

"Hey, dickwad!"

You'd never been so happy to hear the familiar voice, turning and relaxing at the sight of his messy locks. JJ's arms were immediately on you, wrapping over your shoulder. "Tryin' to steal my girl?"

"Woah, she told me-"

"Get lost," JJ cut him off, grinning and waving him off with a gesture. Once he was out of sight, the blonde turned back to you, expression softening with concern. "You alright, baby? He didn't try anything, did-"

"I'm fine." You muttered, pulling back from his hold. You didn't meet his eye, your cold tone causing his shoulders to droop.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" He sighed, looking down at you. He paused, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. "I just- I've never really done anything more than hookups-"

"That's not an excuse-"

"Let me finish, woman," he huffed, pressing a finger over your lips to shut you up, suppressing a grin at the cute pout on your face. "I know it's not an excuse. But I got scared, and I didn't mean it, okay? It's just- you're perfect. You're from this great, rich, and nice family and I'm just- I'm just me. I'm broke, I have a dad who beats me, dirt poor-"

"You don't have to berate yourself so much, it's making me start to feel bad." You grumbled out, looking down at the space between you two.

"So you're sayin' it's working?" He grinned, lowering his head to meet your eyes. As the corners of your mouth quirked up, he pushed further. "Cmon, princess, y'know I'm sorry. Won't happen again."

You huffed at the promise, rolling your eyes. "Promise?"

"Scout's honor." JJ teased, eyes twinkling as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Any cold facade you'd put on melted at that, as you leaned in, head burying into his chest. "Asshole."

"I know." He laughed, playfully tickling your side. "And 'm sorry. Promise I'll talk with you about all that stuff."

"Good," you nodded, smiling softly up at him.

"Great," JJ added, grinning back. "Now can we please go back to the party so we can watch a drunk Kie yell about saving those damn turtles?"

[covenofagatha]

i... wow. sorry if this is too vulgar; i was at the gym when you posted, and like you've psychologically conditioned me, my underwear became.. awfully sticky.. and remained that way the whole day (which i would send a picture if i fear it'd be too far) because i decided to save the read for when i reached home. I'm grateful i did, because despite being shorter than the rest of your works, it was, as always, a masterpiece :)

i hope your exam went well (not sure what timezone you're in, but here friday is basically over... so you've completed it in my book) and as a little prize, here's another tiny brainworm loosely inspired by my experience with your notification today:

desperate! perv! agatha who gets off to your voice, ft. masturbation, pillow humping and fucking, sheet (?) sniffing, daddy kink, praise, voyeurism and dubcon depending on what you want i guess

maybe you're unaware of how your voice affects agatha, innocently obeying when she asks you to "do as many pushups as you can, saying my name each time, baby", and because you love your girlfriend, you'll heed her and her little quirks. you just presume she wants to properly know how many pushups you can do, since it's easy for you to cheat by just saying numbers, right?

or, maybe you're a little more aware then you let on. maybe you exaggerate your noises a little, grunting "agatha" in the husky tone you know she adores, voice gradually dwindling into a whimper of her name.

hopefully unbeknownst to you, agatha is imagining your voice calling "daddy" over and over. you haven't discussed it yet, and she's too embarrassed to bring it up, because what if it's too much for you? the sheets are still gently stained with your juices from your shenanigans with her from last night, and she was supposed to change them (and, well she technically was) -- but she saw the darkened part of the sheets and got all riled up again.

agatha groans as she hears you, and hastily fumbles for the mute button, not wanting you to hear her (maybe she instead presses the video button, and you see flashes of her rigid cock, her head thrown back, and you cant help but buck your hips each time you lower yourself to the ground).

"baby, darling, you've ruined me," agatha mumbles, moving to position a pillow between her legs because she doesn't want to touch herself, rather have your hands, your mouth, your cunt. fuck, she's starting to drip precum just thinking about you.

pushing her nose against the stain you left on the sheet, she inhales sharply, desperately, taking in the lingering scent of you as she humps the pillow like a dog in heat.

it's not enough, she realises, and she tugs the sheet up, inadvertently giving her the brilliant idea as your pillow falls; if she folds it in half, it forms a nice gap that envelopes her throbbing dick nicely, and she can't bother to think about the logistics of it when she's hearing your voice on the other end, already done with pushups, just rambling on about your day like you don't know what you do to her.

she brings the soiled sheet up to sniff, groaning as she jolts into the pillow, babbling "daddy's good little girl" and "my favourite cocksleeve" and "please, baby, you're so good for daddy". (if you can hear her, perhaps you pause your talking just to question what she's doing, but she's too far gone into her pleasure to even notice).

"daddy needs you so bad, pretty girl, ngh-" and she pulls out of the (now sticky) pillow to cum all over the sheets, and the idea that your leftover juices on the fabric are now covered in *her* cum sends another load out of her, splattering audibly as she bucks her hips into nothing.

(if she's muted the whole time, she delights darkly in the fact that you don't know a thing, her naive little pet. but perhaps she realises only after, that her mic and camera is on, when you pipe up with a "enjoy yourself, daddy?" and she grows humiliatingly hard all over again.)

I'll stop here because my head is pounding lol, but i hope you like it (and i hope the start doesn't make you uncomfortable). thank you for gracing us with your incredible writing miss covenofagatha, looking forward to your next piece, whatever it is 😉

sorry i keep bothering you in your asks, let me know if you want me to stop! also, please don't feel obligated to write this in full as a request or anything, it truly is just a wriggly brainworm thought I have that i thought you might like 💜

-lots of love, worm anon

Every time you send an ask it has me on the fucking floor jesus christ how do you keep coming up with hotter ideas

I don't even know how I would be able to write more about this because every single word is so perfect and so detailed and fuck so hot oh my god

[slut4megantheestallion]

Hello! I don't know if you have any rules regarding requests, but I sent you my idea. Arcane women x female reader! Especially Vi, Jinx and Caitlyn. They wanted to have something more intimate with the reader, but she can't because of past experiences and she feels frustrated with herself, and she doesn't feel able to tell her partner because she thinks he will judge and abandon her. Many times, the reader has stayed awake while her partner is sleeping and begins to cry, then her partner wakes up after sobs and finds the reader crying, and she finally confesses her trauma and her love comforts her. Again, if you're uncomfortable with this, you're free not to write it down! Hugs!

Characters: Vi, Jinx, Caitlyn.

Hiii<3 yeahh, I'll do this, and yes, I write for arcane sometimes, I do take requests 😄.

Arcane Women x Reader w/ trauma Headcannons

Scenario: The reader struggles with intimacy due to past trauma, afraid of judgment and abandonment. She often stays awake, crying, feeling frustrated herself, and ashamed. Until one night, her partner wakes up and finds her breaking down. Comfort and love follow.

Warning ⚠️: angst, trauma, past abuse, comfort, fluff.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Before you ended up in Zaun/Piltover and met, vi, Jinx, or caitlyn, your life was far from kind. You had experienced relationships that weren't built on love or trust, just lust, power, control, manipulation, and fear.

You were once with someone who made you feel like your body was something they deserved rather than something you owned. Your bound were ignored - your "no" was met with guilt tripping, anger, or silent treatment until you gave in. You learned to freeze rather than fight back because arguing led to worse outcomes. Over time, you started believing that love was something you had to earn by giving parts of yourself away.

Even after escaping that life, the scars lingered. You told yourself you were free and that no one can hurt you again, but when it comes to intimacy, your body still remembers what it felt like to be powerless.

Kisses sometimes feels like suffocating.

Touch- no matter how gentle - could make your skin crawl.

Even when your partner held you in the safest way, your mind whispered, what if they get tired of waiting? What if they leave?

You love them, but you hated yourself for feeling like this.

-Vi

● Vi had always been patient with you. She never pushes, never pressures you - just waits for you to come to her when you're ready, but she does notice this from the beginning of the relationship. How you'd tense slightly when things got to heated. How your kisses always stopped before they could get too deep. She doesn't pressure you or anything. She waits for to be ready, but what she doesn't know is that you don't think you'll ever be ready.

●Tonight is another restless night. You lie beside vi, staring at the ceiling while she sleeps, steady and warm next to you. You wish you could be at peace like that, but the weight on your chest won't let you breathe properly. You bite lips, trying to hold the tears back, but your body betrays you. A quiet sob escapes before you can stop it.

●A slight shift, then a groggy, sleep rough voice:

●"Babe?" Her voice is thick with sleep, but the concern is immediate.

●She sees you curled up, shaking. Something in her chest hurts.

●She reaches out, but the moment her hand brushes your back, you flinch. That makes her freeze.

●"Talk to me, sweetheart."

●You shake your head, hands gripping the sheets like they're the only thing keeping you together. "I'm sorry," you whisper.

●"For what?" Vi asks, brow furrowing.

●You try to explain how you want to be normal, how you hate that you pull away when she touches you, how you're afraid she'll get frustrated and walk away like everyone else did. Your voice cracks as you confess what happened in the past, how you were used, how your body never felt like yours.

●Vi listens, silent, herfists clenching under the blankets. Not at you, but at the people who did this to you. At the world that made you feel so fucking small.

●She leans in, gently tilting your chin up so you can see her eyes - so full of love and unwavering devotion.

●"You never have to apologize for this. Ever." She kisses your forehead, slow and lingering. "I don't need anything from you, okay? Just you. However you are, whenever you're ready. And if you're never ready? That's fine, too."

●Your breath hitches. "But... what if you get tired of waiting?

●Vi huffs a small laugh, but there's no humor in it - only warmth.

●"Then I'll wait longer."

●For the first time in a long time, you believe someone.

-Jinx

●Jinx sleeps like the dead usually, but tonight, something pulls her from her dreams - maybe it's instinct, maybe it's the way the bed feels too cold despite your body being right there.

●And then she hears it. Soft, muffled crying, her heart clenches.

● Jinx turns over, rubbing her eyes, then freezes when she sees you curled up, facing away from her, shoulders shaking.

●"Babe?"

●You stiffen, hurriedly wiping your face. "Sorry, I - just go back to sleep."

●Jinx isn't having it. Within seconds, she's hovering over you, pressing her forehead against the back of your head.

●"Nuh-uh, nice try. What's wrong, sugarplum?"

●You try to hold it in. You do. But the moment she snakes an arm around your waist, anchoring you to her, it all comes spilling out in broken whispers.

●Jinx listens. And for once, she doesn't joke, doesn't deflect - just holds you, silent and still, until you're done. When you finally stop, she exhales a shaky breath.

●"Damn, that's been eatin' at you this whole time, huh?" You nodded.

●Jinx is quiet for a long moment, and then she turns you into her arms, cupping your face. "Listen up, cause I ain't sayin' this twice. You? You're the best damn thing that's ever happened to me. And I don't give a shit if we ever do anything like that. I just want you, yeah?" Tears spill over again, but this time, there's relief in them.

●Jinx smirks softly, brushing a thumb over your cheek. "Now come here, lemme squeeze the sadness outta ya." She pulls you against her, tucking you under her chin, holding you like she'll never let go, Because she won't.

-Caitlyn Kirraman

●Caitlyn has always been patient, but tonight, when she wakes to the sound of your quiet sobs, her heart shatters.

●"Darling?" Her voice is soft, laced with concern. You curl in on yourself. "I- I can't do this."

●"Do what?" Caitlyn sits up, brushing her fingers over your back. "Be what you deserve." Caitlyn breath catches, "love, look at me."

●You hesitate, but finally do. And when you see her face - soft, full of love, worried - the words come pouring out.

●You tell her everything. The past, the guilt, the fear that she'll leave. Caitlyn listens, her hand gently rubbing yours.

●"I wish I could take the pain away." She says softly. "I wish I could erase every horrible thing they did to you. But since I can't... let me show you that love doesn't have to be like that."

●You choke back a sob.

●Caitlyn presses a tender kiss to your knuckles. "No matter what, I'm here. We go at your pace, always."

●Her words wrap around you like the warmest blanket. And finally, after all these years, you believe it.

[hyunjuenthusiast]

ITS ME AGAIN😎

need a jealous!hyun-ju x fem!reader who gets a bit too close with gi-hun, ANDD reader ends up getting edged and fingered roughly by jealous!hyun-ju as reader tried to quiet down in the bathroom??

TYSM I LVOE YOUR FICS🫶

HEYYYY👋🏻 Are you becoming a regular?!😂 Let me see what I can do!

BEAUTIFUL ENVY

Summary: During the games, you become close with Hyun-ju, not realizing the envy that builds inside of her when you start also getting close to Gi-Hun.

Pairing: Jealous!Hyun-ju x Femreader!

Warnings: SMUT and jealousy.

Not an adult? Don't read! 🔞

Hyun-ju grits her teeth as she hears you laugh along with Gi-Hun's group. Just because they decided to work together didn't mean that you could just leave her.

That thought made Hyun-ju tense. You weren't together. She had no right to be feeling this way. But the sight of you smiling at someone else after you had been so kind to her, made her want to strangle Gi-Hun.

Looking back over at you, her blood boils. Gi-Hun was offering you his gimbap. He'll no.

She was walking towards you before she could even think. You looked up at her as she stood in front of you and Gi-Hun, the rest of the group talking about random things, not really paying attention to Hyun-ju.

"Hyun-" You go to question, only to be silenced when she holds out her gimbap as well. The look she was giving Gi-Hun made you tense where you sat.

With both of them offering you their food, you didn't know what to do. "Um, thank you both, but I'm not that hungry!" You say, letting out a nervous chuckle that only Gi-Hun returns.

You give Hyun-ju a soft smile, trying to ease whatever tension this was. You can see her relax a little.

She sits on the other side of you. Young-il asked Gi-Hun about what he thought the next game would be, and you listened closely, leaning in closer.

You heard her scoff before you felt her hand on your forearm. She pulled you a bit closer to her, leaning down close to your ear. "He doesn't know anything about the next game. He was wrong about the second game. We shouldn't trust him." She whispers.

You frown. You did trust Gi-Hun. He helped everyone in red light, green light. He's voted to go home, which is more than Hyun-ju has done. She voted to stay once after all.

"He's not untrustworthy-" you try to say until you notice her soft glare, making you shrink a bit into yourself. "You can't be sure of someone's intentions, sweet girl, especially in here." She explains softly. You knew she was right. But that means you also couldn't trust her.

She seems to know what you were thinking, and you see her eyes soften. "You know I'd never betray you, don't you? Not after what happened to Young-Mi." She whispers, making you look down in guilt.

"I know." You whisper back softly, your breath hitching as she reaches to hold your hand. "I won't let anyone hurt you. Not any of the players, not any of the guards, not even yourself." She says. Your eyebrows furrow for a moment, not really knowing what she means by not letting you hurt yourself, but she doesn't clarify.

You made a mistake. That's all. You wouldn't leave her. Not for him. He's old enough to be your father. But the way you clung to him during lights out...

She clenches her fists. As soon as the guards shut it down and announced it was time for bed, she grabbed your wrist, making you get out of your bed. Not enough to hurt, but enough were you knew she was serious. You question her with your gaze, but she looks straight ahead, her pace much faster than yours.

She knocks on the door, and a triangle guard opens the little window to see what she wants. "She got her period. Would you please let us through so I can help her clean her pants?" She asks making your eyes widen. You weren't on your period.

When the window shuts, she quickly takes off her jacket, tying it around your waist. Knocking again, this time, the guard lets you through.

She was smart. The guard checked your backside when you walked past him.

As soon as the woman's restroom door shut, Hyun-ju rushed and pushed you against a wall, her touch firm, making you gasp.

"W-What are you doing?" You ask, the look in her eyes changing from firm...to hunger.

"You let him hold you." She whispers close to your ear. "W-what? Wh-" She inturupts, "Gi-Hun. Player 456. You let that asshole touch you." She sneers. You have to crane your neck to look up at her. "I-I don't underst-" you try to say.

"You will." Hyun-ju says, her eyes dark. One of her hands travels down your body, stopping just under the line of your bra. "What color is it, baby?" She asks in a whisper.

You give her a confused look. "What color is your bra?" She says, one of her fingers tracing where your nipple is.

Your eyes widen, but you feel the need to answer her. "P-Purple" you whisper, hearing her inhale sharply.

"Has he seen it? Gi-Hun?" She asks, starting to lift your shirt up gently. "N-No of course not, w-why would-" She shuts you up with a kiss. Her lips are softer than what you would have thought, and moist.

"I see the way he looks at you, baby." She says as she breaks the kiss. "And you give him those sweet puppy eyes, don't you?" She asks, lifting your shirt over your head, her eyes immediately taking in the sight of your breasts.

"I don't." You whisper. "You do, baby. Don't lie. But that's okay, I'll fix it." She says, leaning down and kissing the edge of your cleavage. "Mmm, so soft." She mumbles against the supple flesh of your right breast.

"What do you mean? Fix what?" You ask, a little breathless already. You can feel her smirk. "I'll make sure you only look at me." She says, keeping her eyes on yours as she rips your bra.

You gasp, making her chuckle darkly. She throws the now useless peice of cloth on the bathroom floor, returning her hands to your chest, squeezing.

Hyun-ju leans back down, waisting no time with taking your nipple into her mouth. The cold bathroom, in contrast to her hot mouth, makes you shiver.

You gasp as she switches to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. "H-Hyun-ju we can't" you whimper, making her chuckle. She's already kissing her way down your stomach, getting on her knees in front of you.

Faster than you can think, she has your pants pulled down, looking at your matching purple underwear. "You're so fucking beautiful, baby." She whispers, starting to kiss up your thigh.

She gently kisses your clit through your panties, making you gasp. "I can see how wet you are, Y/n. You've soaked your panties." She whispers, looking up at you hungrily. You don't protest as she slides them down next.

"Oh baby..." She coos, looking at your pussy. "Your little clit is swollen...do you want me to make it all better? Hmm?" She asks, making you whine.

You nod.

That clearly didn't satisfy her because the next second, you feel a small slap to your pussy. "Use your words like a good girl." She says firmly. Holy fuck.

"Y-Yes...please make it better!" You whimper. She gives you a smile before you feel her tongue on your clit.

She teases you just a little before reaching up and putting two of her fingers inside you. "Fuck baby, you're so tight. You can take another one, can't you?" She says, her tone mocking. When you whine, shaking your head, she adds another anyway, giving you a nice stretch.

Having both her fingers and her tongue feels like heaven. Pure heaven. But that thought quickly leaves your mind when you feel her change the pace.

You could hear the wet sound of your pussy as her fingers set an unforgivable pace. "H-Hyun-ju!" You squel. "T-To much p-please slow down!" You moan.

You look down, watching as she pulls away from your clit, smirking.

"To bad." She says, fingerings you a little harder. "Oh fuck!" You scream, the back of your head against the wall.

"Do you think Gi-Hun could make you feel this good? Hmm?" She asks, her eyes sharp. You quickly shake your head, which makes her stop.

"What did I say about using your words?" She sneers, taking her fingers away. "No no please don't stop!" You beg, your hips lifting trying to get her back.

"Are you going to be a good girl for me?" She asks, her lips kissing the skin just above your clit.

You go to nod, but remember her words. "Yes!" You say, making her tikt her head. "Tsk tsk tsk, say it properly, baby. Tell me you'll be a good girl for me." She commands.

"I'll be a good girl for you!" You say quickly, making her chuckle once more. "Only for me?" She asks, and you nod quickly. "Yes yes only for you Hyun-ju!"

She puts her fingers back inside you, setting another brutal pace. "Are you going to cum for me?" She asks.

"Yes yes! I'm so close!" You whimper. Not expecting her to pull away again, but she does.

"I don't think so. Not until I know you're sorry. You hurt my feelings with the way you looked at Gi-Hun. How do I know you won't let him touch you again? Hmm?" She says, licking her fingers clean of you.

You almost cry. "I am sorry, Hyun-ju. I'm so sorry, I only want you!"

She pretends to think, her thumb reaches up, keeping you on edge by rubbing tight circles on your already overstimulated clit.

"If I see you even look in his direction, I'll have you over my knee, no matter if we're in the bathroom or not." She says, making you nod.

This time, when you feel her fingers and that familiar pressure building in your tummy, she doesn't pull away. "Cum for me, pretty girl." She says, her voice sending vibrations through your core.

She stimulates you through your climax, making sure not a second of pleasure is wasted. "Such a good girl for me." She whispers, her head getting awfully close to your core.

"W-what are y-" you can't finish your sentence as she licks into you. "Mmm let me clean you up, baby." She says.

After she helps you put your shirt and pants back on, she picks up the discarded bra, putting it in her pocket. "Come on, sweet girl, you need to rest for tomorrow." She says, her tone now soft.

She holds your hand on the walk back to your bunk. She even kisses your forehead before she walks back to her own.

You don't notice that she makes a stop first.

Hyun-ju walks up to player 456's bed, leaving a torn purple fabric next to his shoes.

Stay away from her girl Gi-Hun✋🏻😏

[first-edition]

Apologize

Daryl Dixon x fem!reader smut

sum- Daryl yells at you making a big deal of you going outside the walls by yourself after just getting you back after everything and insults you, but he didn’t mean it and wants to prove it to you. cw- set in early season 5 in Alexandria, SMUT 18+ THEMES AND LANGUAGE MINORS DNI, read at your own discretion, pin v, unprotected, biting, marking, confession, fluff angst, oral (f) reciving, clit play.

“Hey..” you turn around seeing Daryl leaning against the frame of your door. 

“hi..” you say. 

Earlier that day Daryl was real to you. You have gone out for a run and brought back three horses that had escaped. But that's not what bothered him, not you being cheered on, or praised…that you went alone without telling everyone and when you came back it was more than a relief for daryl. Almost losing you before then. 

“YOU DONT THINK BECUASE YOUR FUCK’N STUPID! DADDIES LITTLE GIRL GREW UP WITH EVERYTHING SHE COULD EVER WANT!” He yells at you to push him back from you he hobbles back. 

“I DID THIS! FOR YOU! FOR CAROL! EVERYONE! I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!” you yell back. He shoots an arrow at you, it zips past your head and sticks into the post of the house. You stop. Staring at him. 

“It ain't walkers i'm worried about! It's other people!” he huffs. 

“Maybe it's just you!” you spit back instead of pulling the arrow out your break it in half and throw the half to him before storming off back to your house. It's a bit awkward leaving him there in front of everyone but that's the price you pay. Later that day Carol went up to Daryl asking him why he yelled at you. 

“She's stupid.” he says to her as he throws on a new shirt

“No she's not.” Carol says sitting on the bedside. 

