#Sound Isolation Clips Ceiling

[labacousticdesign]

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[anythinggoesbutme]

Unseen Arms

Grayson Hawthorne x Lyra Kane

Warnings: emotional vulnerability, anxiety, and mild stress related to work pressure, comfort through physical touch and explores a character’s struggle with loneliness and the challenge of opening up emotionally, no major triggers or graphic content.

Synopsis: After a tense, overwhelming work call leaves Grayson feeling isolated and stiff with stress, Lyra quietly slips in and offers him a comforting embrace—breaking through years of emotional walls with a simple, healing hug.

Song: “Skinny Love” — Bob Iver

Word Count: 841

The office was cloaked in silence except for the low hum of the city far below. Outside, the world buzzed with life — lights flickering, distant sirens wailing, cars weaving their way through streets.

But inside, Grayson Hawthorne stood utterly still by the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned to the door. His silhouette was stiff, tense—like a statue carved from stone, unyielding and unmoving.

The phone pressed against his ear was a tether to a world that demanded more than he had to give. The voice on the other end was relentless, a rapid-fire stream of urgent updates and strategic commands.

Grayson’s replies were clipped, his patience worn thin. But even as his mouth spoke, his mind drifted, caught in the weight of everything piling on his shoulders—his family’s expectations, the empire to uphold, the fragile pieces of himself he barely recognized anymore.

His eyes stared out the window, focused on nothing and everything at once. The glowing city was a maze of possibilities and pressures, a symbol of the life he had built—and the isolation that came with it.

His jaw was clenched tight, muscles taut under his skin, and his fingers tapped a jittery rhythm against the cold glass. The air in the room felt heavy, saturated with all the unspoken things he was holding inside.

Behind him, the door eased open. Lyra stepped in, quiet as a shadow, her heart tightening at the sight before her. She had seen this version of Grayson before—the man burdened by responsibilities that stretched him thin, the mask slipping just enough to reveal the exhaustion beneath.

She closed the distance carefully, her footsteps muffled on the thick carpet. Grayson didn’t notice her approach, his entire focus still consumed by the tense conversation. But Lyra didn’t hesitate.

Her arms reached out, wrapping around his waist, fingers brushing the back of his jacket in a gesture both gentle and grounding.

For a moment, there was no reaction. Grayson remained still, the phone pressed between shoulder and ear, his voice steady but tired. But then, she pressed her lips softly against the back of his chest, over the fabric of his shirt—an anchor, a quiet plea to come back from wherever his mind had drifted.

His breath caught. The sound was almost a sigh, a tremble that spoke of surprise and something deeper—something like relief. The phone call ended abruptly; he muttered, “I need to go,” and the line went dead.

Still, Grayson didn’t move. He just stood there, arms at his sides, letting the silence fill the space between them. His mind raced, caught off guard by the intimacy of the moment, by how natural yet foreign it felt to be touched like this.

Lyra held on, patient and steady, letting him find his footing. She knew the years had taught him to build walls—walls so high and thick that even she sometimes found it hard to reach him. But here, in this quiet moment, something was shifting.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, his hands moved. His fingers brushed over hers, a tentative touch that sent a shiver through both of them.

Then, as if realizing the gravity of what he was doing, Grayson wrapped his arms around Lyra, his grip tight but unsure. The hug was awkward at first, like relearning a language forgotten. But it grew warmer, deeper.

“I haven’t been hugged like this… in years,” he confessed, voice low and raw.

Lyra smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face. “Then maybe you didn’t know how much you needed it.”

Her words settled over him like a balm. His chest loosened, the tight coil of stress unwinding just a little. His head dipped, resting lightly against hers. The sensation was foreign and soothing, like coming home after a long journey.

“I’m used to carrying everything alone,” Grayson whispered. “But with you… it feels different.”

Lyra squeezed him tighter, her heart swelling. “You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

They stayed like that for several long, quiet minutes—two souls finding comfort in shared silence. The office lights dimmed as the night deepened, the city’s chaos replaced by the steady beat of their hearts.

