#west coast crowd

[fieriframes]

[COLESLAW, ONE TIME. JOHN WAS BORN IN GUAM, YET, FURTHEST CORNERS WERE SUBMERGED IN IMPENETRABLE DARKNESS, AND NOW HE'S EAST COAST COOKIN'... JUMBIE ROLL COMIN'! FOR A WEST COAST CROWD. EXCELLENT.]

[robo-dino-puppies]

it occurs to me that it's possible there are some Horizon-interested people following me on this blog who aren't following my other blog (aka robo-dino-puppy), so in case that's you: if you haven't seen it, check out the armor gallery I made! it's got all of Aloy's armor from Forbidden West, showing both headgear and no headgear, in every single color. and it's sortable by tribe, rarity, specialty, and dye!

over on @robo-dino-puppy I post pics from HFW or HZD twice a day in a (futile) attempt to clear out my ridiculously clogged captures folder. seriously, I barely took any new pics for months and I'm still at like 9000 shots in the folder. (help)

[evening-rose-309]

💅🏾

Sending this to my best bro who introduced me to this franchise.

The Vegas Bitches. Are. Salty.

(—I too am Bitches. we bitch in solidarity.—)

[laomelettedufromage]

Being the youngest by a couple decades in a group of old people who adore you is so much fun. They think I’m soooooo cool :P

[sugaggukkie]

BACK again from the dead for another edition of I Review Kpop Performances At Western Music Festivals, today’s edition is possibly the most important one of all time it’s QUEEN’S OF THE UNIVERSE, THE LOVELY LADIES OF IVE!!!!!!!!!!

Where to fucking begin!!!! Let’s do the good the bad and the baddies.

THE GOOD: they sounded amazing. the vocals were THERE from all six members!!!! i didn’t think a single member of the group was slacking and i was actually very surprised by how strong gaeul and leeseo’s vocals came through and i FUCKING LOVED that they used hand mics the whole time!!!! yes ladies!!! i also really really really liked that they did what i would consider a very traditional kpop performance for a western fest. thinking to the other kpop acts ive watched, a lot of them are acts that are already formulated to appeal to western artists, like black pink and le sserafim and newjeans, but ive is like Thee Most Kpop A Group Can Get. they’re dressed like fairies, they have regimented, impressive choreography for every single song, they just really feel so classic (on that note justice for classic and wave not on the setlist) and I thought it was interesting and exciting to see it on a stage like lolla!!! as someone who has been in the field at the main stage at lolla more times than i can count, a truly engrossing and impressive performance like IVE’s would’ve knocked my fucking socks off

THE BAD: lollapalooza’s sound engineer should be taken out back and shot. the first like half of the performance was amazing and you could hear the girls very clearly over both the band and the backtrack and they were fucking killing it, and then at some point the ratchet up the sound of the band and drown out the girls entirely until it clears up A LITTLE later in the performance but not nearly enough to be able to hear them clearly which i was PISSED about. ALSO whoever did the band arrangements for this set can get fucked. making off the record sound like boring lounge music should be a crime punishable by death. speeding up the tempo for after like and then slowing it down on love dive were such weird and bad decisions like IF IT AINT BROKE DONT FIX IT WHY ARE YOU DOING THAT. sometimes i think live bands add to kpop performances but NOT THIS ONE i wish they would’ve just sent them out there with an instrumental backtrack, no voiceover, and let the girlies SING. UGH.

THE BADDIES: god fucking damn was i so pleasantly surprised by the STAGE PRESENCE from all of the girlies!!!!!!!!! as someone who has like very very very closely followed ive’s career since their debut it’s truly so wild to see how much they’ve grown as performers and how much confidence they have on stage!!!! i remember watching stages for eleven where you can tell they are petrified to make a single mistake or put one elbow out of their preassigned formation, and now to watch them at lolla being lose and fun and spontaneous and making each number their own is so great and i love it so much. special shoutout to gaeul who SLAYYYYYYED so fucking hard I couldn’t take my eyes off her she was ELECTRIC!!!!! also rei is a tried and true natural born PERFORMER you can tell she’s so comfortable on stage and she’s so fun and inviting muah muah muah love you miss rei my queen

Final review: I love IVE more than the rest of the world combined and I thought they absolutely crushed their lolla stage many fucking blessings

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 9: Some Days He Feels Like Dying]

A/N: Below are your guesses...let's see how you did!!! 🥰😘

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Extraordinary Girl” by Green Day.

Word count: 8.3k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Let’s go back to the beginning of the end of the world.

On the big-screen tv in the Liberty Center at Saratoga Springs, Wolf Blitzer is saying: “We are receiving confirmation of additional outbreaks of the so-called Florida Fever, the first cases of which here in the U.S. were reported in Miami a little over one week ago. Concern is now growing nationally, especially as the modes of transmission, symptoms, and treatment options remain unclear. Let’s go across the country to Natasha Chen for the latest information. Natasha?”

“Hi, Wolf. I’m here outside the UC San Diego Medical Center where early this morning, two individuals suspected to be suffering from the illness were admitted. I’ve been informed by hospital staff that both patients are currently in stable condition, but there is still so much confusion and conflicting information regarding this ‘Florida Fever,’ and of course that uncertainty is leading to fear, rumors, and honestly a bit of hysteria. Even how to refer to the sickness is controversial, with no official name having been decided upon by scientists. Cases in Australia are known as Ragepox, the U.K. has dubbed it the 21st Century Sweat after a mysterious disease from the 1500s, and Russia is calling it the Ukrainian Flu while Ukraine has opted for the Russian Red Rot, inspired by the skin lesions that some patients experience.”

“Can you tell us what we do know, Natasha? Are doctors classifying this illness as a virus, or as a bacterial infection more akin to tuberculosis or meningitis?”

“At this time, what I’m hearing is that doctors are fairly certain it’s a virus, as patients do not seem to respond to antibiotics when they’ve been explored as a potential treatment. But there’s truly very little information at this early stage, and I think we’re all being reminded of those first days of the Covid-19 pandemic, when no one really knew how to best to avoid contracting the virus or what the long-term effects would be both nationally and globally.”

“There are absolutely some similarities, Natasha, which I’m sure is contributing to the unease surrounding the situation. What precautions are doctors currently recommending?”

“Wolf, doctors are urging the public not to panic, and to exercise common sense measures like avoiding crowded spaces, sanitizing surfaces, and staying home if they’re feeling unwell. Suspected cases of the illness should be reported to primary physicians or local hospitals. Typical symptoms appear to include headaches, fever, gastrointestinal upset, skin discoloration and blistering, and unusual bleeding, as well as behavioral changes, particularly disorientation, aggression, and even violence in some patients…”

“That ain’t what it is,” Rio says. He jabs his index finger at the tv from where he sits on the couch beside you. “Snowflake wasn’t sick, he was dead. He was motherfucking dead, flatline, code blue, crossed the rainbow bridge, he was gone. He was dead and then he woke back up, and he wasn’t a person anymore. He was…something else.”

“Dumbass, people don’t come back from the dead,” Mike says from the ping pong table. People are milling around pretending to play pool, darts, chess, poker, Monopoly, Uno, Parcheesi, but really you’re all here for the same reason. You want to know what’s happening.

Rio turns to you. “Wasn’t Snowflake dead?”

“He definitely seemed dead,” you reply, knees tucked to your chest and still watching the tv. Wolf Blitzer’s voice is calm, but his pale blue eyes have a manic sort of light to them, too large and too rattled.

“Man, fuck Florida,” says Desmond, a utilitiesman born and raised Trenton, New Jersey. “Nothing but psychos and alligators. Saw them off of Georgia and just let them float away.”

“What was that?” Tyler replies combatively. He’s from a trailer park in Tallahassee.

“Ty, why do you care? You’d be fine. You’re already up here. You can stay.”

“They’re lying,” Rio mutters, meaning Wolf and Natasha on CNN. “When the corpsmen called the hospital, they said to be prepared to restrain Snowflake and that he might try to bite us. Why aren’t they warning people about that?!”

Kayleigh, a steelworker from Oklahoma City, looses a frenetic sort of laugh. “Because there’s no non-panic-inducing way to say: Hey, go buy some duct tape and bungee cords to tie up your loved ones, because they might try to fucking eat you.”

Rio doesn’t frown often, but he is now; he slips his phone out of the pocket of his camo pants and types out a WhatsApp message to Sophie. You only know her from photos and quick hellos via video chat, a sweet diminutive woman with white-blonde hair and blue eyes that seem to fill up half her face, as fragile as Rio is overwhelming. She likes baking and romance novels and elephants; whenever Rio finds elephant-themed souveners, he ships them home to Oregon for her, refrigerator magnets and wallets and scarves and snow globes. Sophie wears a lot of long flowing skirts and hand-knit sweaters, and offers strange suggestions when she and Rio discuss baby names: Sage, Fox, Laurel, Coral, Juniper, Karma, Rune, Otter. Otter?! Rio had exclaimed. Babe, if you name our kid Otter, even I’M gonna have to bully them.

“I’m telling Sophie to stay with my parents,” Rio says to you. “They’ve gotten super weird with all the off-the-grid stuff, but they have years’ worth of supplies and grow most of their own food now, and they’re thirty miles from the nearest town. And no one knows how to defend themselves like doomsday preppers.”

“Good idea,” you reply, watching the tv. Now Wolf Blitzer is talking about tornadoes in the Midwest, and you could almost believe the world is normal again.

A few days later all major social media platforms begin censoring content related to the so-called Florida Fever, and then the internet goes down completely, and then the power turns off and on and off again, and finally quits like a car driven to its last mile. The combat units are moved out of Saratoga Springs—never to be heard from again—and the construction projects paused indefinitely, and one of the master-at-arms that Rio is friends with (Rio has a lot of friends, surely you aren’t so remarkable) relays information that he shouldn’t: tales of planned missions, impossible plagues, overrun cities, innumerable deserters in every branch of the U.S. military.

“Hey,” Rio whispers, shaking you awake one night, moonlight streaming through the windows and the pops of distant gunfire you aren’t supposed to ask about. “If I leave, will you come with me?”

It’s a big commitment; it could be a lifetime. You fear he might just be trying not to hurt your feelings. “I don’t want to slow you down.”

“No, you don’t get it,” Rio says. “I’m not leaving without you. Are you going to Oregon by choice, or should I tie you up and throw you in the back of the Humvee?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s a young one, maybe a teenager, little buds for horns and only weighing a few hundred pounds. This is good; if it was any heavier, Cregan and Rio wouldn’t be able to drag it back to the ranch. You’re still in Red Desert, Wyoming, and the bison are grazing just off I-80, an asphalt artery that cuts through an endless steppe of sand-colored rocks and tall grass. They gaze lazily in your direction with bulbous dark eyes, perpetually chewing, not terribly intelligent. The Colt pistols of the men who found you at the RV had been loaded with 9mm bullets, the same caliber your Berettas take; there weren’t many, but enough to fill both of your clips, something that feels like winning the lottery. You are lying on the rocky, dusty soil and lining up the shot. If you miss, the herd will scatter, and you’ll watch dinner vanish beneath a blue sky—pale like Aemond’s eye, a weak shallow blue—and rough white scars of cirrostratus clouds.

“Feels kind of wrong to kill a baby,” you murmur. Daeron, Luke, Baela, Helaena, and Ice are back at the house. Aemond, Rio, Cregan, Rhaena, and Aegon are here on the ground with you; Aegon insisted upon being brought along, and Rio agreed to carry him. Aegon had never seen American bison outside of the Oregon Trail computer game, those pixelated brown blobs migrating across the screen no more material than unicorns or faeries or basilisks.

“If the baby didn’t want to get killed, it shouldn’t be made of steak,” Aegon points out. He’s on a lot of Vicodin, the only narcotic Aemond could find back in Ogallala, Nebraska.

“No pressure, Chips,” Rio says, chewing on a long blade of little bluestem grass. “If you miss we’re just going to have to eat each other like the Donner Party.”

Aegon wrinkles his nose in confusion. “The what?”

“She won’t miss,” Aemond says, and Rio snickers to himself and gives you a quick wink that no one else notices.

“I don’t think one 9mm bullet will do it,” Cregan mutters. “Cows got thick skulls, I figure bison are the same way. You’ll have to hit it a few times, and before it can take off and disappear on us.”

Aemond casts him a patronizing glance. “And you’ve killed a lot of cows?”

“Oh yeah. Worked in a slaughterhouse for a while before I got hired by the power company. Hated it, went home and could still smell the blood and brains on myself no matter how many times I showered. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Aemond looks like he regrets asking. Rhaena frowns worriedly at the bison. “Will they charge if someone shoots at them?”

Cregan shrugs. “Probably not.”

“Probably?!”

You squeeze the trigger five times in quick succession, hit the calf thrice, tiny puffs of scarlet mist that spring from its woolly head. It flops over as the rest of the herd jolts into a gallop, kicking up dust and fleeing across the steppe.

“Yes!” Rio booms as everyone applauds. “We’re in business! We’re having ribeyes tonight! Cregan, my good sir, I take mine medium rare.”

“You’re getting well done,” Aemond tells him. “Everyone is. Just in case the bison has parasites.”

Rio groans. “You’re ruining my life, man.” Then he and Cregan trot over to grab the baby bison, each of them taking one of its back hooves.

“So,” Aegon says dreamily. “Now that Rio is preoccupied, who would like to assist me in returning my disgusting, debilitated body to the ranch? Anyone? Anyone?”

Rhaena turns to you. “When we have more bullets, could you give me shooting lessons?”

“Sure,” you reply, a bit startled. “Really? You’re interested?”

“Well…” Rhaena hesitates. “Baela’s always been the brave one. At home, at school, when we were shopping, even when restaurants would mess up my order, Baela would do the talking and make sure I was alright…and I would literally hide behind her waiting for her to solve all my problems. And now…with the baby, with Jace…it’s been really different being the one to help her for a change, and I don’t think I’m very good at it yet. But Baela deserves to have people to lean on, just like I’ve always had her. And…when I stabbed that guy in the RV…I kind of liked it.” She titters nervously when she sees the shock on your face. “No, not like that! Not the killing part, or the gushing blood, that was all super gross. But the fact that I helped protect Baela and Luke? The fact that I wasn’t useless in that situation? That was a good feeling. Baela is clever, and she’s courageous and caring and funny, and she’s always been better than me at everything, and I never minded because she…she was like my own personal superhero, you know? But now I feel like I need to start learning how to do things myself so I can help her. Even if Baela is still better at everything, and probably always will be.”

Aegon grins toothily and pushes his neon green plastic sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know how you feel. It’s pretty impossible to look heroic next to Aemond.”

“Stop,” Aemond says, but he’s smiling, and a bloom of bashful pink blood appears in his cheeks.

“You already took over the driving,” you tell Rhaena encouragingly. “That was a big help.”

“Yeah,” Rhaena replies, a bit pensive. “Let’s hope I can keep that going.” Between the gas Aemond found in Ogallala and what was siphoned from the would-be attackers’ GMC Yukon, you got enough fuel in the Tahoe to take it halfway across Wyoming; but now the gauge is not just at but venturing below the E, and it can’t have more than five or ten miles left. That might not even get you to the next ranch, let alone a proper town. You need a working vehicle. There are nearly a thousand miles between here and Odessa, Oregon.

Aegon is pawing at Aemond like a cat. “Come on, hero. Help me up.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“This is why we’re friends,” Rio tells you as he shovels forkfuls of bison steak into his mouth, juice dribbling down his chin. Cregan gutted the bison and butchered it, then you helped him cook the steaks—not very uniform in size and shape, yet no one is complaining—on a pan heated in the woodstove. You fed the fire with books you found in the house, mostly religious in nature. “You convince me not to commit suicide when we’re stranded on a transmission tower, you share your Cheddar Whales, you’re good at shooting things…”

“How did you two become friends?” Baela asks. You are all arranged around the dining room table; there are just enough chairs for everyone. Ice lies beneath it mauling on bison bones that Cregan set aside for her. The room is illuminated by flashlights. Baela looks great: in good spirits, glowing, alert, wearing a loose cotton dress that Helaena found in an upstairs closet for her. Baela napped most of the day, something she rarely allows herself to indulge in, and the benefits are evident.

Rio says nonchalantly: “I talked to everybody and she barely talked at all. So of course I had to investigate and figure out what that was about. Turns out she’s kind of cool. You know the Wheel of Fortune game at arcades where there’s like a hundred little lights in a circle you have to press the button when the one that says Spin Zone lights up? She’s a freak, she can hit it almost every time. Can’t sink a basketball or sing karaoke to save her life, but you know, we all have flaws.”

Aegon looks up from his map, which he is scrutinizing as he eats his bison steak. “Do you realize that if we could just stop at gas stations like back when everything was normal, we’d be in Odessa or the Bay Area in fifteen hours? Literally less than one day. Fucking unreal. And yet here we are trapped in yee-haw country, freaky giant animals, no civilization but Jesus billboards everywhere, hell on earth.” He holds up a palm. “No offense, Cregan. You’re okay.”

Cregan smiles mildly. “None taken, Fried Foot. You know you’re a little well done yourself these days.”

“That’s ableist,” Aegon replies.

“We’ll find gas tomorrow,” Aemond says. He sounds confident because he has to; he’s not allowed to panic, to give up. He’s seated at the head of the table like a patriarch. His steak is the smallest and the most ragged. He wouldn’t accept any of the others.

You ask Baela: “Have you decided what to name the baby?”

“Kind of.” She rests both hands on her belly, a globe like a full moon. Helaena glances over at Baela, frowning and preoccupied. “If it’s a boy, I’m going to name it after Jace. We had already picked out Theodore…and Teddy for short, isn’t that cute? But now…I’d want him to have that connection to his father. The baby won’t have any pictures of him, or videos, or memories, or papers he wrote in school, or ties or rings or cufflinks, or…anything. But he could have Jace’s name.”

The rest of you nod, eyes downcast and feeling terribly sorry for her. “I really like that idea,” Luke says quietly.

Now Baela is thinking, her gaze traveling around the room as she chews on a cube of streak. “I’m not sure what I’d call a girl. Maybe something naturey like Violet, Rosemary, Ivy, Indigo, Fern…”

“You should name it Otter,” you say, and you and Rio erupt into raucous laughter. Aemond smiles as he watches you.

Baela is grinning uncertainly, trying not to be insensitive. Perhaps people named their kids stuff like Otter where you came from. “Um, sorry, what?!”

“That was one of the baby names on Sophie’s list,” Rio clarifies. “I vetoed it. Or at least…I think she agreed to cross it off…? Oh my God, imagine I finally get to Odessa only to find out my firstborn child has been named Otter.”

“You’d have to turn right back around,” you say. “Total abandonment would be the only honorable choice. We’d have to start over someplace else. I’ve heard Texas is nice.”

Aegon snorts. “You can’t live in Texas. They don’t even have legal weed there.”

Rhaena squints at him. “I don’t really think that’s a concern anymore, Aegon.”

Aegon smacks his forehead theatrically. “Oh no, I forgot about the apocalypse again!”

“So Cregan,” Baela says. “You were planning to vote for Trump.”

Everyone at the table groans. “No politics,” Aemond says.

“They’re all dead now, so it doesn’t matter,” Rhaena adds. “Biden, Kamala, that insane Kennedy brain worm dude, Trump…”

Aegon says: “If I was a zombie, I wouldn’t eat Trump.”

“I just found that interesting,” Baela continues, looking at Cregan like she’s expecting him to explain himself. Rhaena and Luke exchange a nervous glance. Daeron reaches under the table to pet Ice; you can hear her tail thumping cheerfully against the hardwood floor.

“I was a Trump voter, yeah,” Cregan replies between bites of steak. Aemond is studying him uneasily, but Cregan’s baritone voice is calm. “That doesn’t mean I approved of a lot of the things he did and said. I’m not a monster, I don’t believe in mocking people or all that January 6th stuff. But he was good for the economy. Back when Trump was president, groceries were more affordable, and houses were cheaper, and more companies were hiring. If I had tried to move out of my parents’ place in 2023 instead of 2019, there’s no way I could have done it. And I really needed to get out of there. A lot of people feel that they don’t have the luxury of voting for the nicest candidate, or the candidate they agree with on social issues. Something abstract like climate change isn’t even on the radar. They have to vote for their basic necessities.”

You and Rio understand what he means, you’ve both met plenty of people with the same perspective; everybody else seems shellshocked.

“But I don’t want y’all to think that I’m…” Cregan looks around the table, his eyes catching—interestingly—on Helaena, who observes him with a fully present attentiveness that you’ve learned is rare for her. “You know, like a sexist or a racist or that I hate foreigners or anything. Because I’ve never felt that way, and now I’m very happy to have found you guys, and I respect the hell out of you. And I want to be allowed to stay.”

“You can stay, Cregan,” Helaena reassures him.

“Yeah,” Rio says. “Especially since we’d probably starve without you.”

Cregan beams, clearly grateful, and there are chuckles and the tension breaks; and Baela is placidly skating her palm over the arc of her belly, and now that you’ve eaten all you can, Rio is spearing the remaining chunks of your steak with his fork and gobbling them down. He doesn’t ask before he does this; he knows you don’t mind. You’ve never understood why he’s given you so much over the past nearly five years. You are eternally offering him atonement.

Suddenly, Baela asks you: “What would you name a baby girl?”

You have to think about this before you answer. “Well, if you’re looking for something related to plants…I had a friend when I was growing up named Briar, and I always thought that was pretty.”

“Briar,” Baela echoes, intrigued.

“It means bramble, like a thorny shrub where blackberries grow. I remember her telling me that her mama wanted it to be a reminder that people go through rough patches and that life gets hard sometimes, but you have to keep going, and eventually you’ll find your way out.”

“Briar,” Baela repeats. “Yeah, that’s kind of neat. I’ll add it to the list!”

“And you’d have the same first initial,” Rhaena says. “Baela and Briar. Isn’t that adorable?”

Baela smiles. “And a few Rs thrown in there too. For Rhaena.”

Rio turns to Aegon. “Hey Honey Bun, if you had to name your kid after a plant, what would you name it?”

Aegon says without hesitation: “Marijuana.”

Now it’s an hour later, and Aemond is examining Aegon’s burned leg on the living room floor, Helaena holding a flashlight and you and Rio standing by for moral support. Underneath the bandages is a wasteland of red, weeping flesh…and yet there are spots where the skin seems to be hardening into white islands of scar tissue. Rhaena and Luke are keeping watch by the windows, Baela is passed out in one of the bedrooms, Cregan is showing Daeron how to put his wavy blonde hair up in a man bun.

Aemond points to a blackish patch on the top of Aegon’s foot, only a few inches from his ankle. “I have to debride this part here,” he says like an apology.

Aegon is afraid to ask. “What does debride mean?”

“It means I have to cut it out.”

“Cut it?!”

“It’s getting infected. I have to remove it or it will spread to the rest of the foot and you could get sepsis. I might even have to amputate the whole leg.”

“Okay, cut the dead stuff off,” Aegon swiftly agrees.