“She's very smart. She saved us before everything she saved you..” she trails off he sighs leaning against the dresser. 

“Yeah..” he looks down. 

“She got us those horses by herself..they are big horses. Alexandria is safe daryl..she's safe." Carol says. 

“Yeah not safe enough if I couldn't stop what happened to her..the governor, the prison..the hospital.” he says. 

“That wasn't your fault.” she says. 

Dayrl signs shaking his head no. knowing it wasn't but still blames himself. 

“I-i couldn't save beth..barley her.” he says carol stands to him walking up to him tilting her head to the side. 

“You like her..i know that you like her alot..” carol leads. 

“But you only feel like shit for something out of your control when you love them..” she ends up looking at daryl. He avoids her eye contact. 

“I didn't mean those things I said to her,” he replies. Carol nods to him. 

“I know.. But I'm not the one you should be apologizing to. You're gonna lose her if you don't.” she says. Before she can reach out and place a hand on her shoulder he rubs his bow and vest and walks out of the room then the house down the street about two houses over to you. He stops at the porch knowing he more than welcome in as carol also stays in the home with you. 

He sucks it up and walks up the porch and onto the home he walks up the stairs knowing you're most likely in your room. The door is closed but a small knock from his knuckles hitting the wood is all he needs as permission to open the door. 

“It's open.” your voice says expecting carol so your sweet demeanor sounds through. Dayrl opens the door, seeing you sitting by the window. He sighs leaning against the frame. You spot him, your demeanor changing as you look at him. He sets his cross bow down on the side. 

“Hey..” he speaks. 

“Hi..” you answer back. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Daryl speaks.

“Sorry..for what i said to ya… callin you stupid, and all you aint stupid.” he says his eyes flicking away from you. You look away from him. He picks up his bow and walks into the room closing the door and letting the bow re-rest on the wall. 

“When i couldn't find you this morning…just..reminded me of everythin’ else you know…losing the prison, beth. And then i thought of back when the governor took you glenn and maggie, i-...” his voice breaks as he cuts himself off looking down his fingers twitching in anxiety. 

“I just..i can't do that you know..i lost merle i can't be losing you too.” he says you look up to him. 

“I named the horse after you..” you say he frowns in confusion. 

“What I used to call you, squirrel.” you say he chuckles nodding. You get up from your spot walking up to him. 

“I love you..y/n...i cant be losing something like that.” he says 

“Merle would always tell me not to get attached to things but i could never really help-” you cut him off wrapping your arms around him  pressing your lips to him. You've always known Daryl crushed on you, the way he does things for you, purposely looking for things you'd like. And you liked him too.

His arms wrap around you kissing you back deeply. You don't break it until you need to speak back to him. But you don't get to speak before his lips are firmly back on yours. You pull off his vest and his hands move under your shirt. The rough skin against your bare torso sends a shiver up your body.

He pulls you until his arms lifting you with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist holding onto him as he pulls off your shirt before laying you back onto the bed. He pulls off his shirt. You sit up connecting your lips again. Bringing him down to you. His weight against you is more arousing than anything. The way his hands feel up the sides of you wanting more contact. His kisses move down to your neck as he nips and sucks. 

Making sure to keep you marked, even going as far as pulling back to make sure there's marks. Something for people to ask about, something he can watch you blush about when carol comes home and asks. Something for people to know who you are. 

“Fuck.” he grunts out as the buldge in his pants tightens the fabric. Your hands reaches down to him palming him through his jeans. You gasp when he pulls your hand away from him pinning both above your head as he continues to devour your skin.

“D-daryl” you gasp out as he finishes the bruises on your cleavage. He looks down to you blushing, waiting, needing. He lets go of your hands and immediately your touch is back on him, the weight of any hurt falling off his shoulders as you pull him back into you. 

You peck his lips before going for his belt, undoing it. 

“Nah..nah.” he says you look up at him confused. 

“Let me take care of you huh. After everything..just..” he trails off as you look up into his eyes, your hands resting on either side of his face comforting. You look at him seeing his eyes are welling with tears. 

“Hey..” you say softley. He doesn't answer you, just presses his lips back to yours laying you back down against the plushness of the bed. He kisses down your stomach pulling your jeans from you. The pink undies you and carol found on a spare run one day cause his cock to twitch in his pants. 

He lets his hands and fingers run along your thighs and waist feeling you under him. He kisses your thighs and legs. He worships you all over before removing your panties and diving into you. More feral than a walker he holds your thighs against his head as his tongue drives into you lickign you up. Your hand finds his hair and you grip into it. A guttural moan escapes Daryl's throat sending the vibration through your core causing you to squirm from him. 

“Ah..f-fuck..dayrl!” you gasp out as your release comes closer and closer to you. His grip on your thighs doesn't let up as he pulls you closer to his face burying himself into you.

You entangle yourself into his hair as you reach your peak, lapping up what left of your shaky state daryl sits up his lips shining with your arousal. You pant as you watch him shift taking off his belt and lowering his pants his cock springs free. The gasping is cut short when he continues to kiss up your body, his touch running along your skin. 

You sign out his name wrapping your arms around him. 

“Say it again.” he mumbles. You giggle as he adjusts himself rubbing his tip up and down your slit. 

“D-daryl.” you huff out. 

“Fuck..again.” he speaks deeply as he rubs against you. 

“Dayrl.” you moan out as he begins to enter you. Your nails dig into his shoulder as he puts into you. 

He moans in your neck as your legs wrap around him. His hand presses against your thigh keeping it up around his hip. 

“Fuck..i love you…i love you so fucking much.” he huffs out. 

“Yes. ah dayrl..fuck..i love you..ah god.” you moan gripping onto him as he ruts into you. He roughly thrusts up into you making you loudly moan out and bite down against him he grunts out continuing the pace making you both louder. You just hope Carol isn't downstairs. How embarrassing. 

You grip onto him like your life depends on his as he continues for you both. You pant against him as that familiar feeling builds up. He pulls back from you staying connected, he pulls your legs up and onto his shoulders fucking you deeper. He moans and grunts and all the sound he makes causes your pussy to clench around him in your release. He brings his hand down to your core wanting more from you somehow and begins to rub your clit, easily finding it and playing you like an instrument, the music, your voice as you call out for him. Only a few more thrusts have him sending himself over the edge. He drops your legs kindly, but fast and pulls out of you he puts into his fist cumming against your tits and stomach painting you. 

He takes a moment to recover before telling you to stay. He walks to the side where a towel rests from your earlier shower and cleans you off. Not what you’d expect. He cleans you carefully and with love. Not just one swipe and done. Kissing your skin as he does. 

“Here.” He says , helping you up, you stand before him only for your knees to give you. He catches you as you go limp. You both chuckle. 

“M Sorry” he chuckles as you press your lips against his in a kiss before speaking again. 

“It's okay.” you smile brightly. He moves the covers to the side before picking you up and setting you back into the bed. He turns to put his clothes back on. 

“no..no.” you say, taking a hold of his arm. 

“Stay.. please.” you say. He nods without hesitation and gets into the bed neck to you he pulls you close to him as you rest against him his heat radiating to you the warmth spreading through your body as you snuggle into him. Almost immediately you are fast asleep out. But Daryl watches you the slow rise and fall of your chest, your sleepy face perfectly rested. Soon finding sleep himself after a few hours of watching you. 

—---

Morning comes and you wake up alone but a shirt is over your body in courtesy. You sigh and get up pushing your hair back. You look around the room remembering the chaos of last night. You pull the covers off you and get up now, able to stand however a slight shake to your legs makes you smile. You notice the towel is also gone but not his bow. It still rests on the side wall. You frown. You walk out of your room and down the hall down the stairs. 

You smell cooking as you walk into the kitchen seeing Carol setting up breakfast. 

“Morning honey.” She smiles at you. 

“Hi..” you say awkwardly as she give you ‘the smile’ 

“Dayrl come by last night?” she asks glazing at your shirt. You look down seeing Daryl's black sweater that he was wearing last night. 

“Um..y-yeah. He apologized.” you reply she nods, setting down a plate of food. 

“I know.” She smiles at you and blush creeps up against your cheeks. 

“You didn't hear, did you…” you say, pulling at the sleeve. 

“No. but I sent him over.” She says you feel a hand on your lower back and lips on your cheek. 

“Hey.” Daryl speaks as he comes into your view. He wears what he normally does and he has his bow. His hair is damp so he must have been in the shower when you woke up. 

“H-hi.” you say bashfully. 

“Stay safe, yeah?” Carol says to him knowing he's late for the morning run.

“Yeah.” he says to her before turning to you leaning into you. 

“I love you.” he says with his blue eyes looking at you. The embarrassment leaves as you smile up to him and nod. 

“I love you.” you speak back he pecks your lips before heading out the door. 

“Maybe he should move in here.” she says. You scoff, shaking your head. 

“I think Glenn and Abraham will miss him..don't you.” you say jokingly. Carol laughs and sets down her plate. 

“Come on..tell me about it.” she giggles and takes a seat you sit across from her and of course her being your best friend begins to tell her everything. 

Later that day you found out Rick and Glenn were joking about Daryl having the bite mark bruise and scratches on his back until you dropped off more weapon supplies and they saw your bruises. 

“So..” Rick asks Daryl once you leave. 

“What..” he huffs reloading a mag. 

“You two have fun?” Glenn chuckles. Dayrl shakes his head. 

“Nah man i don't kiss and tell.” he says.

“Such a gentleman.” Rick jokes 

[crsssie]

deux ex machina - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

Spencer's never ungrateful for his eidetic memory, but he is painfully thankful for the memory because it means he can recall the exact moment he had first met you.

It was untypical for him to offer himself in as collateral for an unsub, and it was atypical of him to find himself with a gun pressed to his forehead. The chances of him escaping unscathed were closer to zero than anything else. The unsub was highly unstable mid-psychotic break, and unless someone had the incredible ability to even talk the unsub down (which, by the way, logic would not have worked), he would likely find himself with a hole in his head from the bullet.

"We don't want to hurt you."

"Where is she?! WHERE IS SHE?!" The unsub screams, jamming the barrel of the gun into Spencer's head.

Spencer winces (oh, that's definitely leaving a bruise).

"She's on her way." Hotch lies through his teeth, and he holds up two fingers.

A bullet flies past Spencer's ear, missing him narrowly, and the unsub screams in pain, leaving Spencer to nab the gun and press it to the unsub's head, and he watches as a second bullet flies past his waist to the unsub's other hand, one that he hadn't noticed was reaching for a knife.

The unsub shrieks, both hands rendered useless as Hotch moves in to arrest him.

Spencer feels his legs give out from the sudden collapse of adrenaline, and Morgan catches him.

There's a moment where one of the lights in the background is too bright for him to see, and then the next second there's a figure in all black leaning down to stare at him.

"You good?"

Spencer squints at the figure, mind blanking out when he catches a good look at your face, jaw going slack. Oh. Oh, he thinks he understands what the newspaper was writing about when he was reading about how some people can literally feel the dopamine and oxytocin flood into their system when they fall in love because there is truly no scientific explanation for why he's so attracted to you right now. He thinks he understands how Lila felt when he had saved her from her stalker so many years ago because heavens forbid he stop staring at you. He can literally feel his IQ drop to zero as he swallows.

"Is he alright?" You raise a brow at Morgan, and the man laughs at Spencer's reaction.

"Oh, he's more than alright. Will you take Reid to the hospital?"

"Don't I have to check with Agent Hotchner on how I did?" You tilt your head.

"I'll put in a good word for you." Morgan winks. "Give me two minutes and you can leave with Reid here."

You watch Morgan rush off, tilting your head as Spencer finally snaps out of his haze. "I'm sorry... are you?"

"I'm the new sniper." You hold your hand out, helping Spencer up as he swallows slowly. "Um, I'm like mediocre at analyzing people at best, so please take care of me."

"Um, Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid."

"The genius of the BAU, right?" You raise a brow.

"Y-yes." He nods. "Did you know that when the adrenaline rush from a situation crashes down, your body releases cortisol and it can kill? Usually in high doses, but it does cause the body to crash. I think I can feel the adrenaline wearing off from the situation."

"That would make sense, yes." You tilt your head. "Deep breaths, yes? In... one, two..."

Spencer breathes, exhaling when you count down, feeling his heart slow a little more.

"All better?"

"Yes. Thank you." He manages, suddenly sheepish.

"You're free to go." Morgan nods. "Pretty boy, get the medics to check you real quick. You already look a lot better. Seems like Snippy did a good job, hm?"

"Hey, don't call me that—"

"Yes." Spencer nods. "I'm all good, promise. I feel better too."

"Snipe." Hotch calls for you, and Spencer watches as you turn around, swallowing.

Oh, this was going to be bad.

[eunseoksimp]

west coast — p.wb [vol 3]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfic

synopsis: getting over park wonbin was supposed to be the final verse, the closing note to a song that never belonged to you. you’ve buried every unspoken feeling in music, poured every lingering ache into the strings beneath your fingertips. and then beomgyu arrives—effortless, magnetic, a new harmony in a melody that was never meant to be yours alone. but the closer you move toward something new, the more wonbin begins to unravel, caught between the distance he created and the realization that it was never you who needed to let go. it was him. and now, he might be too late.

WARNINGS: more alcohol consumption (i promise i'm not an alcoholic), brief mention of substance abuse, swearing, more hopeless pining, wc is somehow now 32k which is crazy, wonbin is a little bit of an idiot

part 1 | part 2 a/n: thank you so much for enjoying the last two parts, i've enjoyed reading your comments. i originally intended for this to be the final part but i got far too carried away (as you can tell by the 32k word count), so think of this as the prelude for the finale :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the kiss is still there.

not just on your lips, but in the hollow of your chest, in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet spaces where breath should be, but isn't.

it lingers, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice, threading through your veins like something poisonous—slow, steady, inescapable. it doesn’t fade with time. if anything, it deepens, carving itself into you like an echo of something you were never meant to hold onto.

you think about how he tasted—like warmth and something intoxicating, like all the things you told yourself you didn’t need but still reached for anyway. you think about the way his fingers curled against you, just enough to make you believe that maybe, for once, you weren’t the only one feeling this. 

and for the briefest, most devastating moment, you had believed it, but hope is cruel. 

it is insidious, creeping in through the cracks no matter how hard you try to keep it out. it takes root in the deepest parts of you, whispering its sweet lies, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. that maybe this was something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence. but it wasn’t. it never was.

and now, in the quiet aftermath, all that’s left is the weight of it pressing against your skin, sinking into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it sits heavy in your throat, an ache you cannot swallow down, a grief so sharp it cuts through you like glass. you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the memory of him is burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids, an imprint you cannot shake.

you tell yourself this is the end. that whatever thread of longing still tethers you to him must be cut, no matter how deeply it severs your soul. because if you don’t let go—if you cling to this last trembling shred of hope—you know it will destroy you piece by piece. 

and you cannot survive loving him one heartbeat longer.

the studio is the same as it’s always been—four walls soaked in the echoes of late-night recordings, the scent of old wood and metal, the faint vibration of a bassline bleeding through the floor. but today, it feels different. today, it feels like a cage.

your guitar rests heavy in your lap, the strap biting into your shoulder, the callouses on your fingers pressing into the strings. it should be comforting, grounding. but nothing is. not today. the weight in your chest is heavier than the instrument in your hands, a hollow, aching thing that no amount of music can smooth over.

you sense the others in the periphery, their voices rising in half-laughed jokes and half-formed plans. their words reach your ears as though submerged in water: distorted, distant, unreal. 

you know you should join them, at least offer a nod or smile, but the simple act of speaking feels insurmountable. instead, you stare at your own hands, flexing your fingers to chase away the tremor that won’t quite fade. when it grows too strong, you close them into fists, as if to trap your own unraveling inside.

you tell yourself to focus. on the music. on the work. on anything but the way his presence stretches across the expanse of your mind, a gravitational pull you refuse to acknowledge. 

when the door swings open, the air in the studio shifts so subtly that no one else seems to notice, but you do—like a single drop of ink bleeding into water, it spreads through your senses with dizzying inevitability.

your breath snags, and a tremor ripples through your bloodstream as the walls seem to inch closer. everything around you tightens, and for an unnerving heartbeat, it feels as though you’re drawing in less and less oxygen, like the atmosphere itself is conspiring to steal your composure.

wonbin steps inside with that calm assurance that has always set him apart. nothing about him betrays any hint of turmoil, and it’s infuriating how his every movement looks effortless. his dark hair, styled in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his face, catches the overhead light, and there’s a sculpted symmetry to his features that feels almost inhuman in its perfection. 

even his eyes—dark, fathomless, and framed by lashes that seem almost too long—carry a magnetism that draws attention whether you want it to or not. 

he is all devastating beauty and disarming grace, the sort of presence that makes you want to stare even as you force yourself to look away.

you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. one glimpse of that face—one flicker of those eyes—and you know you’ll come undone. instead, you grip your guitar until your knuckles whiten, your fingers pressing so tightly into the frets that the steel strings cut into your skin. 

normally, the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, a lifeline to something steadier than your own heartbeat. but right now, it’s as though the resonance is muffled beneath the roar of the emotions you’re trying so desperately to suppress. each note you test feels like it’s being played underwater, distorted and dull, incapable of drowning out the pang in your chest.

your throat constricts, a rush of bile climbing upwards, hot and acidic, until you force it back down with a harsh swallow. you stare fixedly at the curve of your guitar’s body, trying to remember what it felt like to be calm, to be confident, to be unaffected by his presence. 

you inhale, exhale, and inhale again, mentally chanting that this is exactly what you asked for—to move on, to be indifferent, to unchain yourself from all those treacherous hopes.

yet it’s so much harder than you imagined. with every slow step wonbin takes into the room, the tension inside you twists tighter, threatening to snap. you keep your head down, straining to maintain even a veneer of composure, and pray that no one else can sense the frantic thunder of your pulse. 

you tell yourself this is how it has to be, that you wanted this distance, that you chose this detachment. but as you force your fingers into position on the fretboard and pretend to tune the strings, you can’t ignore the gnawing sense that each second you spend in his orbit only deepens the ache that’s tearing you apart.

“morning.” 

the single word drifts into the room, warm and easy, yet somehow jarringly out of place. you hear wonbin’s greeting directed toward everyone at once, spoken in that gentle, laid-back tone he’s always had—like the world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, like the ground didn’t fracture beneath your feet the last time the two of you were alone. 

from the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of him moving closer: the casual stride, the subtle brush of fabric, the rhythmic tap of soles on the floor. he stops right in front of you, and the air turns thick as syrup. your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out the rest of the band’s chatter. 

then you hear it—your own name, quietly shaped by his lips. he says it like he’s testing the fragile calm you’re clinging to, like any misstep might shatter what little resolve you have left. the guitar in your lap feels like a dead weight; your hand is locked around the neck, strings biting into your fingers. 

you want—need—to look up, to meet his gaze with something resembling composure, but your eyes remain fixed on the scuffed floor. suddenly, the room seems too small, the walls pressing inward, leaving barely enough space to breathe.

you force a sharp inhale through your nose, summoning what remains of your courage to speak, to pretend that everything is perfectly fine, but your throat constricts, and the words refuse to form. 

not when wonbin stands so close, not when the space between you feels like a gaping wound still raw and exposed, like a chord left unresolved—hanging in the air, vibrating on a note you can’t bear to let go.

he says your name again, his voice quieter this time, so tentative it feels like he’s reaching out with trembling hands, uncertain of what he’s grasping for. instinctively, you tighten your hold on the guitar’s neck, as though the firm press of steel strings against your fingertips could somehow tether you to reality. you focus on that bite of metal and the ridges beneath your calluses, desperate to drown out the way his voice caresses each syllable—a sound at once familiar and utterly wrecking.

you don’t need to look at him to know what expression he’s wearing. you’ve seen it countless times before, an intensity in his gaze that demands a response you can’t muster. it’s suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest, threatening to crack the fragile shell of composure you’ve managed to piece together. with your ribs barely containing the storm of turmoil inside you, you can’t afford to let him see even a fraction of what you’re feeling.

but for some reason—maybe habit, maybe masochism—you glance up. it lasts all of a breath, but it’s long enough to register the dark, searching depths of his eyes, just as they were that night. something raw flickers there, hidden behind unreadable shadows, and it knots your stomach in a violent twist of memory and regret. 

not long ago, you would have let yourself sink into that look until it consumed you completely. never again, you tell yourself.

you choke down the tightness in your throat and manage a smile so thin it barely qualifies—just a hushed “hi” that sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else. 

before he can respond, you tear your gaze away, pretending that the guitar’s tuning pegs suddenly require your undivided attention. it’s a flimsy defense, but it’s all you have.

even without looking, you can sense the small furrow that forms between his brows, the slight tension drawing his features together. you feel the pause that settles around him, heavy and complicated, tinged with an almost unbearable fragility. 

and for the first time since you met him, you allow that silence to stand. you make no move to bridge the gap, to smooth over the discomfort. you simply let it exist, a quiet testament to the wound between you—still raw, still bleeding, and impossible to ignore.

hongjoong clears his throat, the sound slicing cleanly through the suffocating silence like a blade meeting taut string. 

“alright,” he says, keeping his voice deceptively light yet carrying that familiar edge of authority—the same tone he uses whenever he senses the delicate balance in the room is about to tip. 

“let’s get into positions. we’ve got a lot to run through.”

the energy shifts in an instant. 

gunil responds with a dramatic groan, scuffing his feet against the floor as he trudges toward his drum kit. minjeong mutters something inaudible, likely another complaint about how early it is for “all this emotional tension,” and yunjin silences her with a sharp look, before she glances back and forth between you and wonbin. her quick, discerning eyes flick over the two of you, sensing the undercurrent that crackles in the air, thick as humidity before a storm.

but wonbin doesn’t budge. he lingers where he is, gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stumble. it’s as if he’s waiting for a sign—for your eyes to lift, for some unspoken acknowledgement that might mend the rift between you or at least let him know where you stand. 

you keep your attention riveted on your guitar, every muscle in your body locked, determined not to surrender an inch of composure.

eventually, you hear him exhale. the sound is caught somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, a delicate mixture of frustration and resignation that pricks at your heart even as you force yourself to remain still. 

“yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before taking a measured step back. 

without another word, he turns toward the mic stand at the front of the room, moving into position with a forced nonchalance that does nothing to mask the tension simmering between you.

and just like that, the rehearsal moves forward—everyone falling into their roles, the crushing weight of unresolved feelings hovering in the space you refuse to share.

the instant he steps away, the grip around your lungs loosens, and you finally manage a tremulous inhale. that’s when you feel it—a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. you glance up, and there’s hongjoong, gaze calm but threaded with concern.