Grayson’s fingers traced slow, thoughtful circles on Lyra’s back, grounding himself in the warmth of her presence. His breath, once shallow and tense, grew even and calm.

“I thought I had to be strong all the time,” he said, voice barely audible. “But maybe strength isn’t just about fighting alone. Maybe it’s about knowing when to lean on someone.”

Lyra lifted her head to meet his gaze, her eyes soft but fierce with emotion. “And I’m here. Always.”

For the first time in a long time, Grayson allowed himself to believe it. Allowed himself to be held, to be vulnerable, to be human.

Outside, the city pulsed on, indifferent to the quiet miracle unfolding in that office. But inside, something fragile and beautiful had taken root — a moment of real connection, unseen arms wrapping around him, steadying him through the storm.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

[639-hear-me-out-bby]

dive.

nabi's notes: simply a memory of mine turned to a prompt to a fic. enjoy!

i was bored. stuck in lockdown. as if the world pressing pause wasn’t enough, life decided to throw in a few plot twists of its own. i had just gotten off the bi-weekly check-in call—something my dad made a routine, almost like clockwork. it was… eventful, to say the least.

he opened the call like he always did. “hey, bug. how you holding up? i miss you.”

that’s how he says it. casually, gently—like he’s trying not to spook me with too much emotion, even though we both feel it. i said i was okay. i wasn’t lying, but i wasn’t telling the whole truth either.

apparently, my mom had decided that now, of all times, was the right moment to ask for space. and my dad—ever the "understanding" type—agreed without a fight. maybe they both needed it. maybe this was coming for a while and the stillness of quarantine just made it clearer. i don’t blame them. the world’s on hold, and maybe they just didn’t want to be.

my sisters? they’ve become minor internet celebrities with their dancing. viral, trending, choreographed chaos. sometimes i see clips and think, “there’s no way dad’s seen this.” then i remember—he has. and he’s probably just choosing peace over parenting right now.

i try to remind myself that this is what life’s about. living your own path. carving out a space that’s truly yours. and here i am—finishing a degree through zoom fatigue and digital deadlines. working online a few hours a day, making more than i expected for someone just starting out. i'm managing. in some ways, i’m even thriving.

this little life i’m building? it’s not so bad. it’s quiet. simple. mine. and i'm grateful for that.

but i’d be lying if i said i didn’t get lonely. isolation creeps in, especially during long evenings when the sky fades too fast and the silence feels louder than it should. don’t get me wrong—being single has been empowering. i only answer to myself, and there’s freedom in that. still… i’ve always believed that the beauty of life isn’t just in building it—but in sharing it.

just as i was settling into the silence again, my phone buzzed with another call. this time, it was my best friend.

i answered without hesitation.

“hey buggybugs,” they said, cheerful as ever. “how was your day? 'wachu been up to?”

i smiled, even if they couldn’t see it. it always amazes me how they manage to say the exact same thing every time and still make it feel comforting. like a little ritual between us.

“you know,” i sighed, flopping back onto my bed, “surviving the endless loop of wake up, pretend to be productive, stare at the ceiling, sleep. rinse and repeat.”

they chuckled. “classic. you sounded kinda heavy the other day. you okay?”

i hesitated. then, without even meaning to, the words started pouring out.

“remember when i told you i was starting to feel... lonely?” i said quietly. “it’s still there. i don’t know. i keep trying to ignore it. i fill my days with stuff—random hobbies, cleaning things that don’t need to be cleaned, and rearranging bookshelves that are already fine. i tell myself i’m doing it to stay busy, but really… i think i’m just distracting myself.”

there was a pause on their end. the soft kind. the one that says, “i’m here, keep going.”

“like, it’s not even that anything’s wrong,” i continued. “i love my little routines. i love the peace. i love this quiet chapter of my life. but sometimes i just wish there was someone sitting next to me while i knit this stupid scarf or paint something just for fun. someone to laugh at how bad my first sourdough loaf looked. someone to hold onto when the world outside gets too loud.”

my voice cracked a little, but i kept talking. i always feel safe with them.

