#( to be written in ink is to be immortal. )

[fcble]

COLONIALISM, COLLABORATION, AND K-POP: THE CASE OF FABLE'S BYEONGHWI

In the almost seven years of their career so far, South Korean boy group Fable have made a name for themselves with their unflinching and unapologetically traditional Korean concept. In an industry whose fans debate the Westernization of the genre daily, Fable provides a breath of fresh air.

That isn’t to say they’re without their fair share of controversies. They remain notorious for a 2020 scandal where netizens revealed that one member, Mingeun, lied about his nationality, presenting himself as South Korean when in reality, he’s Canadian. They were also the subject of a call-out post by a YouTuber who later debuted as the center of co-ed group Lightspeed. The video was addressed by Fable members Mingeun and Jaeseop, which perhaps led further to its infamy.

Having called into question who can be in Fable (does a passport make an identity?) and what exactly the group stands for (a still-hotly debated topic), the latest Fable controversy centers the group’s youngest member, Byeonghwi—or more accurately, the group’s youngest member Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather.

On January 22, 2025, Fable members Byeonghwi, Haksu, and Andrew—the last of whom is sometimes known better by his stage name, Yejun—participated in an ad campaign for Ssijok+ (씨족+, from the Korean word for “clan”), an online platform similar to Ancestry.com that provides insights into a person’s ancestral past. The ads, which aired both on television and across social media, showcased Byeonghwi’s discovery of the tax records collected by his great-grandfather, Haksu’s confirmation of his noble roots, and Andrew’s findings of the ship manifests on which his great-great-grandparents immigrated to the United States via Hawaii. The ads were meant to be followed by longer videos on Fable’s YouTube channel, where each of the three members shared their discoveries in more detail. Byeonghwi’s individual video was released first. It remains the only one of the three videos publicly uploaded. Although no longer available, it has been archived by netizens and sliced into pieces for the most online to decipher.

NOW PLAYING: SSIJOK+ with BYEONGHWI, originally uploaded by Fable on YouTube, January 24, 2025 “Once upon a time! Hello everyone, I’m Fable’s Byeonghwi.” He sits behind a desk in the center of the frame, hands clasped together on the table in front of him. “Today, I’m going to share a story of my past with everyone. I’m the first member to do this, so please look after me well.” He bows his head. From somewhere outside of the frame, he retrieves a stack of papers. “Ssijok+ helped me find this information.” He shows the top paper to the camera: a glossy black and white photo of a middle-aged man with a stern expression in a formal Western-style suit. “My great-grandfather was the first of my family to live in Jecheon. He was born in the South Hamgyong province in the north and fled south during the war when the Soviets occupied his hometown. I knew a little about him because he picked our surname, Lim. Since he was born during Japanese occupation, he only had a Japanese name for the beginning of his life.” He picked up the next paper, a shadowy scan of a clearly crumpled piece of paper littered with characters. “This is my family’s register. The character for Lim is the one for responsibility.” He points out one section of the register, where the Hanja characters begin to blur together. “His first name was Shidae, from one of the characters of his given Japanese name, and Daehanminguk.” 

As it turns out, this is far from the entire story. While everything Byeonghwi mentioned is accurate, there is, of course, much more he didn't mention. The first person to discover this was the anonymous author of a Pannchoa post who asked in the title, “Did anyone do their research? Fable’s Byeonghwi has chinilpa relatives.” The author used the same service as Fable, except they started with the name of Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather. From there, as the poster described, his name was discovered as part of a list of Korean collaborators with imperial Japan. As if to damn Byeonghwi even further, Ssijok+ also surfaced ancestral records of his great-great-grandfather, whose name was found on the same list. The anonymous poster did not have to explain much more, as netizens quickly drew their own conclusions, which many of them left in the comments of the post.

At the time of this writing, the most popular comment, with nearly three thousand votes, reads, “Ah, it’s shameful, isn’t it? To be a normal citizen with chinilpa heritage is one thing. To be a Fable member with chinilpa heritage is fucking embarrassing.” 

To grasp the gravity of the situation—and to understand the conclusions netizens found themselves at—we have to take a few steps back. The term “chinilpa,” which appeared no less than ten times in the original post, and in nearly every comment, is a derogatory term used for Korean citizens who worked for or with the Japanese empire. The most prominent examples are the five imperial ministers who signed the Japan–Korea Treaty of 1905 that turned the Korean Empire into a Japanese protectorate. Lesser examples would include, according to Institute for Research in Collaborationists Activities’s list that Byeonghwi’s ancestors found themselves on, military officers, intellectuals, and officials who assisted the Japanese government.

Fable, on the other hand, have always presented themselves as pro-Korea, and lean into nationalist sentiment from time to time. From supporting South Korea’s claim to the Liancourt Rocks to Intak’s Yi Sang-inspired solo debut album, they present a fervent front of Korean culture.

In an effort to protect Byeonghwi’s image, Fabulists—the collective name for Fable’s fans—would end up digging a deeper grave. The Institute for Research in Collaborationists Activities created their list based on rank and title, rather than deeds. The days following the spread of the Pannchoa post nearly turned into a witch hunt as fans did their best to exonerate Byeonghwi and prove his ancestors were part of the list because it covered their jobs. Instead, they discovered, with all too much ease, that Shidae—Byeonghwi’s great-grandfather—inherited much of his standing from his father, Kitadai Hitoshi (来代 将). It is presumed that he had a Korean name, but much of the information related to him was found in relation to his Japanese name. Educated in Japan, he was appointed as a low-ranking government official shortly after returning to Korea. The official annexation of Korea saw his promotion to a moderately high-ranking finance minister. Perhaps the most incriminating piece of evidence of his wrongdoings was his signature of approval on the budget of the Manchukuo National Railway through modern day North Korea and China’s Jilin province.

While there is no way we in the twenty-first century can definitively understand Hitoshi or Shidae’s motivations, the remnants of their actions are enough proof for many to denounce them and now their descendant. It is possible that Hitoshi saw Japanese annexation as a path to Korea’s modernization—it wasn’t too long ago that Korea was the backwater of East Asia, rather than the country producing world-renowned idol groups and hit Netflix shows and Nobel Prize laureates—or he simply wanted a way to survive what looked like an inevitable force of empire at the time. It is also possible that he supported the ideology of imperial Japan.