“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear, asking the question again.

you nod—too fast, too reflexive. 

“yeah. fine.”

his fingers linger a beat longer, a gentle pressure that speaks of quiet understanding. he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pry into the whirlwind of emotions you’re struggling to keep hidden. he simply offers another gentle squeeze before releasing you, moving back to adjust his guitar strap as though the moment never happened.

he wasn’t there that night; he never witnessed the wrenching intimacy that now weighs on every breath you take. but somehow, he knows. he sees the fracture lines you’re trying to spackle over with silence. and for now, his simple acknowledgement—that unspoken kindness—is enough to steady you just a little longer.

the first notes ripple through the room, filling every inch of space, but they feel distant—like something playing from another lifetime, slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. your hands move on autopilot, fingers pressing against the familiar grooves of the strings, but the music doesn’t reach you, doesn’t settle into your bones the way it should. 

it feels like playing inside a dream, a step removed from reality, floating somewhere just outside of your grasp. and you know exactly why.

he’s there. he’s always there. just a few feet away, standing at the mic with his head dipped low, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, his fingers curling loosely around the stand in a way that should seem effortless but doesn’t. there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a weight in the air between you that makes your breath come just a little too fast, your heart beat just a little too loud.

you try not to look at him, try to drown yourself in the melody, in the steady pressure of steel strings against your fingertips, but your body betrays you. your eyes flicker toward him without permission, and he’s already watching.

the second your gaze meets his, the world tilts.

it’s barely a glance, a flicker of a moment that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does. his brows knit together slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s something there—something searching, something unreadable.

but you can’t do this. not now.

you force your gaze away from him, willing your attention back to the guitar in your lap and the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath—anything to ignore the way his stare seems to linger, as though he’s perched at the edge of a confession he can’t quite put into words. 

but then the chorus arrives, your cue to join in, to braid your voice with the melody the way you’ve done a thousand times before. except this time, the words lodge in your throat. they stick, trapped under the ache in your chest, and your fingers slip just enough to produce a sharp, dissonant chord. the sound cleaves through the music like a fracture through glass, and everything stutters to a halt.

hongjoong’s head snaps up first, his expression pointed with a sudden awareness. minjeong’s posture shifts, and though she doesn’t speak, her scrutiny is palpable, reading the tension in every rigid line of your body. the amps still hum in the silence, but nobody rushes to fill it. 

not until wonbin’s voice—lower than usual, quiet enough to feel private—trembles through the room: 

“hey, are you alright?”

his words catch you off-guard, pressing into the rawness you’re desperately trying to hide. for a moment, you can’t breathe. he’s not too close in a physical sense, but the concern in his gaze closes the distance regardless, wrapping around you with a weight that leaves no space for air. 

it’s as though he sees more than you’re ready to show, and your heart buckles under the intensity of it. you curl your fingers around the guitar’s neck until they sting, forcing a semblance of a smile. it feels flimsy and hollow, but you hope it’s enough to satisfy him.

“sorry,” you whisper, voice tight, forcing yourself to exhale the static that’s clawing at your mind. 

“just lost focus for a second.”

hongjoong looks to yunjin, something subtle and unspoken passing between them, but neither calls you out. and wonbin—he doesn’t so much as budge, his gaze still pinned on you with that unsettling blend of uncertainty and resolve. you can almost sense him gathering questions he doesn’t know how to ask.

refusing to meet his eyes for any longer than necessary, you adjust your grip on the guitar and find your breath. 

“let’s go again,” you say, your words firmer now, as though you can brute-force the tremor from your voice. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a pause—the faintest hesitation—before hongjoong nods and resets his hands on the keyboard, yunjin aligning herself at the mic with one last worried glance in your direction. wonbin doesn’t argue, but you feel the weight of his stare as he lifts his own mic, the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes. 

then the music swells once more, and you cling to the sound like a lifeline, hoping it drowns out the jagged reminder of how precariously everything hangs between you.

practice finally grinds to a halt in a discordant blur of unfinished chords and awkward silence. all eyes land on you—the one who never falters, the perfectionist who can coax flawless sound from six strings without so much as a glance. 

and yet, you faltered.  you, the one who normally spots everyone else’s slip-ups, are suddenly the center of concerned stares. a heated flush creeps up your neck as you blink rapidly, pretending to fuss over the tuning pegs of your guitar. it’s easier to focus on the tiny adjustments, to count the turns and pretend each one steadies your heart rate. 

still, you can feel their gazes piercing your peripheral vision, scrutinizing you with a mix of confusion and worry. you swallow hard, pressing your lips into a tight line, hoping the rush of blood in your ears drowns out the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air.

gunil taps a drumstick against the edge of his snare, lifting his eyebrows with a mischievous smirk. 

“well, well,” he drawls, “guess little miss perfect finally joined the club, huh?” he waggles the drumstick in your direction. 

“nice to know you’re human after all.”

he barely finishes the sentence before minjeong’s hand darts out, delivering a sharp slap to the back of his neck—her silent command for him to stop talking. a startled laugh dies in his throat, and the studio settles into another strained hush. 

gunil rubs at the sting, muttering, “alright, alright,” under his breath while trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

amid the tension, you become acutely aware of wonbin. 

his grip on the mic wavers, knuckles white with urgency as he tries to mount it onto the stand. it only half latches in place, nearly tipping over before he catches it, eyes never leaving you. the concern in his features is raw, unguarded—completely at odds with the polished frontman you know.

your pulse rattles in your ears as he starts toward you, closing the distance with deliberate strides. it’s as though the rest of the band ceases to exist; every inch of him focuses on you and the inexplicable break in your usual composure. 

your heart thrums a frantic warning—too close, too soon, too much.

“uh… i need some air,” you blurt, pulling your guitar strap over your shoulder. 

the words tumble out so fast they almost sound like one, not waiting for a response as you slip past yujin’s concerned gaze, past gunil’s half-formed protests and the weight of everyone else’s eyes. 

you don’t stop until the studio door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the static hum of amplifiers and half-swallowed tension. out here, the hallway is nearly silent—just a muted throb of lingering music bleeding through the walls. you lean against the cool cement, letting the chill press hard into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat in your cheeks.

your palms drift to your face, fingertips skimming over the contours of your skin as if you could somehow rub away the ache that’s lodged itself beneath your ribs. the chill is biting, but it does nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to your lungs.

beyond the door, you can still hear the faint buzz of bandmates reorganizing themselves for another run-through, their muted chatter rising and falling like distant thunder. that gentle hum of routine only makes the ache sharper; it’s a reminder that they’ll go on, that the music will continue, even while you’re out here trying to hold yourself together with breath after shaking breath. 

you close your eyes and pray this moment of solitude will be enough to keep you from fracturing completely—just a heartbeat of silence in which to remember how to breathe.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you used to believe that music could mend any wound, that every chord change and carefully chosen lyric was a kind of alchemy—turning your deepest aches into art. and now, it’s the only thing holding you together. 

late into the night, long after your bandmates have left the studio, you stay behind, coaxing heartache into melodies that shimmer with vulnerability. you press your fingertips against the strings until they’re raw, shaping chords that vibrate with longing, pouring every unspoken thought and jagged emotion into the mic. 

the result is a collection of songs so nakedly honest, they leave you trembling in the aftermath of each recording—yet they are undeniably beautiful in their pain, a tangible testament to the heartbreak you can’t seem to escape.

and so the lyrics take on a life of their own, sprawling across the pages of your notebooks in fevered handwriting—scribbled lines that map out every pang of sorrow, every ounce of desperation you’ve wrestled with in the still hours of the night. you catch yourself pouring over them at odd moments, fingertips grazing the ink as if touching the words might somehow ease the heaviness clamped around your heart. 

it doesn’t, of course—but writing them down becomes the only breath of relief you can find. these fragile sheets of paper become your confessional, a safe space where grief can take shape without censure, where heartbreak is allowed to be as overwhelming and unrelenting as it truly is. 

it’s not about seeking closure, not yet; it’s about survival. because in the wake of love that slipped through your fingers, every chord progression, every line of verse, feels like a tether keeping you from drifting into a darkness that threatens to swallow you whole. the pain might be soul-crushing, but channeled through pen and strings, it transforms into something almost beautiful—if only because it’s the raw, undeniable truth of how deeply you once dared to feel.

at night, when the city is hushed and every streetlight seems to glow with its own private sorrow, you find yourself wide awake, thoughts circling like moths around a single flame. sleep becomes an elusive dream, trailing just beyond your grasp. 

but instead of lying there, suffocated by what-ifs and never-weres, you reach for your notebook. in the thin glow of a bedside lamp, you let each lingering thought of him trickle down your arm, gathering ink at your fingertips until it spills onto the page. 

there’s a catharsis in it—in scribbling down memories that ache like fresh bruises, in shaping them into words and phrases that pulse with hidden yearning. whenever the pain gets too close to unbearable, you scrawl another line, another verse, until the torment feels contained, anchored by the weight of ink on paper. 

and in that fragile, solitary ritual, you discover that maybe, just maybe, these sleepless nights hold the key to something transcendent: turning heartbreak into art, grief into something that can be sung instead of silently endured.

yunjin and minjeong notice the way your gaze drifts off during rehearsals, how your fingers itch for the pen tucked behind your ear instead of the instrument in your lap. they exchange glances full of quiet concern, and sometimes, one of them will call your name softly, as if hoping to coax you back from wherever your thoughts have taken you.

“everything alright?” minjeong tries one afternoon, leaning in close and tapping a gentle rhythm on your notebook.

you force a small smile, nodding in what you hope is a reassuring way.  “i’m good,” you murmur, your voice catching on the lie. “just… working out some ideas.”

it isn’t that you don’t appreciate their worry. in fact, a part of you aches with gratitude for friends who care enough to ask. but you’ve come to prefer this realm of ink and paper—a sanctuary where you can shape the pain, control its borders, and hush the roiling anguish inside you. 

here, in the hush of your own scribbled words, you can be honest about how lost you feel. out there, in the real world, that honesty threatens to splinter you wide open in front of people who might never understand. so you keep your eyes down, scrawl out another line, and let the comfort of creation shield you from the weight of a reality you’d rather not face.

another day, another unsteady round of practice filled with frayed nerves and half-formed ideas. drums stutter to a stop, and the hiss of an amplifier crackles into silence. hongjoong scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in the downward curl of his lips.

“we’re stuck,” he mutters, glancing around at everyone. 

“i don’t know if we’re burnt out or just missing something, but…” he trails off, his gaze landing on you in silent question. 

you feel your pulse quicken—your notebook is clutched protectively in your arms, pages overflowing with songs you’ve written in the lonely hours, words you’ve never shown anyone.

minjeong notices the hesitation in your eyes and nudges your elbow. 

“come on,” she says softly. “it can’t hurt to share.” 

your heart hammers against your ribcage, and for a moment, you almost refuse. these lyrics aren’t just scribbles on paper—they’re pieces of you, soaked in raw, unfiltered heartbreak. 

but the band’s desperation presses in on you, thick and urgent, and you catch the flicker of hope in hongjoong’s gaze. with a shaky breath, you loosen your grip on the worn cover. 

“it’s… it’s not exactly polished,” you whisper, voice trembling.  “but maybe there’s something you can use.” 

hongjoong nods, expression solemn. “we’ll take whatever you’ve got.” 

carefully, you hold out the notebook, fingers reluctant to let go even as you extend it his way. when he finally takes it, you swear you feel a piece of your heart leaving your hands. he offers a small, grateful smile—a delicate gesture of trust that makes your chest tighten painfully. 

you step back, arms folding around your middle as if to protect the hollow ache still pulsing inside you. someone flips the pages, scanning lines of ink etched by your sleepless nights, and the room goes quiet—respectful, expectant, and heavy with the vulnerability you’ve just laid at their feet.

a hush falls over the room, the quiet so deep it nearly rattles you. your pulse thunders in your ears, and a tremor curls around your spine—the urge to snatch the notebook back from hongjoong’s hands is almost more than you can bear. you can’t decide if it’s dread or hope swelling inside your chest, a tension so taut you wonder if everyone else can feel it, too.

hongjoong turns another page, eyes flicking across your scribbled verses with a kind of reverent intensity. finally, he looks up at you, and what you see in his expression leaves you breathless: a glimmer of recognition that feels both comforting and terrifying, as though he’s glimpsed the raw nerve pulsing behind your words.

he exhales slowly, lips parting in something close to wonder. 

“it’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hushed but brimming with emotion. “really. you’re a genius.”

the words collide with your heart, sending a quiver through your stomach that’s equal parts pride and panic. you press your lips together, overwhelmed by a swirling tangle of relief, fear, and the faintest spark of validation. 

you’ve spent so long scribbling confessions into these pages—never imagining they’d be read with such understanding. yet here hongjoong stands, holding your deepest ache in his hands like it’s something precious.

a collective urgency ripples through the room as minjeong and gunil close in, desperate to see what has their usually composed leader looking so struck by emotion. they crowd around, leaning in over hongjoong’s shoulder, scanning your words with hushed exclamations. the air thickens with excitement, almost electric.

in any other context, the band’s awe would send warmth flooding through your veins. but now it feels like a spotlight, burning through every carefully built defense. their voices rise, echoing with praise, and you force a small, shaky smile. 

part of you craves their acceptance, their validation that you can create something worth hearing. yet another part reels at the thought of them glimpsing the bruised core of your heartbreak, spelled out in verse and chord progressions.

your gaze drops to your feet, and a flush heats your cheeks. for a fractured moment, all you want is to run—to yank the notebook free and hide your confessions away forever. but you don’t. 

you stand there, arms folded across your chest, absorbing their words as best you can, torn between the desperate need to keep your secrets safe and the faintest spark of hope that, maybe, they finally get it.

it’s not until the others step away that wonbin finally moves in, slow and measured, like he’s bracing himself for whatever he might find between those pages. you can’t look at him. your heart is already pounding at the base of your throat, each beat warning you of the closeness—the possibility that he might realize the truth behind your words. 

yet as he takes the notebook, something gentle lights in his expression, a quiet awe that forces your breath to stutter. he flips through the lines one by one, dark eyes scanning with a calm intensity that makes your nerves tingle.

for a moment, no one else seems to exist. the hush feels louder than any applause you’ve ever heard, your pulse hammering an unsteady rhythm against your ribcage. then he looks up and, slowly, hands the notebook back to you. 

“he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” wonbin says, voice low and laced with a hint of warmth. 

the words stagger through your chest, colliding with the painful realization that he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t see that he is the one you’ve been tearing your heart out for.

there’s a flicker in his gaze—something almost vulnerable, almost questioning—before it smooths over into his usual calm. your stomach drops, your fingers curling around the worn edges of your notebook like a lifeline. 

if he felt anything at all, it’s swallowed by his assumption that these are just words spun from a distant heartbreak, a story that couldn’t possibly be about someone standing right in front of you. and the pain of it—of knowing he thinks your confessions belong to someone else—chisels deeper into the crack in your chest.

you feel your shoulders sag the instant he turns away, a wave of hollow disappointment robbing you of breath. 

of course he wouldn’t guess the truth. why would he? 

you’re barely keeping your own emotions stitched together, let alone brave enough to let them spill beyond the safe confines of your notebook. part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity—to mock yourself for the audacity to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d see through the ink and realize you wrote each line for him. 

instead, your heart throbs with the realization that this one-sided longing has become your own private prison. you clutch the notebook to your chest, foolish for ever believing its words could speak louder than the walls you’ve built around your longing. even your own pulse feels like a betrayal, still hammering for someone who might never feel the same.

for a fleeting moment, it had seemed possible—he might see the truth beneath the metaphors, might hear his name in every chord you’d strummed until your fingertips bled. but his departure, casual and unknowing, leaves behind a cavernous emptiness. reality crashes over you, brutal and unrelenting: he doesn’t realize you wrote those words for him, and maybe he never will. 

a ragged exhale rattles through you, and in the quiet that follows, you feel something inside you break. because if he can’t see it now—if he can’t sense that the music you’ve spun from sleepless nights and unquenchable longing belongs to him—then there’s no point in clinging to the tiny, wavering flames of hope. 

you press your lips together as tears threaten to spill, willing them back because crying here, now, might tear you apart completely.

you tell yourself it’s time to stop, to tear yourself away from the gravitational pull of his smile, his voice, his unknowing presence in every note you play. it’s time to let go of a future that was never meant to be. 

and in that moment, the resolve sinks in—heavy, devastating, final. pain coils around your heart, searing and sharp, and you can almost taste the loss in the back of your throat. yet you cling to it with white-knuckled determination, because moving on is the only way to survive a love that leaves you hollow.

so you choose to let him go—even if it means leaving a piece of your soul behind with every chord you’ll never again write for him. you close your eyes against the ache, telling yourself that it’s for the best, that the agony of walking away is easier to bear than the agony of hoping in vain. 

and in that moment, a single silent promise reverberates through your mind: you will learn to breathe again, even if it feels like dying first.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you do everything in your power to sever the connection between you and park wonbin—a polite nod in passing, a half-muttered reply when he asks a question, your gaze skittering away the instant his dark eyes threaten to snare you. 

it’s exhausting, pretending you don’t still feel the ghost of him in every chord you play. some part of you wants to give in, to let your guard slip just enough to catch that crooked smile, but the memory of how devastating it felt to realize he would never truly be yours keeps you resolute. 

so you steel yourself with shallow breaths and quick goodbyes, forcing your heart to accept a distance that chafes with every moment spent in the same room. it’s not easy—your pulse kicks every time he crosses your line of vision, and you find your hands trembling on the fretboard when he stands too close. 

yet you cling to this self-imposed barrier, convinced that holding him at arm’s length is the only way to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve been bleeding into unrequited love. slowly, you pray, the ache will fade into something more bearable, and you’ll finally be free from the weight of loving someone who can’t—won’t—hold you in return.

he steps toward you at the end of today’s rehearsal, hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that feels almost too intimate for the moment, shirt hanging from his shoulders as though it might slip free if the tension snapped any tighter. 

the pungent mix of stale coffee and sweat-soaked air hovers like a suffocating blanket, amplifiers still humming with the echo of that half-finished bridge you never quite nailed. he draws in a breath, and his voice resonates with the adrenaline of performance, tinged by a confusion he can’t quite hide. 

“we sounded off during that last part,” he murmurs, eyes darting between you and the rest of the band, “should we run it again?” 

the question sets your pulse tapping wildly against your ribs, but you keep your gaze pinned on the guitar cable you’re meticulously looping between your fingers. each coil feels like a lifeline—a distraction from the heat radiating off him, from the quiet scrutiny you can sense in his stare. 

“ask hongjoong,” you snap, a hardness in your tone that almost surprises you. 

“he’s the leader.”

it’s a single strike, like a pick snapping against a string, and the look on his face wavers, uncertainty mixing with an unspoken plea you refuse to acknowledge. around you, the others fall silent, the air so thick with tension it feels like a physical pressure against your chest. 

you sling the coiled cable over your shoulder, letting it pull you back a step, aware that the distance between you and him is more than just a few feet of studio floor. the unspoken tension in the room presses in, like the unresolved chord progression still ringing in your ears, waiting for a resolution that, in this moment, you can’t—or won’t—provide.

he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot as though your clipped response has momentarily robbed him of speech. his brows pull together in a way that makes your heart lurch, like he’s sifting through every subtle shift in your demeanor for answers you can’t afford to give. 

the final chords of rehearsal still hang in the air—a phantom echo blending with the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue—and you force yourself not to inhale too deeply, not to catch the faint trace of cologne and sweat that clings to him. you can feel the electricity of his presence, almost see it crackling in the space between you, and it takes every fiber of your being not to let that pull unravel your carefully maintained composure.

“was there anything else?” you say, sharp and hollow, injecting as much distance into those two words as you can. 

there’s no denying how your pulse stutters when you glance at him—damp hair tousled in a way that borders on heartbreakingly angelic, the overhead lights turning the faint sheen of sweat on his skin into something luminous. 

for a second, you hate how effortlessly beautiful he is, how he can appear so ethereal even in the gritty aftermath of practice. you hate, too, how your own heart thrums in response, as if it’s trying to remind you of all the reasons you once let your guard down around him.

he opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates. the furrow between his brows deepens, a crease of confusion and maybe a trace of hurt. you half expect him to question you—to demand to know why you’re shutting him out, why your tone bristles with a chill that could freeze the sweat on your skin. 

but he says nothing. 

his silence seems to hum in your ears, louder even than the faint static from the amplifier behind you. your grip on the coiled guitar cable tightens, a too-familiar tension building at the base of your spine, and you silently beg your trembling knees not to give way beneath the weight of this moment.

somewhere behind you, a door hinges open, letting in a rush of cooler air, but neither of you move. it’s as though the rest of the world has receded, leaving just the two of you in this charged standoff. you feel the erratic beat of your heart like a distant drum solo, rattling inside your chest, threatening to betray the calm façade you’re fighting to maintain. 

you consider walking away—taking two steps back into the hallway, anywhere he isn’t, so you can pretend it doesn’t feel like you’re being torn in two. but a stubborn part of you refuses to budge first, refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he can still unsettle you.

at last, he exhales, dropping his gaze to the floor in resignation. the thick tension between you doesn’t vanish so much as shift, contorting into something painfully unresolved, like a chord progression forever missing its final note. he runs a hand through his hair, damp strands raking back from his forehead, and it’s almost too much to bear—seeing him look so human, so caught in the fallout of whatever invisible line you’ve drawn.

your chest feels too tight; even breathing is a conscious effort. for a heartbeat, you consider reaching out, bridging that gap just to smooth the worried crease in his brow. but the memories of what was—and wasn’t—come rushing back, and your resolve snaps into place like a shutter slamming down over your features. 

“i’ve got to get back to playing,” you mutter, voice tense enough to cut the thick air. 

wonbin’s lips part, breath hitching like he’s about to say something—maybe an apology, maybe the question you’re dreading—when the door bangs open and your manager barrels in, derailing the moment with brisk efficiency. 