“i don’t regret being alone. i chose this. and i still think it's good for me. but i didn’t realize how much effort it takes to stay okay on your own. like, really okay. not just functioning.”

“oh, bug… i get it. i really do,” they said again, softer this time. “but hey, have you ever thought about, like… putting yourself out there a little?”

i blinked. “putting myself out there? like what—joining a cult?”

they laughed. “no, idiot. like, online dating. or just, you know, talking to people online. the world’s basically all digital now anyway. everyone’s living on the internet like it’s a second skin.”

i groaned dramatically, dragging a pillow over my face. “ugh, i knew you were gonna say that.”

“don’t ugh me. it doesn’t have to be some big thing,” they said. “you don’t even have to look for anything serious. maybe just a connection. a conversation. a virtual coffee or something.”

i peeked out from under the pillow. “…do people still even do that?”

"absolutely,” they said. “you’d be surprised how many people are out there craving the same thing. someone to talk to. someone to laugh with at 2am. someone who doesn’t feel like a name in a comment section.”

i stayed quiet for a bit, chewing on the thought.

“you’re not wrong,” i said finally. “i guess i just... i don’t know. i worry it’ll feel fake. or forced.”

“buggybugs,” they said gently, “not everything has to lead to forever. sometimes it just leads to feeling human again. and maybe that’s enough for now.”

and somehow, that made something in me loosen. like i didn’t have to be waiting for a love story to want to be seen. maybe i just wanted to be known. even for a moment.

they added, “plus, worst case? you get a new story to tell me. or someone to laugh at with me when their bio says ‘just here for the vibes.’”

i laughed because, of course, they would say that.

“fine,” i said, rolling my eyes with a smile. “maybe. i’ll think about it.”

“that’s all i ask,” they replied. “besides, if anyone deserves to be loved for all their weird hobbies and late-night scarf-knitting… it’s you.”

i was about to reply—something sarcastic, probably—when they suddenly cut in.

"okay, i gotta cut you short, momma’s calling,” they said quickly. “catch ya' later, byeeee!”

the call ended before i could even say bye back. classic.

i stared at my phone for a second, still smiling. it was funny how even a short call like that could lift the weight off my chest just a little. i didn’t feel fixed, but i didn’t feel so far gone either.

after the call ended, i didn’t do anything right away. i just sat there, listening to the faint hum of the electric fan and the buzz of my phone screen going dark.

i let the silence linger for a bit, then dragged myself off the bed and padded into the kitchen. it was getting late, and i hadn’t eaten anything real all day. just cereal and whatever leftover coffee was still in my mug.

i tied my hair up, rolled up my sleeves, and decided on something simple. garlic rice and scrambled eggs. maybe with a side of fried porkchop if i was feeling ambitious. comfort food—stuff that tasted like home.

as the oil sizzled in the pan, i found myself thinking about what my friend said.

"talk to people. just try. the world’s online now."

it wasn’t a bad idea. i mean, technically, i already lived half my life online—school, work, and even grocery runs were all digital at this point. so why did the idea of being emotionally open online feel so… big?

i cracked two eggs into a bowl and whisked them absentmindedly.

maybe it wasn’t about being afraid of people. maybe it was about being seen. really seen. and what that might stir up.

still, i couldn’t deny it—something inside me was curious. hopeful, even. i wanted to believe that connection still existed. that just because we were apart didn’t mean we had to be lonely.

the garlic started to brown, filling the air with a smell that reminded me of sunday mornings and sleepy eyes. i added in the rice and stirred it all together, trying not to overthink it.

maybe i’ll try it, i thought. maybe not tonight. maybe not tomorrow. but soon.

and maybe, just maybe, that wouldn’t be the worst thing.

a few days passed.

i didn’t jump into it right away, but the idea stayed with me. lingered, actually. like a song stuck in the back of my head that wouldn’t go away. so one night—well past midnight, because that’s when all the strangely brave decisions are made—I downloaded an app.

just one. the one with the best reviews and the least terrifying interface.