Aemond doesn’t have any more injectable morphine. He gives Aegon as much Vicodin as he dares and then begins working, carving away layers of dark disease with his scalpel and scrubbing the area with disinfectant. Aegon clutches your hand, squeezing so hard it feels like your bones might crunch, shrapnel-like splinters of marrow-stained organic glass beneath your skin. Rio has Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman—once owned by Ava—and takes one earbud while giving Aegon the other. They sing along to Sean Paul songs together, laughing as tears stream down Aegon’s sunburned cheeks:

“Well, woman, the way the time cold, I wanna be keepin’ you warm

I got the right temperature fi shelter you from the storm

Oh Lord, gal, I got the right tactics to turn you on

And girl, I wanna be the papa, you can be the mom…”

Now you’re curled up in bed, your arms crossed over your belly as you struggle to fall asleep. Aemond comes to bed late now; each night he waits until Baela is sleeping and then teaches Rhaena about childbirth and recovery: what to expect, what could go wrong. She is a good student, borrowing Helaena’s spider notebook to take notes and asking detailed questions. She wants to know everything she can so she can help when Baela goes into labor.

At last, the bedroom door opens. Out in the living room you can hear Rio asking: “Do you have Wagon Wheel? I love that song.”

Aegon scoffs. “No, of course I don’t have Wagon Wheel. Shut up and listen to your Enrique Iglesias.”

“You are so racist, man…”

Aemond sees that you’re in agony, rummages around in his medical kit, and gives you an oval-shaped white pill to wash down with the can of orange Sunkist on the nightstand; Helaena found a case of it in the pantry. “Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?”

“I didn’t want to take any Vicodin from Aegon or Baela. They’ll need it more than me.”

“Your pain is as real as anyone else’s.” Aemond’s weight shifts the mattress as he crawls into bed beside you, his arm settling protectively around your waist, his hand covering yours where it rests on your lower belly. “If the Tahoe runs out of gas, will you be okay to walk tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I had three periods during basic training, I honestly thought I might die. After that I can power through just about anything.”

“I’ve noticed.” You feel the soft smile on Aemond’s lips as he kisses your temple. “Do you want quiet, or do you want to talk?”

“Talking would be a nice distraction.”

Aemond wastes no time. “Do you like kids?”

“Well, since birth control doesn’t exist anymore, I’d hope everybody does.”

Again, he is smiling; you can hear it in his voice. “Okay, but do you intend to have your own?”

“Yeah, I always envisioned myself having kids. I wanted a normal family and figured I’d have to make one myself, DIY it, you know? I don’t think the plan has changed. Gotta repopulate the earth somehow.”

“I wouldn’t try to sway your decision one way or the other. It’s a burden you should only have to endure if you actively choose it. But if you want to have children one day, I’d help you.”

You giggle in the dim orange glow of a single flashlight. “How self-sacrificial.”

“No,” Aemond says, laughing. “Not like, the making them. I mean, I’d help with that too, that aspect would be fun. But I was talking about the delivery, and recovery, and taking care of a newborn. I don’t know everything, but I know a lot. I could help you get through it. So that’s an option I want you to be aware of, if…you know.” Now he pauses. “If you trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you should,” Aemond murmurs; or at least that’s what you think he says as you lose consciousness, plummeting into sleep as if falling from a great height.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Tahoe runs out of gas just east of Tipton—not a city, not a town, just a collection of service roads linking sprawling ranches to I-80, the only continuous route across southern Wyoming—and Rhaena guides the SUV as it coasts to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. You hike about a mile to the nearest ranch house: Luke carrying the siphoning hose and empty gas can in case you can find fuel, Rio carrying Aegon on his back, Baela walking slowly and with great effort, Ice panting as she lopes across the dusty earth. You can’t spot any cattle or horses behind the endless strings of barbed wire fencing. Perhaps they are in a different pasture, or escaped or were stolen, or died of thirst without being tended to, or were consumed by a wandering hoard of zombies, never sleeping and always hungry. The house at the end of the dirt driveway is modest, old, and painted white. The front door is open; the screen door bangs in the wind.

“Rock Springs is the next real town,” Aegon says when Rio drops him to the ground, reading his map.

“And how far is that?” Rio asks.

Aegon deflates. “About fifty miles.”

“Great,” Rhaena says. “What’s the plan, to fly there?”

“Yeah, start flapping your wings, little bird. You’re light enough, you can make it.”

“No car in the driveway,” you tell Aemond. “Nobody home, maybe?”

He’s scrutinizing the house, his blue eye narrow. “Maybe.”

A thought occurs to Aegon. “Do you think ranchers have golf clubs?” he asks hopefully.

“No,” Aemond snaps. Rio is now on the front porch and pounding the butt of his unloaded Remington shotgun against the doorframe to see if anyone appears. Daeron is nocking one of his makeshift arrows as he trots around the perimeter with his compound bow.

Luke, peering through his binoculars, points to a large cylindrical aluminum structure about a hundred yards from the house, by a small red barn. “What’s that thing?”

“It’s a grain bin,” Cregan says. “Full of feed for cattle.” Ice whimpers at his feet, and he twirls his axe in his large, calloused hands. “Are we clearing the house or not? Something’s in there.”

“We are,” Aemond answers tonelessly. “Luke, Rhaena, stay out here with Aegon and watch for trouble. Daeron, you too.”

“Got it.”

“Baela—”

“Can I go inside?” she asks. “Please, Aemond. I’m so sick of sitting around feeling useless and exhausted. I want to help. I want to do something, I’m going insane.”

“Fine,” Aemond agrees. “It should be an easy one.”

It is easy, but it’s not pleasant. The house smells like dark, sickening decay. In the living room are the skeletal remains of two bodies, both children judging by the size; the maroon-stained bones are notched with indents from gnashing teeth. Cregan shadows Helaena as she searches through closets and drawers. She takes no clothing—it would have absorbed the stench of death—but fills her burlap messenger bag with matches, lighters, batteries, pills. She gives you a bottle of Advil before you can ask her for it.

“Thanks,” you say, a bit startled, as you tuck it away in your backpack.

It is not until Ice leads you to the final room, the bedroom at the rear of the house, that you hear the familiar, blood-chilling hissing and moaning of a zombie. It is in the closet, and emerges one limb at a time: one arm and then another, one leg long like a spider’s, streaked with a thick soup of rotting organs that spills from a gaping hole in her belly like the mouth of a mineshaft. Something has happened to its other leg; it is missing, and the corpse that was once a thirties-something woman—a soccer mom, perhaps, with a minivan and propensity to make meatloaf and fish sticks—drags itself across the fawn-colored carpet towards you, slow and pathetic. Ice growls and barks. Rio raises his Remington.

“Wait,” Baela says. Her hammer is in her right hand. “Can I do it?”

“Of course, be my guest,” Rio says; though you can tell he’s slightly disappointed. He loves clubbing things.

Baela approaches the yowling zombie—jaws snapping, claws swiping—and grimaces down at it, this one of millions of monsters that ended the world, that killed Jace and stole all the rest of her life from her too, all those normal things she was supposed to have, all those strings of fate that the plague cut through like a razor and sent floating aimlessly out into the void of the universe. Then with a scream, Baela swings her hammer and a catastrophic impact crater appears in the side of the zombie’s skull, and it crumples to the floor, its mindless brains spilling out onto the carpet.

“Nothing good?” Aegon asks when you reappear in the driveway, popping a Vicodin into his mouth.

“No,” Aemond replies grimly. “No gas, no bullets, no food, nothing to drink.”

“I knew it would be lean pickings once we got out here,” Cregan says, and Aemond looks like he could kill him.

“Well, fortunately, Luke might have some good news for us,” Aegon says with a grin.

Aemond perks up. “Really? What?”

“I saw a truck out there,” Luke says, using his binoculars to gesture to the grain bin. “It’s parked between the barn and the grain thing, I can just see the very front of it sticking out. And if there’s a truck, there might be gas.”

Aemond ruffles Luke’s fluffy dark hair. “Good job, kid.” And Luke lights up like how cities used to look at night, back when the power was on: Washington D.C., Key West, Corpus Christi, Chinhae. Rio stoops down so Aegon can hop on his back, and all of you trek together across the field.

“Nothing,” Cregan announces as he squeezes the little pump on the siphoning hose after opening the gas cap of the ancient Chevy Silverado and threading the hose inside. “Not a drop.”

“Fucking fantastic,” Aegon sighs from where he’s slumped on the ground. His eyes are glazed; he’s pretty stoned. He gazes pitifully up at you; you pat his shoulder sympathetically. You and Rio have already checked the barn, dilapidated but perfectly devoid of zombies. The roof has caved in; one of the two front doors are missing. “What now?!”

“We can go back to the interstate and walk until we find the next ranch,” you say, looking absentmindedly at the grain bin. It’s much larger up close, and rusty in spots. A ladder runs up one side to allow access to the roof. Ice isn’t whining or nudging anyone’s hands, but she’s sniffing the air as if she’s detected something interesting, unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” Luke replies miserably. “We can walk another five or ten miles and then maybe find a safe place to spend the night.”

Rhaena shades her eyes as she peers up at the sky. “It’s past noon already. Maybe we should just stay here.”

Rio barks out a sardonic laugh. “In a house with no supplies and that reeks of dead people?”

“Cregan, go kill us something to eat,” Aegon commands.

He chuckles in his deep, gruff voice. “It’s Miss Chips who is good at the killing, I’m just the authority on butchering at the moment.”

Aemond is watching Ice, his forehead furrowed. “What’s she doing?”

Cregan whistles. “Hey, princess, you okay?” Ice ignores him, still sniffing, her grey ears straight up in the air. Then it appears from behind the barn: a tiny brown creature, a baby bear.

“Aww, it’s so fuzzy!” Aegon squeals, stretching his arm out to pet it. Rio yanks him away; everyone else is backing up towards the grain bin. A second bear cub has now arrived, padding clumsily along, large cartoonish eyes and a little pink tongue poking out from its muzzle.

“Don’t touch them!” Aemond shouts to everyone. “Get away from them! If there are cubs, there’s probably—”

And around the barn comes the mother, a grizzly bear of 400 pounds. She bares her teeth and snarls, saliva dripping in long gluey strings. Ice is barking viciously; Aegon is shrieking and scrambling onto Rio’s back.

“Baela!” Aemond says because she’s closest to him, urging her towards the ladder of the grain bin. She gets the idea and begins climbing. Then Aemond reaches for you. “Come on, you next!”

“Rhaena, go,” you say instead, and she clambers up the ladder after Baela. Cregan is brandishing his axe; Rio has his Remington in his hands, Aegon still clinging to his back like a baby opossum to its mother. Now Helaena is climbing up the ladder, and Daeron nocks an arrow. You whip one of your M9s out of its holster, aim for the bear’s head, and pull the trigger.

Your bullet hits its skull, Daeron’s arrow pierces its chest; and the mother bear does not die but roars and rises up onto her back feet—taller than Rio, taller than Cregan—and then drops back down and charges towards you and the grain bin. Cregan blocks the way, swinging his axe. The bear reluctantly pauses, testing him with swipes of her claws that he evades. Rio is just a few steps behind Cregan, waving his Remington around hostilely. Aegon is screaming and holding on for dear life.

“Don’t shoot!” Cregan yells. “9mm isn’t big enough, you’ll just make her more angry!”

Aemond finally gets a grip on your wrist and drags you to the ladder. You obey and climb until your feet are several rungs off the ground, then you turn to see what’s going on below. Aemond, Luke, and Daeron are at the bottom of the ladder, their backs to you. Cregan is still wielding his axe.

“Fuck off, Mama Bear!” he bellows, standing as tall as possible and swinging his axe above his head. Rio follows Cregan’s lead and holds his Remington aloft. Ice is barking; the baby bears are fleeing in terror. Aegon is sobbing hysterically and saying he’s going to die. “You don’t want us and we don’t want you! Go on! Go get your babies! I’ll put this blade right between your eyes if you don’t change your stupid mind right quick!”

The bear pounds the earth with her front feet and growls, a beastly subterranean rumble, but she seems to be losing her nerve. The rungs of the ladder creak and groan; you see rust like blood-hued moss around the bolts.

“Get out of here!” Cregan shouts. “Go, you hairy old bitch! Go back to your babies!”

The bear glances back to see her cubs vanish behind the barn. Her mouth is open and panting, spittle gleaming on her pointed teeth; her black eyes are uncertain. As you hold onto the ladder with one hand, you have your M9 aimed at the bear’s left eye, just in case. Aemond is watching Cregan; on his scarred face a sharp severity, fascination and resentment and fear.

“Go on,” Cregan says firmly. “Leave us alone. You belong in the mountains, not down here. Go eat something that’s already dead, a nice easy dinner. You don’t want us. We’ll fight you.”

The grizzly bear shakes her head—flopping ears, shaggy fur filthy with dust and pieces of grass—and whirls, lumbering off to find her cubs. When she rounds the barn, Cregan waits a few long, tense, silent minutes and then turns to the grain bin.

“Alright y’all, we oughta hurry up and leave. I don’t think she’ll come back, but she might.”

From the top of the ladder, approximately forty feet off the ground, Baela begins to laugh. “Did that really just happen?! That was insane! Cregan, buddy, you can vote for whoever you want to. You and I are cool forever.”

He smiles up at her, wincing in the bright afternoon light. “I’m very glad to hear it, ma’am.”

Rio sets Aegon down on the ground and stretches his back; it must be hurting him. Aemond is taking your hand and helping you off the ladder, and you are reminded of the transmission tower where he found you in Catawissa, Pennsylvania, one of those middle-of-nowhere places like Tipton, Wyoming. As Helaena climbs down, you go to Rio and—with as much force as you can manage—knead the small of his back with the heel of your hand like you know helps him.

“You okay?”

He sighs loudly, relieved. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Oh, wow, that’s good. Harder…oh yeah…”

There is a snapping sound, metal squealing as it breaks, and by the time you turn to look she’s already falling: her cotton dress billowing around her, her arms wheeling helplessly. It happens too quickly for her to scream—for her to understand what is going on and what it means—but there is a stunned gasp and then she hits the ground, and you hear a muffled crunch of bone—skull?? spine??—and she is completely, unnaturally still as she lies on her back, no pain, no words, nothing.

“Baela!” Rhaena shrieks, and she rushes down the ladder and runs to her sister. You are all gathering around Baela, petrified to move her—to make it worse—but pleading for her to wake up, examining her with terrified eyes. Baela’s own eyes, dark and glassy and serene, are open only a sliver like obsidian crescent moons. Aemond is asking Helaena for a flashlight and then prying them wide, checking Baela’s pupils.

“There’s no reflex,” he says numbly.

“What does that mean?!” Rhaena cries. “Aemond? Aemond?!”

“She’s…she’s…” He’s in denial; he’s in shock. He’s feeling for a pulse on her carotid, he’s digging his fingernails into her forearm to try to get her to respond to pain.

“Aemond?” you say softly.

“She’s gone,” he tells you, like he doesn’t believe it, like he’s waiting to wake up.

“The baby,” Rhaena says. “Try to save the baby.” And then, when Aemond doesn’t immediately understand, she grabs his backpack and begins ripping it off so he can get the medical kit inside. “The baby, Aemond!”

Now he knows what he has to do. He pulls the scalpel out of his kit as Rhaena moves Baela’s sundress to expose her belly. She was wearing biker shorts beneath, lavender, cute, something you might have picked out in a store. In less than a minute they will be soaked with blood. Cregan leads Daeron away, and he’s telling him that they need to keep watch in case the grizzly bear returns, but you think it is an act of mercy more than anything else. Ice goes with them. Helaena, her face pale and grave, is shining the flashlight on Baela’s belly, just beneath her navel.

“Aegon?” Aemond says.

“What? What do you need?”

“I need people to help hold open the incision once I make it. I have to be able to see the amniotic sac so I can cut the membrane without harming the baby.”

“I get it, I’m here, I’ll help.”

Aemond presses the blade of the scalpel to Baela’s skin and draws a semicircle from the top of one hip to the other. There is blood, but it is slow-moving and thick and dark; it is the blood of a dead woman, not a living one. Immediately, Aegon hooks his fingers under layers of fat, skin, and muscle, and opens the wound as much as he can. You and Rio reach in too, and you do this without thinking, without allowing yourself to feel the horror of it until the work is done.

“I can’t see,” Aemond is murmuring. Rhaena gets another flashlight and helps Helaena illuminate the area. Luke is on his knees with both hands clamped over his mouth, his eyes glistening with dread and disbelief. Aemond is slicing, pausing to probe around with his fingers, cutting again. Then his arm plunges into Baela’s abdomen up to his elbow and, with some difficulty, pulls out the gore-covered baby by its feet, a girl, large and limp and silent.

Rhaena sobs, equal parts grief and joy, a smile appearing on her face. “Is she okay? Aemond? Is she…why isn’t she crying? Aemond?!”

Rio yanks off his shirt and uses it to wipe blood and gelatinous clumps away from the baby’s eyes, mouth, and nostrils. Then Aemond takes the shirt and wraps the baby in it, warming her, rubbing her lifeless little limbs. When she does not stir, Aemond lays her on the earth and begins CPR: compressions with two fingers on her tiny heart, two breaths down the airway she’s never used. There are no sounds except his efforts. There is no crying when the baby wakes, because she never does.

Enough, you are thinking, as if from very far away: an island in the Indian Ocean, the Appalachian mountains in eastern Kentucky. Enough, enough, enough.

Aemond stops trying to revive the baby. He picks her up and holds her against him, and no one says anything. There is only the barrenness of the Wyoming steppe, an anemic blue sky, tall dry grass that bows in the breeze, black vultures that are landing atop the barn and the grain bin.

Aegon jolts out of his paralysis and reaches for his brother with bloodied hands. “Aemond, hey, Aemond, listen to me, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? Are you listening? Aemond, man, you did everything you could. You gave them a chance. You didn’t give up.”

But Aemond doesn’t respond; he only kneels there beside Baela’s butchered body, her dead baby girl in his arms.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Alys?” he calls, seeing that she never came back to bed. He is lying on his stomach, tangled in red sheets damp with sweat. It’s hot, too hot, and there is no humming of the air conditioning. When Aemond picks up his iPhone from the nightstand, it’s still plugged in but only at 87% battery. The power must have gone out.

He gets up, rubs the damp skin by his temple—headache, dehydration—and lifts open the nearest window. It’s odd: there is shouting, distant and indistinct, like the sound of a carnival or a concert. There are car alarms too, and sirens, and horns blaring, all too far away for him to see. It must be because of the power outage, traffic signals thrown into chaos, neighbors relaying the latest information back and forth. That’s the only logical explanation.

“Alys?” Aemond says again, groggy but with increasing curiosity, concern, guilt.

She started to feel sick last night, a pulsing in her skull and chills and powerful nausea. The possibility of it being the so-called Florida Fever barely registered in his mind. Alys gets migraines, and tofu is a migraine trigger, and he took her to a Thai restaurant (maybe he should have known better) and the curry Alys ordered ended up having tofu in it, and by the time she paid the check (as Alys always did) she was swallowing an Imitrex from the box in her snakeskin purse. She said she was going to lie down in the guest bedroom for a while so she wouldn’t wake him if she spent the next few hours dashing to and from the bathroom, a likely outcome, and if he was honest with himself about it, Aemond would admit he was relieved.

He shuffles to the bedroom door—black boxers, bare feet, century-old hardwood floors—and opens it. Now he can hear thudding, like someone tenderizing meat with a mallet. “Alys? Baby, you feeling okay?” There is no answer, only that rhythmic hammering. He realizes that it is coming from the guest bedroom, a door at the end of a long hallway still fuzzy through his half-awake eyes.

It had never felt right, but it had felt good: good in the body when she touched him, good in the soul when she told him he did something right. But lately—especially here, in the vast creaking historic house she shares with her husband and her children, who are presently sailing in Cape Cod—Aemond cannot shake the feeling that this entanglement is a surrender rather than an aspiration, something he fell into and now rests at the bottom of like a swimming pool or the sea, the cold weight of it threatening to pour into his lungs and drown him.

“Alys?” Aemond says, now with profound and inexplicable dread. Outside an ambulance or police car zooms by, sirens blaring. The pounding on the door of the guest bedroom grows faster.

I want to go home, Aemond thinks suddenly. At home, in the Federal-style townhouse his parents rented for him (Criston picked it out, a safe and quiet neighborhood in Beacon Hill, and Viserys paid), Daeron is visiting from California and watching golf tournaments with Aegon on the living room couch, pretending to be interested when Aegon describes the different types of clubs. Helaena, pursuing an Entomology PhD, is researching the Mediterranean mantis, clicking around on her MacBook Pro from the garden in the backyard. Jace and Luke live there too, and so Baela and Rhaena have all but officially moved in, keeping their apartment in Seaport only to have somewhere to retreat to when the Targaryen chaos becomes too much…and so the baby can have its own room. Baela bought a crib, a changing table, a rocking chair, a dresser, and about a million unisex onesies, mostly space-themed. Baela is studying Aeronautics and Astronautics, after all. Maybe one day she’ll work for NASA and fly rockets to the moon.

The door is rattling on its hinges. Aemond’s hand closes around the knob. On the other side is something terrible, and he knows this. But he cannot just leave her. Aemond is not someone who abandons people; he is not someone who turns away from responsibilities.

He opens the door of the guest bedroom, and immediately she is staggering towards him, limp dripping hair and naked like she was interrupted mid-shower: blood bubbling from her gaping mouth and the whites of teeth peeking through the crimson, necrotic skin hanging in strips from her fingers, eyes misty like steam on a mirror.

“Alys, stop! Alys! What’s wrong with you?!”

She’s alive but she’s dead. She’s yowling and clawing at him, but her flesh is the rotting swampland of a corpse. He’s pushing her away; his palms sink into her, places he once noticed and then fantasized about and then at last—euphorically, ashamedly—touched, held, borrowed but never kept. She’s trying to bite him. She’s trying to kill him. None of this is possible, and yet it’s true.

Aemond flings her away, and the woman who was once Alys stumbles backwards and down the staircase, sick wet thumps all the way to the ground floor, bones splitting through dissolving grey skin, organs sloshing around until they spill out. He can hear her still hissing, flailing, trying to get up again.

Without thinking—slipping seamlessly into what he learned during his psych rotation is called automatic action—Aemond races down the steps and grabs her by the skull, cracks it against the antique hardwood floor she once extoled the value of as he fucked her on it: shipped east from Oregon and laid in 1912, the year the Titanic sank. When she lurches up to try to bite him, he slams her head against the floor again and again until she is still.

Then Aemond kneels there alone for a long time, sirens shrieking outside, far-off strangers screaming for help, putrid black blood clotting on his hands.

[crappymixtape]

sweet like summer

REQUEST → @palmtreesx3, SUMMER BLURB PARTY ❝ 💿 bff's to lovers maybe a little spicy – summer steve. summer steve! ( song x blurb with steve harrington x reader – this one is a lil fluffy, a lil flirty, a lil hot, roadtripping the west coast with stevie and stopping at a bar to dance after spending all day at the beach – recommended to listen to your song while reading! )

S W E E T L I K E S U M M E R SONG PICK -> 🎶 sunset girl, carpool tunnel

Your hair was still windswept, salt turned wavy and kissed by the sun and your sandals scratched in the sand under your feet on the dance floor. The west coast was unlike anything you’d ever seen, definitely nothing like Hawkins, and you wished you could bottle it up and bring it home with you.