“alright, perfect, you’re all here,” he exclaims, voice echoing across the room. 

in his wake follows a figure whose presence seems to steal the remaining oxygen: he strides into the room with a quiet, self-assured grace that seems to pull every pair of eyes his way. at first glance, you notice he’s tall—easily six-foot-two, towering over most of you without even trying. 

he exudes an aura of restless artistry and enigmatic charm, like a storm frozen in time. 

his auburn hair cascades in unruly waves, catching the light like wildfire trapped in his tresses, each strand whispering tales of rebellion and untamed freedom. the messy layers frame his sharp jawline, a sculpted edge that speaks of quiet intensity, while his pale skin glows with an ethereal softness, as if he’s just stepped out of a dream.

a nose piercing flashes against his sun-kissed skin, a tiny spark of silver that gleams even in the shadowy corners. 

his eyes, deep pools of unsaid emotion, are a contradiction of vulnerability and defiance—twin galaxies reflecting both the burden and beauty of chasing greatness. they seem to catch every glint of light, pulling you into their orbit, while the shadows in their depths whisper secrets he may never share. the tilt of his lips, soft and melancholic, carries a haunting allure, like a love song left unfinished, hanging on the edge of bittersweetness.

he wears a crisp white shirt that skims his lean frame, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal muscled tattoed forearms and a hint of band-aids wrapped around two or three of his fingers—little badges of hard work that suggest he’s no stranger to late-night guitar sessions.

there’s an electricity about him, a raw, magnetic energy that feels like the moment before a guitar string snaps—a tension that holds you captive, waiting for the inevitable crescendo.

as he steps closer, you catch sight of a delicate trail of moles that sweeps along the column of his neck like tiny constellations scattered across a sky at dusk. for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath; even the usual hum of amplifiers and squeak of cables recedes into the background, enthralled by his unexpected arrival. 

minjeong and yunjin exchange quick looks—part curiosity, part fascination—while hongjoong straightens up, offering a polite greeting. 

but you barely register their reactions, too aware of how his gaze drifts your way, a soft smile curving his lips. it’s a smile that promises sincerity rather than arrogance, a subtle invitation to be at ease around him despite his striking looks.

unbeknownst to you, wonbin’s attention sharpens at your side, his expression unreadable as he notes the slight widening of your eyes, the faint hitch in your breath. you can practically feel that tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring—ready to snap at the slightest push. 

but you’re drawn to this guy’s easy confidence, the way he shifts his guitar case, the utter lack of pretension in his movements. even the quiet hush that settles over the space seems charged with possibility, making your pulse skip in a way you thought you’d forgotten.

“the company finally heard our prayers, he’s our new rhythm guitarist.”

“hey,” he finally says, directing his voice squarely at you, his tone warm and genuine. “i’m beomgyu. been following this band for a while—especially you.”

his gaze locks onto yours, open, genuine, the weight of the words settling in the space between you before he adds, almost like an afterthought, “huge fan.”

he offers his hand, slender fingers marred by those band-aids, and the gesture feels strangely personal, deliberate.

there’s a beat of hesitation before you take it, fingers brushing against the rough patches of his skin, against the heat that lingers beneath the bandages. for a second, the world narrows to the contrast of textures—the callouses against your smoother fingertips, the faintest tremor that isn’t quite nerves, but something else entirely.

“glad to have you in the band,” you say softly, forcing your voice to stay even, to mask the swirl of emotions in your gut.

the rest of the room stills, the shift almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

from the corner of your eye, you see the way minjeong watches with quiet curiosity, yunjin with barely veiled amusement. gunil has his arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at his lips. it’s not lost on anyone, this moment stretching between you and beomgyu, the way his hand lingers just a fraction too long before he finally pulls back, tucking a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, revealing the constellation of moles scattered across the line of his throat.

“hope we can make something great together,” he murmurs, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. 

behind him, your manager beams, launching into a monologue about tours, albums, and new beginnings. but your attention wavers between the newcomer’s confident stance and the barely contained tension rippling through wonbin, who remains rooted in place, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between you and beomgyu as if the new guitarist’s arrival has thrown open a door he wasn’t ready to face. 

there’s a momentary lull in conversation—just long enough for gunil to pipe up with a mischievous grin, drumming his fingers on the nearest amp. 

“careful, wonbin,” he teases in a sing-song tone, “looks like pretty boy is about to take your spot.”

the quip lands in the still-charged air like a spark in dry tinder, the unintentional double meaning not lost on either of you.

you watch it happen—the flicker of something sharp passing through wonbin’s expression, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the near-imperceptible clench of his jaw. it’s brief, a flash of heat before the mask settles back into place, but you see it, and so does beomgyu.

he doesn’t say a word, but the shift in his posture is unmistakable, a simmering kind of frustration that betrays more than he likely intends. even beomgyu catches it, eyes flicking between wonbin’s stony expression and gunil’s attempt at levity. 

as the laughter from gunil's joke fades, the manager swiftly intervenes, redirecting the focus back to business. he launches into the practicalities of band life—rehearsal schedules, upcoming gigs, studio expectations—guiding beomgyu through the nuances with the ease of a seasoned conductor. 

the session winds down, the sharp clang of cymbals and the soft rustle of cables being coiled into loops filling the space with a familiar, rhythmic dissonance. cases click shut, tuning pegs are given last-minute adjustments, and the hum of idle chatter wraps around the room like the lingering reverberation of a final note that refuses to fade.

in the midst of it all, yunjin sidles up to you, her movement fluid, seamless—like she’s been waiting for the right moment to slip in unnoticed. she leans in close, her perfume a soft contrast to the stale scent of sweat and metal that clings to the air, her gaze flicking from beomgyu, who is effortlessly charming his way through conversation with gunil, then back to you, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

with a discreet wiggle of her eyebrows, she murmurs just low enough for only you to hear, "he's definitely hot, right?" 

there’s a teasing lilt to her voice, lighthearted on the surface, but you know yunjin—know the way she watches, the way she picks up on the smallest shifts in dynamics before anyone else even registers them. this isn’t just idle commentary. this is her testing the waters, waiting to see if something in you cracks open, if there’s something worth prying into.

you pause, fingers still curled around the neck of your guitar, debating your response. beomgyu is attractive—undeniably so—but acknowledging that feels like stepping onto shaky ground, like introducing something you’re not sure you’re ready to entertain. so instead, you settle for a small, noncommittal smile, tilting your head in vague concession.

yunjin, never satisfied with half-hearted reactions, nudges you lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. “oh, come on,” she presses, voice barely above a whisper but still somehow managing to sound incredulous. “don’t act like he isn’t.”

you exhale a soft laugh, lifting your hands in mock defense. “i didn’t say anything.” the gesture is both a concession and a deflection, an admission that, yes, the new guy has a noticeable allure without giving away anything more personal about your thoughts. 

“exactly.” she narrows her eyes at you, a knowing gleam sparking in them, as if she’s already forming her own conclusions regardless of what you do or don’t say.

the exchange lasts only a few fleeting seconds, but as your gaze flickers instinctively across the room, it snags—inevitably—on him.

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back straight, arms loosely crossed, posture seemingly at ease. but you know wonbin. you know the sharpness in his jaw when he’s tense, the way his fingers twitch against his biceps when he’s holding something back. he’s listening, even if his eyes remain on the manager, even if he looks entirely unaffected.

hongjoong, ever the diplomat and peacemaker of the group, seizes a moment of calm to usher in a new tradition. 

“team lunch,” he announces with an authoritative nod, his voice carrying over the residual noise of packing. “it’ll be good to get to know beomgyu.” 

the idea is met with a chorus of enthusiastic approvals, the underlying unspoken truth being that hongjoong is famously generous when the bill arrives—his treat often being the sweetener that draws unanimous agreement.

as the band members start to chatter about where they might go, you focus on securing your guitar in its case, fingers working deftly at the latches. yunjin is still hovering, her presence a reminder of the conversation you’d rather let fade, when beomgyu approaches again. 

his timing is impeccable or perhaps intentionally calculated to catch you alone, just as you linger by your guitar case, about to close it, beomgyu circles back to your side, his approach quiet but intentional. 

he pauses, nodding towards your instrument with an appreciative tilt of his head. 

“mine’s black too,” he comments, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “best color there is, right?” 

his tone is light, yet there's a nuanced undertone of camaraderie, as if this small shared preference might bridge the gap between newcomer and established band member.

you look up, caught slightly off-guard by his proximity and the unexpected warmth in his voice. 

“yeah, it’s classic, probably my favourite colour” you respond, your words measured, but not unfriendly.

beomgyu doesn’t step away, doesn’t shift back into the polite distance most new members might maintain. instead, his fingers brush against the case’s handle, grazing your own in a fleeting touch that lingers longer than it should..

“let me help with that,” he offers, and before you can protest, he lifts the guitar with effortless grace, his other hand gesturing towards the instrument room. the ease with which he hoists the weight makes it seem as light as air, a display of strength that doesn't go unnoticed by yunjin who watches, her eyes wide and a bit dreamy, from a few steps away.

you follow him, your steps matching the rhythm of his, aware of every glance thrown your way by the other band members. the corridor to the instrument room stretches out, lined with the muted colors of the studio walls, a backdrop that suddenly seems to highlight beomgyu’s presence—a vibrant contrast, like a vivid stroke of paint on a dull canvas.

inside the instrument room, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood and metal, the sacred quiet of a space dedicated to the tools of your craft. beomgyu sets the guitar down gently, handling it with the care of a true musician respecting the soul of another’s instrument. 

“you have a great setup here,” he observes, turning to scan the array of gear and instruments, each piece a testament to countless hours of practice and performance.

his comment draws a nod from you, the simplest acknowledgment, yet there's a depth to the exchange, a sense of shared understanding about the life of musicians bound to their art

“thanks,” you say, feeling the space between you charged with an unspoken recognition of your mutual dedication. “we’ve built it up over the years.”

beomgyu's eyes meet yours again, and in that moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls inching closer as if to eavesdrop on this quiet moment of connection. 

“i’m really looking forward to adding to it,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, almost lost in the hush surrounding you. 

his gaze is steady, inviting a level of sincerity that you hadn’t anticipated, pulling you into a narrative that suddenly includes him in ways you’re still trying to understand. you manage a smile, small but genuine, touched by the earnestness in his tone.

as you and beomgyu emerge from the instrument room and reenter the main studio, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. the others are clustered near the door, seemingly caught between preparing to leave and the palpable buzz of curiosity about the new dynamic you and beomgyu might bring. 

you catch the tail end of a shared chuckle, their heads turning toward you with an array of mischievous grins. it's as if they've been waiting for this very moment to tease you about the apparent ease with which you and the new member have started to bond, their eyes sparkling with the kind of playful complicity that usually prefaces a round of good-natured ribbing.

however, amidst the laughter and whispered side conversations, wonbin stands slightly apart, his attention tethered to his phone. his fingers swipe absently across the screen, a frown knitting his brow as if he's engrossed in something far removed from the light-hearted banter filling the room. 

every so often, his eyes flick up, scanning the room with a detachment that borders on disinterest. 

why would he care? the thought stabs at you with an unexpected pang of regret. 

despite everything—the tension, the past connection, the unresolved words hanging between you—it stings to see him so deliberately disconnected from the moment, so unaffected by the camaraderie that has always been a cornerstone of the band's spirit.

you pause, the weight of his indifference settling over you like a cold shadow. in contrast, the others seem almost eager to draw you further into the fold, their laughter a warm invitation back into the light. 

minjeong nudges you gently, leaning in to whisper with a conspiratorial wink, "looks like someone made quite the impression." 

her gaze flicks meaningfully toward beomgyu, who is now chatting with hongjoong about potential song ideas, his enthusiasm palpable even from a distance.

"give it a rest," you mutter, though your words lack real heat. despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, softened by the familiar comfort of your bandmates' teasing.

meanwhile, wonbin's isolation grows more pronounced, his presence like a note held too long in a song, creating a dissonance that even the laughter around you can't quite drown out. it's clear he's made his choice to remain aloof, perhaps as a shield against the complexities of change or as a defense against a pain he won't acknowledge. 

as the group begins to move toward the exit, chatting about where to go for lunch, you cast one last glance at wonbin. his eyes meet yours briefly, a flash of something indecipherable crossing his features before he looks away, turning back to the inscrutable safety of his phone screen. in that fleeting moment, the distance between you feels wider than ever, filled with unspoken truths and missed connections. 

the evening air is thick with the remnants of summer, warm and heavy, curling around your skin like a second layer. the sky is a dusky violet, the city stretching long and endless in front of you, neon signs flickering like distant constellations against the deepening horizon. the band walks together, clustered in pairs, their voices filling the streets with easy laughter and lingering conversation. there’s something familiar about it, the way the five of you fit together like notes in a song, but tonight, there’s a new rhythm beneath it all—one that wasn’t there before.

beomgyu walks beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours, the warm streetlights casting golden reflections in his brown hair. his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his figure relaxed but somehow still commanding, the sharp angles of his jawline softened by the glow of the city. he nudges you lightly with his shoulder, an action so casual you almost don’t register it until he speaks.

“tell me, how did you get into playing guitar?,” he asks, voice smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity. his eyes flick toward you, searching, like he actually cares to hear the answer.

you hesitate, caught between the comfort of the conversation and the weight of an audience you don’t quite trust yourself to forget. 

“it's a long story,” you deflect, but there’s no real reluctance behind your words.

beomgyu hums, tilting his head. “i’ve got time.”

you exhale, glancing ahead at the others. yunjin is caught up in an animated conversation with hongjoong, hands gesturing wildly as she argues about something that makes gunil bark out a laugh. but Wonbin—he’s quieter, walking slightly ahead, shoulders taut, his gaze flicking back every so often, lingering in a way that’s almost imperceptible. almost.

still, you return your focus to beomgyu, offering him a small smirk. 

“my uncle used to play. when i was little, i’d sit in the corner of the living room just watching him. he’d never let me touch his guitar, said i had to earn it first.” 

you glance down at your fingers, trailing them absently along the strap of your bag. “so I taught myself on a cheap secondhand one. it was awful—buzzing strings, action so high i thought my fingers were gonna bleed.”

beomgyu grins, clearly entertained. “let me guess—bar chords were your mortal enemy?”

“they still are,” you admit with a laugh, the sound light, almost foreign coming from you lately. it feels easy, talking like this, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest isn’t weighed down by something you can’t quite name.

“you got there, though,” beomgyu points out, nudging your elbow. “and now you’re playing in one of the best bands i’ve ever heard.”

“are you two planning on getting lost back there?”

wonbin.

his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, something controlled, clipped. you glance up, catching the way his eyes dart from you to beomgyu and back again, his features unreadable. his phone—his ever-present distraction—is nowhere in sight now, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders drawn just a little too tight.

you blink, thrown off by the sudden intrusion. “relax, we’re right behind you.”

he doesn’t respond, just lets out a breath, turning away as if the conversation already isn’t worth his time. but the tension lingers, curling like smoke in the air, and when you step forward to match pace with the rest of the group, you swear you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

beomgyu doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s just found something interesting—something he intends to figure out.

wonbin stays near the front, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, just as he’s been since beomgyu arrived. he doesn’t joke with the others as much as usual, but no one seems to notice except you. you tell yourself you’re imagining things, that the momentary glance he cast your way was nothing, that the way he cut into your conversation with beomgyu was merely coincidence.

beomgyu, however, is as relaxed as ever, unfazed by anything, his presence effortless as he continues walking beside you. as you near the restaurant, he leans in slightly, voice pitched just for you. 

“that neon sign’s about to give up on life,” he muses, nodding toward the flickering glow above the entrance, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you snort, shaking your head. “looks like it’s been dying for a while.”

his laugh is easy, rich, and as the two of you step forward, you don’t notice Wonbin’s fingers twitch subtly at the hem of his sleeve, his gaze flicking—just for a second—toward where Beomgyu stands at your side.

the restaurant glows with a warm, golden ambiance, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space as you all approach the entrance. just before any of you can reach for the handle, beomgyu jogs ahead, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly. he pulls the door open with a small flourish, grinning as he gestures for everyone to step inside first. 

“after you,” he says smoothly, his voice rich with easy charm.

gunil claps him on the back as he passes. “oh, he’s one of those guys. i see how it is, trying to win over our girls”

beomgyu only smirks, but when you step up, his expression softens just a fraction, the warmth in his eyes lingering just a second longer. 

“for you, especially,” he murmurs, and there’s something playful, almost teasing in the way he says it, but it still manages to send a ripple of awareness through you.

you barely notice the figure at the back of the group, the one who’s watching in silence. wonbin, arms still tucked into his hoodie, remains near the entrance, his lips pressing into a faint frown before he steps inside last, the shadows of the doorway trailing behind him.

once inside, the group weaves through the crowded restaurant, past candle-lit tables and the scent of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen. hongjoong leads you toward a long table near the window, and before anyone can claim a seat, gunil claps his hands together, loud enough to make a few nearby patrons glance over.

“alright, new guy,” he declares, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to orchestrate something truly chaotic. 

“since it’s your first official meal with us, you get the honor of choosing who you want to sit next to.”

beomgyu barely hesitates. with an easy grin, he pulls out the chair right beside him—your chair. he tilts his head toward you in invitation, fingers curled lightly around the back of the seat. 

“do me the honours,” he says easily.

the reaction is immediate.

minjeong lets out a dramatic gasp, yunjin waggles her eyebrows with zero subtlety, and gunil downright howls, throwing his head back as he clutches his chest. “ohhh, smooth,” he groans, while hongjoong shakes his head in amused disbelief.

“jesus,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you slide into the chair, ignoring the exaggerated reactions happening around you. “you guys act like i’ve never sat next to a guy before.”

beomgyu only laughs, dropping into the seat beside you with a smug ease. “i don’t know,” he muses, resting his chin in his palm. “you do seem pretty flustered.”

you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “i—what? i am not—”

but it’s already too late. the table erupts in laughter, gunil banging a fist against the wood while yunjin throws a knowing glance toward minjeong, who looks downright delighted by your reaction.

and somewhere, in the middle of it all, you fail to notice the way wonbin sits stiffly across from you, gaze dark and unwavering as he observes the entire exchange without a single word.

the restaurant hums with a comfortable buzz, a blend of distant chatter and soft instrumental music filtering through the warm air. the scent of grilled meat and spices lingers, curling around you as menus are passed around and drinks are ordered. but despite the distractions, it doesn’t take long for the teasing to start again, because gunil—predictably—has no self-control.

“so,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes flickering between you and beomgyu with unmistakable amusement. 

“do we think the new guy’s a natural flirt, or is he just awfully smitten with—”

you shoot him a warning look, already bracing for impact. “gunil.”

he grins, unfazed. “what? it’s a valid question! beomgyu, be honest—was this a strategic choice? or are you just naturally drawn to our very own resident rockstar?”

minjeong chokes on her drink. yunjin smacks a hand against the table dramatically. “oh, he definitely planned this,” she declares, and gunil nods enthusiastically in agreement.

beomgyu—who thus far has taken everything in stride—simply exhales, shaking his head as if in deep contemplation. then he turns to you, expression far too pleased. 

“you know,” he muses, tilting his head, “i could say it was coincidence, but i don’t think you’d believe me. not with the way she’s looking at me.”

you narrow your eyes at him, fighting the heat threatening to creep up your neck. “wherever he came from,” you mutter, flipping through the menu with unnecessary force, “we need to send him back. i can’t deal with a gunil 2.0.”

gunil gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if you’ve physically wounded him. “i am deeply offended,” he proclaims, but then immediately beams at beomgyu, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“but also, what an honor! welcome to the club brother.”

beomgyu leans into it, smirking. “happy to be here.”

“oh my god,” you groan, slumping back in your chair while the rest of the table bursts into laughter. even hongjoong—who usually tries to be the responsible one—shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle, muttering something under his breath about how he already regrets bringing everyone out.

meanwhile, across from you, wonbin remains quiet, idly stirring the ice in his drink. his posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicker toward you and beomgyu every so often—quick, barely perceptible glances. 

if anyone else notices, they don’t comment on it. 

the night continues, the teasing persists, and beomgyu continues basking in every bit of attention thrown his way, playing along like he was always meant to be here. you exhale, setting down your menu with a finality that makes yunjin smirk at you. 

this is going to be a long night.

the arrival of the food brings a brief but welcome pause to the relentless teasing, the scent of sizzling beef and rich spices stealing everyone’s focus. plates are set down with soft clinks, and for a while, the only sounds that fill the table are the clatter of utensils and the occasional satisfied hum from someone enjoying their meal. the conversation quiets, replaced by the rhythmic lull of eating, the warm air thick with the comforting aroma of grilled meat and simmering broth.

you shift in your seat, concentrating on your plate, but the beef in front of you proves to be more of a challenge than expected. the cut is thick, the texture a little tougher than you’d anticipated, and you find yourself struggling against the resistance of the meat as your knife barely makes a dent. 

you huff, gripping the handle a little tighter, trying not to draw attention to your struggle, but before you can wrestle with it any further, a hand reaches into your space.

beomgyu, wordless and unbothered, plucks the knife and fork from your grasp with effortless ease. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even glance at you—just presses the edge of the blade into the meat and slices through it with a few smooth, practiced movements. the precision is almost irritating, as if the food is bending to his will out of sheer respect. you blink, stunned into silence as he casually transfers the perfectly cut pieces back onto your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

gunil sees—because of course, he does—but, mercifully, the food in his mouth saves you from whatever wild remark was undoubtedly forming behind it. you watch as he raises an eyebrow, as if making a mental note to circle back to this later, but he’s too occupied stuffing another bite past his grin to comment right away.

however, what you don’t anticipate is yunjin, who swallows a sip of her drink, tilts her head toward beomgyu, and asks, far too casually, “do you have a girlfriend?”

the question lands like a drumbeat in the middle of the table, and suddenly, all attention shifts back to him. minjeong pauses mid-chew, hongjoong’s chopsticks hover in the air for half a second longer than necessary, and gunil, despite still chewing, makes a muffled noise of interest.

beomgyu, unfazed as ever, finally looks up from his plate, lips curling in amusement. 

“that’s kind of a loaded question,” he muses, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

yunjin doesn’t blink. “it’s really not.”

he laughs at that, shaking his head. “no, i don’t,” he admits, resting his elbow against the table as he leans in slightly. “but if i did, would that change the way you’re all looking at me right now?”

gunil swallows dramatically. “i’d be devastated, personally.”

the table bursts into laughter, even hongjoong chuckling as he shakes his head.

the table is still buzzing with laughter from beomgyu’s response when gunil, in his never-ending quest for chaos, suddenly shifts his attention across the table. his eyes narrow slightly, as if just now noticing something off in the atmosphere. 

he leans forward, elbow propped on the edge of the table, and calls out, “hold on a second. why is wonbin so quiet tonight?”

at that, the laughter trickles off slightly. a few pairs of eyes flick toward wonbin, who has barely spoken since you all sat down. he had been eating at an even pace, head down, shoulders relaxed—but now that the attention is on him, he moves with deliberate ease, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it back down, as if completely unfazed.

hongjoong shoots gunil a sharp look across the table, the warning subtle but clear: drop it. but gunil, ever the instigator, is oblivious as usual.