setting up the profile was weirdly therapeutic. i didn’t try to be someone i wasn’t, but i also didn’t hold back. i chose the photos from my favorites folder—the ones i liked for no one’s sake but mine. me laughing at a café pre-pandemic. a blurry sunset selfie on a rooftop. one from a film camera, soft and golden, the one my best friend took when we had our picnic by the lake. i looked like someone who loved her life in those photos. and that felt important to show.

no need to write some perfect bio. i let the photos speak first. keep a little mystery, right?

then came the part that really made me pause: preferences.

it felt a bit weird at first—like i was building a sim instead of opening up to a possible connection. but still, i started choosing.

age range? 25 to 35. i figured if i was gonna dive into this, i wanted someone who’s got a little life behind them, someone who’s lived enough to understand silence and sweetness in equal measure.

height? i hesitated, then slid the toggle up a bit. tall-ish. okay, tall. not because it’s necessary, but because there’s something about feeling small in someone’s arms that makes me melt. sue me.

body type? i didn’t want someone obsessed with gym selfies or clean eating. i wanted someone solid. the kind who’d be built like a tree or a trunk and give good, grounding hugs. the kind that made you feel safe just by being near.

next was personality tags. i skipped over “party animal” and “entrepreneur.” landed on “bookworm,” “homebody,” “funny.” bonus points if they said “acts of service” or “words of affirmation” somewhere in their profile. i didn’t need a whirlwind. i wanted warmth. i wanted consistency. a little flirting wouldn’t hurt, but emotional availability? that was gold.

i mean, i wanted someone who showed up. someone who’d mean what they said and say what they meant. someone who gave the same softness back.

then i paused.

was i asking too much?

i stared at the screen. at the neat little categories i’d just checked off like they were groceries on a list.

was it fair? to want someone who was emotionally open, funny but not performative, gentle but grounded, tall enough to rest my head on, and available enough to actually be there?

was that... unrealistic?

i chewed the inside of my cheek. maybe i was just lonely. maybe setting all these preferences was just another way of protecting myself—from wasting time, from disappointment, from being ghosted mid-convo by someone who only wanted attention.

but deep down, i didn’t think i was being picky. i just wanted to feel safe. i just wanted it to mean something, even if it didn’t last forever.

so no. maybe i wasn’t asking too much. maybe i was just asking the right things, finally.

so i hit save. stared at the screen, then i hovered over the “get started” button and i tapped it.

just like that, i was on.

and honestly? it didn’t feel scary. it felt… kind of thrilling. like cracking a window open on a humid night and getting a breeze you didn’t know you needed.

i didn’t expect fireworks. but maybe, just maybe, someone out there would feel like something i could hold onto. even just for a while.

being on the app felt like walking into a party where everyone was yelling “notice me” but no one really wanted to stay for small talk.

the first few swipes were… entertaining, if nothing else.

guy #1 had four gym selfies and a quote that said “hustle in silence.” pass. hard pass.

guy #2 was holding a fish. a very large fish. why was it always a fish?

guy #3? okay, decent smile. until i read his bio:

not looking for anything serious unless ur obsessed with me lol

…next.

i laughed, but a part of me was already wondering if this had been a mistake. it felt like speed-reading strangers’ resumes and trying to imagine futures that might never happen.

and then, just when i was about to close the app and crawl back into my blanket cave, i saw him.

no gym mirror. no fish.

just a slightly blurry photo of him laughing mid-sentence. his hair a little messy, eyes soft. like someone who didn't know how beautiful he looked in candid moments.

the second picture was him holding a book—a real book, not some fake prop for vibes.

the third was a beach day at what looked like a vacation, captioned:

my favorite place to disappear for a bit.

i bit my lip. okay. okay. now we’re talking.

i tapped his profile. no cringey bio. just:

5'11. slow texter, deep thinker. tell me your comfort meal, and i’ll tell you mine.

my heart did the tiniest flip. just enough to remind me it still worked. i hovered my thumb over the heart icon. hesitated. then tapped it.

match.

a tiny ping. the screen lit up. i wasn’t expecting butterflies. but something fluttered anyway.

you and namjoon have matched.

i stared at the screen for a moment. usually, i’d wait. let them message first. let the app do its thing.