It was all sunshine and surfer boys, shells and sea glass, gulls crying out over the crash of the waves and warm sand under your skin. California was your last stop, though Steve had teased about taking a detour through New Mexico on the way back, and you were trying to drink up every last little drop. You never wanted to leave.

You’d found the little hole in the wall taco joint on Trip Advisor and damn if the reviews weren’t right. It was some of the best food you’d ever had and Tuesdays had live music. There wasn’t a free table in the whole place and the dance floor was crowded, filled with people swaying along with the twangy riffs and reverbs coming from the surf rock band on stage.

Three margaritas deep, you could’ve sworn you were floating with the way your best friend held you close to his chest, Steve, Steve, Steve. One hand pressed wide and warm to your lower back and the other tangled up with yours. He hadn’t stopped grinning the second you got up from your table, but when the music slowed a bit it softened. Shifted smaller, unsure, a mixture of what if we mess this up and I've never wanted you more. He’d never looked at you like that before, but you found yourself lost in it as the lyrics wove through the space between you.

❝ WHAT D'YOU GOT GOING ON TONIGHT? I CAN TELL BY YOUR CURLY HAIR, WE'LL BE FADED OUT OF SIGHT.

Steve slowed, feet bumping into yours and a breathy laugh fell from your lips.

“Steve–”

He chuckled too, “Sorry.”

But then his eyes met yours, warm honey, burnt caramel, like swimming in a pool of liquid amber and it was like you couldn’t breathe. Your pulse fluttering against your neck and heart skipping in your chest.

Steve’s lips pulled up at the corner, shy, his fingers shifting over the thin fabric of your dress at your waist. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, tongue chasing over his lower lip. “I really want to kiss you,” he murmured and your skin buzzed where his fingers pressed to you. Singing under his touch, more, more, more.

❝ CAN'T PUSH IT, IF I DARE. OH, MY GIRL, MY GIRL.

The band didn’t exist anymore and everyone else faded away, blurring and swept away by the feeling of Steve. You heard gulls and the soft wash of waves on the sand, saw the way Steve smiled at you as he pulled you into the surf with him.

“Wanna kiss you too,” you whispered back and it was like you’d redefined time. Seconds more like minutes or hours, stretching out as Steve leaned closer and closer.

The soft sweep of his lashes over the apples of his cheeks, the strong line of his jaw and the moles chasing down his neck, the perfectly messy brown locks of hair falling over his forehead and lips so soft, pressed to yours.

Tentative, slow, langid, curious, wanting.

❝ A GEM, SO PERFECT YOU SEE. A DREAM, SO RARE.

It was a little shy at first, but as soon as you’d tasted each other you knew you were done for, would never have enough, would always be left wanting more, more, more.

“More Steve,” you said into him and he swallowed your words, pulled soft, sweet sounds from you and nestled them deep between his ribs to bloom like wildflowers, a bright, warm thing he would cherish forever.

His fingers squeezed at your waist, pressing into the plush of your hip and pulling you into him so close you could smell the faded scent of his coconut sunscreen, cedar and leather from his aftershave this morning and the sweet, heady musk of sweat – beading along the hollow of his collarbone, the swell of your chest, the press of your bodies in the heat.

He nosed at your neck and you gave him more access, head tilting back lazy, drugged, drowning in Steve as he dragged kisses across your skin and the sounds that had started out soft and sweet shifted needy. A low whine that blew his pupils wide and when you carded your hands through his hair, tugged on the ends and made him see stars, he squeezed at your hand.

❝ I'D GO THE EXTRA MILE TO SEE HER AT MY DOOR ONCE MORE – SUNSET GIRL.

“Take me back to the room,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear and it melted any reservations he had left.

“Mmhm,” was all he could manage.

His fingers tangled up with yours as he led you out of the restaurant, both of you laughing low under your breaths at how ridiculous you felt, at how desperate it was. He’d turn to catch you in a kiss at the crosswalks and you’d tug at his bottom lip, drive him crazy, pushing yourselves to the point you were practically running back to the hotel.

And when you finally fell in through the door at your room, fingers scrambling to tug your dress up over your head, throwing his shirt off to the floor, Steve made you fall apart again and again until long after the ocean swallowed the sun.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[zegrasdrysdale]

Hi! I had a dream last night where Nico got severely injured during a game and died (my dreams are crazy, I know) and I was devastated. But it gave me an idea for a fic where the reader has a similar dream but Nico’s on a roadie so she calls him and she’s still shaken up by it when he gets home. Lots of fluff! Loved your other Nico fics too btw!!

[ nightmare ] n. hischier

paring : Nico Hischier x fem!reader

summary : (Y/N) has a dream where husband Nico dies on the ice. to assure herself that he’s okay, she calls him while on his roadie and he makes sure to comfort her as soon as he gets home to Jersey

warning(s) : mentions of blood, severe injury and death

author’s note : i have been excited to write this request since i got it. it’s all i have been able to think about since i first read it (also anon, pls relax w these crazy dreams)

༺═──────────────═༻

The Prudential Center fell silent as soon as the Devils captain hit the ground, unmoving, after an opponent’s skate hit his neck. Paramedics and training staff came running out as soon as the first drops of blood hit the ice.

Nico’s eyes are open, but the light is completely gone. He is staring at the ceiling. Both teams have gathered around him as they try to block the sight of him from the crowd and flashing cameras. Paramedics strip him of his jersey and gear as they work on him.

A pin could drop and the sound would echo with how quiet it is in the arena. Fans are on their feet. (Y/N) has pressed herself against the glass as she watches the paramedics stop pushing on his chest nearly ten minutes after they started.

It feels like her own chest caves in when the paramedic beside Nico looks up and shakes their head. “He’s gone.”

The words are loud and clear, even through the glass.

“Nico!”

She wakes up with a start and a racing heart. She's reaching out for her husband, but he isn't in bed with her.

The sight of a dead Nico in a pool of his own blood on the ice is so fresh on her mind that her entire body shakes. Every time she blinks, all she can see is the paramedic shaking their head.

Her cheeks are wet with tears as she looks around the dark room. Her husband’s name is on her lips.

He isn’t gone. He’s just on the west coast for a roadie for the week. He’ll be back this weekend. All he's doing is playing the California teams and Vancouver then he'll be back in their apartment.

If he’s going to be on the west coast for the week then he will be awake right now.

As soon as the realization that Nico might still be awake hits her, she reaches for her charging phone on the table beside her. With shaky fingers, she finds Nico’s contact and clicks the call button.

It rings a few times before Nico picks up. “Hej, liebling,” he says as soon as he picks up. She can hear music in the background, like he’s out with his teammates. “You okay? It’s pretty late for you.”

The moment she hears her husband’s voice. she lets out a soft sob. She covers her mouth, but Nico already heard the sob.

“Baby,” Nico tries again. “What’s going on? Why are you crying?”

“Nothing,” she croaks. “It’s stupid. I’m sorry for calling.”

She goes to hang up but Nico is already talking. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “Give me a second to get somewhere that's a little more quiet so I can hear you.”

Nico shouts something to someone then the music gets quieter. Her hands still shake so she puts the phone on speaker and grabs Nico’s pillow. It still smells like him since he’s only been gone two days. She plays with her weddings ring.

A door shuts on the other end of the line. It’s quiet for a moment then Nico asks, “Why are you crying, baby?”

“It’s really stupid, Nico,” she tells him.

“Nothing is stupid when you’re crying, liebling,” he softly replies to her. “So talk to me.”

She bites her lip and grips Nico’s pillow. “I had a dream,” she begins to say. “More of a nightmare, I think. You died on the ice after getting cut with a skate. It felt real and I needed to hear your voice so I knew that you were okay. It was a really stupid reason to call you, especially since you’re out with the team.”

Her husband is quiet for a second like he’s processing what she said. “(Y/N), listen to me,” he says. “If you call me, even when I’m out with the team, I will answer. There is no such thing as a stupid reason to call me. Okay?”

She mumbles an “okay” but she isn’t very convinced.

“Just know that I’m okay too,” Nico continues. “I’m not hurt. Actually, nothing is hurt. I feel really good despite getting bumped a few times tonight.” He pauses. “Are you okay? Sounds like this dream really shook you up.”

With the back of her hand, (Y/N) wipes away her tears because Nico isn’t here right now. “It felt so real,” she whispers. “Seeing you on the ice. Eyes lifeless and you so still with the blood around you. I couldn’t do anything because I was behind the glass. I couldn’t get to you.”

Tears well in her eyes as she remembers her nightmare. Banging on the glass echoes in her head and she squeezes her eyes shut.

“I wish I was with you,” Nico confesses. “Do I need to ask if I can come home? I can say that there is a family issue and be home by tomorrow.”

“No!” she quickly says. “I’ll be okay until you get home. You don't need to come back home. Promise me you’ll be okay and won’t take any skates to the neck or anything please.”

“I promise,” he replies. “The guys are heading back to the hotel. Do you need me to stay on the phone until you go back to sleep?”

She thinks about it, but she’s not a child anymore. “I’ll be okay,” she tells him. “Go get some sleep. Have a safe travel day tomorrow and I’ll see you when you get home. Text me when you land."

“Alright,” Nico sighs. “I love you. Try to get some sleep.”

“I love you too,” she replies. “Goodnight.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Her husband must really love her because the next game after that phone call, (Y/N) sees Nico on the ice with a neck guard on. She smiles and nearly cries at the sight. He's taking that precaution because of the phone call.

She does cry when Nico comes walking through the door five days after the phone call.

(Y/N) hears his key jiggle in the door around three and she is immediately on her feet. The door swings open and before Nico can let go of his suitcase, she jumps on him and wraps herself completely around him.

“Thank God,” she sobs into her husband’s neck. She peppers the skin with soft kisses. “You’re here. You’re really okay.”

“Of course I am, liebling,” Nico replies as he wraps his arms around his wife. “I’m here and I’m okay.”

The door shuts behind Nico and he walks into the living room. He sits with her completely wrapped around him. Both of her knees are on either side of his waist. "I missed you," she whispers.

He wraps his arms around her tight. "I know," he replies. "You've called me every single day. You've never done that before."

"That dream really messed me up, Nico," she confesses. He puts a finger under her chin and lifts her head up. Her husband is blurry because of the tears that have welled up in her eyes. “I haven’t really slept well because of it. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is-”

“I know, liebling,” Nico interrupts so she doesn’t have to say it again. “I’m here. I promised that I’d never leave you when we said ‘I do’ last year, and I intend to keep it. Even in your dreams from here on out.”

Her bottom lip wobbles and Nico’s thumb brushes it softly. “I can’t believe you love me enough to wear a neck guard,” she whispers.

He smiles and brushes her hair behind her ear. “If it meant keeping myself safe so you wouldn’t be worried then yeah, I’ll wear neck guards,” he tells her. “I know you have been worried since every news outlet is talking about neck guards and player safety. It’s clearly bothering you so to make sure I took every precaution to keep you from worrying.”

She feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders with Nico taking precautions to stay safe. It’s not much but it’ll keep her from reliving her nightmare.

Without realizing it, she yawns right in Nico’s face. “Are you tired, baby?” he asks with laughter evident in his voice.

(Y/N) nods and nuzzles right in to his neck. Her nose rests against his jaw and she sighs. “Gonna sleep right here, okay?”

“Sleep as long as you want,” he replies. “I’ll take a nap with you.”

She hums and settles in. She wraps her arms around his torso under his suit jacket to get warm while Nico buries his nose in her hair.

“Ich liebe dich,” Nico whispers, the Swiss-German making her feel a little more comfortable and relaxed.

༺═──────────────═༻

MASTERLIST

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[fieriframes]

[Sure bet, the crowd hadn’t packed the.]

[transform4u]

Just for Laughs

This story is heavily inspired, by the now defunct bouncyboytfs story, Straight Up Comedy. Which was one of my favorites of all time and got me into writing. The neon lights of West Hollywood flickered against the night sky, casting a vibrant glow over the bustling streets. Calvin Andrews, a 28-year-old grad student with a quick smile and a penchant for lively debates with online trolls defending the so called woke agenda, navigated through the Friday night crowd with an air of anticipation. Dressed in a casual yet stylish ensemble—a vintage band tee under a light denim jacket paired with slim-fit jeans and worn-in Chuck Taylors—he exuded the laid-back confidence of someone comfortable in their own skin.

Calvin had grown to love the sunny West Coast since leaving his East Coast hometown, finding a vibrant new community at UCLA where he pursued his dual passions in English and Gender Studies. His professors often praised his sharp intellect and unwavering dedication to his studies, qualities that were fueled by a deep-seated belief in social justice and equality. His love for literature spanned from the canonical works of Virginia Woolf and James Baldwin to contemporary voices like Roxane Gay and Audre Lorde, whose writings inspired his activism and shaped his worldview.

Outside of academia, Calvin was a prominent figure in UCLA’s LGBTQ+ community, serving proudly as the president of the Gay-Straight Alliance. Advocating for inclusivity and understanding, he dedicated himself to fostering a supportive environment where everyone could thrive. Music was another cornerstone of Calvin's life, his eclectic taste ranging from indie-pop sensations like Troye Sivan and Florence + the Machine to the introspective melodies of Sufjan Stevens.

Tonight, however, Calvin was eager to unwind and reconnect with friends over drinks in West Hollywood. Yet, unfamiliar with the labyrinthine streets, he found himself wandering off course as his phone battery dwindled. Spotting a promising glow ahead, he approached a lively bar, hoping for directions or at least a place to charge his phone.

Inside the dimly lit establishment, Calvin was greeted by the no-nonsense bartender who offered to charge his phone in exchange for staying to watch the comedy show and ordering a drink. Annoyed but realizing he had little choice, Calvin relented and requested a Vodka Cranberry, only to be met with a dismissive comment about "girly drinks." Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, he opted for a whiskey neat, settling into a seat as the bartender tended to his phone.

As he sipped his drink, Calvin’s attention was drawn to the stage where the next comedian made his entrance. A tall, muscular figure with a rugged charm and a broad smile, the comedian commanded attention with his Southern drawl and easy charisma. His dark hair was tousled, framing a face that radiated warmth and mischief in equal measure. Dressed in a simple black shirt and jeans, he exuded a casual confidence that immediately intrigued Calvin.

The crowd erupted into laughter as the comedian launched into his set, weaving anecdotes with razor-sharp wit and a touch of raunchy humor.

As the comedian delved deeper into his set, Calvin's initial intrigue turned swiftly into dismay. What began as harmless humor quickly morphed into a barrage of misogynistic and homophobic jokes that cut through the air with a venomous edge. The crowd roared with laughter, but Calvin felt a sinking sensation in his gut. "Now, I ain't sayin' women are dumb," the comedian drawled, his voice carrying easily over the laughter of the audience. "But have you ever seen a woman try to fix a car? It's like watchin' a blindfolded chimpanzee try to play Jenga!"

He squirmed in his seat, hoping to finish his drink and leave before the comedian's offensive routine could infect his evening further. But as the laughter grew louder, a dull ache throbbed in Calvin's temples. It felt as though a heavy fog was descending upon his mind, slowing his thoughts and dulling his senses.

Amidst the uproar, the comedian's voice cut through the haze, singling out Calvin with a mocking tone. "Big guy over here knows what I'm talking about!" the comedian exclaimed, pointing directly at Calvin. The audience chuckled as Calvin, bewildered, tried to comprehend the comment. He wasn't particularly muscular; in fact, his frame was slender from years of dorm food and late-night study sessions.

As Calvin sat there, bewildered by the comedian's unexpected focus on him, he felt an unsettling surge of energy course through his body. It started subtly, like a tingling sensation in his fingertips, but quickly intensified into something more profound.

First, he noticed his arms. What were once slender limbs now pulsed with newfound strength. His biceps, previously unremarkable, swelled visibly under his sleeves, each muscle fiber standing out in stark relief. The transformation seemed surreal, as if his body were defying the boundaries of what he knew possible.

His stomach tightened next, a sensation akin to his abdomen being sculpted from within. Calvin could feel the muscles beneath his skin contracting and tightening, forming a defined washboard of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 distinct abs. They appeared with startling clarity, delineating a newfound athleticism that seemed to materialize out of thin air.

Even his chest, once a featureless expanse, began to change. The fabric of his shirt stretched slightly as his pectoral muscles expanded, rising with newfound prominence. It was as though his entire torso was being reshaped, redefined into a physique that bore little resemblance to the Calvin of mere moments ago.

"Earth to meathead… earth to meathead," the comedian quipped, the audience erupting into laughter once more. The word 'meathead' echoed in Calvin's ears, his brain caught in a strange loop. His thoughts grew sluggish, as if encased in molasses, struggling to resist the comedian's words.

In that moment, Calvin's world seemed to shift. The audience's laughter blended into a distant hum, and the comedian's words resonated with an unsettling clarity. The room swirled around him as Calvin felt an inexplicable pull toward the stage, the comedian's charisma and authority casting a mesmerizing spell over his senses.

With each passing moment, Calvin's resistance waned. His mind, once sharp and critical, now dulled under the weight of the comedian's rhetoric. It was as though the jokes, laced with prejudice and disdain, were rewriting his perceptions, reshaping his reality.

As the comedian continued his routine, Calvin's gaze fixed on the stage, his expression slackening. The once vibrant grad student, advocate for social justice and equality, now sat transfixed, his identity slipping away like sand through his fingers.

As Calvin's physical transformation seemed to solidify, so too did the shift in his mental landscape. At first, there was a subtle fog creeping into his thoughts, blurring his once clear convictions and values. Laughter, loud and boisterous, erupted from his throat as the comedian spun crude jokes that would have previously repelled him. Calvin found himself guffawing at the very punchlines he would have condemned as offensive and insensitive.

The comedian, sensing a newfound ally in Calvin's transformed demeanor, launched into a tirade against what he mockingly termed the "liberal woke agenda." Panic seized Calvin momentarily; he knew this rhetoric contradicted everything he stood for. Yet, as the comedian continued his diatribe, Calvin felt an unsettling resonance with the words. The criticisms of political correctness and social justice initiatives began to make a twisted kind of sense in his altered state.

Slowly but surely, Calvin's mind underwent a profound metamorphosis. His once staunch progressive beliefs faded into the background, replaced by a growing skepticism and disdain for what he now saw as excessive sensitivity and moral righteousness. The comedian's words burrowed deep, reshaping Calvin's worldview with each passing moment.

He found himself nodding along to the comedian's rants, chuckling at the caricatured portrayal of "snowflakes" and "social justice warriors." The shift was disorienting yet strangely liberating, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Calvin's thoughts grew simpler, more black-and-white, aligning with the comedian's jabs at political correctness and cultural inclusivity.

The comedian paused for effect, his eyes scanning the audience before landing on Calvin. "You know what I hate about the woke agenda?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's all about being inclusive and accepting of everyone... except for straight white men! We're supposed to be ashamed of our skin color, our gender, and even our sexual orientation! Well, I say enough is enough!"

The crowd roared their approval as the comedian continued. "I don't care if you call me a bigot or a racist or whatever else you want," he said defiantly. "I was born this way - just like my love for country music and pickup trucks." He paused again, letting the tension build before delivering the punchline: "And if that makes me a bad person in your eyes? Well then... maybe it's time we stopped trying to force everyone into some politically correct mold!"

Calvin found himself nodding along once more, feeling a sense of camaraderie with this man who dared to speak truth against an oppressive cultural regime. The joke resonated deeply within him; it felt like validation for all those times he had been made to feel guilty or ashamed simply because of who he was.

When the comedian singled him out with a mocking jab— "Man, oh, man. I thought I was a douchebag, but you're loving it, meathead!"—Calvin barely registered the insult. Instead, he grunted in agreement, downing the remainder of his drink which had transformed into a beer, the amber liquid soothing his newfound sense of camaraderie with the comedian's perspective.

"Another one!" he hollered to the waitress, his voice carrying a newfound bravado. As the waitress returned with his drink, Calvin slouched comfortably in his seat, his once critical faculties now dulled by a haze of conformity to this new ideology. It felt easier to go along with the flow, to embrace the simplicity of the comedian's worldview rather than challenge it.

And so, amidst the laughter and applause of the crowd, Calvin Andrews—once a passionate advocate for social justice and equality—found himself transformed into something unrecognizable: a meathead, laughing heartily at jokes that once would have pierced his conscience, his mind now echoing with echoes of a worldview he never thought he would adopt.

As Calvin sat there, engulfed in the comedian's toxic rhetoric, the word 'douchebag' echoed incessantly through his brain. Each repetition seemed to reinforce a transformation that was unfolding before his very eyes. His thoughts grew muddled, his once sharp intellect now clouded by a burgeoning sense of entitlement and bravado.

Physically, Calvin felt a strange sensation ripple through him once more. His features seemed to shift subtly but unmistakably. His face hardened, acquiring a squared jawline adorned with a meticulously groomed chinstrap beard. His nose, once unassuming, grew slightly more pronounced, adding to the newfound aura of masculinity that seemed to radiate from him.

As his appearance morphed, so too did his sensibilities and personality. Calvin's hobbies and interests underwent a startling transformation. Gone were the days of poring over the works of Virginia Woolf or engaging in critical discourse on gender studies. The pursuit of knowledge and social justice gave way to a shallower existence, focused on more basic pleasures.

His academic aspirations shifted abruptly. No longer driven by a passion for literature and social change, Calvin found himself contemplating a business degree—a path he deemed more practical and financially rewarding. "College is just a stepping stone to better parties," he mused, a cynical smirk crossing his newly chiseled features.

His once eclectic taste in music narrowed to mainstream hits blaring from frat house speakers. The melodic musings of Troye Sivan and the introspective lyrics of Sufjan Stevens were replaced by pounding beats and lyrics devoid of substance but laden with machismo.

In conversations, Calvin now echoed the comedian's disdain for what he perceived as "liberal nonsense" and "PC culture run amok." His views on gender and sexuality grew rigid, laced with misogyny and homophobia that would have appalled his former self. He found himself making crude jokes and engaging in locker room banter, relishing the camaraderie of like-minded peers.

As Calvin's descent into this new identity deepened, he felt a strange satisfaction in his regression. The complexities of his former life seemed distant and irrelevant. He no longer remembered how to spell "Virginia Woolf," much less appreciate her literary genius. His vocabulary dwindled, replaced by a lexicon of bro-speak and corporate jargon.

But with each passing moment, the cacophony of his new life as a masculine conservative douchebag—grew stronger.

As the comedian's joke about his attraction to women resonated through the bar, Calvin felt a seismic shift within himself. It was as if a fog lifted, and suddenly, everything clicked: women were hot. This simple revelation seemed to rewrite the fabric of his existence.

In that moment, the pieces of his gay identity began to unravel. Memories of leading the Gay-Straight Alliance at UCLA, advocating for equality, and embracing his LGBTQ+ community faded like wisps of smoke. The vibrant nights out in West Hollywood, filled with laughter and solidarity, were replaced by scenes of testosterone-fueled football games and raucous frat parties.

Calvin's dorm room underwent a drastic transformation, shedding its previous décor of social justice posters and indie band artwork. In their place, posters of cheerleaders in provocative poses adorned the walls. The atmosphere shifted to one of hyper-masculinity, with empty beer cans littering the floor and the air thick with the scent of cheap cologne.