“seriously, man,” gunil continues, grinning. “you usually have something to say. what’s up?”

wonbin exhales through his nose, casual as ever, and shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “didn’t get much sleep,” he mutters, the words smooth, effortless. 

his face gives away nothing, his expression a mask of nonchalance as he stirs the ice in his glass with his straw.

gunil’s eyes immediately light up with mischief, his mind already running wild with the implications of that statement. “ahh,” he hums knowingly, leaning in like he’s just uncovered some great secret. 

“not enough sleep, huh?”

you groan, already knowing where this is going.

“bet i know why,” gunil continues, undeterred. “some girl kept you up last night, didn’t she?” he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly before turning to beomgyu, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years. 

“since you’re new here, let me introduce you properly. this—” he gestures dramatically toward wonbin, who merely watches him with an unreadable expression, “—is the real casanova of the group. he’s the original heartbreaker, the pretty boy, the one the girls are always lining up for.”

beomgyu, playing along effortlessly, raises an intrigued brow. “oh? the original?” he flicks a glance toward wonbin, his smirk teasing but unreadable. “so, you’re my competition?”

wonbin scoffs, shaking his head as he finally lifts his gaze from his drink, but there’s something else in his expression now—something too subtle for anyone to name, but just sharp enough for the energy at the table to shift. 

he meets beomgyu’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and for a split second, something flickers beneath his usual apathy.

then, with a lazy shrug, he mutters, “i’m not competing with anyone.”

gunil howls at that, clapping his hands together like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night. 

“classic wonbin,” he cackles. “always pretending he doesn’t care.”

the others chuckle along, and just like that, the tension dissolves into playful laughter again. as the teasing finally dies down, the conversation shifts naturally toward the one thing that binds you all together—music. 

hongjoong, ever the responsible leader, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “alright,” he says, voice steady, cutting through the last remnants of laughter. “before we all get too full and lazy, let’s go over practice schedules again. we’ve got a lot to fine-tune before the showcase next month, and we can’t afford to slack.”

there’s a collective groan from gunil and yunjin, but it’s half-hearted at best—they all know hongjoong is right. minjeong nods in agreement, already mentally calculating her schedule. 

“we’re still aiming to finalize the album recordings by the end of next month too, right?” she asks.

“yeah,” hongjoong confirms. “and i want everyone at the studio early on friday. we’ll do a full run-through of the setlist with beomgyu this time and some recording too.”

at the mention of his name, beomgyu straightens, and for the first time since he walked through the doors of the studio earlier today, that playful glint in his eyes fades into something else—something sharper, more focused. his posture shifts ever so slightly, no longer that of the carefree flirt basking in the attention of his new bandmates, but of a musician, a professional. the change is subtle but striking, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with something undeniably passionate.

“i’ll be ready,” he says, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “i’ve already gone through most of the recent setlists. i’ll put in extra hours to catch up on anything new, just send me whatever tracks you want polished by friday, and i’ll make sure i’m up to speed.”

the sheer determination in his voice catches you off guard. you weren’t expecting him to take things lightly, of course—no one makes it to this level without hard work—but seeing the shift happen in real time, watching the flicker of ambition light up behind his eyes, is something else entirely. admirable. maybe even a little intoxicating.

you don’t realize you’re staring.

it’s a bad habit, one that hongjoong recently pointed out with an exasperated sigh and an amused, “you really need to work on not getting lost in thought while making direct eye contact. it gives people the wrong idea.” 

and yet, you do it again, caught in the quiet force of beomgyu’s intensity, the way his expression softens just slightly when he notices your gaze lingering.

but he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t smirk or make a snarky comment. he just smiles, warm and knowing, and then—without hesitation—reaches over and gives you a light pat on the head.

the gesture is brief but firm, enough to jolt you out of your daze. it’s also enough to send the entire table into another round of chaos.

“i love this guy,” gunil cackles, wiping at his eyes as if the moment was too much for him to handle.

yunjin leans into hongjoong, gripping his arm as if she’s about to faint. “hongjoong, do something, i can’t—”

you, meanwhile, are left gaping at beomgyu, blinking in disbelief. “what—what was that?”

beomgyu shrugs, entirely unbothered. “you were staring.”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “i—”

“anyway,” hongjoong interjects loudly, fighting a losing battle against the chaos unfolding at the table. He lifts his glass, signaling for everyone to settle down. 

“before we all spiral into madness, let’s wrap this up properly.” he turns to beomgyu, giving him a nod of approval. “welcome to the band.”

everyone follows suit, raising their glasses, the clinking sound ringing warm and bright between you all.

“welcome to the band,” they echo, voices overlapping, some dramatic, some genuine, but all filled with the same shared sentiment as beomgyu grins and lifts his own glass.

you watch as the drinks are tipped back, laughter spilling into the dim-lit restaurant, the camaraderie between you all settling into something real, something permanent. as beomgyu meets your gaze one last time over the rim of his glass, you feel it—the shift.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio hums with quiet energy, the soft buzz of amplifiers and the faint clicking of drumsticks against the rim of gunil’s snare drum filling the space as everyone settles into another late-night session. 

three weeks have passed since beomgyu joined the band, and in that time, he’s more than proven himself. what started as a cautious integration has transformed into something seamless—effortless, even. he’s blended in like he’s always belonged, picking up the intricacies of your sound with a sharp ear and an undeniable talent that keeps surprising even hongjoong.

even minjeong, typically reserved and hard to impress, has warmed to him. there’s a lightness to her now, a softer curve to her lips whenever beomgyu cracks a joke or nudges her playfully during rehearsals. he has that effect on people—making them feel like they’ve known him forever, like it’s impossible to imagine the band without him now.

and you? you’ve grown closer to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

music, as it turns out, is more than just a shared passion between you—it’s a language you both speak fluently, an unspoken connection that keeps pulling you into late-night jam sessions long after everyone else has gone home. he challenges you in ways no one else has, pushing you to refine your riffs, encouraging you to experiment, to play outside the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. his presence is magnetic, not just because of his charm, but because he understands—really understands—what it means to live and breathe music.

“alright, let’s run it again from the top,” hongjoong calls out, adjusting the levels on the mixing board.

beomgyu, leaning against his guitar, glances at you with an easy smirk. “ready to show me up again?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. “oh, please. you’ve been trying to outplay me since day one.”

he grins, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the body of his guitar. “maybe i just like the challenge.”

the words are lighthearted, teasing, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your fingers tighten around the fretboard, a heat creeping up the back of your neck. before you can respond, gunil counts off, and the studio is filled with sound, drowning out everything else—except for the sharp awareness of the man sitting across the room.

wonbin is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand idly toying with the condensation on his water bottle. he hasn’t said much all night, but now, as beomgyu leans in just a little closer to show you something on the fretboard, his voice cuts through the space between songs.

“you two lovebirds done flirting?” he quips, his tone smooth, offhanded—meant to be just another easy joke, like the ones he used to make with you before everything started feeling like this.

but the reaction isn’t what he expects.

you don’t laugh, don’t even roll your eyes the way you once might have. instead, you barely acknowledge the comment at all, offering only a fleeting glance in his direction before refocusing on your guitar. 

“let’s just run it again,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, your voice steady but distant.

something sharp tugs at the edges of wonbin’s composure.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that you’re just focused. that you didn’t mean to brush him off like that. that whatever this weird distance is—it’s temporary, just a passing thing. he leans back further, plastering on an easy grin, masking the nagging weight in his chest with the same lightness he always does.

“damn,” he muses, swirling his water bottle absently between his fingers. “didn’t realize i’d be a third wheel in my own band.”

gunil snorts, beomgyu just smirks, and you don’t react at all.

wonbin exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed, to wear his usual air of indifference. but something feels off—has felt off for weeks now, but he’s only just starting to acknowledge it.

it’s the distance. the subtle, creeping realization that things aren’t the same between you.

you don’t linger near him in the studio anymore. you don’t joke around with him between takes like you used to. the moments you once stole in passing—trading lazy comments, nudging each other in between sets, sharing quick smirks over inside jokes no one else caught—those moments are gone. 

and, if they still exist at all, they don’t belong to him anymore. they belong to beomgyu.

wonbin isn’t stupid—he’s watched it unfold with his own eyes. beomgyu is the one you walk into practice with now, your conversations bleeding into the room long before the rest of them arrive. he’s the one you stay late with, bent over notebooks, strumming through ideas until the rest of the world disappears. the one standing next to you when hongjoong gives new instructions, the one laughing beside you when gunil cracks some dumb joke, the one moving into the space where wonbin used to be.

it’s a shift he didn’t notice at first. or maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s one he refused to notice. but it’s impossible to ignore now, the proof laid out in front of him in every lingering glance, every shared smirk, every small touch that passes between you and beomgyu like second nature.

the closeness unsettles him. it shouldn’t—he knows that. he has no reason to care, no claim to stake, no right to question it. but it does bother him, even if he doesn’t understand why.

so he does what he’s always done—masks it in ease, drowns it in something weightless, pushing his emotions down.

the moment rehearsal starts, the studio transforms. the lingering weight of conversation, the undercurrents of tension—all of it is swallowed by the sheer force of sound.

beomgyu settles into the music effortlessly, his rhythm weaving seamlessly alongside the steady thrum of minjeong’s bass and the deep, pounding heartbeat of gunil’s drums. it’s uncanny, the way he fits into the structure of the songs like he’s been here all along, like his presence was always meant to fill the spaces between each note. every chord he plays is precise but never mechanical, carrying the weight of a musician who doesn’t just play music—he feels it, breathes it, lets it seep into his bones.

wonbin watches from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice steady as he sings, but the tightness in his chest remains. he can’t deny it—beomgyu is good. frustratingly good.

his timing is impeccable, his execution flawless, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he connects—how he doesn’t just play the right notes but moves with the song, like he understands every nuance without needing to be told.

then comes the second song, your song.

the one where your guitar takes center stage, where your fingers move effortlessly over the fretboard, pulling sharp, electric notes from the amp with practiced ease. the kind of solo that demands attention, commands the room with its precision and fire. you lean into it naturally, your body moving with the pulse of the song, feeling the music instead of just playing it.

but this time, you’re not alone.

beomgyu catches your movement, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. he shifts slightly toward you, fingers skimming his own fretboard with the same effortless confidence, matching your energy beat for beat. he mirrors you—not just technically, but in spirit, taking up the unspoken challenge like it’s second nature.

the air crackles between you, charged with something unspoken, something electric. the sound of your guitars twists together, harmonizing and clashing all at once, the melodies dancing between your fingers like lightning against a dark sky. your bodies move in tandem, drawn into the same rhythm, the same pulse of sound that vibrates beneath your skin.

gunil, catching onto the moment, grins behind his drum kit and drives the beat even harder, pushing the tempo just slightly, challenging the two of you to keep up. minjeong watches with an amused smirk, barely needing to adjust as she follows your lead, letting the bassline ground the wild energy sparking between you and beomgyu.

when the song finally crashes to a close, leaving the studio buzzing in the aftermath of reverberating notes, there’s a pause—a beat of silence where everything settles, leaving only the faint hum of amplifiers in its wake. The air is thick with something electric, something raw, the kind of energy that lingers even after the music has stopped.

beomgyu exhales, flashing you a grin. 

“not bad.”

you scoff, shaking your head as you adjust the strap on your shoulder. “you’re getting cocky.”

he tilts his head, considering. “or maybe i just think we bring out the best in each other..”

before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated sigh fills the room.

gunil, still seated behind his drum kit, leans back with his sticks resting against his thighs, shaking his head dramatically. 

“man,” he drawls, “i don’t know what kind of soulmate-level connection you two just tapped into, but i think i actually felt something. i was moved.”

minjeong chuckles, rolling her eyes. “gunil, shut up. you’re so dramatic.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, grinning. “it was like—bam, musical telepathy. the chemistry? undeniable. i think i might start believing in fate or some shit.”

beomgyu lets out a breathy laugh beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours in playful agreement. “guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head at their antics—but it’s only when you hear them, really hear them, that something shifts in your chest.

it was the first time you had played that song—the one you wrote for wonbin—and your chest hadn’t tightened. no lump had risen in your throat, no invisible weight had pressed down on your ribs. it had been just another song, just music, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but then, without thinking, your eyes flicker across the room—to him. wonbin..

the world doesn’t stop spinning, but it feels like it does. for just a moment. for just the stretch of a single breath.

his gaze isn’t piercing, isn’t burning with anything sharp or scathing. no, it’s something else entirely—something unreadable, something that tightens in your chest like a slow-building crescendo, pressing against ribs that have already known too much ache.

this is the moment where he should say something. where he’d usually saunter over, voice low and teasing, an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he murmured, “damn, you really are my favorite little rockstar.”

where he’d nudge you just enough to make you roll your eyes, to make you swat him away only for him to stay close anyway. where he’d remind you—without ever really saying it—that he sees you.

but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. just stares. and it hurts.

it’s a quiet, gnawing pain, the kind that doesn’t strike all at once but settles deep, threading itself into old wounds that never fully healed. you’ve spent weeks trying to break free of the weight he left behind, trying to scrape the remnants of him out of your skin, out of your lungs, out of the spaces in your mind that still whisper his name when you’re alone.

and yet, with a single look, it all comes rushing back. you shouldn’t care, but you do.

you do, because for all the ways you’ve tried to let go, there’s still something in you that aches for him to notice. to say something. to remind you that he was once the one who knew you best, who stood by your side, who made you feel like you belonged before everything cracked and left you trying to piece yourself back together.

instead, silence stretches between you like an unplayed note—dangling in the air, unresolved. then, a hand on your shoulder.

beomgyu.

his touch is light, grounding, but it doesn’t break the tension—it only makes you more aware of it. “come on,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, as if he senses the shift, even if he doesn’t understand it. 

“water break.”

you don’t respond, just let him steer you toward the bottles laid out on the other side of the room. and still, wonbin doesn’t look away. he doesn’t stop watching. he doesn’t say a single word.

the laughter from the others continues behind you, filling the space you leave behind, but as you reach for the cold plastic of the water bottle, the chill sinking into your fingertips, you feel it—that quiet, aching twinge deep in your chest.

the cool water slips down your throat, but it does little to soothe the fire simmering beneath your ribs. It’s not the kind that burns bright and all-consuming—it’s slower, deeper, the kind of heat that lingers long after the flame has been snuffed out. the kind of ache that settles into your bones, into the spaces between your lungs, making it harder to breathe without feeling it pressing there, unshakable.

beomgyu settles beside you easily, his presence a stark contrast to the storm still curling in your chest. he exists in a way that doesn’t demand anything of you, that doesn’t make your wounds feel like open targets. you should be grateful for that. maybe you are. 

but when hongjoong speaks, your pulse stumbles over itself, because his words are about to crack open something you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

“alright,” he starts, voice dipping into something serious, steady. “the showcase is in a week, and i’ve been thinking—we should introduce one of the new songs, my personal pick is flatline.”

“it would be good to get people excited about the album.”

the moment fractures.

a week. that’s all the time you have left before you’ll be standing on a stage again, before the weight of every chord, every lyric, every heartbeat you’ve ever poured into your music is laid bare under blinding lights. it wouldn’t be the first time. performing is second nature to you.

but this—this—feels different, because the song hongjoong is talking about isn’t just another track in your repertoire. it’s not something you wrote in passing, not a melody plucked from thin air.

it’s a song for him.

for the love you lost before you ever truly had it. for the nights you spent drowning in the silence he left behind. for every almost, every nearly, every whisper of something real that never quite reached the surface. it’s ink and blood, strings and scars, stitched together into something that still feels too raw to touch.

the air shifts and the hesitation is almost tangible. hongjoong notices it too, catching the flickers of unease from the others before his gaze finds you. he hesitates, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what he’s suggesting.

“i mean—we don’t have to,” he amends quickly. “i just thought—”

“no, it’s fine.”

the word leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. it rings louder than you expect, unwavering, slicing through the hesitation thickening the air like a blade.

for a second, you wonder if it’s a mistake. if you’ve said it too quickly, too forcefully. if it’s a lie. but it isn’t, because the truth is—if you don’t do this now, you never will.

if you keep avoiding the song, if you let the ghost of wonbin’s presence dictate the things you create, you’ll never really be free of him. you’ll always be running, letting his absence linger in the spaces meant for music, meant for you.

and you’re so, so tired of running.

“it’s a good idea,” you say, this time softer, but still sure. “we should play it.”

there’s a beat of silence, but before the silence can stretch too far, hongjoong nods. “alright. we’ll lock it in, if everyone else agrees”

a murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs. because now, for the first time, it’s real.

the song is no longer just a relic of your grief, buried within the pages of your notebook. it’s going to be sung and wonbin is going to hear it.

the studio is winding down, the charged energy of rehearsal unraveling into something looser, more relaxed. the clatter of cases being latched shut, the zip of backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of voices blending into the low hum of amplifiers still cooling from the heat of performance. it’s familiar, routine. but even in the comfort of familiarity, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—something unspoken.

you’re winding your guitar cable with slow, practiced movements when you feel them before you see them—yunjin and minjeong, hovering just close enough to make their presence known. they’re watching you like they know something you don’t, eyes sharp, lips poised on the edge of mischief.

"what's the plan for tonight?" yunjin asks, arms crossed as she leans in slightly, the movement casual, but her expression anything but. 

"we were thinking of grabbing food—maybe that rooftop bar after. you in?"

minjeong tilts her head, studying you with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers, the kind that makes it impossible to lie. there’s something expectant in her stare, like she already knows the answer before you give it.

you shift your guitar case higher on your shoulder, wincing slightly. "i promised beomgyu i’d stay behind," you admit, not missing the way their eyes immediately flicker toward each other, like two sharks scenting blood in the water. 

"we wanted to go over a few things for the showcase."

"even better," minjeong hums, her smirk unfurling slowly, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke.

yunjin grins in agreement, rocking back on her heels as if she’s just won something. "if anything, this is a step in the right direction."

your stomach twists at the implication, but before you can argue, a burst of laughter echoes from across the room.

beomgyu.

his voice is warm, rich with amusement as he throws a casual arm around gunil’s shoulder, grinning at whatever conversation they’re tangled in. he fits into the space like he was meant to be here all along, moving between everyone with effortless ease. his presence is a stark contrast to the space left behind—the empty seat, the missing words, the silence that used to be filled with someone else.

yunjin follows your gaze, then nudges you with an exaggerated wiggle of her brows. "he's cute," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. "and not him."

you know exactly who him is and you don’t respond, but the absence of protest is answer enough.

minjeong steps closer, voice lower now, softer, like she’s trying to ease you into something you haven’t fully accepted yet. "look, we're just saying—he’s good for you. you guys seem to get along so well and he definitely isn’t bad on the eyes. and if he’s not, at least he’s something new. something that won’t keep you depressed and in your room for weeks on end"

there’s a weight to her words, something that makes your breath hitch for just a second too long. because new means moving forward. it means carving out a path that doesn’t end with the same heartbreak, the same regret.

it means leaving the past behind.

you exhale, shaking your head, feigning exasperation as you shove your coiled cable into your bag. "you guys are ridiculous."

"and right," yunjin corrects, her smirk widening.

but the teasing fades as she studies you, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, reading the reluctance in your body language, the way your fingers still tense when wonbin’s name is even implied.

and the truth is—you don’t know what this is.

you don’t know if beomgyu is anything more than a distraction, if the comfort of his presence is anything more than a temporary bandage over something that still bleeds. 

the moment is barely yours before yunjin seizes it, ever the dramatist, ever the instigator.

“oh, leave the lovebirds alone,” she declares, voice cutting through the air like a cymbal crash, exaggerated enough that it echoes off the studio walls.

your shoulders stiffen, but beomgyu only snickers beside you, unbothered, used to their antics by now. the rest of them follow her lead, one by one filing toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst themselves about late-night plans, about food, about anything but the weight lingering in this room, in the space that stretches between you and the man who hasn’t left yet.

wonbin stands near the doorway, slower to leave than the others, gaze flickering between you and beomgyu with something unreadable in the dim lighting. there’s nothing playful in his stance, nothing lighthearted in the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

then, casually—too casually—he speaks.

“do you guys need a singer?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, something careful, like a hand hovering over a flame, unsure whether to pull back or press forward. 

“i wouldn’t mind staying back if so.”

beomgyu barely hesitates, his answer coming as easily as his smirks, effortless but firm. “wouldn’t want to keep you from your friday night plans,” he muses, adjusting the strap of his guitar, his tone playful but not entirely weightless. 

then, with a glance toward gunil, who had been the loudest voice at practice earlier, he adds, “he told me about the girl you’re supposed to be meeting.”

the words drop into the space between you like a stray note—just sharp enough to cut and you freeze.

everything in you locks up—your breath, your pulse, the way your fingers suddenly feel too heavy where they rest against your guitar.

friday night plans. a girl.

of course. of course, he’s meeting someone. of course, there’s another name, another voice waiting on the other side of his time. because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? wonbin is charming, wonbin is untouchable, wonbin is everyone’s favorite—the guy who belongs to no one but still manages to leave his mark on everyone.

but the worst part isn’t that he has plans, it’s that it hurts.

because even after all the nights spent convincing yourself you’re done grieving him, done chasing something that was never yours to keep—your body betrays you. your stomach knots, your lungs squeeze too tight, your gaze drops to the floor because you can’t—can’t—risk looking at him right now, not when the ache is raw and too exposed.

there’s a beat of silence and then, movement.

wonbin steps forward, but not toward beomgyu. toward you.

your breath stutters, but you don’t lift your head, don’t meet his gaze, don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of whatever cologne he wears—the same scent you still associate with late-night drives and half-finished conversations, with laughter pressed against your temple, with the fleeting ghost of something that once felt like home.

he doesn’t speak right away, just reaches into his bag, the sound of the zipper barely registering past the static in your head. and then—gently, carefully—he presses something into your hands.

a bread snack, something from the vending machine down the hall.