In the modern day, having firmly painted Byeonghwi in a rather negative light, Fabulists turned to the next best thing: Fable’s agency, Zenith Entertainment. Their approach, however, was far from unified. They expressed a myriad of sentiments, both online and in person. Byeonghwi should leave the group. Byeonghwi should take a hiatus and reflect. Byeonghwi shouldn’t have to repent for the actions of his deceased ancestors. Byeonghwi shouldn’t apologize for something that happened a hundred years ago.

Clearly aware of the online firestorm, Zenith Entertainment began to quietly make their move. The timeline was chronicled by one of Fable’s most prominent Western fanbases, prodbyfable on Twitter. Byeonghwi’s video was first made private on YouTube, before being removed completely less than a day later. The ads, which had at first featured prominently across various social media platforms, grew less and less frequent. Ssijok+ even removed Fable’s promotional videos from their website. The original Pannchoa post also vanished around this time. 

Throughout this entire ordeal, the members of Fable were uncharacteristically quiet. Given that they had defended their honor when attacked via YouTube video essay, it came as a slight surprise that no one said a word in defense of Byeonghwi. The single exception came from an audio recording posted by a fan who attended a variety show shoot.

NOW PLAYING: An audio recording released by a Fabulist, originally uploaded by @a2uz7ha3k1 on TikTok, February 4, 2025 HOST: We’ve seen a lot of buzz online about you lately, Byeonghwi-ssi. Can you give us your side of the story? BYEONGHWI: [laughs] I’m preparing for our new album, of course. We’re looking forward to— HOST: [interrupting] I think I speak for quite a few people, Byeonghwi-ssi, when I say that what I really mean is were your ancestors collaborators? [silence] KIYOUNG: You shouldn’t ask him questions like that. HOST: Don’t you think your fans deserve to know the truth about who they’re supporting? MINGEUN: [softly] Ow. ANDREW: Byeonghwi is the same person our fans have always known. He isn’t responsible for what his great-grandfather did. 

The audio clip went viral immediately. It spread past the confines of online k-pop spaces, becoming more of a general online controversy rather than one centering k-pop idols. A version of the clip with English subtitles appeared on my For You page, which is how I first learned about it. As its popularity grew, k-pop fans were quick to explain what exactly was so bad about Byeonghwi’s situation. At the peak of the online discourse, one viral Twitter thread compared Byeonghwi’s relatives to Jews who worked with or for Nazi Germany.

As the dust settled, Fabulists finally found the time to ask the next pressing question: what about Fable’s newest album, set to release in less than two weeks? (And then the less pressing and mostly unasked question: if Byeonghwi’s ancestors collaborated, who else might have chinilpa relations?)

Zenith Entertainment released their only official statement on the situation on February 9. The English version of the letter reads as follows:

Hello, this is Zenith Entertainment. Over the past two weeks, we have been saddened to see the reactions of Fabulists to Byeonghwi’s personal history. We will take proper legal action against those who seek to defame our artists. Fable has always strived to fully represent the past and provide an accurate depiction of history. There are parts of history that many would find embarrassing, shameful, or otherwise repugnant. It is our duty to recognize and acknowledge these events in order to ensure that they will not happen again. Although we recognize that many Fabulists will disagree with our perspective, we do not wish to erase or ignore the actions and repercussions of Byeonghwi’s ancestors. Byeonghwi will remain a member of Fable, although he will not be participating in the group’s fifth album. In order for the other members to properly prepare, 자수성가 (自手成家) will be released on February 20, 2025. We ask that you continue to show Fable the same love and support.

Like the original video, this statement was also quickly picked apart. Fabulists were quick to point out that it took them two weeks to prepare this, and they went as far as to acknowledge that fact within the statement. “Proper legal action” was also met with cynicism, given that it came from a company who waited until a physical assault took place to try to press charges against a stalker. With its defense of Byeonghwi and no apology, as is usual in any sort of k-pop controversy, Fabulists began to run the same cycle of debates over whether or not he has anything to apologize for.

Within the scope of South Korea’s modern landscape, Byeonghwi’s case is far from unique. In fact, it bears a startling resemblance to the twenty-year-old situation of politician Shin Ki-nam. A member of the liberal Uri Party, he supported President Roh Moo-hyun’s investigations of Japanese collaborators. The same investigation discovered that Shin’s father was a member of the colonial police force, and therefore ripe for chinilpa accusations, in the same way Fable’s initial innocent ad campaign resulted in much more than Byeonghwi bargained for.

Fable’s next album is still slated to release on February 20.

[thevioletdaffodil]

my brain is stringed with wires who don't obey but you play those wires like harps with your beautiful hands, effortless and musical, you clasp my thighs when my empire trembles, you murder the stars for me, you wash my hair with sunlight, and sometimes i talk like an immortal but you never ask my age (i love you), and other times when the quiet steals me, you recite my thoughts better than my wiry mind can even conjure them up.

you make me dance in my sleep, hold my hand in the backseat. you handle my nerves like flower stems, and sometimes it hurts so much to see you loving so gently, so quiet in noise but so loud in intensity, as if when you see me, i'm the only thing you're seeing.

it hurts not in a sad, angry or hopeless way, it hurts because you handle my nerves like flower stems and the pain is soothed and i feel pity for god because now again, see how you have defeated him and his constant need to gift pain. you did it gently, and now he must be purple with rage, or maybe blue in repentance, but you, you don't care.

you only want flowers to grow from my old hands, you only want my flesh to glow pink and my brain wires to sing and to be able to devour me when want consumes us both, clasping my thigh, swinging me high, clinging onto each other.

never remind me how many lifetimes have passed with you because time is a godly conspiracy and i don't know what's time when i'm with you, it's just you're you. when i spread out my hands to fly one evening, you told me i looked like an aeroplane (i love you too).

i remember, a spider crawled on my wrist and i wept to god, telling him to bite me, to end it, and that instant, you flicked them both and you bit me neat (i'll never be the same.)

our mothers communicate to him in prayer. which one of them will tell him that he's fired already? that you, my lover, have accidentally dethroned him?

[micwrs]

@ncwmessage is being forced into an interaction

— ❝ . . . is it dipper ? ❞

Her head tilts, just a little bit, as she asks the question to herself, staring closely at the side of the van. She’d seen the logo from a distance, and couldn’t decipher what it was supposed to mean. How it was supposed to be pronounced. Lauded dipper?