As Calvin struggled to reconcile this newfound identity, a name surfaced in his mind: Chaz Prescott. It was a name that embodied everything Calvin once scorned: arrogance, conservatism, and a relentless pursuit of female attention. Chaz was not just a new persona; he was a complete overhaul of Calvin's former self.

Chaz Prescott strutted confidently through the world, his speech peppered with crude jokes and objectifying remarks about women. He reveled in the attention of his fraternity brothers, engaging in locker room banter and boasting about conquests that existed more in his imagination than in reality.

Gone were the introspective moments and intellectual pursuits that once defined Calvin. Chaz scoffed at discussions of literature and philosophy, dismissing them as irrelevant to his pursuit of a business degree and the next weekend's party. His once sharp intellect dulled, replaced by a superficial charm and a penchant for shallow pleasures.

With each passing day, Calvin's transformation into Chaz Prescott seemed irreversible. The memories of his former life grew distant, replaced by a bravado that masked a deep-seated insecurity. He no longer questioned the comedian's crude jokes or the ideologies that once repulsed him; instead, he embraced them with a fervor that bordered on fanaticism.

As Chaz Prescott, he navigated a world where women were conquests to be won, and sensitivity was equated with weakness. The complexities of gender and sexuality were reduced to stereotypes and caricatures, and the vibrant spirit of Calvin Andrews faded into the shadows, a whisper of a past life that Chaz no longer recognized or acknowledged.

And so, amidst the laughter and approval of his new peers, Chaz Prescott—a creation born from a single joke—emerged as a symbol of everything Calvin had once rejected, a testament to the transformative power of identity and perception.

As the comedian wrapped up his set with a flourish of applause and laughter, the announcer's voice boomed through the venue: "Up next… you love him, you hate him… it's the king of the frat house… Chaz Prescott!" The name sent a jolt of recognition through the audience, eliciting cheers and whistles from those who knew the persona well.

Chaz, now fully embodying this brash and confident alter ego, flashed a cocky smirk to himself as he swaggered onto the stage. His presence commanded attention, exuding a blend of arrogance and charm that seemed to magnetize the room. Without missing a beat, he launched into the crudest, most provocative set of the night, each punchline hitting its mark with precision. "So, I was at this party the other night and I saw this girl wearing a 'Feminist' t-shirt. So, I went up to her and said 'Hey baby, is that an 'I heart dicks' shirt under there?' She got all mad and started yelling at me about how feminism isn't about objectifying women. And I just laughed and said 'Yeah, well you sure as hell aren't making it easy for us guys to respect you.'"

The audience erupted into stitches of laughter, hanging on Chaz's every word as he spun tales of exaggerated conquests and raunchy escapades. His delivery was impeccable, each joke laced with a raw energy that resonated with the frat house culture he now embraced. "But seriously folks, can you believe these woke snowflakes? They think they can come into our frat houses and try to change the way we think? Well let me tell ya something - we ain't going down without a fight! We are men! We like boobs! And beer! And sports!"

After his set, Chaz found himself surrounded by admirers, basking in the afterglow of his performance. Among them was a pretty blonde girl, her laughter still echoing from the front row. Chaz turned on the charm, flashing a smile that oozed confidence as he engaged her in conversation.

Gone was the introspective Calvin who once pondered the complexities of identity and social justice. In his place stood Chaz Prescott, a larger-than-life figure who reveled in the spotlight and thrived on the validation of his peers. As he bantered effortlessly with the blonde girl, Chaz felt a surge of adrenaline, reveling in the attention and adoration that came with his newfound persona.

Chaz couldn't help but notice the blonde girl's ample cleavage as she approached him. Her tits were like two perfect melons, begging to be squeezed and sucked on. He couldn't wait to get his hands on them, maybe even give her a little slap across those plump cheeks just to see if they jiggled.

As he engaged her in conversation, Chaz couldn't help but think about how much he wanted to teach this dumb feminist bitch what a real man was like. He imagined himself throwing her over his shoulder and carrying her off into the night, fucking her brains out until she begged for mercy.

The girl was stunning - long blonde hair cascading down past her shoulders, big blue eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and lips painted red as cherries. She had an air of confidence about her that made Chaz want to take control even more. "So, what's your name?"

"I'm Lily."

Chaz just flashes his pearly whites "Well, Lily, I think it's time we got out of here. My frat is just down the street."

As they entered the frat house, Chaz couldn't help but feel a surge of power course through him. The room was filled with rowdy brothers, cheering and laughing as they watched on eagerly. He led Lily towards an empty pool table at one end of the room where several guys had already gathered around them.

"Alright boys," he shouted over their laughter,"This is my new friend Lily here - she wants us all to give her some pointers about how real men treat women!"

The room erupted into even louder cheers as several guys jumped up from their seats eagerly approaching them while others grabbed beers off nearby tables ready for whatever might happen next.

After a great set, there was nothing that made Chaz felt more powerful than ever. He loved the way his jokes made people laugh, but there was something even more satisfying about belittling fags and women. It made him feel like a real man - strong, dominant, in control. And nothing turned him on quite like that feeling of power coursing through him.

Without further ado, Chaz grabbed Lily by the waist and lifted her up onto the pool table. She squealed in surprise but didn't resist as he pushed her legs apart and positioned himself between them. He gripped her hips tightly, using them to control her movements as he thrust into her with forceful strokes that made the entire table shake beneath them.

As he looked down at Lily's big tits bouncing up and down with each thrust of his hips, Chaz couldn't help but grin devilishly. He gripped her hair tightly in one hand while using the other to slap her ass hard enough to leave a mark - all while maintaining his brutal pace on top of her.

The guys around them cheered him on, urging him to go harder and faster while they laughed at Lily's helpless moans of pleasure. It was clear that this wasn't about making love - it was about dominating a woman who had dared challenge their alpha male status.

[estapa-edwards]

VICTORY - J. HUGHES

paring: jack hughes x reader

word count: 3k

requested? yes - jack being in love wiru quinn’s best friend who also happens to be trevor’s older sister, he met her when she started playing with quinn and have always had a puppy eye crush on her and was flirting she always thought he was just messing around and never took him seriously, maybe she was playing for a team on the west coast but she got traded to the devils and jack was literally so exicted and maybe she starts to see that he wasn’t messing around but truly is in love with her

warnings: use of y/n.

*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨* ≈☆≈ *¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*

Jack Hughes was no stranger to the spotlight. As a talented forward for the New Jersey Devils, he lived and breathed hockey, his life revolving around the rink and the relentless pursuit of victory. Yet, amidst the clamor of roaring crowds and the intensity of competition, there was one person who occupied his thoughts more than any other—Y/N.

Y/N, the younger sister of his best friend, Trevor, possessed a spirit as fierce as her slap shot and a determination that mirrored his own. From the moment Jack first met her, he was captivated by her fiery independence and her unwavering dedication to the sport they both loved. But it was more than just their shared passion for hockey that drew him to her; it was the spark of something deeper, an undeniable connection that transcended friendship and hinted at something more profound.

As Jack and Y/N's paths crossed during visits and hockey tournaments, a subtle shift occurred within Jack's heart. Beneath the camaraderie and shared passion for the game lay a burgeoning affection, one he dared not acknowledge for fear of disrupting the delicate equilibrium of their friendship. Yet, with each stolen glance and shared laugh, Jack found himself drawn inexorably towards Y/N, her presence a beacon of warmth in his world of icy rinks and competitive spirits.

Jack found himself drawn irresistibly towards Y/N, his desire to capture her attention outweighing his fear of rejection. Whether she was in the company of Quinn or Trevor, Jack seized every opportunity to engage her in playful banter and flirtatious exchanges, his words laced with double entendres and subtle hints of affection.

——

In the cozy confines of Trevor's house, laughter and chatter filled the air as Jack found himself drawn irresistibly towards Y/N. She sat across from Trevor, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she listened to his animated storytelling. Jack's heart quickened at the sight of her, the desire to capture her attention outweighing his fear of rejection.

"Hey there, troublemakers," Jack greeted with a playful smirk, sauntering into the room with an easy confidence that belied the nervous flutter in his chest.

Y/N's gaze flickered towards him, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "Speak of the devil. Did someone summon you, or did you just show up to grace us with your presence?"

Jack chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I heard there was a party happening, and I couldn't resist crashing the festivities."

Trevor rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "More like you heard Y/N was here and couldn't stay away," he teased, shooting Jack a knowing look.

Jack feigned innocence, a playful grin spreading across his lips. "Can you blame me? Who could resist the allure of such captivating company?"

Y/N's cheeks flushed faintly at the compliment, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Hughes," she quipped, though the teasing light in her eyes betrayed the warmth in her tone.

Undeterred, Jack leaned against the nearby wall, his gaze fixed on Y/N with unwavering intensity. "Is that a challenge, Zegras? Because I'm always up for a little friendly competition."

The air crackled with tension as their playful banter continued, each exchange filled with double entendres and subtle hints of affection. Despite the presence of Trevor and the familiarity of their surroundings, Jack found himself lost in the depths of Y/N's gaze, his desire for her burning brighter with each passing moment.

As the evening wore on, Jack couldn't shake the feeling of being drawn to Y/N like a moth to a flame. Despite the playful banter and the laughter that filled the room, his attention remained solely on her, his senses attuned to every subtle shift in her demeanor.

"Hey, Jack, you still with us?" Trevor's voice broke through Jack's reverie, snapping him back to the present moment.

Jack blinked, tearing his gaze away from Y/N's mesmerizing eyes to focus on Trevor. "Yeah, sorry, got lost in thought for a moment there," he replied with a sheepish grin.

Trevor chuckled, shooting Jack a knowing look. "I can see that. You've been staring at my sister like she's the Stanley Cup or something."

Jack's cheeks flushed faintly at Trevor's observation, but he laughed it off, masking the true depth of his feelings behind a facade of nonchalance. "Can you blame me? She's hard to ignore," he quipped, though the truth of his words resonated deep within his heart.

Y/N arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Oh, is that so, Hughes? Should I be flattered or concerned?" she teased, her tone light and teasing.

Jack's heart skipped a beat at the sight of her teasing smile, his desire to make her laugh and see that spark in her eyes growing stronger with each passing moment. "Definitely flattered," he replied with a grin, his eyes locking with hers in a silent exchange that spoke volumes without a single word spoken.

——

The afternoon sun filtered through the windows of Quinn's living room, casting a warm glow over the cozy space where Y/N and Quinn sat, engrossed in conversation. Books and hockey paraphernalia littered the coffee table between them, evidence of their shared interests and the bond that united them as siblings and friends.

Y/N laughed at something Quinn said, her eyes alight with amusement as she leaned back against the couch, her expression one of genuine happiness. Quinn smiled in return, his features softened by the easy camaraderie that flowed between them.

Their laughter was interrupted by the sound of the front door swinging open, and Jack's voice filled the room as he entered, his presence commanding attention without effort.

"Hey, guys, hope I'm not interrupting anything," Jack greeted with a grin, his eyes immediately seeking out Y/N's form amidst the comfortable chaos of Quinn's living room.

Quinn rolled his eyes playfully, though there was a hint of exasperation in his tone. "You always seem to have impeccable timing, Hughes."

Jack shrugged nonchalantly, his gaze never leaving Y/N's face. "What can I say? I have a sixth sense for when the party's getting started," he quipped, his grin widening as he sauntered further into the room.

Y/N couldn't help but smile at Jack's easy charm, her heart fluttering at the sight of him. "Hey, Jack," she greeted warmly, her voice soft yet tinged with amusement.

"Hey, Y/N," Jack replied, his tone filled with a warmth that sent a shiver down her spine. "Mind if I join you guys? I promise not to be too much of a third wheel."

Quinn shot Jack a knowing look, though there was a hint of teasing in his eyes. "As long as you behave yourself, you're welcome to stick around," he replied, though his words held a playful edge.

Jack grinned, taking a seat on the couch opposite Y/N and Quinn. "Scout's honor," he declared, holding up an imaginary badge with a flourish.

——

The notification on Y/N's phone interrupted the quiet evening she had been enjoying at home. With a curious frown, she unlocked the device to find an email from her agent, the subject line catching her attention: "Important News Regarding Your Career."

Her heart quickened with anticipation and apprehension as she opened the email, scanning the contents with growing disbelief. It was official—she had been traded from the Seattle Kraken to the New Jersey Devils.

For a moment, Y/N sat frozen, the weight of the news settling heavily upon her shoulders. The Kraken had been her team, her home on the ice, and the thought of leaving it all behind was both exhilarating and daunting.

Gathering her thoughts, Y/N rose from her seat, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She knew she had to tell her brother Trevor and her best friend Jack about the trade, but the words caught in her throat, uncertainty gnawing at her resolve.

Taking a deep breath, Y/N composed herself and dialed Trevor's number, her fingers trembling slightly as she waited for him to pick up.

"Trevor? It's me," Y/N began, her voice betraying the turmoil that churned within her.

"Hey, Y/N, what's up?" Trevor's voice came through the phone, warm and familiar, a lifeline in the midst of uncertainty.

Y/N hesitated, the words catching in her throat. "I... I got traded," she finally managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by Trevor's voice, filled with concern. "Are you okay? Where did they trade you to?"

Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself for Trevor's reaction. "The New Jersey Devils," she replied, the words heavy with resignation.

There was another pause, this one longer and more fraught with emotion. "Wow, that's... unexpected," Trevor finally said, his tone a mixture of surprise and understanding. "But hey, at least you'll be closer to Jack, right?"

Y/N couldn't help but smile at Trevor's attempt to lighten the mood, his words a reminder of the unwavering support he had always offered her. "Yeah, there's that," she replied, her voice tinged with gratitude.

After saying goodbye to Trevor, Y/N turned her attention to Jack, knowing she had to share the news with him as well. With a deep breath, she dialed his number, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for him to answer.

"Hey, Jack, it's me," Y/N said when he picked up, her voice steady despite the nerves that fluttered in her stomach.

"Hey, Y/N, what's going on?" Jack's voice came through the phone, filled with warmth and affection.

Y/N took a moment to gather her thoughts before speaking. "I wanted to let you know... I got traded. To the Devils," she said, the words feeling surreal as they left her lips.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, followed by Jack's voice, filled with genuine concern. "Are you okay? How are you feeling about it?"

Y/N smiled at Jack's genuine concern, grateful for his unwavering support. "I'm... still processing it, to be honest. But having you and Trevor there for me makes it a little easier," she replied, her voice soft yet filled with sincerity.

——

The transition to New Jersey was smoother than Y/N had anticipated, thanks in no small part to Jack's unwavering support. As she settled into her new surroundings, Jack graciously offered to let her stay at his place for a few days while she sorted out the logistics of her move.

Y/N's heart swelled with gratitude as she stepped into Jack's home, greeted by the familiar warmth and comfort that filled the space. Jack had always been a generous host, but his kindness and hospitality during her time of need touched her in a way she couldn't quite put into words.

"Thanks for letting me crash here, Jack. I really appreciate it," Y/N said, her voice filled with genuine appreciation as she settled into the guest room.

Jack flashed her a warm smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine affection. "Anytime, Y/N. Consider yourself part of the Hughes household for as long as you need," he replied, his tone sincere.

Over the next few days, Y/N and Jack fell into a comfortable rhythm, their days filled with laughter, shared meals, and late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. Despite the uncertainty of her future with the Devils, Y/N found solace in Jack's presence, his unwavering support serving as a beacon of light in the darkness of uncertainty.

——

As they spent more time together, Y/N couldn't help but marvel at the depth of her connection with Jack. Whether they were discussing hockey strategies or sharing childhood memories, there was an ease and familiarity between them that transcended mere friendship, hinting at something deeper and more profound.

he arena buzzed with anticipation as the New Jersey Devils faced off against their rivals in a crucial match. The tension in the air was palpable as Y/N took her position on the ice, her heart pounding with nervous excitement as she prepared to make her mark on the game.

As the puck dropped, Y/N's focus sharpened, her instincts taking over as she skated with determination and purpose. With each stride, she felt the weight of expectations pressing down upon her, but she refused to let it deter her from giving her all for her team.

Minutes turned into periods, and the game remained deadlocked in a fierce battle of wills. But then, in the final moments of the third period, an opportunity presented itself—a breakaway, a chance to make a difference and change the course of the game.

With adrenaline coursing through her veins, Y/N surged forward, the roar of the crowd fading into the background as she focused solely on the net before her. With a flick of her wrist, she sent the puck soaring past the goalie, the sound of the buzzer signaling the end of the game echoing through the arena.

The crowd erupted into cheers as Y/N's teammates rushed to surround her, their jubilant celebrations a testament to the significance of her goal. But amidst the chaos and excitement, one voice stood out above the rest—Jack's.

From his position on the bench, Jack's eyes shone with pride and admiration as he watched Y/N's triumphant display. He had seen her dedication and hard work on and off the ice, and now, as she scored her first goal and the game-winning goal with the Devils, he couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride in her accomplishments.

As the celebration continued around them, Jack made his way onto the ice, his heart bursting with emotion as he pulled Y/N into a tight embrace. "I'm so proud of you, Y/N," he whispered, his voice filled with genuine emotion.

After the exhilarating victory on the ice, Jack couldn't contain his excitement as he approached Y/N, a wide grin plastered on his face. "Y/N, that was incredible! You were amazing out there," he exclaimed, his voice filled with genuine admiration.

Y/N's cheeks flushed with pride at Jack's words, a shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Thanks, Jack. I couldn't have done it without the support of you and the team," she replied, her voice tinged with gratitude.

Jack's grin widened as he reached out to gently squeeze Y/N's shoulder. "Well, now that the game's over, how about we go out and celebrate? Just you and me," he suggested, his eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at Jack's invitation, her cheeks warming at the thought of spending time alone with him outside of the rink. "I'd love that, Jack," she replied, her voice filled with excitement.

As they made their way out of the arena and into the crisp night air, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of butterflies fluttering in her stomach. There was something exhilarating about the prospect of spending time alone with Jack, away from the pressures of the game and the watchful eyes of their teammates.

Together, they ventured into the heart of the city, the bustling streets alive with the energy of nightlife. Jack led Y/N to a cozy little bistro tucked away on a side street, the warm glow of the lights beckoning them inside.

Over a delicious meal and glasses of wine, they laughed and talked, sharing stories and memories long into the night. With each passing moment, Y/N found herself drawn deeper into Jack's magnetic presence, her admiration for him growing with every word he spoke.

——

As the evening drew to a close, Jack reached across the table to take Y/N's hand in his, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. "Tonight was perfect, Y/N," he said softly, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that took her breath away.

Y/N smiled, her heart overflowing with happiness. "It really was, Jack. Thank you for everything," she replied, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

As they stepped into the familiar warmth of their apartment, the energy between Jack and Y/N crackled with an intensity that was impossible to ignore. The events of the evening had stirred something within Jack, a longing that pulsed through his veins with each heartbeat.

Unable to contain his emotions any longer, Jack turned to face Y/N, his eyes searching hers with a mixture of vulnerability and determination. "Y/N, there's something I need to tell you," he began, his voice tinged with emotion.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at the serious tone in Jack's voice, her eyes widening with curiosity and anticipation. "What is it, Jack?" she asked, her voice soft yet filled with a quiet intensity.

Jack took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts as he prepared to lay his heart bare before Y/N. "I can't keep pretending anymore, Y/N. I've been trying to fight these feelings for so long, but I can't deny them any longer," he confessed, his voice trembling slightly with emotion.

Y/N's breath caught in her throat at Jack's words, her heart racing with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. "What feelings, Jack?" she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned in closer to him, her eyes searching his for answers.

Jack's gaze softened as he reached out to gently cup Y/N's face in his hands, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body. "I'm in love with you, Y/N," he admitted, his voice filled with raw honesty and vulnerability. "I have been for as long as I can remember."

Y/N's heart swelled with emotion at Jack's confession, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Jack, I... I don't know what to say," she whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming joy.

Before she could utter another word, Jack closed the distance between them, his lips capturing hers in a tender and passionate kiss. In that moment, the world around them faded away, leaving only the two of them, bound together by the unbreakable thread of love that had blossomed between them.

As they broke apart, their foreheads resting against each other's, Y/N felt a sense of peace wash over her, knowing that she had found her home in Jack's arms.

[eunseoksimp]

West Coast ; Park Wonbin

Pairings: Lead Singer!Park Wonbin x Bass Guitarist!Reader

Genre: Angst, Songfic

Description: caught in the chaos of fame and forbidden longing, you’re the guitarist in a rising band, battling intense feelings for park wonbin—charismatic, untouchable, and completely unaware of the storm he’s stirred within you. despite the deep adoration you pour into your music, he remains distant, leaving you to grapple with a passion that he’ll never truly return.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, poorly strung together suggestive content, unprotected sex (please do not imitate in real life), one mention of an ed

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

you stand in the shadows, just out of reach of the flickering stage lights, the pulsing beat of the bass vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat. 

the air is thick with the scent of sweat, alcohol, and something else—something electric, almost tangible. the crowd surges and sways in front of you, a living, breathing sea of bodies lost in the music, their collective energy like a storm ready to break.

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. his fingers dance over the strings of his guitar, coaxing out a sound that feels like fire and silk all at once, burning and soothing. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, turning him into something almost otherworldly, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves.

you can’t take your eyes off him, and it’s not just because of the music. 

there’s something about the way he moves, the way his hair falls into his eyes, the way he grins at the crowd—wild and free, untamed. it’s as if he’s made of the very essence of the west coast, of sunsets that bleed into the ocean, of nights that stretch on forever, filled with the promise of something more, something you can almost touch but never quite grasp.

but this, right here, this stage, this music—it’s everything you ever wanted, everything you dreamed of. it’s the reason you left behind the quiet life you once knew, trading it for the chaotic, unpredictable rhythm of the west coast. music had always been your escape, the one thing that made sense in a world that often felt too loud, too fast, too much. 

you remember the first time you picked up a guitar, the way the strings felt under your fingers, the thrill of creating something from nothing, the way the music seemed to pour out of you like it had been waiting there all along. it was as if you had found the missing piece of yourself, the part that had been aching for something more.

back then, you were just a girl with big dreams and a second-hand guitar, strumming away in your bedroom, your heart set on making it in a world that didn’t seem to have a place for you. you poured yourself into the music, letting it carry you away, dreaming of the day when you’d be on stage, playing to a crowd that felt every note, every chord, just as deeply as you did.

and then, one day, that dream started to take shape. it wasn’t easy—it was late nights and early mornings, playing in dingy bars for crowds that barely noticed you, struggling to make ends meet while holding onto the belief that one day, it would all be worth it. 

you met yunjin during one of those late nights, in a crowded bar where the air was thick with smoke and the floor sticky with spilled drinks. she was behind the bar, pouring shots with a practiced ease, her eyes flicking to the stage every now and then, as if she was waiting for something—or someone. 

you were up next, and you remember the way your hands trembled slightly as you plugged in your guitar, the nerves dancing under your skin like live wires. 

but the moment you started playing, everything else fell away. the music took over, filling the small space with a sound that was raw and powerful, pulling the few people who were paying attention into its grip.

 when you finished, there was a brief moment of silence before the applause started—a smattering at first, then growing louder, more enthusiastic. it wasn’t much, but it was enough. enough to make you believe that maybe, just maybe, you were on the right path.

yunjin had approached you afterward, a drink in hand and a smile on her face. 