but something about him made me curious.

i took a breath. typed:

me: okay, comfort meal? mine’s garlic fried rice, fried egg, and porkchop. no judgment pls

i hit send before i could overthink it.

a few minutes passed. i got up to grab water, half-expecting the conversation to fizzle the way most of them do.

then—ping!

namjoon: okay wait that actually sounds amazing like a meal that could bring someone back to life mine’s kimchi stew. especially with the softest tofu.

i smiled.

me: you sound like someone who’d argue about spice levels with the waiter and win

namjoon: absolutely but only because i make the best arguments also bring snacks to debates. very persuasive tactic.

i laughed out loud. he was charming. not performative. not trying too hard. just… easy.

me: okay. solid start. what else should i know about you before i give you my darkest secrets and/or my spotify password

namjoon: hmm i write sometimes. mostly poetry no one sees. i overthink texts but send them anyway. and i believe the right song can save your entire day. your move.

my chest did that quiet little ache thing. the one that happens when someone surprises you by being real.

me: damn you’re already trying to become my favorite person, huh?

namjoon: trying? i thought i already was.

i bit my lip, smiling.

maybe this wouldn’t crash and burn. maybe—just maybe—this would be the start of something warm.

we talked the next day. and the day after that. and the one after that, too.

it wasn’t constant—we didn’t live in each other’s phones—but it was consistent. thoughtful. gentle. like walking into a room and always finding a cup of tea waiting for you.

sometimes it was simple:

namjoon: rate: getting out of bed today be honest

me: 6.5. only because i wanted to make salted cream matcha you?

namjoon: 4.7. dragged myself into the shower like a sad wet cat. but i’m here

other times, it got a little deeper:

me: do you think people are meant to have just one great love? or a few that teach them different things?

namjoon: i think… we meet mirrors. some reflect us. some show us who we want to be. either way, we grow.

i reread that one a few times.

then there were the quiet check-ins. the ones that made my chest feel a little less hollow:

namjoon: hi, buggy don’t know why but your name needed extra letters today how’s your head?

and somehow, i’d answer honestly. not always all of it. but enough.

we shared playlists. memes. blurry photos of our dinners. i sent him a picture of my yarn collection when i couldn’t sleep, and he sent back a picture of his bookshelf—with post-its sticking out of his favorites like secret messages.

namjoon: some of these books and film disks and reels are just friends now. they’ve seen me cry too many times.

by the second week, i didn’t even realize how often i was looking forward to his name lighting up my screen.

until one night, right after a particularly long workday, i sent:

me: okay i think i’m ready for the face behind the poetry and fishless photos 👀

there was a pause. he was typing. then not typing.

then typing again.

namjoon: 😳 really?

me: unless you’ve been catfishing me with that blurry beach candid in which case—respect. 10/10 commitment.

he sent a laughing emoji. then another message.

namjoon: i’ve got tea, myself, and bad lighting. you sure?

me: add in that voice of yours and that sounds like a home buddy starter pack yes. i’m sure.

a link popped up a second later.

incoming video call: namjoon.

my heart stuttered. i took a deep breath. ran a hand through my hair. deep breaths. it's just namjoon.

hit “accept.” and there he was. hoodie. tea. dimly lit room. soft smile.

“hi,” he said. his voice was warm. a little lower than i expected. gentle.

“hi,” i replied, barely holding back a smile.

his camera focused after a second, and there he was—hood up, shyly smiling, dimly lit by the softest glow from a desk lamp. he looked exactly like someone who read poems out loud to himself when no one was watching.

we just stared at each other for a beat. not awkward… just a little stunned. like, oh. you’re real.

then—without warning—he blurted it out.

“you’re really pretty.”

my brain went static. like TV fuzz. i blinked. once. twice. “what?”

he smiled sheepishly, flashing me his dimples. “i mean… i knew you were cute from your photos but… i wasn’t ready. you’re just—yeah. really pretty.”

i choked on my own laugh, already feeling heat rising to my face. i glanced at the screen, saw myself in the corner: hair disheveled up, face bare, wearing a day-old shirt with a tiny toothpaste stain near the collar.