— ❝ maybe it’s european . . . ❞ she murmurs, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she ponders over the possibilities. European would make sense— she doesn’t speak that. Maybe it’s like a brand or something, then? Maybe the owner of the van would come back soon and be able to tell her. Otherwise, she may just die of curiosity. Like a poor little cat. 

Don’t let her die, Mysterious European Van Owner!

[oxaxk]

cinth blinks at the other, pausing to process the request that had just been asked of him. he was in the middle of trying to organize the dozens of dice sets he collected when his friend spoke and pulled his concentration away from the very important task at hand. shaking his head some to try and pull himself out of the brain fog he was currently experiencing, a hand instinctively reaches for the item in question.

@moonfl0wxr asked: ❛ here, give this a try and tell me what you think. ❜ ( meme )

"i think the last time you gave me something to try without warning i ended up sick the next day." he finally responds, bringing the item up to his nose to try and smell for any hint. "what is it supposed to be?"

[percys-perfect]

Tag dump!

(there is nothing behind the curtain)

[grievd]

( #𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚍 ) — tag drop !

[eloquence682]

There’s something cosmically beautiful about bookbinding fanfiction. Not the bookbinding of fanfiction for monetary gain (which is undoubtedly morally wrong) but rather bookbinding as a gift for someone you love. Or simply bookbinding for the sake of having the story in a tangible form. After all, doesn’t it deserve a place on your bookshelf, too?

But that isn’t the beautiful part. It is this: the melding of something new with something as old as language itself. Fanfiction (at least compared with bookbinding) is a strikingly new phenomenon. Modern fanfiction has only been around for a few generations. Bookbinding, on the other hand? It can be traced back to 2nd century India. It’s a dying art — one that’s been reborn in order to immortalize freely written words.

Even better: the scribes in India who first invented the process of bookbinding used it to create religious texts. In a way, aren’t we doing the same? Fanfiction isn’t a religion, of course, but if you love a story enough to bind it, isn’t that a form of reverence in itself? Isn’t it holy?

Yes. You make it so. The needle and the thread, the newly creased paper, the hardly dried ink … your fingers consecrate it. And as you slip the book onto the shelf, you make it a temple.

And isn’t that just lovely?

[mothermorrows]

Good to know even the authors of the Prima guidebook were unnerved about Oblivion’s epilogue. (Ramble below)

“Martin was Oblivion’s real hero and protagonist” is an agreeable but somewhat misleading statement. I’ve always considered Martin and the HOK as two sides of the same coin. There is absolutely no way Martin could have done “what he was born to do” without your help, and likewise no other person besides Martin who could have made you “the scribe of the next Elder Scroll.”

Martin was born for a specific inescapable fate in true Dragonborn fashion while you were an agent of free will given the grace to choose your level of fidelity to Uriel’s final wish, prescribing your own meaning to the obscure prophetic dreams he shared with you in the sewers. When presented with Jauffre’s invitation to join the Blades, there is an implication that you have personal motive and reasoning for doing more than what was initially expected of you. Martin innovated the possibility of each foothold against the enemy as he studied the Mysterium Xarxes while you were the ground-level means of executing it. You watched his rapid metamorphosis from farmer’s boy to emperor while you had simply stayed a valued trusted friend in his eyes. And lastly, Martin’s final form is that of an Aedric avatar while yours is a Shezzarine and Daedric Prince. The two of you served different, yet complementary roles of equal importance. Though I’d still consider Oblivion’s epilogue and canon player ending as grim, the fact that both of you become immortalized in opposing fashions, one of grandeur and sacrifice and the other in moral ambiguity is really fitting. It makes sense that a machine missing its adjacent part whirrs for only a little longer before breaking down. But as mortals, you two are always remembered together: there will be no history books about the Oblivion Crisis written in the 4th era where your names aren’t inked on the same page.

[treatmelikeasmut]

The Artist and the Engineer Part 1// Chapter Two//Good Facial Structure

<< PREV Master List NEXT >>

Pairing: Viktor x Fem!Artist!Reader

Series Synopsis: Heimerdinger wants a commemorative painting done of Viktor, who is not fond of the idea.

Chapter Synopsis: Viktor tries one more time to convince Heimerdinger out of the portrait.

Word Count: 2.3K

Author’s Note: I'm going to try and update with one chapter a week!

Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog your favorite fics ❤️

~*~*~*~

The morning came with blaring sun through the lab windows. Viktor blinked against it as he stirred from his slumber. The room was chilled with the night. Leeching from the floor up through his skin into his bones. His spined ached with it. His leg ached with it. His hip protested as he stretched. He’d slept slumped on his workstation. Though it was nothing unusual, he still cast a glance over his shoulder. The emergency couch sat vacant. Why hadn’t he slept there? It would’ve been worlds more comfortable.

All at the once, the previous day returned to him. Heimerdinger’s request. The portrait. You. And all at once annoyance slammed back into him, simmering in his chest. The bell overhead tolled seven. Would the professor be in yet? Viktor needed to find a way out of this. For the sake of his research was what he kept telling himself. Although you seemed perfectly nice, he was making great headway and didn’t want to risk the momentum.

In the night, his papers had made their way across the desk and onto the floor. He scrambled to cobble them together. Which ones went together, again? What was this drawing for? How distracted had he been when he’d done these? Half of his notes were incoherent. A couple of papers had to be spun to decipher which way was up. There were ink smudges from his fingers, which he found to be stained. Viktor rifled through the mess on his desk, searching for a rag to wipe his hands.

That was when a word caught his eye - ochre.

It was written plain as day in the middle of a page. There was a decided divide between the word and the rest of the notes on the page. Had he written that? He must’ve, that was his scrawl. But when had he done that - and why? He was quick to blot it out before Jayce made an appearance. Then he found himself wondering just why he’d done it.

Jayce came with food and hot drinks not long after. Viktor had not found anymore out-of-place words. The refreshments were accompanied by a smug grin. As if Jayce was glad to see Viktor covered in ink and bleary eyed from the uncomfortable resting place. He didn’t say anything as he set down a pastry and a covered cup on Viktor’s station. But the look on his face spoke louder than anything.

Viktor stood, his joints protesting after sitting still so long. “I’m going to see Heimerdinger.”

He scooped up the pastry, ignoring Jayce’s watchful gaze as he left. He straightened out his sleep rumpled clothes the best he could between bites. This time of morning, the academy was quiet. Everyone settled into their morning classes. He found the professor in his office, already sitting with someone.