“that was incredible,” she said, her voice low and warm, the kind that instantly put you at ease. “you’ve got something special, you know that?”

you shrugged, not really sure how to respond. compliments always made you a little uncomfortable, like they were something you didn’t quite know what to do with.

 “thanks,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, still riding the high from the performance.

“no, seriously,” she insisted, leaning in a little closer. “you’ve got the kind of talent that people notice. you ever think about doing this full-time? like, for real?”

you laughed, a short, nervous sound. “that’s the dream, isn’t it?”

“well, dreams don’t come true if you don’t chase them,” she said, and there was something in her tone that made you believe she knew what she was talking about. “listen, a few friends of mine are putting together a band. we’re looking for a guitarist. interested?”

that’s how it started—a chance encounter in a smoky bar, a conversation that led to late-night rehearsals in a cramped garage, the sound of music filling the space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 yunjin introduced you to the rest of the band, and you fit in like you’d always belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.

and then there was wonbin.

you remember the first time you saw him—really saw him—not just as another musician, but as something more. it was during one of those rehearsals, the sun just starting to dip below the horizon, casting everything in a soft, golden light. 

he was sitting on the edge of the stage, tuning his guitar, his hair falling into his eyes in that careless way that seemed so effortlessly cool. there was something about him, something that drew you in, made you want to know more, to see past the easy smile and the rockstar persona.

he caught you staring, and for a moment, you were sure he was going to say something, maybe tease you or flash that grin that made your heart skip a beat. but instead, he just looked at you, his gaze steady, unreadable, like he was trying to figure you out. it was the first time you felt that strange, electric pull, the one that made it hard to breathe, hard to think.

“hey,” he said finally, his voice low, almost lost in the noise of the band setting up. “you’re the new guitarist, right?”

“yeah,” you managed to say, hoping your voice didn’t betray how nervous you felt. “that’s me.”

“cool.” he nodded, then looked back down at his guitar, strumming a few chords. “heard a lot about you. they say you’re good.”

“they do?” you asked, surprised. you hadn’t realized you’d made that much of an impression.

“yeah.” he looked up again, his eyes locking onto yours, and there was something in his gaze that made your heart race. “you’ve got the music in you. that’s what matters.”

those words stuck with you, long after the rehearsal ended and everyone had gone home. it was the first time someone had acknowledged what you’d always felt deep down—that music wasn’t just something you did, it was who you were. it was in your blood, in your bones, a part of you that you couldn’t separate even if you tried.

and from that moment on, you were hooked. on the music, on the band, on the way wonbin made you feel—like you were part of something bigger than yourself, something that mattered. you started looking forward to rehearsals, to those late nights when the world outside the garage faded away, leaving just the music and the band and that electric feeling in the air.

but it wasn’t long before you realized that the feeling you had for wonbin wasn’t just admiration, or even the camaraderie that comes from making music together. it was something more, something deeper, something that scared you because it felt so out of control.

you tried to ignore it, to push it down, telling yourself that it was just a crush, that it would pass. but the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to pretend that what you felt was anything but real.

 it was in the way your heart sped up every time he smiled at you, in the way your stomach flipped when his fingers brushed against yours as you passed him a guitar pick, in the way your thoughts drifted to him when you were alone, late at night, the memory of his voice, his touch, lingering long after you’d said goodbye.

and now, as you stand in the shadows, watching him command the stage, you feel that same pull, that same intoxicating mix of longing and fear, of desire and dread. you know you shouldn’t let yourself feel this way, that it’s dangerous to want someone who lives so freely, who moves from one girl to the next like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t mean anything. 

but you can’t help it. because when wonbin looks at you, when he plays that guitar like it’s an extension of himself, like it’s a part of his soul, you forget everything else. you forget that you’re supposed to be strong, that you’re supposed to keep your feelings in check, that you’re just another musician in the band, nothing more.

the song shifts, the tempo slowing, and the world seems to slow with it. the lights dim, and for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you—wonbin on stage, you in the shadows, the space between you charged with something that makes your skin tingle. he looks up, his gaze cutting through the crowd, and for the briefest second, his eyes find yours.

the breath catches in your throat, and everything else falls away. the crowd, the noise, the heavy press of bodies around you—it all dissolves, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of the stage lights. he holds your gaze and in that moment, it feels like he’s playing just for you, like every note is a secret shared between you and him alone.

your heart beats faster, a wild, erratic rhythm that echoes the pounding of the drums. you know you should look away, pull yourself back from the edge of whatever this is, but you can’t. you’re caught, like a moth drawn to a flame, helpless to resist even as you feel the heat of it burning you alive.

the song builds again, the tempo picking up, pulling you back into the frenzy of the crowd. the moment is gone, slipping through your fingers like grains of sand, but the fire it sparked in you lingers, smoldering in the pit of your stomach. you try to shake it off, to remind yourself that he’s just another rockstar, that you’re just another face in the crowd.

but deep down, you know it’s a lie. because nothing, no one, has ever made you feel the way he does—like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying, something that could consume you if you let it. and maybe, just maybe, you want to let it.

the song ends in a blaze of sound, and the crowd erupts in cheers, their voices rising to meet the final, lingering notes. wonbin steps back from the mic, grinning wide, his eyes alight with the thrill of the performance. he gives the crowd one last look before turning away, and just like that, the spell is broken.

you’re left standing in the shadows, your heart still racing, the ghost of his gaze burned into your memory. the music fades, replaced by the dull roar of the crowd, and the world crashes back in around you, loud and overwhelming. you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use.

you’re already lost, swept away by the current, and you know there’s no coming back.

“hey, you okay?” yunjin’s voice cuts through the haze, and you turn to see her standing beside you, a concerned look on her face. “you seemed a little... distracted.”

you force a smile, trying to push down the feelings that are threatening to overwhelm you. “yeah, i’m fine. just... caught up in the music, i guess.”

she nods, but there’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes you wonder if she can see right through you. “it was a good show,” she says, her tone light, but you can hear the unspoken question in her words.

“yeah,” you agree, your voice sounding distant even to your own ears. “it was.”

but as the crowd starts to disperse, the lights dimming, you can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted, something has changed. and as you watch wonbin disappear into the backstage area, laughing with the rest of the band, you wonder if you’re ready for what comes next. because no matter how hard you try to deny it, to push it down, you can’t escape the truth.

you’re in love with him.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the night stretches on, an endless loop of thumping bass, flashing lights, and the bitter tang of alcohol on your tongue. you’re caught in the current of bodies, the rhythm of the music a steady pulse that reverberates through the floor, through your skin, through your bones. the air is thick with the scent of sweat and perfume, a heady mix that clings to your senses, making the room spin just a little bit faster. 

someone hands you another drink—something clear and sharp, burning its way down your throat—and you take it without thinking, without caring. it’s easier to lose yourself in the blur of faces, in the haze of smoke and alcohol, than to confront the gnawing emptiness that lingers just beneath the surface, the one that’s been growing louder with each passing hour, each passing drink.

you’re supposed to be having fun. this is what you wanted, isn’t it? the wild nights, the carefree abandon, the reckless freedom that comes with living by west coast standards. if you’re not drinking, then you’re not playing. you laugh at a joke you don’t quite hear, your voice swallowed by the music, and someone presses closer, their hands too warm, their breath hot against your neck. you pretend not to notice, letting yourself be swept along, another face in the crowd, another body moving to the beat.

but no matter how hard you try, the emptiness persists, a hollow ache that no amount of alcohol or dancing can fill. because even here, surrounded by the very life you once craved, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s missing, that something vital has slipped through your fingers. and no matter how tightly you cling to this illusion of fun, of freedom, it doesn’t compare to the way you feel when he’s near, when wonbin is close enough to touch, to breathe the same air.

you spot him across the room, leaning against the bar with that effortless, almost lazy confidence that makes your heart stutter in your chest. he’s surrounded, as usual, by a flock of girls, each one vying for his attention, their laughter bright and sharp as glass. 

they’re drawn to him like moths to a flame, their eyes wide with admiration, their hands reaching out, touching his arm, his shoulder, his chest, as if they can’t quite believe he’s real. 

and why wouldn’t they be? wonbin is everything the west coast promised and more—beautiful, untouchable, a living embodiment of the wild, hedonistic dreams that brought you here in the first place. 

he’s golden under the dim lights, his skin glowing with a warmth that seems to radiate from within, his dark hair falling into his eyes in a way that makes you want to reach out and brush it aside. his lips curl into that easy, devil-may-care smile that you’ve come to associate with danger, with the kind of desire that leaves you breathless and aching.

he’s laughing now, his head thrown back, the sound rich and intoxicating, and the girls around him are eating it up, their eyes shining with a hunger that mirrors your own. 

one of them—a tall, willowy blonde with legs for days—leans in close, her hand resting on his chest as she whispers something in his ear. he turns his head slightly, just enough to give her a look that makes her blush, her smile widening as she presses herself closer, her body molding to his like she’s trying to become a part of him.

you watch, your chest tightening with something dark and painful, something you don’t want to name because it feels too raw, too real. 

jealousy.

 it wraps around your heart, squeezing tight, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. you take another sip of your drink, the alcohol doing little to dull the sharp edge of longing that cuts through you every time you see him like this, surrounded by people who don’t understand, who don’t feel the way you do.

he glances up then, his eyes scanning the room, and for a moment, just a brief, fleeting moment, his gaze lands on you. your breath catches, and it feels like time stops, like the noise and the lights and the crowd all fade away, leaving just the two of you in this suspended, fragile moment. his eyes, dark and unreadable, hold yours, and in that instant, you wonder if he can see it, if he can feel the way your heart races, the way your skin tingles with the memory of his touch, the way you ache for him with a need that’s almost painful.

but then he looks away, his attention drawn back to the girl at his side, and the moment shatters, leaving you cold and empty, the ache in your chest deepening into something almost unbearable. you want to look away, to turn your back on the scene playing out in front of you, but you can’t. you’re rooted to the spot, your eyes drawn to him, to the way his fingers brush against the girl’s arm, to the way she laughs and leans into him, her body a perfect fit against his.

it should be you. 

the thought comes unbidden, unwanted, and you hate yourself for it, hate the way it makes you feel—small, insignificant, like you’re just another nameless face in the crowd. but no matter how hard you try to push it down, to smother it with indifference, it’s there, pulsing beneath the surface, a constant reminder of what you can’t have, of what you’ll never have.

“you okay?” a voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you blink, turning to see yunjin standing beside you, her brow furrowed with concern. 

“yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “just... thinking.”

yunjin follows your gaze to the bar, where wonbin is now leaning in close to the blonde, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers something that makes her laugh, the sound light and tinkling like wind chimes. yunjin sighs, shaking her head slightly. 

“he’s always like this, you know. doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, but the words do little to soothe the ache in your chest. because it does mean something, at least to you. it means everything. and that’s the problem.

“come on,” yunjin says, nudging you with her shoulder. “let’s get out of here. this place is dead anyway.”

you want to argue, to tell her that you’re fine, that you want to stay, but the words stick in your throat. because the truth is, you don’t want to be here anymore, don’t want to watch as wonbin wraps his arms around someone else, don’t want to see the way he smiles at her, the way he used to smile at you, back when things were simpler, back when you were just a girl with a guitar and a dream.

you nod again, letting yunjin lead you away from the crowd, from the noise, from the suffocating press of bodies. the cool night air hits you like a slap, sharp and bracing, and you take a deep breath, trying to clear your head, to shake off the lingering haze of alcohol and regret.

but as you walk away, the sound of wonbin’s laughter echoes in your mind, a haunting melody that you can’t seem to escape, no matter how far you go.

you find yourself in a quiet corner of the city, the distant hum of traffic the only sound in the stillness. the night is cool, the breeze carrying with it the faint scent of salt from the nearby ocean, and for a moment, you feel like you can breathe again, like the world has finally stopped spinning.

but even here, in the quiet, in the calm, you can’t escape the memory of him. it clings to you like a shadow, dark and heavy, following you no matter how hard you try to outrun it. 

you close your eyes, leaning against the rough brick of the building behind you, and let the night wash over you, trying to lose yourself in the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, in the coolness of the air against your flushed skin.

but it’s no use. every time you close your eyes, you see him—his smile, his eyes, the way he looked at you tonight, like you were just another face in the crowd, nothing more. it hurts, more than you want to admit, more than you can bear.

“you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” yunjin’s voice breaks through the silence, soft and understanding, and you flinch, your eyes snapping open.

“what? no,” you say quickly, too quickly, the words tripping over themselves as they leave your lips. “i’m not—i mean, he’s just... it’s nothing.”

yunjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you with those knowing eyes, the ones that see right through you, that see the truth even when you’re not ready to face it yourself.

“you don’t have to lie to me,” she says gently, her voice barely above a whisper. “it’s okay to feel this way, you know. but you have to be careful. wonbin... he’s not the kind of guy who can give you what you’re looking for.”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you feel something inside you crumble, something you’ve been holding onto for far too long. because she’s right. you know she’s right. wonbin isn’t the kind of guy who stays, who commits, who gives himself fully to anyone. he’s wild, untamed, like the music he plays, like the life he leads. and you? you’re just a girl with a guitar, lost in a world that’s too big, too bright, too much for you to handle.

but despite all that, despite the warnings, despite the pain, you can’t let go. because as much as it hurts, as much as it tears you apart, you can’t imagine a world where he isn’t in it, where you don’t feel this burning, aching, all-consuming need for him.

and that terrifies you more than anything.

“i know,” you finally whisper, your voice small and broken, the admission tearing at your heart. “but i don’t know how to stop.”

yunjin steps closer, wrapping her arms around you in a tight, comforting embrace, and you let yourself fall into it, let yourself lean on her because you’re too tired, too worn out to stand on your own anymore.

“you don’t have to do this alone,” she murmurs, her voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “i’m here, okay? whatever happens, i’m here.”

you nod, swallowing hard as you blink back the tears that are threatening to spill over, and hold on just a little bit tighter.

the cold night air wraps itself around you like a second skin, biting into your exposed arms as you stand outside the club, watching your breath curl in the dim light like ghostly tendrils. yunjin’s voice is a faint echo in your mind, promising to be back soon, but even that has faded into the backdrop of distant party noise and the rhythmic crash of waves nearby. you’re left in the quiet now, the world softened by the fog that rolls in from the ocean, and the stillness presses on you, amplifying the chaotic swirl of thoughts running through your head.

the streetlights cast long, jittery shadows across the slick pavement, and the cool breeze carries the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, a reminder of the ocean’s relentless rhythm. you lean against the rough brick wall of the club, your arms folded tightly around yourself, trying to stave off the creeping cold. your breath forms little clouds in the air, merging with the mist that hovers above the ground, making the world feel like a half-remembered dream.

how long have you been out here? minutes or hours? time seems to stretch and distort in the quiet, your mind replaying the night’s events on an endless loop, a relentless loop of faces and laughter, of wonbin’s smile and the way he looked at the girls, the way he barely glanced at you.

the club door swings open, its rusty hinges groaning in protest, and you glance up to see your bandmates stumbling into the street, their laughter cutting through the quiet like a jagged blade, carrying a carefree, drunken energy that contrasts sharply with your own sense of isolation. 

hongjoong and gunil cling to each other for support, their arms draped around each other’s shoulders, their steps uneven and their laughter loud. minjeong follows behind, her expression a mixture of disapproval and amusement, though her flushed cheeks betray her own indulgences.

wonbin is the last to emerge, his movements smooth and deliberate, his posture relaxed as if the night’s revelry had done little to disturb his composure. his dark hair falls in expertly tousled waves, a natural charm that seems almost effortless. he surveys the scene with an amused smirk, his hands casually shoved into his pockets, his eyes flicking over each of you with a lazy, calculating gaze.

“no lady tonight?” gunil slurs, his words slightly garbled from too many drinks. he leans heavily against the wall, his gaze fixed on wonbin with a mixture of curiosity and drunken challenge. 

“you were definitely working it back there.”

wonbin chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that carries through the night air, and shakes his head, his amusement clear.

wonbin’s laugh is low and smooth, curling around you like smoke. he shakes his head, his amusement barely contained. “nah, not tonight.”

“maybe he’s finally developed a conscience,” minjeong quips, her voice tinged with both sarcasm and an underlying warmth, as though she’s enjoying the banter despite herself.

 wonbin’s middle finger flicks up lazily in response, drawing more laughter from the group, the sound echoing off the walls and mixing with the distant hum of the city.

“or maybe wonbin just wants some beauty sleep,” wonbin adds, his tone teasing as he leans against the van, the laughter still bubbling up from his chest. 

“we have rehearsals tomorrow and it’s extra hard getting the ladies out of my bed the morning after.”

the group sniggers in response, hooting and hollering at the joke, the sound warm and raucous, a stark contrast to the biting chill of the night. you stand apart, rolling your eyes at the familiar exchange, the chill seeping into your bones, making you shiver despite the alcohol’s lingering warmth.

wonbin’s eyes land on you, noticing the way you’re pulling the sleeves of your top tighter around yourself, and without a word, he pushes off the van he’s been leaning against and crosses the short distance between you. his approach feels deliberate, like a wave slowly crashing toward shore, unstoppable in its momentum and you can’t help but feel a thrill of anticipation, mixed with a pang of apprehension.

“relax, princess, you know i treat my ladies with care” he says, his voice a low murmur, the term of endearment grating on your nerves but somehow soothing at the same time. he shrugs off his jacket with a smooth, practiced motion and drapes it gently around your shoulders. the fabric is warm, a stark contrast to the cold, and the simple touch of his fingers against your skin sends a shiver up your spine, more from the intensity of the moment than the chill of the night.

you pull the jacket closer around yourself, trying to absorb its warmth, and wonbin stands close, his presence overwhelming and intoxicating, like a wave crashing over you. his scent clings to it—a mix of cedar, smoke, and something darker, more intoxicating—and it envelops you in an invisible hold, making it hard to breathe, harder to think.

his fingers brush your arm as he pulls back, and that brief touch is enough to send a shiver down your spine, though you tell yourself it’s from the cold. wonbin steps back, his expression unreadable, and you try to shake off the tension building between you, but it clings, thick and electric.

you swallow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself as if it could protect you from the storm brewing inside.

 “i’m sure they’re very lucky,” you reply, trying to inject some levity into your voice, but it falls flat, the words hanging heavy in the air between you.

wonbin chuckles, low and smooth, before turning away to join the others. they’re all piling into the van now, their drunken chatter filling the air once more, and you’re left standing there for a moment longer, watching him, feeling the weight of his jacket and the lingering touch of his hands like a brand on your skin.

wonbin gestures for you to get in first, and you hesitate for a moment, caught between the lingering ache in your heart and the sharp reality of the night before sliding into the seat next to yunjin and the doors close with a soft thud, sealing you all inside the small, warm space.

as the car pulls away from the curb, you watch the city lights blur by, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns of gold and shadow against the window. the world outside moves in a dizzying rush, but inside the car, there’s a strange, enclosed stillness that makes the space feel smaller, more intimate.

wonbin’s presence beside you is a constant, a magnetic pull that seems to draw you deeper into the whirlpool of your own feelings. he sits with an easy grace, his gaze fixed out the window, his fingers tapping a casual rhythm on his knee. 

the soft hum of the engine and the low murmur of conversation from the others blend into a soothing, almost hypnotic background, and you find yourself sinking further into the space he occupies, into the place where he’s the only thing that matters.

but with each passing mile, you sense the danger in falling even deeper for him. the city lights flash by in a blur, and with each passing second, you feel the weight of your emotions pressing down on you, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. you know, deep down, that this is a dangerous game you’re playing, one that could leave you shattered and alone.

you glance at wonbin, the soft glow of the interior lights casting a warm, golden sheen on his features, and you feel the pull of him like a tide pulling you under. his smile, the easy confidence in his posture, the way he seems completely at ease with everything—it’s intoxicating, and it makes you ache with a need you can’t quite define.

as the car continues its journey through the city, you find yourself wondering just how deep this feeling goes, and if there’s any way out. you know the night’s end will come, that the lights will fade, and the illusion will be over, but for now, you’re lost in the moment, in the dangerous allure of the man beside you, and the growing realization that the more you fall for him, the more you risk losing everything you’ve worked for.

and as the car moves through the city’s heart, you cling to the hope that maybe, just maybe, this night could be different, that maybe this time, you’ll find something real in the chaos, in the music, in the man who has you spinning in his orbit.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the early morning light filters in through the thin, gauzy curtains of your shared hotel room, painting the walls with a soft, golden hue. the room is still and quiet, save for the faint, rhythmic sound of yujin’s breathing, a gentle symphony of snores that fills the space with a comforting, if slightly intrusive, noise. you stretch slowly, feeling the soft, cool sheets clinging to your skin, and rise cautiously from the bed.

you move on tiptoes, each step a careful whisper against the worn carpet. the room feels like a cocoon of half-sleep, where the world outside is still wrapped in the dim embrace of dawn. yujin’s form is a shadow beneath the covers, her face serene and peaceful as she dreams away, oblivious to your early morning ritual. you pause for a moment, watching her with a mixture of envy and determination, knowing that you need to get moving.

you reach for your clothes, your movements deliberate and sluggish, as if you’re swimming through a pool of molasses. the fabric feels heavy in your hands, and you struggle with the buttons and zippers, the sensation of the cool cotton brushing against your skin grounding you in the present. the clothes seem to cling to you like a second skin, but you manage to pull on your jeans and slip into a simple t-shirt, the material soft and slightly rumpled from the suitcase.

as you bend to retrieve your earphones, you fumble with the tangled mess of cords, each knot a testament to the hasty packing from the night before. the task feels like an intricate puzzle, each twist and turn a challenge to your sleepy state. finally, with a victorious sigh, you manage to unwrap the mess, the earphones now ready to be your companions for the day’s solitary journey.

stepping out of the room, you’re met with the cool touch of the hallway air, a brisk contrast to the warmth of the room you just left. the corridor is bathed in soft morning light, the floor tiles gleaming with a polished sheen that reflects your weary figure. you walk slowly, savoring the quietude of the hotel, the distant hum of the city below an occasional reminder of the day ahead.

the streets are still wet with dew, the air crisp and cool as you make your way to the practice space, determined to test out a few new riffs before the rest of the band arrives.

the studio is a sanctuary of sorts, filled with the comforting scent of aged wood and the faint tang of metal. you set up your new black guitar, its sleek, dark surface reflecting the overhead lights in a way that almost makes it look like it’s alive. 

the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, and you run your fingers over the strings, adjusting the tuning with practiced ease, letting each note resonate through the room. the sound is rich and full, a stark contrast to the heavy silence that envelops you.

you’re lost in the rhythm of your practice when the door creaks open, and a familiar voice breaks through your concentration. 

“morning sunshine, you’re here early.”

park wonbin’s voice is a silky drawl, smooth and almost musical, carrying the same effortless charm that you’ve come to recognise all too well. his presence fills the room like a warm draft, the kind that makes you shiver and feel alive all at once. 

you look up, and there he is—wonbin, with his tousled hair and that infuriatingly perfect smile. he’s a vision of casual elegance, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, but the way he carries himself, the way he moves, makes him seem like he’s always center stage.

he strolls over with a confidence that borders on arrogance, his gaze flicking over your setup with a mix of curiosity and playful mischief. 