“don’t forget to eat a proper meal after,” he murmurs, quiet, almost like a secret. his voice doesn’t hold its usual teasing lilt, doesn’t carry the arrogance of someone who knows he’s impossible to ignore. it’s just soft, like the wonbin you know behind all of the rockstar fame and string of girls. the one who stayed behind that night of tour to make sure you were eating well. the one who always seems to notice when you slip out of a room.

your fingers tighten around the wrapper, but you say nothing. you can’t say anything.

because your heart is pounding wildly, chaotically, like a song with no tempo, no rhythm, no way to steady itself. and then—just as quickly as he came—he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only his words, his scent, his absence pressing heavy against your ribs.

the door clicks shut, and the weight of wonbin’s absence presses into the room like an echo, something unseen but impossible to ignore. the silence stretches, stretching over your skin, curling in the spaces between your ribs. your heart refuses to still, still beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm, as if trying to process what just happened, as if trying to make sense of the way his voice still lingers in the air, soft and careful, like a melody that refuses to fade.

you stare at the bread in your hands, the crinkled plastic now warm from your grasp. your fingers curl around it too tightly, knuckles stiff, as if the pressure might somehow ground you, might steady the way your stomach churns, the way your mind spins in too many directions at once.

across from you, beomgyu watches.

he doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t press, doesn’t even shift where he’s standing. he just observes.

then—carefully, lightly, like he’s testing the weight of his words before letting them fall—he asks, “hey. is everything alright?”

his voice is gentle, void of teasing, void of the easy smugness he usually carries. it’s a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, like it’s laced with something more, something close to understanding.

your grip tightens, fingers stiff against the plastic and you don’t want to answer. because no, you’re not alright. you haven’t been alright for a long time. not when it comes to him.

but that’s not something you can say, not now. not when beomgyu is looking at you like he’s waiting for something you’re not ready to give.

so you force a small, stiff shrug, lowering your gaze as you tear open the packaging, letting the sound of crinkling plastic fill the air instead of the things you should say. 

“i’m fine,” you murmur, the words flat, hollow. “probably just the lack of food.”

the silence returns, thick and unmoving, stretching between you like an unresolved chord, something waiting to be resolved but never quite landing. beomgyu doesn’t fill it with another joke, doesn’t move to distract or shift the subject. he just stands there, quiet, watching.

the weight of his gaze isn’t suffocating—not like wonbin’s. it doesn’t wrap around you like a vice, doesn’t make your throat close up or your heart trip over itself in confusion. it’s patient. steady. like he’s waiting for the right moment, for the right words to come to him.

and when he speaks, his voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"is there something going on between you and wonbin?"

your fingers freeze mid-motion, bread half-raised to your mouth. the question hangs there, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the walls, into the air between you, into the rapid pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

for a moment, you don’t breathe.

he says it like he already knows the answer. like he’s just confirming something he’s already pieced together in the quiet moments, in the glances he’s caught when he thought you weren’t looking, in the way your name sounds different when it falls from wonbin’s lips.

you should deny it, should laugh, should scoff, should say no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

but you don’t because the words don’t come. because you don’t know what to say.

the silence stretches, long enough that it should be uncomfortable, but again he doesn’t fill it. he just watches, the question still hanging in the air between you, waiting, waiting, waiting—like he already knows you won’t answer.

and when you don’t—when the words sit frozen on your tongue, too tangled to unravel—he exhales softly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“and those songs,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less sure. “the ones you showed me?”

his fingers drum absentmindedly against the body of his guitar, slow, deliberate. he doesn’t sound accusatory, doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pry something out of you that isn’t already there. if anything, his voice holds something closer to realization, like he’s only now putting the last pieces of the puzzle together.

“they’re about him, aren’t they?”

your breath catches because it’s not a question. not really. it’s a statement.

a truth, laid out plainly in the dim light of the studio, in the spaces between your hesitation and the way you keep gripping that damn bread like it’s an anchor keeping you tethered.

and still, you say nothing, because what would be the point in denying it?

he’s seen the way your hands shake when you play certain chords, heard the way your voice wavers when you sing the words you wrote with him in mind. he’s watched you shift, hesitate, look away when wonbin enters a room, has caught the way you try too hard to seem indifferent when his presence pulls at you like gravity.

beomgyu isn’t stupid, he’s known, even before this moment.

but now, he’s asking you to say it, to admit it

the room feels smaller now, the air heavier, pressing against your lungs like a weight you can’t shake. the bread sits in your mouth, tasteless and dry, lodged in your throat like the emotions you’ve spent weeks—months—trying to swallow down.

you don’t speak you can’t. instead, you nod. slowly. it’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s enough, enough for beomgyu to see what you can’t bring yourself to say aloud. enough for him to understand that every lyric, every melody, every carefully placed chord in those songs wasn’t just music—it was him. it was all him.

wonbin is the grief in your harmonies, the ache in every verse, the echo of something unfinished ringing between the notes, the weight of him still stuck in your chest, clinging to your ribs like an old melody you can’t unlearn.

you swallow thickly, forcing the bread down, but it doesn’t go down easy.

beomgyu doesn’t react right away. he just watches you, his eyes tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl tightly around the plastic wrapper, the way your breath comes a little too shallow, like you’re fighting to keep something buried.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if he’s choosing each word carefully before letting it slip into the space between you.

“i won’t press,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but steady. “i won’t ask for details. i can already tell how hard it is for you to talk about this.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, forcing your breath to even out, forcing yourself to swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

beomgyu exhales, a slow, thoughtful breath, and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, “unrequited love sure is a killer.”

there’s something in the way he says it, something weighty and familiar, that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around the bread in your lap.

it’s not just an observation, it’s an admission. a confession without a name, without a past attached, but you hear it for what it is.

you finally lift your head, just a fraction, just enough to meet his gaze, and for a moment, there is nothing but shared understanding—a quiet recognition of two people who have suffered the same ache, carried the same weight, swallowed down the same grief in silence.

he doesn’t pity you and you don’t pity him.

because you both know that nothing about this kind of pain warrants pity, only endurance.

“he’s a lucky guy,” beomgyu says after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper. 

“to have songs written about him like that. to have someone feel so much for him that they carved it into melody, into words, into something permanent.”

you look away again, because the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you.

but then he exhales softly and adds, “but from what i’ve read… he’s a fool too. the kind that only realizes what he had once it’s already gone.”

a breath leaves you, sharp and unsteady, something between a laugh and a sob, something too raw to be controlled.

beomgyu doesn’t push any further. he doesn’t try to make you talk, doesn’t try to unravel what’s left of you tonight.

instead, he just reaches out, gives your shoulder a small, firm pat—not comfort, not reassurance, just a silent promise that he understands.

and then, as if sensing that the air between you is far too heavy, far too fragile, he leans back, shifting the conversation towards something lighter, something safer.

you don’t thank him, but when you finally lift the bread to your lips, taking a small, hesitant bite, you think maybe he already knows.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the air hums, thick with the promise of something electric, something on the verge of breaking open. the crowd is restless, shifting in waves, anticipation crackling through them like static before a storm. the scent of sweat, liquor, and faint traces of cigarette smoke curls through the space, mixing with the neon glow that flickers against the walls, casting everyone in ephemeral reds and blues—colors of heat and longing, of something fleeting yet unforgettable.

this is the moment before the plunge.

the moment where everything still belongs to you, before the first note rings out, before the music swallows you whole. it’s a delicate thing, this stillness before the sound—like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the drop, the wind whispering at your back, coaxing you forward.

your fingers tighten around the neck of your guitar, the weight of it an anchor, grounding you when the chaos threatens to pull you under. it should feel the same as it always does—should soothe the nerves that tangle in your stomach, should remind you that once you start playing, once the music floods your veins, there will be nothing else.

but tonight is different, because tonight, beomgyu is beside you.

he steps into place, his presence settling next to yours like it’s always been there, like the space he’s filling was never empty to begin with. where there used to be a breath of distance, now there is only proximity—his shoulder brushing against yours, a warmth that seeps in despite the cool bite of adrenaline in your veins. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping low beneath the crowd’s rising roar.

"you ready?” 

the words should be reassuring, should be nothing more than habit—because this is what he used to do. this is where he used to stand, where he used to murmur a lazy, knowing "don't mess up, little rockstar," just to see you roll your eyes, just to hear you scoff before the first note.

but now, it’s beomgyu.

before you can answer, before you can swallow down the tangled feeling rising in your throat—his hand finds yours. it’s brief, fleeting, barely a squeeze, but it roots you. a silent promise. a reassurance that you’re not stepping into the unknown alone.

and from across the stage, wonbin sees it.

he’s standing just a few feet away, yet it feels like a world apart. the mic stand is loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, unreadable—but his eyes linger, fixed on the space where beomgyu’s fingers curled over yours.

where he used to be, where he used to stand.

the moment stretches, tension weaving itself into the dim-lit space between you, thick and suffocating. but then, the house lights drop, and the crowd erupts, and there’s no more room for hesitation.

a sharp pulse of bass rolls through the speakers, reverberating against the walls, sinking into the marrow of your bones. the stage floods with light, neon blues and deep purples casting long shadows, slicing through the dark like lightning fracturing the sky. the crowd erupts, a wild, breathless wave of noise—screams, cheers, the unmistakable pulse of a hundred bodies moving as one.

hongjoong steps forward, claiming the moment with the ease of a frontman who knows exactly how to wield the weight of anticipation. he lifts the mic to his lips, and even before he speaks, the response is deafening.

"we missed you, you crazy motherfuckers!"

the crowd roars, fists pumping in the air, voices crashing against each other in a feverish symphony. the venue is alive, pulsing, breathing—fueled by adrenaline, by the promise of the music about to tear through the room.

then, hongjoong grins, his voice dipping lower, laced with something playful, something teasing.

"now, before we blow your minds, we’ve got a new face on stage tonight."

the screams rise in pitch, high and electric.

beomgyu, beside you, shifts slightly, rolling out his shoulders, the dim stage lights catching the glint of his silver piercing, the streak of sweat-darkened strands falling into his eyes. if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. there’s an ease to the way he stands, the way his hand rests on the curve of his guitar, the way his lips quirk into a smirk just before hongjoong makes it official—

"give it up for our new rhythm guitarist—choi beomgyu!"

and the response is instantaneous, the moment beomgyu’s name leaves hongjoong’s lips, the venue erupts.

the sound is deafening—high-pitched screams rolling through the space like a wave, wild and relentless. his presence is magnetic, his confidence effortless, the energy around him swelling with every second that passes. he stands beneath the stage lights like he was built for this, basking in the feverish adoration pouring from the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he already knew this was coming.

and for the first time, someone else is rivaling the presence that once belonged to wonbin alone.

because wonbin—on stage, wonbin commands the space like a golden god, every movement deliberate, every note he plays dripping with an effortless cool that sends shivers down your spine. he has always been larger than life under the lights, a force that burns and soothes all at once, the weight of him undeniable. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating him in a way that makes him look untouchable, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves, his existence a thing of myth and legend.

but now—now, the stage has another presence.

beomgyu doesn’t just hold himself well—he owns the moment. he stands tall beneath the golden wash of the overhead lights, his long hair catching the soft glow, his silver piercing glinting with every tilt of his head. he moves with ease, with certainty, like he already knows the crowd will adore him.

and they do. they devour him, the way they used to devour wonbin.

the shift is undeniable, like the stage itself is recalibrating, realigning the way it breathes, the way it pulses beneath your feet. and for the first time, wonbin isn’t the one standing in the brightest light.

you don’t have to look to know he’s aware of it.

before the weight of it can settle, before the tension can coil any tighter, hongjoong throws his fist in the air, signaling the start of the set.

the moment the first chord rips through the air, the venue explodes.

the drumline is relentless, a pounding heartbeat that syncs with the wild energy of the crowd, fueling their movements, their screams, their desperate need to be consumed by the music. the bass thrums low and deep, shaking the floor beneath your feet, while the wail of guitars cuts through the chaos, sharp and electric.

and at the center of it all—you and beomgyu move like a force of nature.

the shift is subtle at first, effortless in the way that only comes with instinct. it’s in the way you lean toward him during the opening riff, in the way he mirrors the movement without hesitation, playing off your energy as if the two of you have been doing this forever. the chemistry is instantaneous—a back-and-forth exchange of sound and motion, a conversation spoken through fingers against strings, through the way your bodies pull toward each other in perfect rhythm.

the crowd notices. they feel it.

the pitch of their screams rises, sharp and frenzied, a reaction to the unspoken electricity crackling between you and beomgyu on stage. when you step forward, he meets you halfway. when you tilt your guitar upward, he angles his in the same way, the two of you lost in the moment, lost in the music. it’s intoxicating, the way it flows so naturally, the way it just works.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, just barely visible in the shifting lights, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes it further, crowding into your space just enough to drive the audience into a frenzy. he’s teasing them, teasing you, pushing the dynamic to its edge. he plays with a kind of confidence that borders on reckless, grinning as the crowd screams louder, as they feed off the connection you’re giving them.

your eyes meet beomgyu’s, and it’s like striking a match—instantaneous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

his gaze is wild, untamed, burning with something reckless as his fingers dance effortlessly up and down the strings of his guitar. the glint of the stage lights catches on the silver of his noise piercing, on the damp strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, on the raw, exhilarated grin tugging at his lips. he’s thriving in this moment, in the way the music swallows everything whole, in the way the energy between you pulls tighter, tighter, a thread stretched to its limit.

then, the silent challenge begins.

you push yourself further, fingers sliding over the fretboard, pressing harder, moving faster, your guitar wailing in response. beomgyu doesn’t hesitate—he matches you, keeping pace with ease, teasing the melody just enough to goad you, just enough to dare you into pushing beyond the edge.

the music drives you together, bodies drawn into the rhythm like magnets, until there’s barely any space left between you. the heat of the lights, the fevered pulse of the crowd, the sheer intensity of the moment—it’s intoxicating, drowning out everything else, everything that isn’t this.

the rest of the band? they feel it too.

gunil pounds the drums harder, the beat slamming through the venue like thunder rolling across an open sky. minjeong’s bass vibrates low and heavy, a pulse that thrums deep in your chest, anchoring the chaos, keeping the storm contained. hongjoong and yunjin’s voices rise above it all, their harmonies growing rougher, more unruly, feeding into the wild, raw energy tearing through the set.

it’s a performance unlike any before—untamed, unhinged, an awakening of something new, something raw, something the crowd can’t get enough of.

but just beyond the heat of the lights, just past the charged space between you and beomgyu—wonbin is still watching,

wonbin has never been just another piece of the stage.

he’s always been the moment, the gravitational force pulling every gaze, the golden focal point of the band’s energy, the one who commands attention without even trying. his presence alone has always been enough—his voice, his movement, the way he bends the music to his will. he has never had to chase the spotlight, it’s always belonged to him.

but tonight, he is not the one they are watching. for the first time, wonbin fades into the background and he hates it.

his grip tightens around the mic stand, knuckles whitening, his jaw locked so tight it aches. he tells himself it’s just the music, just the adrenaline—that’s why his pulse is hammering in his throat, why his body feels wired, off-kilter, out of sync. but the more he watches, the more he realizes it’s not the music that’s throwing him off.

it’s you. it’s beomgyu.

it’s the way you two move—effortless, in sync, pulling toward each other like magnets caught in the same orbit. it’s the way your bodies lean into the rhythm, the way your eyes meet with something charged, something unspoken, something new.

it’s the way he matches your energy, challenges you, dares you to push harder, play faster, lean in closer. the way the crowd sees it, feels it, screams louder because of it.

it’s the way he—wonbin—isn’t part of it. the realization unsettles him more than it should.

he shifts his weight, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into the moment, back into the role he’s always played with such ease. but it’s not the same. the energy of the stage is shifting, the music bending in a way that doesn’t center around him anymore. and it’s not because of the crowd. 

it’s not even because of the music. it’s you.

you, who used to seek him out during performances without even thinking. you, who used to turn to him during the high points of a song, locking eyes in the way that made it feel like the stage belonged to just the two of you.

but tonight, you’re not looking at him, you haven’t looked at him once.

wonbin swallows, throat dry, frustration curling hot and tight in his chest. he doesn’t even realize how stiff he’s become, how his grip on the mic stand has turned iron-clad, how his body is thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name.

for the first time, he’s losing something on stage and the fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—why this is different—only makes it worse.

the music swells, rising toward the inevitable climax, and the stage becomes something untamed—alive, unhinged, drenched in heat and motion.

your fingers blaze over the fretboard, coaxing a wail from your guitar that rips through the heavy, pulsating air like a jagged streak of lightning cracking open the night. the solo is yours—no, the stage is yours—and beomgyu knows it. he steps back, hands lifting from his own instrument, offering the spotlight like a silent tribute to a god. but 

he doesn’t leave, he doesn’t retreat.

instead, he leans in.

close. too close.

the breath between you is shallow, trembling, and the space that separates you shrinks until it feels like the entire universe has narrowed down to just this moment, just him. his presence is a force, a magnetic pull that wraps around you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his gaze locked onto you—onto your fingers dancing across the strings, onto your lips parted in focus, onto the way your body twists and moves, reckless and raw, with the music that’s tearing through you.

his eyes burn, and he’s drinking you in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

and when you think he’ll relent—when you think he’ll step back, give you the air you so desperately need—he does the opposite.

he dips his head, his breath grazing your ear, his voice cutting through the chaos like velvet sharpened into a blade. “let it out.”

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a plea. it’s a command wrapped in a dare, spoken like he knows you’re capable of unraveling the world if you just tried.

something ignites deep inside you—something volatile, something electric, something that feels like it could burn you alive if you let it. his eyes are still on you, dark and devouring, watching you like you’re the only thing in existence, and it’s too much. it’s suffocating. it’s intoxicating.

and then you snap.

your fingers fly over the fretboard with a fury you didn’t know you had, each note searing through the air, leaving fire in its wake. the sound is untamed, filthy, and the tension between you and beomgyu swells, thick and almost unbearable, like a storm gathering strength. he doesn’t back away; instead, his body moves with yours, mirroring your rhythm, matching your energy, as if you’re tethered by something invisible but unbreakable.

the crowd loses themselves, their screams fusing with the music, but they’re background noise now. nothing exists except for the heat spiraling between you and the boy standing so close it hurts, so close it feels like he’s burning into you, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists.

the solo crescendos, wild and relentless, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world might come undone under the weight of it—the sound, the crowd, the suffocating gravity of his presence..

the energy of the concert shifts as the final notes of the previous song fade into the air, the crowd still riding the high of the relentless tempo, their cheers echoing through the venue like a roaring tide. the stage lights dim, washing everything in a softer glow, cooling the fever pitch just enough for something more intimate, more vulnerable to slip in.

this is the moment you knew was coming.

and then the first notes ring out, soft, aching, unmistakable.

"flatline"

your song.

the one you wrote in the dead of night, with fingers trembling over the strings, with your heart cracking open beneath the weight of every lyric. the one that poured from your chest like a confession, like an unraveling, like something too raw to touch but too important to keep buried.

the opening chords of the song hum softly, a melancholic thread weaving through the noise, pulling everything into focus. the crowd’s energy doesn’t drop—it changes. they sway now, their voices quieter but still present, singing along to the melody that holds the weight of something fragile, something broken.

your fingers tremble slightly as you play, but you hide it well, forcing yourself into the rhythm, letting the music guide you. this song—it’s yours in every sense of the word. the lyrics, the melody, the ache woven into every note—it’s the confession you could never say out loud.

the confession that still lingers between you and him.

and though you try to focus on the crowd, on the stage, on the way the music feels beneath your fingertips, you can’t ignore the weight of wonbin’s presence just a few feet away.

it’s in the way his voice curls around the first verse, warm and honeyed, just rough enough to carry the ache. the words sound different when he sings them—like they mean something else, something entirely his own. but you know the truth.

he doesn’t know.

to him, this song is just another piece of the setlist, another melody to pull the crowd deeper into the performance. he doesn’t hear the confessions stitched into the lyrics, doesn’t see the raw edges of your heart still bleeding beneath the surface.

“you call my name like a bad habit, like a cigarette at dawn light me up, breathe me in, then forget that i was ever gone…”

the words slip from your lips, barely above a whisper, but they are heavy—drenched in something raw, something unspoken. the weight of them pulls you back to that night, the one you’ve tried to erase from memory, the one that still clings to you like an old bruise refusing to fade.

curled up in your bed, sheets tangled around your limbs, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. the ceiling above you had blurred, your vision swimming, hot tears slipping into your hair as you begged—to what? to god? to the universe? to something unseen that could wrench the ache from your chest and leave you hollow enough to move on?

"morning will come and i'll do what's right just give me till then to give up this fight..."

wonbin’s voice threads into the song, seamlessly slipping into harmony with yours. it should be beautiful. it should be effortless, like all the other times before.

but it’s different now, because he’s still singing a song he doesn’t know is about him.

"there's a million things there's a million things i could say..."

your hands tighten around the neck of your guitar, the callouses pressing deep against the steel strings, grounding you in something tangible, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers like he did.

there were so many words left unsaid. so many almosts, so many if onlys.

you should have told him. you should have let the words escape when they burned at the back of your throat, should have let them tumble out when his fingers brushed yours, when his gaze lingered too long, when he stood close enough for his breath to warm your skin. but you never did.

"but you never really knew that but you never really knew i felt this way..."

wonbin’s voice is steady, unaware, untouched by the meaning woven into every lyric. he doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate the way you do.

because to him, this is just a song.

"wanna take it back wanna take it back to when we had it just like that, had it right on track..."

you blink, forcing yourself back into the present. beomgyu is beside you, fingers moving fluidly over his guitar, his presence a steady rhythm against the turmoil brewing beneath your skin.

the crowd is swaying, lost in the moment, unaware of the battlefield unfolding within you.