Heimerdinger didn’t look at him, but held up a finger. So Viktor tucked himself patiently into the corner and finished off his meager meal. Stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. He wasn’t really paying attention to what was being said. Mostly due to the hushed tones of the conversation. But also because he was distracted by the yordle’s likeness where it stared out from behind the desk. The portrait you had done.

It truly was expertly crafted - at least from the little Viktor knew of art. The light was hitting the painting just so. Illuminating all the brushstrokes immortalized in the lacquer. The way the Heimerdinger in the painting looked almost as alive as the Heimerdinger it hung above. Eyes sharp, discerning. The fact the professor’s fur looked as though it would be soft if you touched the canvas.

“Very good!” the professor announced, back to speaking normally. Viktor flinched. “Then we’ll meet again next month.”

The person stood, nodding to the professor and then Viktor as they made their exit. He thought he saw the word Treasury on the front of their folio. Heimerdinger turned to Viktor and greeted him warmly, gesturing to the now unoccupied chair in front of the desk.

“Good morning, sir,” Viktor said, suppressing a yawn. He lowered himself into the seat. A bit disgusted to find it warm.

“What can I do for you this fine morning?” The professor shuffled mindlessly through the papers on his desk. Briefly picking one up and seeming to skim it before moving onto another. “I see you’ve slept in the lab again. - Did anyone tell you there’s ink on your face?”

Viktor rubbed at his cheek with his shirt sleeve, but quickly gave up the effort. Frowning instead at his stained hands. “Yes, sir.”

Heimerdinger tsked. “That really isn’t a healthy practice. You don’t live far, why don’t you ever stay the night at home?”

“I do, often.” Viktor wasn’t even convinced by his own words.

“You should be sleeping in a proper bed. Honestly, you should really be making sure to take time for yourself. Even as important as your research is - you can’t do anything if your body isn’t taken care of.”

“I - yes - I will, sir -” Viktor shook his head, realizing the diversion. “That is not why I’m here -”

“You’ve come to talk about the portrait.” The professor sighed, tapping the edge of a stack of papers on his desk, then setting them aside. His gaze was sharp as he met Viktor’s. “I figured as much.”

Heat built under Viktor’s collar. He was not a fan of the look Heimerdinger was giving him. “Well, I -”

To his relief, the professor’s gaze quickly shifted back to the papers on his desk. “I was glad to hear you sat well for the artist yesterday, I expect that to continue. I’ve seen the sketches so far, there is no doubt this project will be a huge success.”

Viktor muttered, “I wish I shared the enthusiasm.”

“She had nothing but good things to say about you, you know?”

This caught Viktor off guard, he was not expecting a good review. He shifted in his seat. “What things?”

Heimerdinger cleared his throat, making a show of thinking on the conversation. “That you were a very nice subject. Something about having a good facial structure and admirable cheek bones.”

Stunning eyes, whispered your voice. Viktor catapulted it from his mind immediately. The annoyance at Heimerdinger turned inward. Why did that one comment stick to him? Then his brain replayed what the professor said, and heat crept up from his collar and burned in his ears.

“There’s no need to be embarrased,” Heimerdinger chuckled.

“I -” It came out as more of a choking sound. “I am not embarrassed.”

“Now, I’m no great judge of art myself, I must admit. But I do believe she’s correct.” The professor’s eyes gleamed now. “The portrait is going to look very noble when it’s finished.”

Viktor scrabbled to come back around to the point. He held up his stained fingers. “Surely, sir, I could just have a new pen? - Or a new chair for the lab? Even a nice meal would be sufficent commemoration. I assure you, I do not need a painting. I’m just your assistant.”

Heimerdinger shook his head. “Those things will fade, Viktor.”

“And the painting will not?” Viktor asked, brows furrowed.

“The portrait can be restored when its colors dull. - Trust me when I say you aren’t going to find a used pen in any museum. Even if it had the greatest scientist to ever live's teeth marks in it. People remember art, Viktor, not chairs or fine meals.”

Viktor leaned forward in his seat. “But I would remember those things.”

The professor waved him off. “You’re doing far greater work than just being my assistant. That research you’re doing will revolutionize the world as we know it.”

“Jayce is The Man of Progress, why not have his portrait done? He is the one who represents us to the council.”

“Being a noble and proclaimed Man of Progress, I’m sure Jayce has had more than enough portraits painted of himself.” Heimerdinger looked at Viktor evenly. “What you’re contributing to Hextech is just as important as any speech Jayce gives.”

“Which is why I should be doing that instead of wasting an hour each day -” Viktor began to argue.

“Think of it as a mandated break in your day. Just an hour -”

“But sir -”

'“I could make it two, or even three,” the professor warned. “Do not make me push my authority on you, boy.”

Viktor cringed at the thought. He opened his mouth to rebuttal, but no further argument formed. So he closed it again, reclining back against the cushion with a heavy sigh.

“Try to get to know her,” Professor Heimerdinger pushed. “You don’t have to be friends. But, if you’re going to be spending the next few months together, it would be best to meet in the middle. I know she won’t be here today, so perhaps take the time to consider what you might like to know about her.”

Viktor frowned, hanging onto the word months. “How long will this take?”

“How ever long she needs. I expect you will treat her kindly and respectfully.”

“Of course, sir.” Viktor sighed. He thought for a moment. “Tell me, what do you know of her?”

“As you know,” the professor started, he seemed pleased Viktor was playing along. “She graduated last year. Since then, she’s been doing commission paintings for some of the highest ranking families here in Piltover. - I’m surprised Jayce isn’t familiar with her, in fact I believe his mother sat for her quite recently. Beyond that, I know pity little, I’m afraid. Our sessions were done in short sittings over the course of her time at the academy.”

Viktor hummed, filing away that information for later. “Do you know where she is today? Will this be a…reoccuring absence?”

Heimerdinger’s eyes were sharp for just a moment before they swept down to his desk. “A pressing family matter. She’ll be back tomorrow, worry not. – She's very dedicated to her craft. You may not appreciate it yet. But art records things we may forget. I’ve seen many things, and sometimes the works of art from that era hold more truths than documents.”

Viktor hummed, acknowledging but not accepting. Then he stood. “I shall take today to get things in order for my time away from the lab.”

Heimerdinger nodded, glancing up at him as he made for the door. “Make sure to think about what I said, m’boy. There’s no harm in getting to know her better.”