“new guitar?” he asks, his eyes lighting up as he takes in the sleek black instrument resting in your lap. “i love the black, it almost matches your soul.”

his voice is dripping with mock-seriousness, but there’s a genuine admiration in his tone that makes your heart skip a beat. he’s making a point of passing by right where you’re sitting, and before you can react, his hand ruffles your hair, the touch both familiar and irritating.

“very funny,” you reply, rolling your eyes as you try to brush off his teasing. your tone is flat, the coolness in your voice a shield against the warmth that his presence always seems to provoke. you don’t let your guard down, maintaining the cold, unimpressed facade that’s become second nature. it’s easier this way, safer, knowing that you’re not laying your heart bare for anyone to see, especially not him.

wonbin chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine.

“come on, don’t be so serious. it’s a compliment. and you know, it’s not every day I see someone who can outshine a guitar.”

you shoot him a look, trying to mask the way his words make your heart flutter. “and i’m sure you’ve seen a lot of guitars.”

“true,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “but not many as intriguing as you. what’s got you up so early, anyway?”

you shrug, focusing on the guitar strings as if they hold the answers to all your unspoken feelings. “just wanted to get a head start. thought i might try out some new things before everyone else shows up.”

wonbin raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “and here i thought you were just a bundle of mystery and cool detachment.”

“is that supposed to be a compliment?” you ask, arching an eyebrow of your own, trying to keep your voice steady.

“depends on how you take it,” he replies, his smile widening. “but i’d say it’s a pretty high compliment. after all, it’s not every day you meet someone who can be both enigmatic and talented.”

you want to retort, to say something biting and witty, but the sincerity in his voice stops you. the warmth in his eyes, the way he looks at you as if he actually sees you—if only for a moment—makes it difficult to maintain your usual indifference.

you turn back to your guitar, trying to drown out the way his gaze lingers on you, the way his presence feels like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest. 

“well, don’t get used to it. i’m just here to do my job.”

wonbin’s laughter is soft, almost conspiratorial. “right, of course. but just so you know, your ‘job’ looks pretty impressive from where i’m standing.”

you glance up briefly, catching his eye, and for a second, the playful banter fades away.

“save the flattery for someone who might believe it,” you say, turning away to adjust the guitar’s settings.

wonbin watches you for a moment longer before pushing off from the doorframe, his footsteps light as he heads toward the practice area.

 “alright, alright. i’ll let you get back to your mysterious guitar-wielding ways. but don’t think i won’t be keeping an eye on you.”

you don’t turn around, focusing on the gentle hum of the guitar as it vibrates against your fingers. the room feels different with wonbin’s presence lingering, a mix of warmth and tension that makes it hard to concentrate. you can feel the weight of his gaze, even when you’re not looking directly at him, and it makes the silence between you both feel charged with an electricity that’s both thrilling and painful.

the door swings open with a cheerful creak, and the rest of the band starts to trickle in, their conversations and laughter blending with the sounds of tuning instruments and setting up equipment, a noisy contrast to your solitary practice.

hongjoong and gunil come in first, their laughter loud and brash, their footsteps heavy with the remnants of last night’s revelry. hongjoong claps you on the back with a grin. 

“hey, i thought you might have gotten here first. working on some new riffs?” he greets you with a pat on your back, a grin spread wide on his face.

“it came into my head this morning, thought i should strum it out before practice” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant and hongjoong nods in response, an understanding of the feeling.

“makes sense. gotta strike while the iron’s hot.”

gunil, with his usual boisterous charm used primarily to annoy minjeong, throws an arm around hongjoong’s shoulders. “i see you’re still the early bird. wish i had your energy.”

before you can respond, minjeong steps in, her hair still touselled from sleep as she gives you a small smile before turning back to the boys. 

“maybe if you spent less time being a loser online and actually tried to get some sleep you could be doing the same thing.”

“you wound me, my love,” he dramatically clutches his chest, warranting an eye roll from her, but there’s warmth there, an affection in the way she swats at his arm as they head toward the equipment.

you feel arms around your neck, but you don’t need to turn around to figure out that it’s yunjin, giving you a hasty kiss on your cheek before releasing you to respond to a question minjeong threw at her.

the session starts with a burst of sound, the studio coming alive with the mix of instruments and voices. you fall into the rhythm, your fingers dancing over the guitar strings, guiding the notes with a practiced ease. the music swells and contracts, a living, breathing entity that you shape with every strum and chord.

wonbin takes his place at the center, his energy a magnetic force that draws everyone in. he commands attention with his presence alone, his voice a deep, resonant force that weaves through the melodies like a thread of gold. he moves with a practiced ease, each gesture and glance imbued with the effortless charm that has become his signature.

“alright, let’s hit it,” wonbin says, his voice ringing out with the authority of someone who’s completely in control. “we’ve got a lot to cover today.”

you try to keep your focus, but the magnetic pull of wonbin’s charisma makes it difficult. he’s a storm in human form, and his every move is a reminder of the complex emotions you’re struggling to keep at bay. his gaze meets yours occasionally, a fleeting connection that sends a jolt through you, making it hard to concentrate on anything but the way he makes you feel.

the practice session rolls on, each song a test of your ability to stay grounded amidst the whirlwind of wonbin’s presence. you pour your heart into the music, letting the notes become a release, a way to channel the tumultuous feelings that threaten to overwhelm you. the guitar is your sanctuary, the strings your confidant, and as you play, you lose yourself in the music, if only for a moment.

the sound of applause and cheers brings you back to reality, the session ending with a satisfying crescendo. you look up to see the band members gathering, their faces flushed with the effort and exhilaration of a productive rehearsal. wonbin’s grin is a dazzling contrast to the fatigue etched on the rest of their faces, and you can’t help but be drawn to the way he stands, relaxed and confident, as if the entire world is his stage.

“great session, everyone,” wonbin says, his tone a mix of satisfaction and nonchalance. “let’s take a break and grab some lunch.”

as you unplug your guitar, the amplifier crackling softly, wonbin approaches again, his steps slow and deliberate. "you did great today. i’m guessing it’s the guitar?"

you smirk, unable to resist the playfulness tugging at the corners of your lips. "or maybe i’m a rock god, and everything i touch turns to gold."

his laugh is a quiet, disbelieving huff, but his eyes twinkle, and for a moment, his gaze lingers. "all this time, i’ve been in the presence of royalty. how lucky am i?"

"super lucky," you reply with a wink, trying to ignore the way his smile makes your heart race.

the moment stretches between you and before you can both continue, gunil’s exaggerated calls for food break the spell, and wonbin, with a final grin, walks away. you watch him go, his figure retreating with an ease that leaves a hollow space where his presence had been moments before. the air feels lighter, but the weight of his absence clings to you all the same.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the restaurant hums with life around you, the warm glow of overhead lights casting everything in a soft, amber hue. laughter bubbles up from nearby tables, the clinking of glasses and silverware adding to the symphony of sound. 

but all of that fades into a distant murmur as you watch the waitress, a whirlwind of charm, glide back to your table. her gaze lands on wonbin like a moth drawn to a flame, her smile bright and focused entirely on him. the way she leans over as she places his drink down, how her hand lingers just a second too long near his arm, makes something twist painfully in your chest.

“can i get you anything else?” she asks, her voice thick with syrupy sweetness, directed solely at him. there’s a playful edge to her words, like she’s daring him to ask for more than just a refill. 

wonbin leans back in his chair, his easy grin in place as he shakes his head, “we’re good for now, thanks angel.”

the exchange is brief, casual on the surface, but it digs deep into you, sharp and unrelenting. the jealousy seeps in slow, like poison, filling your veins with a quiet bitterness that you try hard to swallow down. 

you hate that it affects you this much, but it’s impossible to ignore the sinking feeling in your chest, the constant reminder that wonbin is a star, and you’re just orbiting around his light. 

yunjin’s hand finds yours under the table, her fingers wrapping around yours in a silent gesture of comfort. she squeezes gently, her thumb brushing over your knuckles, and when you steal a glance at her, there’s understanding in her eyes. she’s noticed—the way your posture stiffened, the quiet tightness in your jaw. she always notices.

minjeong, seated across from you, catches the shift too. her brow arches ever so slightly, her gaze flicking from you to wonbin and back again. but she says nothing, her silence a shield for you, offering you space in a moment where the walls feel like they’re closing in.

“you alright?” yunjin asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper, meant only for your ears. her concern is genuine, warm like a blanket wrapped around you on a cold day, but you force a smile, nodding as you grip your fork a little tighter.

“yeah,” you murmur, though the knot in your throat tells a different story.

the waitress lingers longer than necessary, making small talk with wonbin. you can hear snippets of their conversation through the haze—her asking about the band, giggling at something he says in response. each laugh she gives feels like a nail hammered into the growing ache in your chest. it’s irrational, you know that. but the jealousy doesn’t care about reason.

the conversations of your friends blur into background noise as you stab at your meal absentmindedly, your fork scraping against the plate with each mechanical bite. it’s a futile effort to mask the hurt brewing inside, but you keep chewing anyway, as if forcing yourself to eat will somehow erase the sinking feeling in your chest.

“you don’t like the food?” wonbin’s voice cuts through the noise, pulling you back to the present. his gaze is fixed on you, brows slightly furrowed, concern laced in his tone. you blink, realizing you’ve been staring at your barely touched plate, fork idly scraping against the ceramic.

“no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, picking up a forkful of food and shoving it into your mouth, even though the taste is nothing but bland against the whirlwind of emotions storming inside you.

“how come you don’t pay attention to me like that?” gunil teases from across the table, his voice playful but his question rattling something loose in your chest. your heart skips a beat as you glance up at wonbin, waiting, watching for his response.

“what do you mean?” wonbin shoots back, smirking. “i let you cuddle me yesterday. i even let you be the little spoon.”

the table erupts in laughter, the sound rippling around you, but all you feel is the dull weight of disappointment settling in your stomach. of course. of course, it’s just a joke to him. what did you expect? for him to treat you any differently than the rest? for him to see you the way you’ve been aching to be seen?

the rest of lunch passes in a blur, the conversations flowing around you like a river you’re not a part of. you pick at your food, pushing it around your plate, the clinking of your fork scraping against the ceramic the only noise you can focus on. 

minjeong keeps glancing your way, her sharp eyes picking up on every little detail—the way your shoulders slump, the tightness in your grip on the fork, the way you avoid looking at wonbin and the waitress. but she doesn’t press you. instead, she fills the silence with casual chatter, steering the conversation with hongjoong and gunil to keep the mood light, oblivious to the silent storm brewing inside you.

after lunch, the band decides to split up, each member heading off to explore the city. 

‘you’re sure you don’t want me to come?’ yunjin asks for the third time, her concern evident in the way her brow furrows.

‘i’m sure. the sauna is practically calling your name.’

you appreciate her care, but you need space, a chance to clear your head, so you reassure her—once, twice, three times—that you’re fine, and eventually, she relents, leaving you to set out on your own journey.

the city sprawls out before you, a living, breathing entity, pulsing with its own rhythm. the air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee from nearby street vendors, mingling with the distant smell of fried food, an irresistible mix of sweetness and grease. you let the city wash over you, each breath filling your lungs with the complex and layered aroma of urban life.

around you, the world hums with motion—cars push through narrow streets, their engines growling low, while people weave through the crowds, heads down, absorbed in their own worlds. some laugh together, their voices rising above the background noise like the vibrant splash of colors on a gray canvas. others move with purpose, brisk steps tapping out a beat that seems to sync with the traffic lights’ rhythmic change from red to green.

 but you? you’re aimless, walking without direction, letting the city lead you.

the buildings loom tall and worn, their facades cracked with the weight of time. but they’re beautiful in their imperfection, each one telling a different story—a hidden history locked behind iron railings and shuttered windows. a passerby brushes past you, the scent of lavender and rain trailing after her, stirring something in you. memories you can’t quite place. emotions you don’t want to linger on.

as you walk, the sky above shifts from its bright afternoon blue to the soft, golden tones of dusk, the sun dipping low on the horizon, painting the world in hues of amber and rose. the city is bathed in this light, casting long shadows that dance across the pavement as you make your way toward the river. 

there’s something about this time of day that always makes you feel like you’re suspended between worlds—the day slipping away, but the night not quite here yet. it’s a quiet liminality that you can’t help but be drawn to.

when you reach the bridge, you stop, unable to move forward. the view takes your breath away—suddenly, all the noise, the chaos of the city, seems to fade into the background, replaced by the soft sound of the river below. 

it’s not a large river, but the way it winds through the city gives it a kind of intimacy, as if it’s cradling the streets and the buildings in its gentle flow. you lean against the railing, letting the cool metal press into your palms, grounding you in this moment.

the water reflects the sky, rippling with streaks of gold and violet, shimmering like liquid glass. the breeze carries a hint of something clean, something fresh—like the promise of a new beginning, mingled with the earthy scent of the riverbanks. 

you close your eyes, letting the wind brush against your face, soft as a whispered secret, and for a moment, you feel at peace. it’s as if the weight you’ve been carrying—the heaviness that’s been lodged in your chest since lunch—has lifted, even if only for a few heartbeats.

there’s something about this spot on the bridge, overlooking the water, that makes everything else seem distant and small. maybe it’s the way the river seems to know no rush, flowing steadily despite the frantic pace of the city around it. or maybe it’s the way the sky opens up here, wider and more expansive than it feels anywhere else. you breathe in deeply, tasting the coolness in the air, and feel something inside you unfurl, like a knot loosening.

you think of wonbin, unbidden, his name drifting into your mind like a leaf floating downstream. the river reminds you of him in some strange way—his easygoing nature, the way he never seems hurried, always flowing through life with a kind of effortless grace. 

wonbin, who draws people in with his warmth, his laugh, his casual touch. you can’t help but wonder if he ever feels like this river—steady on the surface, but with currents below that pull in directions no one else can see.

as you watch the water ripple and shimmer, you think about how he can be both comforting and unsettling, like the river itself. you’re drawn to him, unable to resist, but there’s always this sense that if you let yourself get too close, you might be swept away, carried somewhere you can’t follow.

but here, on this bridge, with the wind gently tugging at your hair, you can almost forget about the complications. here, everything is simple—just you, the river, and the sky, vast and infinite, stretching out before you like a promise. you hold onto that feeling, let it wrap around you like a soft blanket.

the city moves on around you—cars continue to pass behind you, their headlights flickering on as the sky darkens, the murmur of distant voices rising and falling like the tide. 

but for a moment, it’s just you and the bridge, suspended in time. you watch the last of the sunlight glint off the water, and in this quiet space, you allow yourself to imagine that maybe things could be different. that maybe there’s a world where you and wonbin could exist without all the messy, complicated feelings in between.

but the moment passes, as it always does. you feel the weight return to your chest, pressing down, familiar and heavy. still, you’re grateful for this brief escape, this small slice of peace carved out of the chaos. it’s enough, for now.

with a soft sigh, you turn away from the river, the city’s energy calling you back. the streets are alive with neon lights now, glowing signs flashing in shop windows, casting strange colors across the sidewalks. the air has grown cooler, the scent of rain in the distance—just a hint, enough to make the evening feel electric, like anything could happen.

and as you walk back through the city, the noise and lights swirling around you, your steps are heavy as you make your way back to your hotel.

the hotel hallway is dimly lit, bathed in a soft golden hue from the overhead lights. it’s quiet here, the noise of the city reduced to a low murmur beyond the thick walls. your footsteps echo lightly on the carpet as you approach your door, pulling the earbuds from your ears, only to pause when you see him.

wonbin.

he’s leaning against the wall beside your door, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his head tilted back just enough that the soft light casts shadows along his sharp jawline. the sight of him, so effortlessly at ease, makes your heart lurch in your chest. he shouldn’t be here, not like this, not when you’ve spent the whole day trying to escape the lingering weight of him.

you stop a few paces away, unsure of what to say, what to feel. the hallway feels too small suddenly, like there’s not enough air. your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, a nervous habit you can’t seem to break when he’s around.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intended.

he glances over at you, his gaze soft, warm in a way that makes your defenses falter. 

“just wondering what everyone was up to,” he says casually, as if standing outside your door at night is the most natural thing in the world. “seems like you’re the only one who left the hotel.”

you nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “yeah, just needed some air. the city’s nice.” your words feel flat, hollow, compared to the tension simmering beneath your skin.

he pushes off the wall, taking a step toward you, and you feel the shift in the air between you. “and you?” he asks, his voice a little softer now, more careful. “what did you get up to?”

you hesitate, avoiding his gaze as you focus on the small scuffs on the floor. “nothing much. walked around. found a bridge over the river. just... cleared my head.”

“sounds peaceful.”

“yeah,” you say, your voice almost a whisper, because it was peaceful—until he showed up here, dredging up all the feelings you’d been trying to bury. you glance up at him, and there’s something in his expression that makes you pause, something almost hesitant, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“the waitress, the one we met earlier,” he says, and your stomach twists at the mention of her. “we just went for some drinks and stuff.”

you force yourself to nod, to play it cool, even as your heart sinks, the reality of who wonbin is—a man who floats effortlessly from one person to the next, always wanted, always admired—settling heavily in your chest. “cool,” you say, and it sounds so painfully detached that you almost wince at yourself.

“i invited her to the show in two days too,” he adds, and you  just offer a tight smile, biting back the words lodged in your throat.

“nice.”

the silence between you stretches, taut and fragile, and you can feel the weight of all the unsaid things pressing down on you. you wonder if he feels it too—the unspoken words hanging in the air like something tangible, something you could almost reach out and touch if you were brave enough.

wonbin shifts, his gaze lingering on you longer than usual, like he’s searching for something in your expression. there’s a flicker of something—hesitation? concern?—before he speaks again.

“you’re beautiful, you know.”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath from your lungs. your heart stumbles in your chest, and you can’t tell if it’s hope or heartbreak that surges through you. you choke on the reply, swallowing hard as you manage to get something out.

“what?”

he steps closer, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “there’s beauty in everyone,” he continues, his gaze locking onto yours, “and i think everyone should feel content with the image that looks back at them in the mirror.”

his words hang in the air between you, confusing and heavy, and you’re left reeling, unsure of where this conversation is heading. “wonbin,” you murmur, your voice cracking slightly, “i don’t understand.”

he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “today, at lunch... i noticed you didn’t eat much. i—look, i know it’s none of my business, really, but food’s important, you know? i just... i worry.”

it’s the last thing you expected him to say. out of everything, out of the teasing, the flirting, this is the side of him that always catches you off guard—the part that notices, the part that cares in ways that seem too deep for someone who glides so easily through life. it’s this part of him that keeps you tethered to something you know you shouldn’t hold onto.

“i don’t have an eating disorder, if that’s what you’re getting at,” you say, your voice firmer now, but still tinged with the vulnerability he’s brought to the surface. “i just wasn’t particularly hungry this afternoon.”

the relief that washes over his face is so immediate, so genuine, that it leaves you feeling disarmed. “okay, good. it’s been on my mind all evening, you know?” he says, his voice soft, like he’s embarrassed to admit it.

there’s a strange warmth in your chest at the thought of him worrying about you, of all people. and yet, it hurts too—because this is who he is. he cares, but not in the way you want him to. he notices, but it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough.

“i appreciate it, though,” you murmur, your fingers still playing with the edge of your jacket, trying to keep yourself together. “it’s sweet of you.”

he smiles at that, a small, lopsided grin that sends a familiar ache through you. “of course. what are bandmates for, right?”

bandmates. 

the word feels like a knife twisting in your gut, cutting away the tiny, fragile hope you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding onto. because that’s all you are to him. a bandmate. nothing more.

“right,” you echo, your voice barely audible.

wonbin watches you for a moment longer, and you can see the wheels turning in his mind, like there’s something else he wants to say, but he’s not sure how to put it into words. the tension between you is thick, the air charged with everything unsaid, everything you’re both too afraid to acknowledge.

but then, he steps back, breaking the moment. “anyway,” he says, his tone shifting back to something lighter, more familiar, “as long as you’re good, peace has been restored. i’m calling it a night.”

he flashes you one last grin, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes that makes your heart stutter. “see you tomorrow, rockstar.”

and just like that, he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway, leaving you standing there in the wake of his absence. the air feels heavier without him, the silence more oppressive. you release a breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest from the whirlwind of emotions he stirred up in you.

you stand there for a moment longer, staring at the spot where he stood, the soft echo of his words still ringing in your ears. and despite everything—despite knowing that he’ll never see you the way you see him, despite the reality of who he is—you can’t help but feel that tiny spark of hope flicker inside you again, fragile but alive.

it’s dangerous, you know. but it’s there, all the same.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the new day dawns quietly, the early morning light filtering through the blinds of your hotel room. you lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, last night’s conversation with wonbin still playing on a loop in your mind. 

his words, his teasing, and that moment of softness when he told you he noticed—when he worried. it’s confusing, this strange dance between hope and heartbreak that seems to fill every interaction with him.

as you rise and get ready, there’s a nervous energy buzzing through your veins. today is the last practice before tomorrow’s performance, and the air is thick with anticipation. 

but for you, it’s more than that. after everything that happened, after everything unsaid, you feel like you’re bursting with emotions, your feelings for wonbin spilling out of you in ways you can’t control. and the only way to channel it is through your music.

you arrive at the rehearsal space, guitar case in hand, notebook tucked under your arm, ready to pour your heart into the one thing that’s always understood you. music.

 it’s the only place where the depth of your emotions feels safe, where you can express the longing, the yearning, the pain without anyone truly seeing. even when the lyrics are about him—about wonbin—they’re wrapped in enough metaphor and abstraction to keep your secret safe.

the room smells faintly of dust and wood, with the sound of instruments being tuned filling the air. there’s a comforting chaos to it, the familiar noise of creativity in motion. as you set up your gear, you can feel wonbin’s presence across the room, laughing with yunjin, his voice carrying over the clatter of the drum kit. he’s always the center of attention, always so effortlessly charming. you steal a glance in his direction, and for a moment, your heart skips a beat. it’s maddening, this pull he has over you—how one look from him can unravel everything.

but you can’t focus on that now. not here. not when you’re about to rehearse. you sit down, opening your notebook, the pages filled with half-finished lyrics, scribbled thoughts, fragments of your heart. your pen hovers above the page, and before you know it, the words begin to flow again. your emotions surge, and you lose yourself in the process, writing about the ache in your chest, the way he makes you feel like you’re always on the edge of something that never quite happens.

you pour everything into the lyrics—the desire, the longing, the frustration of loving someone who will never truly be yours. every word feels like a release, like you’re cutting open your soul and letting it bleed onto the page. your fingers grip the pen tighter, your handwriting becoming more frantic, more intense.

it’s only when you hear wonbin’s voice that you snap out of your trance.

“who’s the lucky guy?” his voice is teasing, lighthearted, but the words make your heart stumble.

before you can react, he’s next to you, reaching down and snatching your notebook from your hands. panic flares in your chest as he holds it above your head, his eyes skimming the pages.