"and i keep falling in this darkness..."

the final note lingers in the air, fading into the roar of the crowd, a crashing wave of voices screaming their devotion, their exhilaration, their need for more. the stage is bathed in golden light, the remnants of something electric still crackling in the space between your fingers, between the breaths you haven't quite steadied yet.

hongjoong steps forward, lifting his mic one last time, his voice cutting through the haze of sound. "you guys were fucking insane tonight!" his words are met with another deafening wave of screams, bodies surging, hands reaching, voices raw with the aftermath of something unforgettable. "we’ll see you soon, west coast—until then, keep the music loud and the nights even louder!"

the lights dim, the energy of the stage shifting, pulling back, retreating into the shadows as you all step away from the edge, away from the blinding heat of the crowd.

and just like that, it’s over, your first showcase since the tour.

the second you’re backstage, the weight of it all comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the sweat clinging to your skin in damp rivulets. your body hums from the performance, from the music that still thrums deep in your bones, but more than anything, you feel the ache of that song, the ghost of it still pressing against your ribs like it doesn’t want to let go.

your fingers move automatically, yanking out your earpiece, the sensation of it still ringing in your head even as you toss it onto the nearest surface. beomgyu is beside you, pulling at the collar of his shirt, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"holy shit," he mutters, still buzzing, still alive with it. "that was insane."

before you can respond, gunil claps a hand on your shoulder, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. "oh, and don’t think we didn’t see that—"

you blink, still half-lost in the haze of the performance. "see what?"

gunil’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu with something obnoxiously knowing. "that sexual tension. you two were all over each other."

heat rushes to your face faster than you can process, your pulse skipping in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

beomgyu, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat—just leans in slightly, tilting his head toward you with a teasing lilt in his voice. "yeah?" he muses, a grin playing at his lips. "didn’t hear any complaints from her side."

you narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but the laughter from the others—the way gunil howls, the way yunjin snorts into her water bottle—tells you the damage has already been done.

wonbin is standing a few feet away, half-turned toward minjeong’s open guitar case, his movements slow, deliberate. he’s not joining in on the teasing, not cracking a joke or rolling his eyes. he’s just watching.

and when your eyes finally meet—just for a second, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his features—he looks away.

but not before you see the way his fingers tighten against the edge of the case, the way his jaw tenses, the way his entire body reacts to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

and suddenly, the heat from the stage isn’t the only thing making your head spin.

the room erupts into celebration, laughter spilling into the air as bottles are passed around, the sharp pop of champagne punctuating the moment like the final note of a song still lingering in the air. the energy is still electric, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the performance, the adrenaline not yet burned out from your veins.

but something is off.

it happens so fast you almost miss it—wonbin, who should be here, at the center of it all, basking in the aftermath of the stage, is slipping away.

no words, no offhand remark, no teasing jab at gunil’s terrible attempt at pouring champagne without spilling it. just quiet. a subtle shift, a retreat into the shadows when no one is looking.

but you see it.

the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. the way his shoulders are drawn tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen. the way he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore, like it’s slipping through his fingers, like you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

and against your better judgment, against the logic that tells you to stay, to let him walk away, to not follow him down whatever road this is leading to—you go after him.

it feels too familiar, too much like déjà vu, like history folding over itself and replaying the same scene with different colors, different wounds.

the last time, it had been you slipping away first, heart aching, lungs squeezing too tight as you had left the waiting room, the celebration ringing hollow in your ears. the weight of your feelings had been too much, had pressed too heavily against the raw edges of your heart, and you had run before it could suffocate you.

and now—now, wonbin is the one leaving. and you don’t know why, but you need to.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling in from the gaps beneath the dressing room doors, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls. the air is cooler here, untouched by the feverish heat of the performance, but it does nothing to ease the fire simmering beneath your skin, the one still burning from the way he had looked at you on stage, from the weight of his absence in that room.

wonbin stands at the far end of the corridor, half-leaning, half-bracing against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. his knuckles press against his ribs, white from the force of it, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. but his breathing is shallow, uneven, like it’s taking effort to keep standing, to not collapse under the weight of whatever storm is raging inside him.

you’ve never seen him like this before.

wonbin, who walks through life with the kind of effortless ease that makes the world bend to his rhythm, who commands attention without ever demanding it, who never lets anyone see past the façade—now looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

and it terrifies you.

the cold wall against his back should be grounding, should anchor him, but the tremble has already started—deep, uncontrollable, unraveling him thread by thread. he swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow movements, like he can’t quite get enough air.

and when he finally lifts his gaze, when his eyes meet yours—it’s not the wonbin you know. it’s not the golden boy of the stage, not the effortless flirt, not the boy who grins like the world belongs to him.

it’s someone else, someone breaking.

"what are you doing out here?" his voice is quieter than you expect, rough at the edges, like the words are scraped from the back of his throat.

you take a step closer, pulse pounding. "i could ask you the same thing."

his laugh is hollow, humorless. "go back inside. you should be celebrating. you and beomgyu killed it today."

“wonbin-”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then—you see it.

it started as a faint hum in wonbin’s chest, a restless vibration he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. it slithered up his spine, creeping beneath his skin, an insidious thing that whispered something is wrong before he even knew what was happening. the feeling spread like wildfire, setting every nerve alight, an unbearable tightness blooming in his ribcage until his heart began to race—erratic, frantic, thunderous—beating so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.

his breath hitched, coming in shallow, sharp bursts—too fast, too little, not enough. it was like trying to inhale through a pinhole, like no matter how hard he sucked in air, his lungs refused to expand.

then the room tilted. the walls warped and stretched, blurring into meaningless shapes, and his pulse spiked, his body betraying him in real time. his palms pressed against the cold surface of the wall, desperate for something solid, something real, but even that felt distant—his own fingers tingling, numb with static. the oxygen in his brain depleted too fast, turning everything hazy, unreal.

he clutched his chest, sure his heart was breaking apart.

he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, his knees trembling beneath him, his muscles locking up. sweat slicked his temples, dripping cold down the back of his neck despite the heat burning inside his body. the panic was swallowing him whole, dragging him under with clawed fingers, whispering the kind of terror he couldn’t fight off—you’re dying. you’re dying. this is it.

"make it stop," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his voice breaking, barely audible. but the panic didn’t listen.

it never did. and then—hands. soft, warm, real.

they landed on his arms, firm but careful, grounding. a voice, steady and low, cut through the storm, slicing through the chaos like a lifeline tossed into the dark.

"wonbin—look at me."

he tries, but his vision swims, colors bleeding into one another.

“i-i think i- i’m d-dying.”

"you need to slow down. just focus on me, okay? you’re not dying. it’s a panic attack."

he let out a strangled breath, shaking his head, because it felt like dying, because his chest hurt like something was caving in, but then, fingers curled around his wrists, gentle yet insistent. anchoring.

"breathe with me. follow my rhythm."

he felt it before he could see it—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the deliberate slowness of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your hands, grounding him in something outside of his own unraveling mind.

slowly, painfully slowly, he tried to match it.

in—one, two, three.

out—one, two, three.

"that’s it," you whispered, your voice softer now, steady as a heartbeat. "just keep going. i’ve got you. i’m right here."

the words nearly undo him.

his back slid further down the wall, his muscles giving up under the sheer exhaustion, his trembling hands gripping at the edge of the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. the storm was ebbing, the jagged edges smoothing just enough for him to take in a breath that didn’t feel like a knife to the lungs.

but the aftermath was just as heavy. his limbs felt useless, his body aching like he had run miles just to end up in the same place.

and through it all, you never let go.

you stayed, your presence unmoving, unwavering, your hands still curled around his wrists, your breaths still slow, even, guiding him back to something solid.

"you’re okay," you murmured again, quieter now, a reassurance just for him.

wonbin exhales, slow and uneven, his body slumping forward as if the last bit of fight has drained out of him. the tension that had held him together, that had kept him upright despite the weight of his own unraveling, finally snaps.

and he leans into you.

at first, it’s hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, not sure if you’ll pull away, not sure if it’s okay to need someone like this. but when you don’t move, don’t stiffen or break the moment, he gives in completely.

his head presses against your chest, his breath warm and damp against the fabric of your shirt. his arms, shaky but firm, slide around your waist, pulling you closer—like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the vast, terrifying nothingness that had swallowed him moments ago.

your arms wrap around him, one hand slipping into his hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, the other resting lightly against the curve of his back, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breaths. his heartbeat is still too fast, thudding erratically against your ribcage, but it’s slowing. steadying.

the silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things neither of you are ready to say, all the things that are being said without words. it’s intimate in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

not in the way you once imagined it would be—not in the way your heart once ached for. this is something different, something raw, something fragile.

it’s in the way his body softens against yours, like he’s giving himself permission to let go. it’s in the way he buries himself deeper, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. it’s in the way neither of you move, just existing in the moment, letting the quiet hold you together.

his voice is quiet when it comes, so soft you almost think you imagined it, muffled by the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek.

"you don’t speak to me anymore."

the words settle between you, fragile yet heavy, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to shatter. your fingers still in his hair, your breath catching for just a second too long.

because of course he noticed.

you don’t know why that surprises you. maybe you thought he never would, that he’d be too wrapped up in his own world to feel the growing space between you, the widening gap that you’ve so carefully constructed.

you hesitate, lips parting, but you don’t know what to say because he’s right. you have been pulling away, you have been distancing yourself. and now, here he is, raw and vulnerable in your arms, forcing you to acknowledge it in a way you weren’t ready for.

"it’s like you want there to be distance, like you don’t like being around me anymore" he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, his arms still wrapped around you, his body still pressed against yours like he doesn’t want that space to exist at all.

there’s something almost broken in his voice, something hesitant, like he doesn’t quite understand it himself. like he’s trying to piece it together, to make sense of the space he swears wasn’t always there.

your throat tightens because you could tell him the truth.

that you do want distance, that you have been pulling away, because what other choice did you have? because your heart couldn’t take the way it felt to be close to him, to want him and never have him, to always be caught in his gravity but never in his arms. because the alternative was unbearable, because staying meant hurting and leaving meant surviving.

but instead, you say nothing.

"talk to me, please angel. help me make things right." his voice cracks, just slightly, but it’s enough.

enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make your fingers twitch where they rest against his back, enough to make something deep inside you waver, just for a moment.

he whines it, breathy and desperate, like he’s starving for something—like your silence is the thing unraveling him now, not the panic attack, not the weight of the night, but you.

you want to speak, you do.

but how are you supposed to, when your thoughts are a tangled mess, when every word that tries to rise to the surface gets caught somewhere in your throat, refusing to take shape?

wonbin doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just holds on, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens even a little. he’s never been like this before—never been anything other than confident, than effortless, than so sure of himself.

but right now, with his head against your chest, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his panic, his words spilling out with no filter—

he’s just wonbin. not the golden boy, not the untouchable performer, not the center of every room. just him. and he’s begging for something from you but you don’t know what to give him.

your lips part, but nothing comes out, the words still tangled somewhere between your mind and your mouth, unspoken, unformed.

you don’t know how to speak to him.

wonbin sighs, the sound barely more than a breath, but you feel it—the weight of it, the way it presses against your skin, the way it settles between you like something unfinished, something breaking.

he knows you won’t reply.

he lifts his head slowly, his arms loosening around you just enough to put space between your bodies, but not enough to let go. and when his gaze finally meets yours, the sight knocks the air from your lungs.

his eyes glimmer, the soft promise of tears lining his lashes, though none have fallen. there’s something unbearably fragile about him in this moment—his breath uneven, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something, like the words are right there, just waiting to spill.

then, the pout forms—small and barely noticeable, but there, pressing against his lips in frustration, in hesitation, in the quiet kind of sadness that lingers long after the moment has passed.

he opens his mouth—stops. shakes his head.

then, in the way only wonbin can, he forces a smile. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t hold the usual cocky lilt, doesn’t brim with mischief or charm. it’s small, weak at the edges, faltering even as he tries to hold it in place.

"go back in, before gunil wastes all of the champagne" he murmurs, voice softer now, the weight behind it making your stomach drop. "i’ll be fine."

"but wonbin—"

you don’t even know what you’re protesting, not really. maybe it’s the way his voice sounds when he says it, too light, too hollow, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. maybe it’s the way he’s already slipping away, like this moment never happened, like the way he held onto you for dear life was just a fleeting mistake.

but before you can say anything else, he’s already moving, already peeling himself away, already putting that distance back between you.

the warmth of his body disappears as he pushes off of you, straightening his posture, rolling his shoulders back like he’s shaking the vulnerability off. His hands drag down his face once, quick and sharp, as if trying to erase the evidence of whatever just unraveled between you.

 just like that—he’s fine again. or at least, that’s what he wants you to believe.

"i’’m fine now," he says, flashing you a small, easy grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his voice is steadier now, smoother, slipping back into the effortless cool that he wears like armor. 

"seriously. just needed a second to breathe."

you don’t buy it. not when his hands are still stuffed into his pockets a little too tightly. not when the faintest trace of unsteadiness still lingers in his breath. not when his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back.

"i’ll join you in a minute, i promise" he says, voice so casual it almost sounds convincing.

before you can argue, before you can make him talk to you, make him admit that he’s not okay, he turns his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, as if that alone will make you drop it.

and maybe that’s the worst part of all—that even after everything, after the way he had clung to you just moments ago, after the way his breath had stuttered against your skin, after the way he had begged you to talk to him—

he’s still choosing to lock you out.

every instinct in you screams to stay, to push, to demand more—more honesty, more answers, more anything that isn’t this half-hearted deflection, this quiet retreat back into the version of himself that he wants you to see.

but you don’t. because you know wonbin. and you know that once he’s decided to put his walls back up, there’s no breaking through them.

so, against every aching part of you that wants to reach for him again, you force yourself to step back, to respect the distance he’s asking for—even if it feels like a knife between your ribs.

the hallway feels colder now, emptier, like whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you just moments ago has already been erased, buried beneath the weight of his carefully composed indifference.

you swallow hard, turning toward the door, toward the muffled laughter and clinking of champagne glasses waiting for you inside. your hand lingers on the handle for just a second too long, fingers pressing into the metal like you can ground yourself with it, like you can hold onto something solid when everything inside you feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

wonbin is still standing there, still leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly downward. he’s staring at the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn tight, like he’s holding something in—like he’s holding everything in.

for all the distance he’s putting between you, for all the words left unsaid—

he looks so incredibly alone.

your chest tightens, but you say nothing. you just watch him for one last moment, letting the silence between you settle, heavy and final.

then, with a deep breath, you turn away, stepping back into the waiting room, back into the noise, back into a world that hasn’t shattered the way yours just has.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

a week has passed, but the shift in him lingers like an open wound, raw and impossible to ignore.

the unraveling starts slow, so slow that even wonbin himself doesn’t notice at first. it’s just a shift, a minor dissonance in the otherwise effortless rhythm of his life, an unspoken imbalance he convinces himself is temporary. but temporary things are supposed to fade, and this—this only festers.

at first, it’s just the sleepless nights. the ones where he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running in loops he can’t escape. he tells himself it’s fine, that exhaustion is nothing new, that it’s just a phase, a passing restlessness. but then the days start to blur, a slow erosion of time slipping through his fingers. the world moves around him, conversations flow, laughter spills from the mouths of his bandmates, but it all feels distant, like watching through glass.

and then there’s the drinking.

it starts with one, just something to take the edge off, something to quiet the relentless thoughts, something to dull the sharp ache that settles too deep in his chest to shake off. but one turns into two, then three, and suddenly the bottom of a glass becomes familiar, the burn of whiskey a comfort he never thought he’d need. he drinks to forget, but it only makes everything more vivid—the way you used to look at him, the way you don’t anymore, the way beomgyu is always there, always close, always in the space that once belonged to him.

the more he drinks, the less control he has, and control has always been wonbin’s lifeline. he’s spent his whole life making sure no one gets too close, keeping the world at arm’s length, making sure that nothing touches him deep enough to matter. but it does matter. you matter. and the realization is suffocating.

it spills over into rehearsals, where his focus wavers, where his voice catches at the wrong moments, where his fingers press too hard against the mic stand like he’s trying to ground himself in something tangible. the others notice, their glances stretching longer, their murmurs more frequent. hongjoong watches him like he’s waiting for him to break. gunil isn’t subtle with his frustration. yunjin, despite her usual teasing, has started to hold back, as if sensing that whatever this is, it’s beyond a joke now.

beomgyu doesn’t say much, but wonbin catches the looks, the way his gaze lingers in quiet assessment, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. and maybe that pisses him off the most—how composed he is, how unshaken, how he doesn’t seem to feel the same weight crushing him from the inside out. it makes wonbin reckless, makes his fingers tighten into fists when no one is looking, makes him crave the rush of something that will make him forget, even if only for a moment.

the parties get longer. the nights stretch into early mornings, bodies pressed too close, lips that aren’t yours brushing against his skin, hands that don’t mean anything pulling him in, and yet none of it sticks. none of it fills the empty space inside him. he surrounds himself with people, with music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, with drinks strong enough to blur the sharp edges of reality, but nothing—nothing—feels right.

and then there’s the substances.

wonbin has always known where his limits are, has always been the one with a handle on things, but now? now he’s not sure he cares. there’s something about the haze, about the way his mind drifts just far enough away that he doesn’t have to feel anything at all. 

it’s reckless, dangerous, and somewhere deep down, a part of him knows this isn’t sustainable, that he’s unraveling faster than he can hold himself together. but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means facing the one thing he can’t afford to admit.

he’s losing you.

not in the way he lost the others, not in the way he’s used to, not in the way that’s easy to brush off with a laugh and a careless shrug. this loss is different. this loss is slow and painful, a knife twisting in real time, an ache that doesn’t dull no matter how much he tries to drown it. because it’s not just your warmth that’s gone—it’s the way you used to wait for him, the way you used to look at him with something close to devotion, the way your presence had always felt like something certain, something his.

and now, beomgyu is in the space he didn’t even realize he had taken for granted.

now, when you walk into a room, you aren't looking for wonbin first. now, when you laugh, it’s beomgyu who leans in closer. now, when you smile, it’s not for him.

he’s a mess.

the tabloids have started whispering, the grainy photos of him spilling out of clubs at ungodly hours surfacing too frequently now. the stories are always the same—drunk beyond recognition, slurring words against the lips of another girl, another distraction, another body to fill the space that’s eating him alive.

wonbin, who never drank beyond control, is drinking himself to death.

wonbin, who was always the last to leave the studio, is stumbling in late, sunglasses perched on his nose, wincing at the sharp clang of drumsticks hitting metal, flinching at the sound of his own name. 

today is no different.

he enters practice almost an hour late, sunglasses shielding whatever wreckage lies beneath, the collar of his hoodie pulled high enough to hide the bruising exhaustion carved into his skin. there’s a heaviness in the way he moves, like even his limbs are weighed down by something unbearable, like gravity has its claws in him and won’t let go. he doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t acknowledge the way every conversation halts the second he steps in, doesn’t even pretend to care that the air is suffocating with tension.

gunil is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat, but his voice lacks its usual playfulness. "rough night?"

wonbin barely reacts, just drops into his seat like he’s been holding himself up for too long, like he doesn’t trust his own legs to keep him standing. "you could say that."

the words are lazy, slow, like they barely belong to him. his voice is rough, scratchy at the edges, like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes and washed it down with something stronger. there’s something eerie about it—how detached he sounds, how far away he feels even though he’s sitting right in front of them.

no one laughs. no one even smiles. because it’s not funny.

and then—his sunglasses slip slightly down his nose, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look like they hurt. not just from the lack of sleep, not just from whatever he drowned himself in the night before, but from something deeper, something hollow, something broken.

he doesn’t push them back up, just exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers trembling just slightly, a ghost of the damage trailing behind him like a shadow. the moment gunil’s drumsticks tap against the rim of the snare, he visibly winces, his entire body flinching like the sound physically hurts.

"can we not?" wonbin mutters, squeezing his temples between his fingers, his voice quieter now, frayed at the edges.

the silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything wonbin refuses to acknowledge, with the worry and anger that has been festering in the room for weeks. everyone is waiting for him to snap out of it, waiting for him to explain himself, waiting for the version of wonbin they all know to reappear, to shake this off like he always does, like nothing ever touches him too deeply.

but this time, he doesn’t. this time, it lingers.

"jesus christ, wonbin."

minjeong, always the first to say what everyone else is thinking, leans against her bass with arms crossed, her expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, but there’s worry there too, buried beneath the sharpness. "you look like hell."

wonbin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift his head. just smirks lazily, a half-hearted, empty thing, the kind of smirk that’s more armor than amusement. "good to know. minjeong, forever the oracle of truth."

hongjoong exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration barely restrained beneath the forced composure of someone who’s been holding himself back for too long. "this isn’t sustainable, wonbin. we can’t keep pretending like you’re fine when you show up like this."

wonbin finally lifts his head, but the movement is sluggish, like every second is costing him more than it should. "you worried about me, hongjoong?" his voice drips with sarcasm, but it falls flat, cracks at the edges like brittle glass.

the response is immediate, sharp, like a blade cutting through air. "yeah, actually. we all are. but i don’t think you care enough to do anything about it."

that, at least, earns a reaction. wonbin’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he scoffs, shaking his head, tapping his fingers against the table beside him as if the conversation bores him. but his hands are still shaking.

"you don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are slipping out before he can stop them. "none of you do."

but yunjin has had enough.

"then help us understand, wonbin." her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, firm, laced with something raw, something real, something that cuts through the haze clinging to him. "because all we see is you destroying yourself. and we’re supposed to just sit back and watch?"

wonbin doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have one.

yunjin exhales sharply through her nose, not as blunt as minjeong, but her frustration simmers just beneath the surface, restrained only by the sheer weight of her concern. "you’ve been doing this every night, huh?" she mutters, shaking her head, like she already knows the answer. "how long are you gonna keep this up?"

wonbin shrugs, slow and indifferent, like it’s not even a question worth considering. "until it stops working, i guess."

"working?" hongjoong’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something like disappointment, like exhaustion. "you call this working?"

wonbin finally reacts to that, tilting his head just slightly, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to reveal the tired, bloodshot eyes beneath. for a second, he just looks at hongjoong, gaze unfocused, pupils blown too wide, as if he’s trying to process the weight of the words but can’t quite grasp them.

"what’s your point?" his voice is almost teasing, almost playful, but it rings hollow, stretched too thin to hold any real weight.

"my point is that you’re barely here, wonbin," hongjoong says, exasperation bleeding into his tone, his fingers drumming against the edge of the piano. "you show up late, you don’t focus, you can’t even keep your head up half the time. we have a showcase coming up. our album is basically done. this isn’t just about you."

the words should cut, should get through to him, should force him to care.

but wonbin just scoffs, leaning back against the couch, arms spreading out like he’s weightless, like he’s untouchable, feigning a nonchalance so flimsy it barely holds together. "relax. i’ll be fine when it matters."

gunil, who had been mostly quiet, finally exhales and tosses his drumsticks onto his snare with a sharp clack. "do you even hear yourself?" his voice is laced with frustration, but underneath it, there’s something softer—something dangerously close to fear. "you’re not fine, wonbin. and you know it."

wonbin stills for half a second.

it’s barely noticeable, but they all see it.

the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, the way his jaw locks just a little tighter, the way his breath comes in just a fraction too shallow before he forces a slow exhale through his nose.

but then, just like that, he shakes it off, slipping back into the role of someone who doesn’t care, who can laugh this off, who can pretend he isn’t unraveling thread by thread.