“I will, good day, sir.”

Viktor made sure the door had shut all the way before he groaned in frustration. He was not at all pleased with this outcome. He thumped his way across campus and back to the lab. Jayce was already tinkering away with something and didn’t acknowledge his entrance. Which he found he was thankful for. Repressing another sigh, he fell into his chair. A migraine was starting to worm in behind his eyes. He tried his best to ignore it while he sorted out his notes.

“Your visit with Heimerdinger didn’t go well?” Jayce asked after a few minutes of silence.

“What makes you say that?” Viktor muttered, staring at where his hand had been hovering for far too long without writing.

“Just a hunch.” Then Jayce added, “Did you bargain for a new pen?”

“I tried.” Viktor rolled his eyes, swiveling his chair towards him. Jayce was already half turned to him with an arm slung over the back of his seat. “I was unable to convince Heimerdinger to abandon the portrait. He instead wants me to befriend the artist -”

“Really?” This seemed to pique Jayce’s interest. He smirked at Viktor. “I think you should.”

Viktor frowned at him in turn. “And where would be the value? We’re in completely separate fields.”

“Always value in a new connection.” Jayce sighed, pushing himself out of his chair. He went over and clapped his hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “You kept me from literally jumping off a building. So let me help keep from socially jumping off a building.”

Viktor grimaced. “I -”

“Just make some small talk,” suggested Jayce, shrugging. “Ask if she prefers tea or coffee, flirt a little - she’s not going to bite. It’ll be good for you.”

“Flirt,” Viktor scoffed. He brushed Jayce’s hand off his shoulder. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m just saying you should give it a try.” Jayce gave him a meaningful look.

“I believe that is more your area of expertise.” Viktor recalled his conversation with Heimerdinger, and gladly reached for a separate conversation thread. “Heimerdinger tells me your mother has sat for this artist of late. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not much.” Jayce thought for a moment. “I bet she’s that woman I saw.”

“I have to imagine it should be obvious if there was an easel or something.”

“I remember she was attractive. - I’ll see what I can find out.”

Humming, Viktor nodded and turned back to his work station. Of course that would be something Jayce noticed. He, on the other hand, hadn’t paid enough attention to notice one way or the other. He flung the thought from his mind that he’d have to make the judgment tomorrow when he saw you.

He spent the day collecting as many notes as he could and laying out a plan for Jayce. Experiments to do, blue prints and schematics to review - it was only an hour a day. A handful per week. But that could be the difference between success and failure. Jayce didn’t bring you up again, and Viktor tried very very hard not to replay the conversation with Heimerdinger.

Get to know you.

Make small talk.

Viktor could do that.

Flirt?

Well – that would be a whole other playing field.

______________________________________________________________

TAG LIST

@starmansolar @motheroffae @vintagehellfire @seaweedbumblebee @21-princess @starriekaede @local-mr-frog @tspmovro @hexhoess

[r-memberme]

love-struck fool | k.m

⎯⎯"But considering the company I keep—" he gestures vaguely at you, "—I wouldn’t put it past you to have moved it simply to infuriate me."

warnings: none I think

The grand library of the estate is shrouded in the warm glow of candlelight, the scent of aged parchment thick in the air. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretch toward the high vaulted ceiling, filled with countless tomes of forgotten knowledge, bound in leather and dust. It is a place of quiet reverence, of knowledge hoarded and whispered secrets bound in ink.

And yet, at this very moment, it is also a place of sheer and utter chaos.

"Where is it?" Klaus growls, storming through the rows, yanking books from their places and tossing them aside with increasing frustration. "It was here! I know it was here!"

"Klaus," you sigh, stepping into the library, hands on your hips as you watch the scene before you unfold. "If you’ve lost another book, I swear—"

"I did not lose it!" he snaps, before immediately pinching the bridge of his nose, inhaling sharply. "It has merely… relocated itself."

You arch a brow. "Books don’t relocate themselves."

"Perhaps not under normal circumstances," he admits, straightening and casting you a pointed look. "But considering the company I keep—" he gestures vaguely at you, "—I wouldn’t put it past you to have moved it simply to infuriate me."

You scoff. "Oh, please. If I wanted to infuriate you, I’d do something far more creative than hiding your precious bedtime story."

Klaus narrows his eyes. "It is not a bedtime story. It is a rare manuscript, one of a kind, containing valuable information—"

"Oh, forgive me," you interrupt, lips twitching. "A very important bedtime story."

He exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring as he glares at you. "Are you going to help me find it, or must I burn this entire room to the ground and sift through the ashes?"

You blink at him. "You’re being dramatic."

"Am I?" he challenges. "You underestimate how much I need that book."

You sigh and step further into the room, rolling up your sleeves. "Alright, alright. What’s it called?"

Klaus hesitates. The silence stretches.

"Klaus," you prod, "what’s the name of the book?"

He shifts, avoiding your gaze. His voice is lower now, grumbled under his breath. "It… may have a rather embarrassing title."

Your grin is immediate and victorious. "Oh, this just got interesting."

"Don’t," he warns.

"Say it."

"No."

"Klaus."

"No."

"Niklaus Mikaelson, if you want me to help, you’re going to tell me the name of the book right this second."

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine."

You wait, eyes gleaming.

He exhales sharply. "It’s called—" he pauses, then mutters something unintelligible.

You cup a hand to your ear. "I didn’t quite catch that."

He glares at you with the heat of a thousand suns. "It’s called… ‘Love Sonnets of the Immortal Heart.’"

Silence.

You stare at him.

He stares back, bracing himself.

And then you laugh. Loud, unrestrained, doubling over as tears prick the corners of your eyes.

"You—" you gasp between laughs. "You lost a book of love sonnets?! That’s what this whole tantrum was about?!"

Klaus scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. "They are very well-written sonnets, I’ll have you know."

"Oh, I have no doubt," you wheeze, wiping at your eyes. "But really, Klaus? You could’ve just asked for help instead of destroying half the library."

He mutters something about pride and meddlesome distractions, but you only grin, shaking your head.

"Come on, you tragic, love-struck fool," you say, dragging him toward the far shelves. "Let’s find your poetry before you start composing your own out of sheer despair."