“give it back, wonbin,” you say, your voice coming out small, almost pleading. you reach up, trying to grab it, but he’s taller, and he holds it out of your reach effortlessly. his grin widens at your feeble attempts, a playful glint in his eyes.

“he must be someone great if he’s got you all flustered,” he says, and there’s a flicker of something deeper in his tone, but you can’t quite place it.

“wonbin, seriously.” your voice is barely a whisper now, embarrassment flooding through you as he begins to read the lyrics aloud.

“‘long dark hair, pink lips,’” he continues, his voice lilting as he teases you, and you feel yourself shrinking under the weight of his words. your cheeks burn with embarrassment, your heart thudding in your chest as if he’s exposing a part of you you weren’t ready for anyone to see.

“stop embarrassing the poor woman and give her the book back,” minjeong scolds as she walks past, smacking the back of wonbin’s head. he yelps, rubbing the spot with an exaggerated pout.

“i was just looking,” he says, handing the notebook back to you. “she’s always writing so seriously, i wondered what her creative process was.”

you snatch the notebook from his hands, clutching it to your chest like a shield as you retreat to the other side of the room. your fingers tremble slightly as you shove the notebook into your bag, your heart still racing from the encounter. it feels like he’s peeled back a layer of you, like he’s seen something you didn’t want anyone to see.

“are you mad at me?” wonbin calls after you, his voice lighter now, like he’s trying to smooth over the awkwardness.

you don’t answer. you can’t. your emotions are too raw, too exposed. instead, you busy yourself with packing up your things, hoping that by avoiding his gaze, you can somehow hold it all together.

but wonbin isn’t one to let things go. you feel his presence behind you before he speaks again, his voice softer this time, more serious. 

“are you really upset with me?” he asks, and there’s a hint of genuine concern in his tone as he taps your shoulder.

you turn around reluctantly, meeting his eyes. there’s no trace of the teasing smirk now, just a look of quiet apology. he’s standing so close, and the air between you feels charged, like there’s something unspoken hanging in the space.

you sigh, because the truth is, you could never be mad at him. not really. whether he teased you, invaded your personal space, or had a knack for breaking hearts, yours included, it’s impossible to stay angry at him. not when his mere presence has the power to undo you completely.

“i admire your writing, you know,” he says softly, not breaking eye contact. “you always have the best lyrics. i really was just curious about how you come up with things. sorry if i took it too far.”

his apology is sincere, and for a moment, you see the side of him that pulls you in every time—the side that notices, that cares in his own way, even if it’s not in the way you want him to. his hand comes up, fingers lightly brushing the top of your head, a gesture that’s both comforting and familiar, and it sends a warmth through you that you can’t quite describe.

“it’s fine,” you mumble, looking down at your feet, your fingers still gripping the strap of your bag. “it’s no big deal.”

but it is a big deal. because no matter how much he cares, no matter how much he notices, it’s never enough. he’ll never see you the way you see him. he’ll never feel the way you feel.

wonbin smiles then, a small, lopsided grin that makes your heart ache. “good. i hate it when you’re mad at me.”

you manage a weak smile in return, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. the tension between you lingers, thick and heavy, but there’s nothing more to say. not now, not here.

the rest of the band starts filtering in, and the room fills with the sound of tuning instruments, conversations overlapping as the practice session begins. you try to push the encounter out of your mind, to focus on the music, but it’s hard when wonbin is so close, his presence a constant reminder of everything you can’t have.

as the rehearsal starts, you pick up your guitar, your fingers moving instinctively over the strings. the notes flow easily, but today there’s something more—something raw, something fierce. it’s like all the emotions you’ve been holding back are suddenly finding their way into the music, spilling out in every chord, every melody.

the lyrics you wrote earlier echo in your mind, and when it’s your turn to sing, you let them pour out of you. the words carry all the weight of your unspoken feelings—the longing, the heartache, the love you can’t express. it feels like your soul is on display, laid bare in the music, but at least here, in the safety of the band, no one truly knows what you’re singing about. no one knows that every word is for him.

wonbin’s voice joins yours in harmony, his guitar blending seamlessly with yours, and for a moment, it feels like you’re connected in a way that transcends everything else. 

the music is the only place where you can be close to him, where you can express everything you feel without fear of rejection or misunderstanding. and yet, it’s bittersweet, because even here, even in the one place where your feelings are safe, he’ll never truly understand.

the rehearsal continues, but as the hours pass, your emotions only grow more intense. every time wonbin teases you, every time he flashes that smile, it feels like another crack in the fragile armor you’ve built around your heart. and yet, the music becomes more powerful because of it. the more you hurt, the more you pour into the songs, into the lyrics, into every note you play.

by the time practice wraps up, you’re emotionally spent. your body feels heavy with exhaustion, but your mind is still buzzing, still racing with everything left unsaid. wonbin gives you a playful nudge as you pack up your things, his smile easy, carefree, like the day’s events have already slipped from his mind. but for you, they linger. they always do.

“you okay?” he asks, and there’s a softness to his voice that makes you pause.

“yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile.

 “just tired.”

he nods, not pressing further, but his eyes linger on you for a moment longer, as if he’s searching for something beneath the surface. but whatever it is, he doesn’t find it. or maybe he just doesn’t care enough to look.

“see you tomorrow, rockstar,” he says with a wink before heading out, leaving you standing there, notebook clutched tightly in your hands.

and as you watch him walk away, you can’t help but feel that same familiar ache, the one that never seems to go away. because no matter how much you pour into your music, no matter how many songs you write, no matter how hard you try to move on, the truth remains the same.

you’re in love with someone who will never love you back.

and the music—your music—is the only place where that love can live.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

the day of the performance arrives like a storm building on the horizon, an electric anticipation humming in the air around you. the venue is already packed, people milling about, chattering, laughing, the smell of beer and sweat mixing with the faint scent of perfume and leather jackets. the stage looms ahead, dimly lit for now, but you can already feel the weight of the spotlight on your skin, the pulse of the audience vibrating beneath your feet. your heart beats in rhythm with the buzz, the nervous energy thrumming in your chest.

you and the band stand backstage, adjusting your instruments, fine-tuning guitars, stretching fingers. there’s a quiet before the storm, a moment where everything is still, but you know it’s just the calm before the chaos. 

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back turned to you as he checks the tuning of his guitar. the sight of him is enough to make your stomach twist—his dark hair falls freely over his forehead, strands slipping into his eyes, and there’s a quiet confidence in the way he holds himself, like he was made for this moment. you’ve always admired that about him. his ease, his ability to command attention without even trying.

“you ready?” yunjin’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and you turn to find her smiling, the excitement in her eyes mirroring your own.

“as ready as i’ll ever be,” you say, trying to sound confident, but there’s an edge to your voice, a tremor of something else—something deeper. 

because tonight feels different. heavier. there’s something lodged in your chest, something that’s been building since last night’s encounter with wonbin, and you’re not sure how much longer you can keep it contained.

“don’t worry, we’ll kill it,” yunjin says with a grin, throwing her arm around your shoulders. her confidence is contagious, but it doesn’t quite reach the core of your anxiety. because no matter how well the performance goes, there’s a weight hanging between you and wonbin, something unspoken that you can’t seem to shake.

the moment comes, and you all take the stage. the lights flicker on, illuminating the faces of the audience as they cheer, their energy palpable. you grip your guitar tightly, feeling the familiar warmth of the instrument against your body. it’s a comfort, a lifeline. music has always been the only place where you feel like you belong, where you can channel the torrent of emotions inside you. and tonight, you need it more than ever.

the first chords ring out, the music taking over, and the world around you falls away. everything fades except for the sound of the instruments, the pounding rhythm of the drums, the pulse of the bass. you lose yourself in the music, pouring all of your unspoken feelings into every note, every strum of your guitar. it’s a release, a way to express everything you’ve been holding back. and for a while, it works. the music becomes your escape, your way of drowning out the noise in your heart.

but then there’s wonbin. he’s always there, lingering in the corner of your vision, impossible to ignore. he plays with an intensity that’s magnetic, the way his fingers move over the strings like it’s second nature, the guitar becoming an extension of him. a thin layer of sweat glistens on his forehead, catching the light, and his hair falls messily into his eyes. there’s something almost untamed about him in these moments, like the music sets him free, strips him of all the layers and pretenses he wears so effortlessly offstage.

and then, just like that, he looks at you.

time slows, the world around you fading into the background as the spotlight seems to shine brighter on him, illuminating every detail. his gaze locks with yours, and it’s like the music takes on a different meaning. his lips curl into that grin, the one that makes your heart stutter in your chest, and for a moment, you forget where you are. it’s just the two of you, suspended in that electric moment, the crowd, the lights, the noise all falling away.

you pour everything into the strings beneath your fingers, strumming with a desperation you can’t quite control. every chord is a prayer, a plea for this moment to last just a little longer, for this connection, however fleeting, to mean something more. your chest tightens with the intensity of it, and you pray that he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble, the way your heart races. but he’s looking at you, really looking, and it feels like he can see straight through the facade you’ve so carefully constructed.

you lose yourself in the music, strumming harder, fingers moving faster as if you can escape the weight of his gaze. but it doesn’t work. he’s still there, still watching, still grinning like he knows exactly what’s going on inside you. and maybe he does. maybe he’s always known.

the song ends, the final chord ringing out into the air, and the crowd erupts into cheers, but you barely hear it. your chest heaves with the effort, your fingers aching from the intensity, but your mind is still stuck on that moment, that look. you glance over at wonbin, and he’s already turned away, his focus shifted, like it was nothing. like it always is.

the rest of the set passes in a blur of sound and lights, but your mind is elsewhere. your emotions are too raw, too exposed. every note feels like a confession, every lyric like a piece of your heart being laid bare. and when the performance finally ends, you feel like you’ve run a marathon, emotionally spent and physically exhausted.

but the night isn’t over yet.

you’re barely offstage before the others are already making plans to go out, to celebrate the successful performance. there’s a wild energy in the air, everyone high on the adrenaline of the show, arms thrown around shoulders, laughter spilling out into the night as you make your way to the club. you don’t have the energy to protest, not when hongjoong drags you along, insisting you come out and celebrate. you plaster on a smile, trying to hide the exhaustion, the emotional turmoil still swirling inside you.

the club is dark and loud, the music thumping through the speakers, vibrating through the floor. the smell of alcohol and sweat is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. the others scatter, disappearing into the crowd, already lost in the haze of celebration.

you find yourself at the bar, drink in hand, trying to numb the ache in your chest. you don’t know why you’re here, don’t know why you agreed to this when all you want to do is disappear, to escape the weight of your own feelings. but then you see him.

wonbin.

he’s surrounded by girls, as usual, laughing and flirting effortlessly, his hand resting casually on some girl’s waist. the sight of it makes your stomach twist, the familiar ache of jealousy settling in. you watch from a distance, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of your emotions but not enough to stop the pang of hurt that hits you every time he flashes that grin, every time he leans in too close to one of them.

it’s always like this. always. he’s there, right in front of you, but somehow always just out of reach. no matter how much you want him, no matter how much you try to bury your feelings, it’s like he’s always pulling you in, only to slip through your fingers again. and tonight, after everything, after the performance, after the way he looked at you—tonight it’s too much.

you down another drink, the burn of alcohol sliding down your throat, but it’s not enough to drown out the frustration, the heartache. the room spins slightly, the edges of your vision blurring, but there’s a strange clarity in your mind—a single thought that pushes its way to the forefront.

you can’t do this anymore. you can’t keep pretending, can’t keep holding back. you want him. and tonight, you’re done hiding it.

before you know it, your feet are moving, carrying you through the crowd, weaving between bodies until you find yourself standing in front of him. he’s alone now, the girls having wandered off somewhere else, and he looks at you with mild surprise, his usual easy smile slipping onto his lips.

“hey,” he says, his voice loud enough to cut through the music. “you okay?”

you don’t answer, your mind a blur of alcohol and desire, your body moving on its own as you take a step closer, your gaze locked on his. the distance between you disappears, and you reach up, your fingers brushing against his chest as you stand on your tiptoes, your heart racing, your mind screaming at you to stop, but your body doesn’t listen.

you kiss him.

for a moment, everything freezes. time seems to stop, the world around you fading into nothing as your lips press against his. he’s still at first, his body tense, frozen in place as if he’s processing what just happened. you can feel the confusion in the way he hesitates, the way his breath catches in his throat, but you don’t care. not anymore.

and then, slowly, he kisses you back.

his hand comes up to your waist, fingers curling around your side, pulling you closer. his lips move against yours with practiced ease, and it’s everything you imagined and more. there’s a heat to it, a spark, like a wildfire igniting between the two of you, and for a moment, you lose yourself in it. his scent overwhelms your senses, the familiar mix of sweat and cologne, and you’re drowning in it, in him and your mind goes blank, your body melting into his.

as the kiss ends, the silence between you is thick, like the air before a storm, heavy with unspoken words and lingering emotions. wonbin’s gaze locks onto yours, intense and searching, as if he’s trying to decipher the whirlwind of feelings swirling between you. for a moment, the world outside seems to blur, the neon lights and pounding music fading into the background, leaving only the two of you in sharp focus. the heat of the kiss lingers, not just on your lips, but in the space between you, like a promise that neither of you fully understands yet.

you try to gather your thoughts, to make sense of the chaos inside you, but the alcohol has stripped away your defenses, leaving you raw and exposed. your heart pounds in your chest, each beat echoing the deep bass of the club’s music, but all of it feels distant, irrelevant compared to the electric connection that still crackles between you and wonbin. the room spins slightly, the haze of the night adding a surreal edge to everything, but there’s a clarity in this moment that cuts through it all, a truth you can no longer ignore.

without waiting for doubt to creep in, you lean in again, driven by instinct rather than logic. the second kiss is not just an act, but a collision of need and longing, a desperate attempt to bridge the gap between what you feel and what you fear. wonbin meets you with equal intensity, his hands finding your hips, anchoring you to him as if afraid you might slip away. the world tilts, the music and the crowd fading into a distant hum, until all that remains is the two of you, lost in each other.

his lips are warm, insistent, a source of comfort and urgency all at once. his breath mingles with yours, a shared warmth that blurs the lines between where you end and he begins. the grip of his hands is firm, but there’s a tenderness there too, a carefulness that belies the intensity of the moment. it’s as if he’s trying to hold on to something fragile, something that could shatter with the wrong move.

the kiss deepens, and with it, the connection between you grows, becoming more urgent, more undeniable. you can feel his heart racing against your chest, the rhythm of it syncing with your own, a shared pulse that echoes the emotions neither of you has dared to speak aloud. the heat between you is overwhelming, like standing too close to a fire, but instead of pulling away, you find yourself leaning into it, craving the warmth, the intensity, the clarity it brings.

when wonbin finally pulls back, just enough to catch his breath, his eyes are darker, filled with a mix of emotions that make your own heart ache. there’s desire there, yes, but also something softer, something that makes you feel both vulnerable and cherished. it’s a look that asks a question without words, a silent plea for understanding, for reassurance.

"are you sure about this?" he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper, carrying a weight of concern and eagerness. it’s a question loaded with meaning, with the potential for everything to change, and you can see the vulnerability in his gaze, the way he’s letting you see a part of him that he usually keeps hidden.

you swallow, the words catching in your throat, but you manage to nod, your voice trembling slightly as you say, "yes, i’m sure." it’s the truth, the only truth that matters right now, because despite everything—the chaos, the fear, the uncertainty—being here with him feels right in a way that nothing else has.

without another word, he takes your hand, his touch grounding you, steadying you as he guides you through the throng of people. the club’s lights blur into a kaleidoscope of colors, the pounding music a distant echo as you make your way outside. the cool night air hits your skin, a refreshing contrast to the heat that still lingers between you, clearing your head just enough to remind you that this is real, that this moment is yours.

you stumble slightly, the effects of the alcohol and the adrenaline making your steps unsteady, but wonbin is there, his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. his presence is a steady force amidst the chaos, a reminder that you’re not alone in this, that whatever happens next, you’ll face it together.

"come on," he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine. "let’s get out of here." there’s a promise in his words, not of anything specific, but of something more, something that goes beyond the night, beyond the fleeting intensity of the moment.

you nod, allowing him to lead you down the street, your steps unsure but your heart racing with a sense of anticipation that feels almost electric. the city night is alive around you, the air buzzing with energy, with possibilities that make your pulse quicken. the streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement, the cool breeze carrying the scent of the night—an intoxicating mix of urban grit and something sweeter, more elusive, like the promise of something just out of reach.

as you walk, wonbin’s hand in yours is a constant, a tether that keeps you grounded as your thoughts swirl. there’s a peace in the quiet of the night, a stillness that contrasts sharply with the chaos of the club, allowing you to focus on what truly matters—the connection between you, the unspoken understanding that has always been there, simmering beneath the surface.

when you reach a quiet corner, the world seems to slow, the moment stretching out as if to give you both the time to breathe, to think, to feel. wonbin turns to you, his gaze sweeping over your face, and there’s a tenderness there that makes your heart ache in the best way possible. his eyes search yours, looking for any sign of doubt, of hesitation, but finding none.

"are you okay?" he asks, his voice gentle but laced with an urgency that matches the unspoken question in his eyes. he reaches out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, the touch so tender it nearly undoes you.

"yeah," you whisper, your voice barely audible, but filled with all the emotion you can’t quite express. "i’m okay."

he smiles then, a slow, almost hesitant smile that warms you from the inside out. "good," he says softly, his hands finding their way to your shoulders, grounding you with their warmth. "because i’ve wanted this—wanted you—for a long time."

the confession hangs between you, heavy with meaning, with the weight of all the moments that led to this one. you don’t need to respond with words; the look in your eyes says it all. before you can overthink it, he leans in again, his lips finding yours in a kiss that feels both urgent and tender, a reaffirmation of everything you’ve both been holding back.

in that moment, the world narrows to just the two of you, the connection deepening with each shared breath, each touch, each whispered promise. 

and as the night stretches on, drunken stumbles back to your hotel room, the hastened shedding of clothing, you lose yourself in that electric feeling, of the raw desire and wanting.

‘condom?’ wonbin asks, hovering over you, his necklace dangling conveniently over your eyes, hair loose and wild, falling over his eyes. you almost forgot to respond to him, captivated in how effortlessly he draws your gaze.

it’s not until you feel him tap your chin, his eyes peering into your soul, do you remember that he had asked you a question.

‘i’m on the pill. don’t need one.’

you’re sure that your sentences could have been more intelligible, but the desire coursing through your body, searing your insides and bubbling at your core had cut any chance of that happening.

‘like music to my ears.’

his head dips down to your neck, his lips soft against your burning skin, teasing you with light kisses as you squirmed underneath him.

‘wonbin,’ you pleaded, your thighs clenching as you look up at him, begging him to do what you had dreaming about for months.

‘patience, angel. good things come to those that wait.’

he continues his agonisingly slow teasing, the smirk on his lips practically plastered on his face, enjoying the increase of your neediness.

he took note of the way your breath hitched when his fingers dipped underneath your underwear, or when they traced small circles on your nioples.

he delighted in the way you bucked into his palm when his fingers finally entered you, a long whine leaving your lips as you throw your head back.

‘so needy. you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

the feeling of his skilfully long fingers stretching you so well, hitting all of the right spots, renders you speechless, and your mouth hangs open, words unable to escape.

‘of course you have, look at how wet you are.’

it’s sinful, the noises that reverberate around the thin hotel room walls, your eyes practically reaching your skull as your fingers curl around his wrist, simultaneously pushing him away and pulling him closer.

‘you’re about to cum, aren’t you baby? you want to cum so badly, want me to make you cum?’ your thoughts are clouded, wonbin’s voice nothing but white noise as you desperately chase that feeling in your lower stomach, nodding repeatedly.

after a couple more strokes you come undone, thighs shaking as they close around his fingers, your head thrown all the way back as you miss the way he licks his lips, only growing harder.

‘think you can give me another one angel?’

as you lose yourselves in the quiet intimacy of the moment, you can’t help but cling to the hope that this night is just the beginning of something more, something lasting. for now, though, the simple joy of being here, in this moment with him, is enough, your sweaty bodies clinging to each other in a hazy swirl of lust.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

waking up feels like surfacing from deep water—your head pounds with every pulse of your heart, each thud sending waves of pain crashing through your skull. the sunlight that spills through the curtains is too bright, stabbing into your eyes like needles, and you groan, burying your face in the pillow in a futile attempt to escape it. your throat is dry, parched as if you’ve swallowed sandpaper, and the taste of stale alcohol lingers on your tongue, sour and bitter.

but despite the hangover, despite the discomfort, there’s a warmth that blooms in your chest when you remember last night. a soft smile tugs at your lips, and you let out a small, contented sigh, the memory of wonbin’s touch, his kiss, his whispered words still fresh in your mind. it feels like a dream, like something too good to be true, but the way your heart skips a beat when you think of him reassures you that it was real, that you took the leap you’ve been too scared to take for so long.

and for a moment, you let yourself believe that it meant something, that maybe, just maybe, wonbin feels the same way you do.

with that thought in mind, you force yourself to sit up, the room spinning slightly as you swing your legs over the side of the bed. you press your fingers to your temples, trying to ease the pounding in your head, but it’s no use. the hangover is a stubborn beast, and it’s not going to let you off easy today. but you push through it, fueled by the remnants of last night’s euphoria, and after a few minutes of sitting there, breathing deeply, you manage to stand.

the first thing you do is check your phone, hoping for a message from wonbin, some acknowledgment of what happened between you. but there’s nothing—just a few unread messages from the group chat. your heart sinks a little, but you tell yourself it’s fine, that he’s probably just as hungover as you are and hasn’t gotten around to messaging anyone yet. still, a small seed of doubt plants itself in your mind, and you shake your head, trying to dislodge it before it can take root.

you glance at the group chat, eyes skimming over the messages. yunjin’s suggesting everyone meet for food in the hotel conference room, and your stomach grumbles in response, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since yesterday. the idea of food is both appealing and nauseating at the same time, but you know you need something in your system to soak up the lingering alcohol. besides, you’ll get to see wonbin, and maybe… maybe you can talk, clear up whatever uncertainties are creeping in.

so you pull yourself together, forcing yourself through the motions of getting dressed, splashing water on your face, and downing a glass of water in hopes of quelling the dehydration. each movement feels heavy, your limbs weighed down by the combination of hangover and nerves, but you push through, determined to keep the fragile hope from last night alive.

by the time you reach the conference room, the smell of food is already wafting through the air—greasy, comforting, the kind of food that’s perfect for soaking up a night of too much drinking. you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself as you push open the door, your eyes immediately scanning the room for wonbin.

and there he is.

but he’s not alone.

the sight of him with the waitress hits you like a punch to the gut, the breath knocked out of your lungs as you freeze in the doorway. she’s draped on his arm, her body pressed close to his, her lips dangerously close to his ear as she whispers something you can’t hear. but it’s the way he smiles down at her, the way he laughs softly at whatever she’s saying, that twists the knife deeper into your chest.

time seems to slow, each second stretching out into an eternity as you stand there, rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to breathe. the warmth that had filled you just moments ago is gone, replaced by a cold, hollow ache that spreads through your chest like ice. the hope you’d clung to shatters, the pieces falling around you like broken glass, and you can do nothing but watch as wonbin slips further and further away from you, even as he stands just a few feet away.

he notices you then, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, and for a moment, you think you see something—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it’s gone too quickly, replaced by that same easy smile, the one that never quite reaches his eyes. he disentangles himself from the waitress, murmuring something to her that makes her giggle before she walks away, her hips swaying as she disappears into the crowd.

you want to run, to turn around and leave before he can say anything, before he can break your heart all over again, but your legs refuse to move. you’re trapped, caught in the web of your own feelings, and all you can do is watch as he walks toward you, his expression carefully neutral.