"look, can we just get through practice?" his voice is lighter now, like the conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight at hongjoong. "i know i’ve been off, but i’ll clean it up in time. just drop it, yeah?"

nobody looks convinced. and neither does he.

but hongjoong doesn’t press further. he just sighs, rubbing at his temples, nodding once before adjusting the height of his piano bench.

"fine. let’s get to work."

but the conversation doesn’t die there—not really. the tension lingers, stretching into every note played, into every pause between songs.

the final note after practice lingers in the air, fading into the steady hum of amplifiers, the only sound breaking the silence that stretches too long, thick with unspoken words and the heavy weight of exhaustion that isn't just physical. 

normally, rehearsals end with laughter, with the band still buzzing from the energy of the music, with gunil flipping his drumsticks between his fingers and minjeong muttering about how he’s bound to break another one, with yunjin slinging an arm around you and making some offhanded comment about how you went too hard on that last riff, with wonbin—wonbin—somewhere in the middle of it all, that lazy smirk on his face, his presence as natural as breathing.

but tonight, the moment the last note fades, he moves like he can’t get out fast enough, his hands working quickly to unplug his mic, winding the cable in tight, controlled circles, shoving it into his bag with a sharp efficiency that makes something curl uneasily in your stomach. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a single sarcastic remark, doesn’t offer even the barest acknowledgment of the tension that has taken residence in every corner of the room. 

he simply pulls his hoodie over his head, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the fact that there’s nothing but dim studio lights casting a soft glow over the space, and slings his bag over his shoulder before walking out.

the door clicks shut behind him, quieter than you expected, and the silence he leaves in his wake is suffocating.

minjeong exhales first, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a blade. “okay, that was fucking depressing.”

yunjin mutters, running a hand through her hair before shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest in frustration. 

“no shit. he barely made it through practice. it’s like he doesn’t even want to be here.”

gunil runs a hand through his hair, stretching his arms out in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders, though it does nothing to dull the lingering frustration in his voice. “this is bad. he’s never been like this before.”

hongjoong doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers resting idly against the cord of his microphone, the look in his eyes far away, lost in thought. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but there’s a weight to it that makes the words settle heavily between all of you. 

“he’s spiraling.”.

beomgyu, who has been unusually quiet, finally shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the wood of his guitar before he finally speaks. “has something happened to him recently?”

gunil sighs, shaking his head. “not that we know of. but it’s not like wonbin to act like this.”

not this self-destructive, not this reckless, not this distant. wonbin has always been larger than life, the kind of person who could light up a room without even trying, but now, it’s like he’s actively trying to dim himself, trying to disappear into the chaos he creates, trying to outrun something none of you can see.

yunjin leans forward, her brows furrowed in frustration, but her voice is lined with concern. “he’s out every night. have you seen the pictures? he’s drinking like he’s trying to drown himself.”

you’ve seen every blurry paparazzi photo, every tabloid headline detailing his reckless nights, every video that captures the way he stumbles out of clubs in the early hours of the morning, draped over another stranger, another distraction, another temporary fix that will never actually heal anything.

you’ve seen the hollow look in his eyes, the way he smiles without meaning it, the way he carries himself like he’s untouchable, like nothing matters, but it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that it’s all just an illusion, that beneath the surface, he’s barely holding himself together.

whatever wonbin is trying to drown, whatever weight is sitting on his chest, whatever demons are clawing at his ribs—none of it is going away. it’s festering, sinking deeper, poisoning him from the inside out.

hongjoong sighs, standing up, stretching his arms over his head, but it does nothing to shake the exhaustion weighing on him. when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, heavy with something resigned. “he’ll be at the party tomorrow night. looking just as wrecked, if not worse. at least if we’re there, we can stop him from doing something too stupid.”

gunil drums his fingers against his knee, the rhythm sharp, restless. “at least it’ll be contained,” he mutters, but the words don’t hold any conviction.

the room is still. no one speaks. but the weight of it all lingers—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

wonbin has always been the center of this band. the gravitational pull that keeps everything steady, the force that holds it all together, the one who lights up every room without even trying.

but now, that pull is weakening, slipping away, unraveling thread by thread.

and you can feel the distance widening between you, feel him slipping through your fingers like something intangible, something fleeting, something you don’t know how to hold onto anymore—no matter how much you want to.

later, the air in the venue is thick with celebration, laughter spilling from every corner, the scent of champagne clinging to the walls, and the low pulse of bass-heavy music reverberating through the floor, but none of it reaches you—not really, not in the way it should, not in the way it does for everyone else who is lost in the high of the night, in the thrill of the album finally being finished. 

the weight in your chest presses heavier the moment your gaze lands on him. he’s slouched against the bar, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers, the remnants of something dark clinging to the ice at the bottom.

but it’s not just the alcohol that makes your breath catch—it’s the mess of him, the disheveled, undone way he exists in this space, like he doesn’t belong here, like he’s something misplaced, a fallen idol with a cracked crown, still beautiful, still magnetic, but in a way that feels almost tragic. 

his hair, always so carefully styled, is an unruly mess, strands falling into his eyes as if he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times out of frustration or exhaustion or something you don’t want to name, and his shirt, unbuttoned just a little too much, clings to his frame in a way that suggests he couldn’t be bothered to dress with the usual effortless precision he’s known for.

but it’s his eyes that undo you the most.

wonbin has always carried himself with an ease that made him untouchable, with a gaze that always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. every glance carefully measured, every smirk deliberate, every movement drenched in an effortless confidence that made the world bend to him, but this—this is different. 

this isn’t control. this isn’t the golden boy who commands attention without trying, who holds the stage like it belongs to him, who lives like he is incapable of faltering.

this is someone lost.

his eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused, drifting from the rim of his glass to the woman pressed against his side, her fingers ghosting along his forearm, her laughter loud and empty, ringing false in the way that makes your stomach churn.

because he isn’t listening, he isn’t present, he isn’t there. he’s detached, watching everything unfold around him as if he’s separate from it all, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, too far gone to care, too far gone to stop whatever self-destruction he’s spiraling into. 

and yet, despite the dull glaze in his gaze, despite the way his body sways slightly as he lifts the glass to his lips, there is a sharpness that returns the moment he sees you, a slow shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible tightening in his grip as his gaze latches onto yours.

he doesn’t look away. for the first time in a week, he doesn’t run.

he just stares, long and unblinking, his expression unreadable, something tangled and raw sitting just beneath the surface, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes it impossible to move, impossible to breathe, impossible to pretend that you don’t feel it too.

the room is still loud, the celebration still pulsing all around you, but in that moment, in the space that exists between you and him, there is only silence, thick and suffocating, the unspoken words of an entire lifetime pressing into the air like a storm waiting to break.

beside you, beomgyu shifts, passing you a drink you barely register, his voice low and careful, laced with something knowing.

"well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen."

you don’t answer, can’t answer, fingers tightening around the glass, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink in your hand, because you know he’s right, know that this is something fragile and dangerous. something sharp-edged and ruinous, something that has been teetering on the edge for too long, waiting for the moment it finally crashes down.

as wonbin lifts his glass to his lips, his gaze still locked onto yours, dark and heavy and utterly unreadable, you know—you know—that tonight, it’s going to happen.

the party moves around you in waves, a blur of champagne flutes clinking, voices rising in laughter, the steady thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the air, but none of it registers—not fully. not when every nerve in your body is tuned to the presence of the man across the room, the one you should be ignoring, the one who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

wonbin is drinking. hard.

it starts as a slow build, the kind of indulgence that could be mistaken for celebration, for letting loose after months of work. but you see the way hongjoong watches him warily, the way yunjin subtly switches his drinks for water when he isn’t looking, the way gunil mutters something under his breath when wonbin stumbles slightly while leaning in to say something to a passing label executive. 

they all see it, the way his fingers tighten around the bottle he’s holding, the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he tips his head back too easily, swallowing down the burn of alcohol like he’s chasing something, like he’s running.

maybe he is. maybe he’s been running for weeks now, drowning himself in anything that makes him forget, in anything that makes him numb.

but it’s not working.

not when he keeps looking at you like that, not when every sip of liquor only seems to make the tension in his shoulders grow heavier, the weight behind his gaze more volatile.

and you—god, you—you can feel it sinking into your skin, into your lungs, into every breath you try to take, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too constricting, pressing down on you like an invisible force. you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists, attempt to focus on anything other than the way wonbin’s attention burns into the side of your face, but beomgyu, ever perceptive, ever attuned to your unease, notices.

you feel him shift beside you, the warmth of his presence suddenly closer, the scent of cologne and something inherently him enveloping you as he dips his head just enough for his breath to fan against your temple.

“you seem off. what’s going on?” he murmurs, his voice smooth, laced with something gentle but firm. his lips barely move, his tone low enough that no one else hears, a quiet offering just for you. 

“come outside with me. let’s get some fresh air,” he says, before you can even give him a half hearted response that he knows will be a lie.

the suggestion is simple, harmless, but the proximity—the sheer closeness of him—makes something in your chest stutter. his gaze flickers down to yours, warm and steady, his face only inches away, his posture relaxed yet entirely present, entirely aware of the tension coiling in your muscles.

maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up to you, maybe it’s the weeks of unraveling, of pretending, of biting your tongue until it bled, but you find yourself nodding before you can think twice, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

"yeah," you murmur, already turning towards the doors that lead to the balcony. "that sounds—"

you don’t get to finish as a hand wraps around your wrist. firm. unrelenting.

it’s not forceful, not bruising, but the grip is strong enough to halt your movement entirely, strong enough to send a sharp jolt of something electric straight to your spine. the contact stills you, freezes you mid-step, and when you turn—when you look up—your breath snags in your throat.

wonbin.

he’s closer than you expected, closer than he’s been in a week, and though the scent of alcohol lingers on his breath, on his skin, it’s his eyes that hold you captive—the way they burn with something untamed, something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. for the first time in so long, he looks fully present, fully here, though you almost wish he wasn’t.

because his expression—god, his expression—it’s unreadable, but charged. dark and burning, something untamed flickering behind them, something raw, something fraying at the edges, barely contained. his lips are parted slightly, his jaw tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as if he’s grinding his teeth, as if he’s forcing himself to stay still.

"where are you two going?" his voice is low, rough at the edges, words slurring just slightly, but the grip on your wrist doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen, doesn’t let you go.

you hesitate, pulse kicking against your ribs, the weight of his fingers searing into your skin, and for a moment, you can’t find the words, can’t force them past the sudden tightness in your throat.

but then beomgyu steps forward, voice steady but cautious. “she just needs some air, man.”

wonbin’s jaw tics, his fingers flexing around your wrist before his grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make a statement, enough to say not with him.

"you don’t need air," he murmurs, and it’s not just the words that shake you, but the way he says them—quiet and strained, like he’s pleading, like he’s not talking about fresh air at all.

like he’s talking about you leaving. like he’s talking about you leaving him.

suddenly, the party around you fades, the music, the laughter, the chatter—it all melts away, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your ribs, only the weight of his touch, only the look in his eyes that says don’t go.

the air around you feels thinner, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. not from the crowd, not from the thick perfume and alcohol in the air, but from him—from the way his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, from the way his grip tightens the more you hesitate, from the way his gaze burns into yours, dark and unreadable, something tangled and frantic flickering behind the whiskey-stained haze in his eyes.

you swallow, chest rising and falling too quickly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, an unbearable pressure you can’t escape, and suddenly, the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the space between you like a blade.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

his expression doesn’t shift right away, his fingers still clutching onto you like he needs to, like letting go isn’t an option, like he’s holding onto something more than just your wrist, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, you’ll disappear into the night, into him, into someone else, and he won’t be able to stop it.

"no." his voice is hoarse, barely above a murmur, but there’s a desperation threaded through the single syllable, a quiet plea disguised as refusal.

then, as if something inside him snaps, his jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his grip hardens, not painful, but possessive, his knuckles white where his fingers press against your skin. 

his gaze flickers past you, to the figure still standing at your side, and suddenly, his expression twists—the rawness, the vulnerability, the broken look in his eyes morphing into something sharper, something furious.

"you’re leaving me again." his voice drops, rough and bitter, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

then, his glare locks onto beomgyu, and his lips curl, resentment dripping from every syllable, from every jagged edge of his words as they fall from his mouth like something venomous.

"for him."

the way he spits it out, like it’s an accusation, like it’s a crime, like beomgyu is his mortal enemy and not his bandmate, not your friend, not someone who has simply been there in all the ways wonbin refuses to be—it makes something in your stomach churn, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs, makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

because it’s not true, it’s not fair, and yet, with the way he looks at you, with the way his body vibrates with something close to anger, close to desperation, close to grief, you know that he believes it.

he believes that you’re the one slipping away from him.

and worst of all, he thinks you’re doing it for someone else. as if you didn’t spend months, years, breaking yourself apart trying to stay close to him, trying to matter to him. as if you weren’t the one left behind, always the one left behind.

and suddenly, your chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not from the weight of his touch.

beomgyu shifts beside you, the tension rolling off of wonbin thick enough to suffocate, crackling like static in the air, sharp and unpredictable. he moves cautiously, hands lifting in a gesture of calm, his voice measured but firm, his tone laced with the same quiet patience he always carries, but this time, there's something beneath it, something warning, something protective.

"wonbin, let her go. you’re drunk," he says, careful but unwavering, his eyes flicking to where wonbin’s fingers are still wrapped around your wrist.

wonbin doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t acknowledge anything but the storm raging inside him, the one that has taken over completely. the one that makes his grip tighten even as his breathing grows more erratic, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to contain something uncontainable, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

he laughs.

but it’s not real, not amused, not even close.

it’s hollow, sharp at the edges, bitter enough to leave an aftertaste, his lips curling into something resembling a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his head tilts slightly, gaze flickering up and down beomgyu with something cold, something calculating, something that makes your stomach twist with unease.

"look at you," wonbin murmurs, voice low, almost mocking. "so fucking noble."

beomgyu stiffens, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t react the way wonbin wants him to. instead, he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful, his expression unreadable.

"you’re drunk, man." beomgyu’s voice is steady, too steady, the kind of forced composure that only someone fully aware of how bad this could get would use. "let go of her."

that’s what sets wonbin off.

maybe it’s the implication that he isn’t himself, that he’s lost control, that someone else—someone like beomgyu—has the audacity to stand in front of him like he knows better, like he understands something about you that wonbin doesn’t.

or maybe it’s the simple fact that beomgyu is right.

either way, it happens too fast.

the moment wonbin’s fist collides with beomgyu’s jaw, the world around you fractures, the once-muted pulse of the party fading into nothing but the sickening sound of impact, of flesh meeting flesh, of a mistake that can never be undone. 

everything feels slower, heavier, the weight of the moment settling in your bones even as the force of the hit sends beomgyu stumbling back, his head snapping to the side, his balance shifting for just a fraction of a second before he rights himself, rolling his jaw as if to test for damage.

before anything else can happen, before wonbin can even take another breath, before he can react to what he’s just done, before his own mind can catch up to the reckless destruction his body has already enacted, strong hands are already gripping him from both sides, pulling him back with force, holding him steady before he can spiral any further.

"what the fuck, wonbin?" hongjoong’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, his hands digging into wonbin’s shoulders as he shoves him backward, the sheer force enough to send him reeling, barely staying upright as gunil moves in, gripping his other arm, his hold just as firm, just as unrelenting.

gunil’s expression is unreadable, but his grip tells you everything—this is enough, this is over, this cannot go any further. his fingers dig into wonbin’s bicep, the tension in his jaw visible even beneath the dim lighting of the venue, his brows furrowed deep, his frustration palpable, but there’s something else beneath it, something like shock, something like disbelief.

wonbin doesn’t fight them, doesn’t struggle, but his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic movements, his fingers twitching at his sides as if they don’t know what to do, as if they’re still trying to hold onto something—onto you. 

his eyes are wild, unfocused, flickering between beomgyu and you, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to justify the unjustifiable, like he wants to pull himself out of the wreckage he’s just created, but no words come, nothing but the sound of his unsteady breath and the quiet tremor in his shoulders that not even the alcohol can mask.

but you don’t have time to think about him.

because beomgyu is still standing there, his hand pressed against his jaw, fingers tracing the bruising skin, his expression unreadable as he exhales slowly, deliberately, as if trying to contain something sharp, something dangerous, something that, if let loose, would burn through this entire moment like wildfire.

you don’t hesitate, don’t think twice before stepping closer, your hands moving on instinct, reaching for him with careful, urgent movements, the touch gentle but intentional, checking for injury, for anything deeper than the surface-level damage that already begins to bloom in shades of red and purple beneath his skin.

"shit beomgyu. let me see—does it hurt?" the words slip out before you can stop them, before you can even register them, but they are real, they are raw, laced with concern that you don’t have the energy to hide, because right now, none of the tension, none of the complicated emotions you’ve spent weeks suppressing, none of the chaos swirling around you matters more than the fact that beomgyu is standing here, having taken a hit he never should have had to take.

he exhales through his nose, his hand dropping from his jaw as he meets your gaze, and for a second, just a second, something softens—his eyes still dark, still laced with something unreadable, but no longer sharp, no longer challenging, just tired.

"it’s cool," he murmurs, though his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he doesn’t fully believe it himself, like maybe he’s saying it more for your sake than his own.

you don’t believe him.

not when you can see the way he’s rolling his shoulders, the way his fingers are still flexing at his sides, the way his jaw tightens again when he swallows. but you don’t push, don’t press, don’t say anything else, because the moment between you is already too fragile, too delicate, and the weight of wonbin’s gaze, despite everything, despite everyone, is still burning into the side of your face.

the air is still charged, thick with tension that clings to your skin like humidity, making it harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to stay. the weight of everything—the punch, the way wonbin had looked at you with something closer to devastation than anger, the fact that you had to choose in a moment that should have never happened—settles heavy in your chest, but right now, all you can focus on is getting beomgyu away from it, away from the mess that was left in the wake of wonbin’s unraveling.

you don’t say anything as you grab beomgyu’s wrist, your grip firm but not forceful, guiding him through the crowd that is already whispering, already buzzing with speculation, their eyes darting between the scene that had just unfolded and the three of you—like they are watching a tragedy play out in real time, desperate for the next act.

he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, just follows, his steps easy but measured, his other hand still pressing lightly to his jaw, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights of the hallway as you pull him into one of the private backrooms, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise, from the weight of all the eyes still watching.

you exhale slowly, pressing your palms against the cool marble counter for a brief second before turning back to him, taking in the way he leans back against the counter, his legs slightly spread for balance, his hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing himself. 

the luxurious space around you is a stark contrast to the scene outside—low lighting, sleek fixtures, the kind of expensive décor that belongs to people who don’t flinch at the sight of chaos, but none of it matters, none of it registers, because all you can see is him, the way the bruise is already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, darkening against his sun-kissed skin.

"sit up here," you murmur, motioning toward the counter beside you, and beomgyu lifts a brow but obeys, gripping the edge as he hoists himself up, the movement easy despite the soreness that must be settling into his jaw.

you step closer, pressing an ice pack—found in the minibar—to his cheek with careful fingers, watching the way his lips part slightly at the initial shock of cold before his expression evens out, his lashes fluttering briefly as he adjusts to the sensation.

"you didn’t have to do that, you know," you say after a beat, your voice softer now, lower, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but dulling into something more manageable, something tired.

he lets out a quiet chuckle, though it comes out a little rough, a little worn, a little strained from the tension still lingering between you. "what, take a punch for you?" his lips twitch slightly, his usual playful glint returning just enough to remind you that he’s okay, that despite everything, he’s still him.

you shake your head, pressing the ice pack a little more firmly against his cheek, watching the way his brows furrow slightly at the sensation before continuing. "step in. try to talk him down."

beomgyu exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly into the ice, his voice dropping into something more contemplative. 

"he was hurting you."

the words settle between you, weighted, laced with something unspoken, something that neither of you are willing to unpack right now.

outside the room, standing in the dim, sterile glow of the hallway, wonbin watches you leave.

his chest still heaves from exertion, from the anger that has nowhere left to go, from the alcohol burning through his veins, making everything feel too sharp, too blurred, too much. his hands curl into fists at his sides, not out of rage, but out of something else entirely—something hollow, something aching, something that claws up his throat and sits heavy on his tongue, suffocating him with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t been fast enough to fix.

wonbin barely registers the hands gripping his arms, barely hears hongjoong’s voice telling him to breathe, barely notices the way gunil steps in front of him like a barricade, trying to ground him, to stop him, to keep him from unraveling further. but it’s already too late—his head is spinning, his breath is shallow, the walls of the room shrinking around him, and every desperate inhale burns like he’s choking on the weight of something he doesn’t know how to hold.

because this is what drowning feels like.

not the kind where water fills your lungs, but the kind where something inside you is collapsing, pulling you under, dragging you deeper into something dark, something inescapable, something you can’t fucking fight because you don’t even understand when it started.

don’t even understand when it started.

but now—now he understands.

now, as he stands there with the ghost of your wrist still burning against his palm, with the dull ache of his own reckless violence pulsing in his knuckles, with the image of you tending to beomgyu playing like a cruel loop behind his eyes, he knows.

it was you. it had always been you.

you were the reason for the unease, the sleepless nights, the sudden hollow ache where something unnamed used to be. you were the reason why every breath felt heavier, why his chest tightened when he saw you laughing with someone else, why his stomach twisted when you stopped looking at him the way you used to. you were the reason why nothing felt right anymore, why he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost, why the space beside him—where you should be, where you had always been—felt empty.

and now, with the taste of whiskey thick on his tongue and the weight of realization slamming into him like a freight train, wonbin finally, finally understands the one thing he had been too blind—too stupid—to see.

park wonbin, golden boy, untouchable, adored, reckless with hearts that were never his to keep—had finally fallen in love, after years of  convincing himself that love—real love—was something fleeting, something temporary, something meant for other people, but never for him. he had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, of moving from one touch to the next, never lingering, never holding on, because holding on meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability, and vulnerability—god, vulnerability meant giving someone the power to leave.

the thought makes his pulse stutter, makes his knees threaten to buckle, makes his vision blur at the edges, and suddenly, the room isn’t big enough, the air isn’t enough, the walls are closing in too fast, too violently, suffocating him, crushing him, forcing him to face the one truth he cannot outrun.

he stumbles back, hongjoong calling his name, gunil reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe—because if he stays here, if he sees you touch him again, if he sees you smile at him, if he has to watch beomgyu be the one standing beside you, with you, while he stands here alone—

he might break apart completely.