Klaus huffs, but as you set off in search of his lost treasure, you swear you catch the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

just cleaning out my drafts a bit <3

taglist: @ohapple

@myworldrightnow

@deactiveblogx

@witch-of-letters

@xtwistedchaosx

@pardonmydelayyy

@siredbyklausm

@liataylorsversion

[fcble]

Wikipedia, 자수성가 (自手成家)

자수성가 (自手成家) (Ja Su Seong Ga) is the fourth (officially fifth) studio album by South Korean boy group Fable. It was released on February 20, 2025 by Zenith Entertainment. Its lead single, "별주부전" represents the group’s first foray into traditional Korean folk music.

자수성가 (自手成家) liner notes

1. 해야 / Lyrics by Park Intak, Yoon Mingeun. Composed by Park Intak. 2. 신의 고향 / Lyrics by Park Intak, Kang Haksu. Composed by Park Intak. 3. 별주부전 (Title) / Lyrics by Park Intak, Kang Haksu. Composed by Park Intak. 4. 이젠 날 바라봐 / Lyrics by Park Intak, Atlas Son, Yoon Mingeun. Composed by Park Intak, Atlas Son. 5. 쉽다 / Lyrics by Park Intak, Atlas Son. Composed by Park Intak, Atlas Son. 6. 여섯 / Lyrics by Park Intak, Atlas Son, Yoon Mingeun. Composed by Park Intak, Atlas Son. 7. 놀자 / Lyrics by Park Intak. Composed by Park Intak. 8. 매일 매일 매일 / Lyrics by Park Intak. Composed by Park Intak. 9. 밤바다 / Lyrics by Kang Haksu, Park Intak. Composed by Park Intak.

@haksubak on Twitter

all fable music show wins 가자 (2020) 🏆 꽃처럼 (2020) 🏆🏆 그리운 밤 (2023) 🏆 platonic love (2024) 🏆🏆 찐이야 (2024) 🏆 별주부전 (2025) 🏆🏆🏆

YouTube, why is it so hard to cancel kpop boy groups?

The saying “there’s no such thing as bad publicity” seems to hold true in the case of Fable. Despite a small handful of scandals that would have ended the careers of smaller boy groups or just about any girl group, Fable has come back with one of their most commercially successful albums to date. The slight dip in their sales wasn’t reflected by their music show wins, or their increased music video views, or the number of endorsements Haksu appeared in, or anything else at all. For a group who built their career on the idea of Korea, a chinilpa scandal should have been the final dozen or so nails in the coffin. For whatever reason, it wasn’t.

@kcdjification on Twitter

this isn’t just the old fable this is ancient fable

Vice, Fable’s Comeback is a Stunning Display of Perseverance

After covering the controversy surrounding Fable’s Byeonghwi, I had the pleasure of attending the comeback showcase of his group’s latest album. True to their word, they were perfectly on time with their only slightly postponed release date of February 20. Going into the showcase, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would Fabulists continue to stand behind them? Or would the sentiments I saw online be reflected in real life? I got my answer far earlier than I expected to. The audience was full of dedicated fans, many with Fable’s lightstick: a tiger figurine set atop a taeguk under a clear plastic dome. Upon my arrival, I bought one of my own, along with a convenient wrist strap to carry it and a keychain charm of a persimmon with the album’s name inscribed on the bottom: a piece of the night’s exclusive merchandise.  As the minutes ticked closer to the beginning of the showcase, the crowd’s excitement became more and more palpable. All it took was the lights dimming for the cheering to start—Fable had yet to step on stage. The anticipation built for a few more minutes, and then it was time. The silhouettes of the current five active Fable members, dressed in custom outfits courtesy of modern hanbok brand Shinbok, were enough for the crowd to reach a fever pitch. Even in my desire to remain objective, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the crowd’s energy. One thing was clear: it would take more than this scandal to bring Fable down. 

@.atlas.son via Instagram Live

“Intak-hyung said I can play the demos for the Fable songs I wrote. Sajangnim said I shouldn’t do that, not that I couldn’t do that.” Atlas grins lopsidely at the camera. He sits in a poorly lit room, the barest shadows of a guitar and a drumset behind him. “Don’t tell him, ‘kay?” He lifts his laptop, a silver Macbook covered in stickers, into full view of the camera. “I was surprised that I was asked to do this. I mean, I only debuted”—he counts on his fingers, pointer, middle, ring, pinky—”four months ago. Intak-hyung wrote my debut song. There’s no way I’m on his level yet.”  He pauses, gaze flicking between his laptop and the camera. “You’re not allowed to ask me what my favorite song is. But I would have kept ‘쉽다’ for TMT if I could.”

Billboard, Fable’s Andrew and Mingeun on Their Latest Album, Byeonghwi, and More

“This was our first time writing traditional folk music, although we’ve been preparing for a while,” Mingeun recalls. “It was like learning to sing all over again.” He speaks in an easy, self-assured manner, taking small sips of his whipped cream-topped coffee between sentences. “It was probably Intak-hyung’s first time writing folk music too. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.” I take the opportunity he’s offered me and ask Andrew my next question. “You’ve written most of Fable’s music. Is there any reason why you didn’t work on this album?” I catch his pleasant expression freeze for a second before a more professional facade slams down. “I wouldn’t say I’ve written most of Fable’s music. That’s only true if you started counting recently,” he says. “Intak wrote the majority of our music for years before that. I’m not sure why him writing this album is a surprise to anyone.” I sense there’s more to this conversation that no one wants to tell me, and I move past the fact that he didn’t answer the question.

[mingtinys]

lost for words

pairing : lee jihoon x gn!reader

fluff , drabble , ultimate simp jihoon

warnings : none

word count : 0.6 k

requested ? no

a/n : this is what i imagine it would sound like if woozi wrote his own "shall i compare thee to a summers day"

Jihoon is nothing short of talented. A maestro amongst artists and a musical prodigy to his peers.

He can pluck strings until they sing and make his fingertips fly across piano keys in a way that makes them melt together into a symphony. He can breathe life into a school child's recorder that could charm a brewing storm and he can fit together words like a jigsaw to reveal a lyrical masterpiece worthy of the Louvre. Trust, Jihoon has no qualms over his musical competence.

But how is it that he struggles to find any combination of words suitable to the occasion? Why now does his brain falter when it thinks of ways to encompass just how much he loves you? Not a dictionary in the world would be adequate enough to measure that of which he feels.