"hey," he says softly, his voice barely audible over the buzz of conversation in the room. "can we talk?"

you nod, unable to find your voice, and he gestures for you to follow him out into the hallway. the walls seem to close in around you as you walk, each step heavier than the last, and by the time you’re standing alone with him, your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest.

"about last night…" he starts, running a hand through his hair, and you can see the hesitation in his eyes, the way he’s struggling to find the right words. "i just… i don’t want you to get the wrong idea."

the wrong idea. the words hit you like a slap, and you flinch, the sharp sting of rejection cutting through you like a knife. you can feel your hands trembling, so you clench them into fists at your sides, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep from falling apart right in front of him.

"what do you mean?" you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper. you already know what he’s going to say, but you need to hear it, need to hear the words that will crush whatever hope is left inside you.

he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly as he looks away, unable to meet your gaze. "last night was… it was fun, and i’m glad it happened, but…" he trails off, and you can see the moment he decides to just rip off the band-aid, the moment he stops trying to soften the blow.

 "but it was just a one-time thing, you know? we both had pent up frustration that needed to be released. ii don’t want you to think it was anything more than that."

a one-time thing. the words echo in your mind, each repetition like a hammer driving nails into your heart. you knew it was coming, knew that this was always a possibility, but knowing doesn’t make it any easier. it doesn’t stop the pain, doesn’t stop the feeling of your heart being torn in two.

but you can’t let him see that. you can’t let him see how much it hurts, how deeply his words cut you. so you force yourself to smile, a small, brittle thing that feels like it’s going to crack and shatter at any moment.

"of course," you say, your voice trembling just the slightest bit, but you hope he doesn’t notice. "i didn’t think it was anything more than that." you scoff, trying to play it off as a joke, even though it feels like you’re choking on the words.

 "we were just having fun, right?"

he looks relieved, and it makes you want to scream.

 "yeah, exactly," he says, his smile returning, more genuine this time. "i’m glad you understand. i didn’t want things to get weird between us."

too late, you think, but you bite your tongue, nodding instead. 

"no worries," you say, trying to sound as casual as he does, trying to pretend that your heart isn’t breaking all over again. "we’re good."

but you’re not good. you’re anything but good. you feel like you’re falling apart, like you’re crumbling from the inside out, but you keep it together, holding yourself together with sheer force of will. because what else can you do? you can’t let him see how much he’s hurt you, how much you wanted more, how much you still want more, even now.

he gives you one last smile, a quick pat on the shoulder that feels more like a dismissal than anything else, and then he’s gone, walking back into the conference room without a second glance.

you stand there for a long time after he leaves, your mind spinning, your heart aching. the hallway feels too quiet, too empty, the silence pressing in on you from all sides, and for a moment, you think you might cry, right there in the middle of the hallway. but you don’t. you take a deep breath, blinking back the tears, and tell yourself to hold it together, to not let him have this power over you.

but it’s hard. it’s so hard. because no matter how much you tell yourself that it was just one night, that it didn’t mean anything, you can’t make yourself believe it. you can’t stop the memories from playing over and over in your mind, the way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he kissed you like you were the only person in the world.

but it was all an illusion. a fleeting moment of connection that meant nothing to him, while it meant everything to you. and now you’re left with nothing but the hollow ache of what could have been, the bitter taste of

 rejection that lingers long after he’s gone.

you take a few more breaths, each one shakier than the last, trying to steady the whirlwind inside you. your chest feels like it's collapsing in on itself, a black hole of emotion that pulls everything into its crushing gravity. you know you have to go back into that conference room, to plaster on a smile and pretend that everything is fine, that you aren’t shattering into pieces that will never quite fit together again.

 but the mere thought of seeing wonbin with that waitress—her lips close to his ear, his laughter a blade twisting deeper into your heart—is more than you can bear. it’s a dagger of reality, cold and sharp, cutting through the fragile threads of hope you had woven around yourself.

so you turn away, your feet heavy with the weight of defeat, and walk out of the conference room, leaving behind the clamor of voices and the sound of your own heart breaking. the laughter and conversation fade into a distant hum, as if the world is slipping away from you, leaving you in a void of silence and despair. 

the door to your hotel room closes with a soft click that echoes like a final nail in the coffin of your hopes, sealing you inside with the full force of your emotions.

the silence in the room is oppressive, pressing down on you from all sides. it’s as if the very air has thickened, suffocating you under the weight of your own grief. you collapse onto the bed, your body folding in on itself as if trying to disappear, to escape the relentless ache in your chest. 

you bury your face in the pillow, the fabric quickly growing damp as the tears spill out, hot and bitter, a flood you can’t control. the dam has broken, and the torrent of sorrow rushes out, drowning you in the waves of everything you’ve lost, everything you’ll never have.

you cry for the dreams that have slipped through your fingers like sand, for the love that you poured into him that was never returned, for the hollow realization that you will never be enough for him—never the one he chooses, never the one who makes his heart race the way he makes yours.

 the sobs tear through you, each one a violent convulsion that seems to rip you apart, leaving you gasping for air that never quite reaches your lungs. it feels like you’re drowning, dragged under by the weight of your own despair, struggling to stay afloat in a sea of unspoken words and shattered dreams.

when the tears finally subside, leaving you drained and hollow, you lie there in the suffocating quiet, staring up at the ceiling as the harsh truth settles over you like a shroud. 

wonbin doesn’t want you. 

not in the way you want him. 

the thought is a blade to your heart, each repetition cutting deeper, the wound bleeding out all the love you’ve been holding onto, until there’s nothing left but the numbness of reality. 

you can try to tell yourself that it’s okay, that you’ll move on, that you’ll find a way to let go. but the truth is, you know you won’t. you can’t. because you’re tethered to him by something more than just affection—something that binds you to him with an unbreakable chain, even as it drags you deeper into the abyss of hopeless love.

you’re caught in a cycle of longing and despair, a cruel loop that you can’t escape, no matter how much you want to. you yearn for a man who will never be yours, who refuses to be held down, who looks at you with eyes that see a friend, a companion, but never the love you desperately wish to be. it hurts with an intensity that leaves you breathless, a pain that eclipses all others, and yet you don’t know how to stop it. how to let go of the fantasy that keeps you tethered to him, even though it’s killing you little by little.

so you lie there, letting the pain wash over you, feeling it seep into your bones, until it becomes a part of you, something you carry with you always. because what else can you do? you can’t stop loving him, no matter how much it tears you apart, no matter how much you wish you could simply walk away from the wreckage of your heart. you’re left with nothing but the aching emptiness of unrequited love, a hollow void that echoes with the ghost of what could have been, of what will never be.

and that’s the cruelest part of it all—the knowledge that no matter how deeply it cuts, no matter how desperately you try to stitch the wound shut, you’re trapped in an unending loop, a carousel of heartache that spins endlessly, leaving you dizzy and disoriented.

 it’s like being caught in a storm, where the rain never stops and the clouds never part, and all you can do is shiver in the cold, longing for a sun that never rises. you’re tethered to him by invisible threads, frayed and worn, yet unbreakable. and the harder you pull, the tighter they bind, until you’re suffocating under the weight of a love that feels more like a curse than a gift. it’s this realization, the bitter taste of it on your tongue, that finally breaks you, sending you spiraling into the kind of tears that shake your very soul.

[sunsetkerr]

PITCHES AND FIELDS | s.kerr

summary: you are sam's biggest supporter and she is yours.. sometimes.

pairing: aflw!reader x sam kerr

notes: for my Aussies x

yourinstagram

liked by samanthakerr20, caitlinfoord and 30,391 others yourinstagram in perth watching the mrs put on a show, go tillies!

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samanthakerr20 you know I love an opportunity to show off ↳ caitlinfoord yes we know

user the crows girlies out for the night

alannakennedy loudest in the crowd ↳ yourinstagram sam sat me in general admission so I had to make sure you could hear me ↳ samanthakerr20 putting you in the nosebleeds next time ↳ yourinstagram and I'll be cheering for chinese taipei

user love this!!

user such a great game to watch too

clarewheeler I'm just glad you saw my goal ↳ yourinstagram I cheered the loudest for you x

yourinstagram

liked by samanthakerr20, maddinewman17 and 29,388 others yourinstagram roped sam into a recovery day on the boat with the team, photographer extraordinaire; @aflwcrows hire her

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user its a very good day to like women

mackenziearnold what's in that can skippa?? ↳ samanthakerr20 pre-workout ↳ yourinstagram or something like that

user sam being a lil afl wag is something so special to me ↳ user y/n needs a trade to west coast and she's set ↳ samanthakerr20 thats what I've been saying

caitlinfoord drown her while you're out, yeah? ↳ samanthakerr20 but then how would we win games?

matildas looking good mrs skip! ↳ user did.. did the matildas admin just confirm that they got married? ↳ matildas idk, did we?

samanthakerr20

liked by yourinstagram, maryfowlerrr and 893,128 others samanthakerr20 three goals today for my love, would look even better in blue and gold though 🦅🦅

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eaglesaflw can't argue with that ↳ crowsaflw we can..

yourinstagram how's that for a hat trick? ↳ samanthakerr20 my favourite one was when you were getting tackled to the ground and still kicked it ↳ yourinstagram just an elite athlete really, someone give me the ballon d'or

emilyvanegmond she's just that good ↳ samanthakerr20 stop, her ego is already so big

yourinstagram

liked by samanthakerr20, alannakennedy and 32,398 others yourinstagram had the mini me on the field today

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crowsaflw can't wait to have her wearing that guernsey when playing for us in fifteen years!

user I always forget that they have a kid???? ↳ user not just a kid that's marley kerr ↳ alannakennedy show some respect

samanthakerr20 she belongs on a football pitch ↳ yourinstagram if you actually look at the picture, you will see she is born to be on a footy field x ↳ samanthakerr20 we'll see about that ↳ yourinstagram what are you gonna do? sign her up to the sam kerr football academy??? ↳ samanthakerr20 don't have to sign her up, I know the owner

[venus-haze]

Love Is a Ring on the Telephone (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: When work calls you away from New York, Homelander can’t bear how much he misses you.

Note: Gender neutral reader and no descriptors are used. This fic is fluffy (and shorter than what I usually write) but still a little dark, and takes place vaguely during season 2. Inspired by Bruce Springsteen’s and Patti Smith’s versions of Because the Night (I actually got inspired for a few fics based on various lines in the song). Do not interact if you are under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.6k

Warnings: Some possessive behavior and emotional manipulation (it’s Homelander). Do not interact if you’re under 18.

Homelander stared at the calendar taped to the wall in a desperate hope that he could somehow will time to race forward, and you’d be back home. He missed you terribly, spending the past few nights in your shoebox apartment he had yet to convince you to move out of. It was too cramped and loud for his liking, between your neighbors and the street noise, but he hadn’t realized how attached he’d become to it until you were gone. 

He went as far as pulling on one of your sweatshirts to sleep in, just because it still smelled like you. It was only day two of your five day business trip to a conference in Los Angeles, but each day without you felt like a week that dragged on endlessly. He’d been on bullshit missions from Vought that went longer, ones where he couldn’t even contact you until he returned, his insides shredded to bloody mush at the lingering anxiety that maybe in his absence, you found someone else.

From the moment he stepped into the disgustingly crowded airport with you, a melancholy swept over him. He offered to fly you to your hotel in LA himself, frustrated when you decided to do things the pedestrian way. At least his presence allowed you to skip the security line that stretched all the way back to the bag check as he graciously took selfies with each TSA agent. After all, you couldn’t be a threat if you were with The Homelander of all people. 

He would’ve gone with you, if it weren’t for the ‘Dawn of the Seven’ promotions that Ashley couldn’t get him out of. She nearly threw up while breaking the bad news to him, and he could hear her heart racing even as she practically sprinted down the hallway after he dismissed her. Reluctantly, he stayed behind while you went away, gritting his teeth through every interview and guest appearance. Having been paraded around plenty of Vought conferences himself, he knew damn well plenty of people used them as an excuse to get drunk and fuck around without their significant others’ knowledge.

He huffed, turning away from the calendar and practically rolling his eyes at himself. You’d proven time and time again that he could trust you, that you were the one for him. Still, his self-assurance did nothing to abate the sourness in his stomach, and suddenly, he’d pulled out his phone, ear pressed to the screen as the dial tone rang almost mockingly. He paced the kitchen floor, glancing at the clock on the wall. A little past one in the morning on the West Coast, but you wouldn’t mind if he woke you up.

“Baby? It’s late,” you yawned, the mundane noise making Homelander’s nerves settle slightly. “Is everything okay?”

He chewed his bottom lip, feeling like a schoolgirl calling her crush for the first time, almost instinctively reaching to play with a non-existent phone cord. There was neither pride nor shame when it came to you, only the affection and devotion that he’d spent his life longing for. Your presence soothed him, but your absence made his heart wrench in his chest. 

“Missed you,” he said softly.

“I miss you too. This conference is so boring. The people are weird, and I haven’t gotten a chance to see anything in LA.”

“What’s there to see? You’ve got a hot blond at home,” he said.

Your laughter made him feel indescribably lighter, even when it became muffled by your hand covering your mouth. 

“There aren’t palm trees in New York, smarty.”

“If you wanna see palm trees, I can think of at least five places I can take you that are nicer than LA.”

“I read that some palm trees grow in the Mediterranean, like Greece and Italy.”

“We’ll have to go one day to see, huh?”

You enthusiastically agreed, and he clung to your every word as you described your dream vacations in detail. He’d bring you everywhere, wrapped tightly in his arms from the moment he took off in New York until the two of you inevitably ended up in bed somewhere beautiful and secluded, where you could truly be alone together. 

He wondered what you’d think of moving out of the city, maybe to one of the smaller beach towns out on Long Island or somewhere more secluded in the Catskills. Either way, he’d have a commute for the first time in his life, but he could deal with a quick flight to Vought Tower if it meant waking up beside and coming home to you each day. After years of clamoring for the adoration of the masses, millions of people cheering his name and going into a frenzy in his presence paled in comparison to the sincerity in your voice and steady heartbeat whenever you told him that you loved him. 

Often, he felt like no one else knew what being in love was like, otherwise they wouldn’t make him go on asinine press tours or send you away to the opposite side of the country for a conference. Something so passionate and all-consuming as what he felt for you couldn’t be ruined by distance, and though he could listen to you talk on the phone all night, it wasn’t the same as being able to see and feel you. He’d grown far too accustomed to the warmth and gentleness of your touch, the way your eyes lit up for him and nobody else. 

A loud bang and the sound of drunk chatter outside your room interrupted your voice, and though no human could have heard the commotion so clearly, he could, and his lip curled in response. You immediately apologized, ranting about the people at the conference, most of whom you found uppity and unpleasant, finding networking with them at panels and meals more of a chore than an opportunity.

He looked at your refrigerator, colorful magnets holding up your handwritten lists and reminders, but his gaze was focused on the selfie of the two of you on your second date to the Bronx Zoo just a few months prior. You’d taken the time to get the photo printed and displayed in a spot that was domestic and sentimental, somewhere you and anyone else who entered your place could easily see. His hands suddenly felt cold in your physical absence, and a lump formed in his throat as he found himself on the verge of tears.

“If it’s such a drag, you should just leave early and come home.”

“Baby, you know I can’t—“

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised softly, the ‘from now on’ was unspoken, but from the way he could hear your breath faintly hitch over the phone, he knew you understood.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Will you come get me?”

“I’ll be there before you blink.”

“I’ll keep my eyes wide open for you.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle at your words. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“That’s impossible.”

You were quiet for a moment. “Can’t I try?”

“You don’t need to try. Just being mine is enough, darling.”

Everything in his life had gone to shit so fast, but not you, never you. He’d raze cities to ash before letting you go, before possibly losing the warmth that enveloped him at the thought of you and how much you loved him. Even if he could bottle the feeling, inject it into his veins whenever he pleased, he wouldn’t, not when he had you by his side. He wasn’t sure if anyone could compare. As much as he wished he’d met you sooner, he supposed later was better than never.

You ended the phone call, your voice soft and melodic as you once again professed your love to him. He did the same before hanging up, hastily grabbing one of your sweaters from your closet. You’d always get cold while flying with him. He brought the knitwear to his nose, the scent of your fabric softener and a hint of your perfume almost making him dizzy. Wasting no more time, he left your apartment to make it to Los Angeles before you could fall back asleep.

He knew which hotel you were staying at and the room number, having texted it to him before you left. Of course, he’d memorized the details, and within half an hour was hovering outside of your eighth floor hotel room window, which you gladly opened for him. You were in your pajamas, your small suitcase packed on the bed.

“My hero!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms around him and pressing a playful kiss to his cheek.

Your lips on his skin made it feel like he was on fire, and he took your face in his ungloved hands, kissing you desperately as your sweater fell to the floor. Two days had suddenly transformed into a lifetime of longing and separation, and as he slipped his tongue into your open mouth, he did so with the intention of savoring you, getting as close to devouring you as he could. 

Squeezing his hips to steady yourself only encouraged him further, a groan rumbling from deep in his chest. Sometimes, you made it so hard for him to have any self-control, and in those moments he almost lamented his powers. His strength made your being with him inherently dangerous, yet despite the risks, you willingly sought out his embrace and intimacy.

“Always yours,” he muttered huskily against your lips. 

You looked at the sweater on the floor, smiling at the gesture. “Thanks.”

“Can’t have you catching pneumonia on the way home, can I?” he said as you pulled the sweater on.

You grabbed your suitcase off the bed, and he took it from you with ease, holding it in one hand, his other arm firmly around your waist. He’d flown you plenty of places before, and though you were no longer nervous like the first time he took you flying, he loved how you clung to him anyway.

[motherofdogs1010]

Little Darling III (Thomas Shelby x Reader)

Summary: Birmingham has received a new club, one that is showcasing a exotic type of dance that is drawing in crowds, but it is one particular dancer that catches Thomas Shelby's eye... one that goes by the stage name: Little Darling

Warnings: 18+ only, eventual pinv sex, eventual smut, stripper!reader, heavy petting, dry humping, language, drinking, cannon Peaky Blinder violence

A/N: So here is the re-do of Part III, I felt so much better about it! Also, I feel that 'West Coast' by Lana Del Ret would be on a playlist for this story

Also, comment if you want to join taglist

💋 Banner by @vase-of-lilies 💋 Dividers by @firefly-graphics

Part I Part II

Thomas buried his hand in her ringlet curls, Y/N could feel the way he gripped her hair as she continued rocking against his bulge and let out a whimper as she passed her swollen clit over again; Tommy gripping her chin with his other hand as their kiss became filthy with saliva falling over their lips as their tongues found each other.

The pain in her cunt from her lust made a whimper escape her lips again as Tommy let the hand that was in her hair trail down to her underwear, slipping his hand under the thin fabric, letting a calloused finger glide through her slick folds as her hips buckled at the feeling.

"Soaked through this flimsy thing", Thomas said, breaking the kiss. "Barely covered under cunt with this thing."

"That's the point", she said, seeing the red lipstick smeared all over his mouth. "It's called a thong."

Tommy brought his hand out from her underwear, letting a finger slid under the string.

"Quite the little invention", he said.

"Want to see something else?" she breathed, pressed her breasts against him.

"What?"

"You want to see how some establishments dance over in America?" she teased with a sultry grin before reaching behind her back and unclipping her bra.

Tommy watched with lustful eyes as she slowly slid down the straps before fully tossing away the bra, her heart was beating out of her chest and a part of her was screaming at her for doing this. But she was high off of the thrill as she felt him reach out to her body, sliding his hands up her stomach before cupping her heavy breasts, thumbing her slowly hardening nipples.

"Show me how they dance, Little Darling..."

Y/N found herself wiping off the smeared red lipstick off her mouth as she looked at herself in the mirror, the smeared mascara; she disregarded her appearance as she continued to wipe down her face free of the makeup before moving to fix her hair and change into her regular clothes since her shift was over.

She realized how close she was to actually having sex with Tommy Shelby, had it not been for the bouncer knocking on the door to check on her, she knew she would have given into the man. She knew she would have let the man have his way with her in that room and a part of her regretted not having let the man do that.

She could still feel the man's hands over her body, his rough thumb rubbing circles on her clit as she shakily rocked and swayed her hips as their lips greedily clung to one another before he drove his finger into her sopping cunt, whispering how soaked she was.

She shook her head, that was a problem for the Y/N in the morning to think about...

Tommy drove his motorcar with Arthur and John chattering away about the club, trying to not replay the events of the private room dance so he wouldn't have a hard-on.

"Tom, Tom", Arthur said, "I swear we need to get a hand in this club."

"The money, the dancers", John continued with a grin. "If expansion is what you want, we need to get this club under our belt."

Tommy raised a brow, he wondered how much that 'expansion' idea was for them or for John to continue to his dancers.

"And here you were against expansion", Tommy mused with a smirk.

"If it means having ladies as fine as them, I'm all for it."

It was the next day as she sat at her table that she contemplated what she had done, sipping her tea as she rubbed her temple. Y/N scolded herself for giving into the Birmingham gangster when she heard a knock at her door, standing up as she tied her robe around her as she went to the foyer of her home, opening to door and see the Devil himself incarnate.

"Quite the transformation", Tommy said as he blew out smoke. "Catholic girl by night, little temptress by night."

"How did you find out where I live?" she hissed, shoving the man inside because of how nosey her neighbors were.

"I'm Thomas Shelby, I know where everyone lives", he said as he walked further into her home.

Y/N felt aggravated that the man showed up, marching after him as she found him making himself at home in her kitchen; he was sitting in one of her chairs, legs slightly spread as he smoked his cigarette, his blue eyes roaming her figure shamelessly.

"Why are you here?" she asked, sitting back in her seat with a glare.

"Do your neighbors know what you do?" he asked, "do they know you dance for men? You dance for me for money?"

She stayed silent and she knew he got his answer as he let out a dark chuckle.

"Of course they don't. No proof of it, right? You can always tell a whore from any other person on the street, but not a stripper. That's what it's called, right?"

"You sound like you enjoy listening to yourself."

"I enjoy few things and that is not one of them."

It was like a game of chess, seeing who had the upper hand in the game as she stared at the man, who was burning his eyes into her.

"At night, you love when I pay you to dance for me. I think we both know last night was quite the dance you gave me."

"I performed a service for you, figured it would a nice way to get a bigger tip from you."

Tommy hummed before putting his cigarette out in her tea cup, pushing himself up out of his seat as he walked over to her. He caged her in the seat, bringing his face close to hers and their breaths mingled as she could smell the nicotine in his breath, smell the aftershave and cologne that he used.

"Last time proved something to me and gave me a thought."

"What was that?" she asked as she felt her heart beating in her throat.

"How much of a whore I can make you be for me when the sun's out?"

With that, he crashed his lips against hers...

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