Because what he feels for you could not possibly be contained to ink on paper, you're much too special for something as archaic as that. Everything about you is so breathtaking. An enigma he's simply been blessed to experience in this lifetime. Jihoon could carve your likeness into crystal under the moonlight and it wouldn't be nearly as mesmerizing as the real thing.

Jihoon believes you outshine even the brightest stars against a jet-black sky. He'd choose the ones in your eyes to stare at for hours over the Milky Way in a heartbeat. Your voice sings a sweeter melody than Apollo's harp on a warm summer day. One he wishes he could capture and play on a loop for all of eternity. If all of history's greatest composers put their minds to one piece, still, they could not conduct a symphony worthy of your essence.

And, oh, how you call his name has him hearing bells. You light a fire inside him like flint dragged across steel— like a bow across strings. Your hand fits into his palm like the bout of a violin and he can't get enough of the harmony you bring to his life. Just your presence alone grounds him in ways he never knew possible.

When he kisses your lips, Jihoon can taste a song so decedent it leaves him full for days. Soft and delicate touches that crescendo into passion personified pluck at the strings of his heart in the late hours. The feeling of his arms around your waist as you sleep provides an indomitable security. Your even breaths fan against his collarbone like a lullaby, easing him to sleep. Then, when he wakes, you're still there, greeting him like a songbird.

You are his muse, his life, and everything more.

Jihoon understands now why so many of history's greatest ballads are written for lovers. Because the human language is a fickle thing. Always changing, never quite perfect, unsatisfactory in the eyes of man. Music lives on for centuries beyond their composers. It is, by all definitions of the word, immortal. There will always be someone to enjoy its tune and pass it down for years to come.

A song is but a time capsule of the memories that brought it to life. And Jihoon is not a man selfish enough to deny future generations of your beauty. He would write a song a day if it meant cementing your memory in history.

If only he could find the words.

"Are you ready?" Seungcheol's deep voice pierces through the thin silence.

"Not at all." Jihoon inhales as deeply as he can in his suit that feels one away thread from being too tight, then exhales slowly. The parchment with his vows crinkles and folds at the bend between his fingers.

The words in his palm are no soliloquy, but his heart bled them with every ounce of love he could muster through shaky hands. And the gold band on his finger is a gentle reminder he has a lifetime to spend writing ballads in your honor. There are only two words he needs to worry about right now.

I do.

[micwrs]

@pompedia asked for a line from brick for blossom >:3

— ❝ Hey, do me a favor— don’t ask questions , just take it . ❞ He’s holding a drink out towards her. A drink that definitely looks like.. Something she’d enjoy, probably. Holiday thematic, maybe. The point is he appears to have gotten Blossom a drink.

[oxaxk]

"you'll think it's stupid just like everyone else--" he's quick to respond, a small quiver to his bottom lip as he looks away from the other. maybe he was just being too emotional about a roleplay game but he couldn't help it. cinth constantly poured his heart and soul into the characters he made for his dungeons and dragons campaigns so when something happened to them, it was as if cinth could feel it -- as if it was real life for him.

@notfrsale asked: ❛ you know you can always talk to me. ❜ ( meme )

still, minsung's voice echos in his head like a plea -- one cinth really wanted to answer. he knew his friend wasn't like all the other people he came into contact with ; those that teased him for getting so attached to a silly little game for 'children'. "my... my character died in yesterday's session..." his voice was soft as he responds, fully expecting minsung to laugh.

[evieelyzabethh]

"deep"

⭒'thinking 'bout ringing your line, i wish you would come home'⭒ make out + nsfw headcanons for Viktor

request✓: "Viktor make out headcanons (and maybe even nsfw hcs?) 👉👈"

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬☽SFW☾▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

A tease, through and through. He likes to be begged for, to put it simply. He likes to worm his way into your brain and slither down your spine and make you shiver. He isn't one for PDA, or rather, he isn't the one to initiate it. There's too much volatile equipment in the lab, if ink is to spill on those notes it could set them back weeks, and one slight miscalculation could create an explosion. It's an unfair double standard with him. If you were to kiss him on the cheek, it's a real possibility he'll joking wipe it off, but he can mess with you all day long.

He is very patient while waiting for your resolve to crumble. He likes the journey between Jayce's presence in the room being your saving grace to your damnation as you try and will him telepathically to leave. He's amused hearing your pleas for him to stop teasing you becoming less honest as you lean into his lingering touches more and more. The way your eyes get wide when he asks you 'is it too hard? it's okay to want to tap out.' in relation to your work, but the way his accent is laid, almost slurred with how thick the words roll of his tongue, makes you think of something else.

His kisses are quick when you need them the slowest. After toying with you all day with his stupid dirty remarks and his pretty face and the way he flexes his hand or moves a spare gear between his fingers, you could eat from the palm of his hand. The blush on your cheeks is written off as a sign of an impending fever, even more believable because you're just so hot, and you lean into his cool hand against your forehead and look up at him with doe eyes that scream just take me home. He plants a kick peck to your check, and you twitch in irritation at the smug look on his face.

He's the type to make you chase him, your desperation feeding into what could only be sadism. He chides you for being desperate. 'I'm not going anywhere, doll, I'm just right here.' he says after pulling away from your hot kisses, removing your frantic hands from his neck and holding them in his. 'Good things come to those who wait.' He's a bit of a control freak in that way. He doesn't care how much you need it; you'll get it when he says so.

Despite his kisses being slow, his hands aren't. They work magic, he could work your bra off without you noticing. They also have a mind of their own, weaving between the buttons of your blouse to wrapping around your hair, tugging it as a sign of disapproval. Or sometimes he just holds your chin in one hand, brushing loose hairs from your face to memorize the look it holds. You would think he was a sculptor the way he delicately traces over each feature, grazing each freckle, feeling every divot in your lip. He's committing it to memory. He's not the type to keep polaroids, but he could immortalize both the before and after of your nights together into iron and stone.

Not often rough, but after enough of an adrenaline rush, maybe after a dose of shimmer, he could get there. He's not often messy, but after a rough day of frustration and failure, he's all teeth and tongue, mashing your face into his, practically falling into you with a fervor and anguish that is unfamiliar to the both of you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬☽NSFW☾▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He gives me sadist vibes. The type to tie you to the headboard and leave you there with a vibrator strapped to your clit until you are sobbing and begging for him to take it off. The type to talk to you like he hates your guts, cooing at you condescendingly giving you whiplash at the juxtaposition of his mean words and his sweet tone. The type to accuse of getting off on the idea of being caught by Jayce when you're fucking in the lab. 'You think he'd be surprised, pretty, seeing that his best friend is a fucking whore?' You get the picture.

He can be sweet. Even when he's jackhammering his cock down your throat, calling you the filthiest names under the sun, he really doesn't have a vicious bone in his body. His pupils are dilated too big for his expression to be of genuine disgust. His hands are too gentle, even as wiping the tears that he caused, to truly hate you.

I see a lot of headcanons saying that he prefers giving to receiving, which I don't personally agree with. Don't get me wrong, he loves being in between your thighs, it's his favorite way of pushing your buttons and pushing you to the limits. He likes how frustrated you get when he blows cool air onto your aching clit while you clench at nothing. He's mesmerized by the way his spit mingles with your overflowing cunt. But nothing beats the sight of you on your knees, drool dripping from your chin, eyes closed as you're trying to remember how to breath. It's the fastest way to turn his brain off, and lord knows he needs it.

Due to his experimental nature, he's definitely into edging, both being on a receiving and giving ends. He doesn't just want to test your limits, he wants to test his, and he is not one to give up. He easily gives into you after enough tears start flowing, but he could go until feels like he is about to pass out. You probably tap out before he does, his groans eventually becoming nothing more than breathy whimpers, his chest heaving, his hand wrapping around the hand currently wrapped around his red, leaking cock. He's almost delirious but it just hurts so good.

More of a groaner than a moaner. Definitely takes advantage of those nights where you're on top of him to bury his head in your neck just to groan in your ear and tell you just how good you look on top of him because he knows it gets you off.

This being said, aftercare usually consists of helping each other into the tub, taking turns scrubbing each other clean while exchanging a few wet kisses in the warm water. It's only long after the water goes cold that you leave, giggling back to bed, where if you ask nicely enough, he'll read to you as you both fall asleep.

[bloodmoonmary]

𓃮 leopards break into the church . . . the morning air trembled—or was it she who trembled?—as sixteen-year-old mary medici stood barefoot on the dew-slick grass of the orvinae estate, her toes curling against the earth as if trying to root herself to the spot. the house loomed behind her, its renaissance façade glowing peach in the dawn light, its countless windows winking like knowing eyes. she adored it with the fierce possessiveness of youth, this grand stone witness to her solitary games, her secret readings, her midnight wanderings through galleries where ancestors in oil paint judged her every step. (for she was, above all, a creature of contradictions—both reckless and precise, melancholy and exuberant, changing her mind as swiftly as the wind changed direction over the tuscan hills.)

her mother—that spectral absence—hung over everything. the daughter of a duke, dead in childbed, leaving behind only a sapphire necklace and an endowment that weighed heavier than any jewel. mary wore both like armor. her father’s remarriage (to a man! and so soon!) had struck her first as betrayal, then as fascination, then as weary acceptance—for her moods shifted like the patterns in a kaleidoscope, never settling long enough to gather dust.

at sixteen, she tumbled into an affair with the gardener’s daughter—all sun-browned limbs and laughter like splashing water—only to abandon it weeks later for the village priest’s son, whose ink-stained fingers and trembling reverence she adored until she didn’t. (her passions were fierce but fleeting, like summer storms over the apennines.) the lamenta found her from the moment she was born, drawn perhaps by her restlessness, her hunger for something she couldn’t name. they were elegance incarnate—these night-walking creatures who quoted petrarch between sips of something dark and fragrant. she joined their revels with the same abandon she brought to everything, never questioning why they never aged, why their mirrors remained obstinately empt until she reached the age of 18, not understanding what they truly are besides a connection with her mother.

by twenty-two, she had written a novel (a slim, strange thing that critics called "brilliantly uneven"), earned a degree between fits of ennui and bursts of manic scholarship, and broken at least three hearts in rome without ever quite noticing. when modeling scouts from new york pursued her—drawn to her androgynous grace, that medici nose—she went without a backward glance, packing only a single valise and her unfinished second manuscript.

in america, they called her "enigmatic." she found this amusing. (was it enigmatic to simply be oneself, even if that self changed by the hour?) men and women flocked to her, drawn by her wealth, her titles, the way she could recite dante at dinner and then dance until her slippers split. she indulged them when it pleased her, forgot them when it didn’t. (and if sometimes, very late, when the champagne had gone flat and the admirers had drifted away, she pressed a hand to her strangely steady pulse and wondered—well, wonder was a habit she’d never shaken, not since those long-ago nights in orvinae when the lamenta’s laughter had curled like smoke through the olive groves.)

she was, in the end, exactly what she appeared to be: a woman of her time, and yet somehow outside of time entirely. a poet one moment, a coquette the next, a scholar by moonlight—forever restless, forever reinventing, forever mary.

mary's relationship with louis and lestat exists in that peculiar twilight between mentorship and obsession, that strange vampiric facsimile of fatherhood where centuries-old creatures find themselves inexplicably tender toward this fledgling who seems to hold all the contradictions of immortality in her delicate hands. louis watches over her with a quiet, melancholic devotion, seeing in her both the mortal fragility he mourns in himself and the poetic sensibility he thought long extinguished, while lestat's affection manifests as a series of glittering provocations, pushing her toward grander excesses with the pride of an artist watching his finest creation come to life—both ancients caught in the dangerous, delicious trap of caring for something that cannot be kept, yet cannot be abandoned, their paternal impulses forever tangled with something darker and more possessive, as is the way of creatures who love what they must eventually ruin, but together.

when came to armand, it exists in a different kind of twilight—not fatherhood, but something quieter, more dangerous in its intimacy. he was the mentor who had never been anyone's first choice until she chose him, slowly, deliberately, her devotion settling into his bones like sunlight through stained glass. their bond deepened not with declarations, but with the invisible weight of shared silences. they began to speak without words—glances that burned, gestures that trembled on the edge of something too fragile to name. she would rest her hand against his chest not to feel a heartbeat (for there was none) but to feel his stillness, which had become sacred to her. and he—he would trace the shape of her thoughts before she spoke them, always a second ahead, always knowing. it was love, but not the kind that needed saying. it was in the way he tilted his head when she entered a room, the way she turned to him instinctively, as if pulled by some silent gravity. they loved each other so much it ached—not with the sharpness of mortal passion, but with the slow, inevitable pull of two stars caught in the same orbit, destined to burn together.