“in this?” i gestured at myself. “in my day-old shirt and hair?? get some glasses.”

“i have glasses,” he said seriously. “they’re right here.” he even held them up for proof. “and they still agree with me.”

i groaned, burying my face in my hands. “stoppp. i don’t know how to take that.”

“you take it,” he said, eyes warm, “and you believe it.”

my hands slid down slowly. “you’re smooth for a book guy.”

“nah,” he chuckled, sipping his tea, “just honest.”

i smiled, still red, still flustered. because no one ever really said things like that to me. at least not in a way that felt this… sincere. and definitely not while i looked like i just rolled out of a nap from 2018.

but he meant it. i could see it and somehow, that made me want to believe it too.

“so…” i picked at the loose thread on my sleeve, half-smiling at the screen. “do we just sit here and blink at each other now?”

namjoon chuckled, setting his mug down. “we could. but i feel like you blink with judgment.”

“wow.” i gasped. “that’s how you’re starting this? dragging my blinking habits?”

“respectfully,” he added, grinning. “besides, you blink like someone who’s seen things.”

“i have,” i said, mock serious. “like my own reflection at 3 a.m. and the bottom of a bag of chips when i swore i’d only eat half.”

he laughed. it was soft and a little raspy, like it came from deep in his chest.

“okay,” he said. “let’s try something else. i’m gonna ask something random. and you have to answer fast. no overthinking.”

“you don’t know me at all if you think i don’t overthink everything.”

“too bad,” he teased. “ready? okay. what would your weapon of choice be in a zombie apocalypse?”

“uh—cast iron skillet,” i answered immediately.

he blinked. “damn. solid. brutal. no hesitation.”

“i watch a lot of cooking shows,” i said proudly. “and i trust nonstick pans with nothing.”

“you’re terrifying. i like that.”

“thank you.”

he grinned. “okay, next: if your personality was a scent, what would it be?”

i paused. “green tea or baby powder, old books, a little sea salt… and like, the smell of a thunderstorm coming.”

“that’s so specific. and poetic.”

“i’m a walking mood board,” i said, sipping my water like it was wine. “what about you?”

“cedarwood. black coffee. and maybe lemon.”

“you smell like a forest librarian.”

“i will absolutely take that as a compliment.”

we smiled at each other then—caught in that warm, glowy stretch of a conversation where you forget you’ve only just met.

“last one,” he said. “if we were characters in a movie, what scene would this be?”

i blinked. “oof. okay. um… that halfway point. where the two people stay up late on a video call for the first time, and it’s not dramatic or anything. it’s just soft. and real. and something shifts even though no one says it yet.”

he stared for a moment. “that’s… exactly what this feels like.”

my chest did that dumb little flutter thing again. i looked down, smiling to myself.

“you’re really good at this,” i mumbled.

“at what?”

“making people feel like… they can breathe easier.”

his eyes crinkled at the corners. “so are you.”

we didn’t realize how late it had gotten until he yawned mid-sentence and immediately looked guilty about it.

“no no—don’t need to cover it,” i said, smiling as he hid behind his hoodie sleeve. “you’re allowed to be human.”

“i’m trying to be charming here,” he mumbled. “but my eyelids are staging a coup.”

i checked the clock on my screen. 2:11 a.m.

“oh wow,” i whispered. “how did it get this late?”

“you,” he said immediately. “your fault. you talk like a story and i got pulled in.”

my stomach flipped. again. he said it so casually, like it was a known fact.

“…you’re really not gonna let me win one moment of this call, are you?”

he smiled sleepily. “not a chance.”

the silence after that felt warm. not awkward. just soft and full.

then, out of nowhere, he said it—quiet and sincere.

“i don’t really wanna hang up yet.”

i felt it. the ache. the wanting to stay. the childish pull of five more minutes.

“me neither,” i said, voice just as low. “this feels… nice.”

he leaned back in his chair, hoodie bunched at his shoulders. “it’s rare, y’know. when someone feels like this. easy. real.”

i nodded. “it’s weird how fast that happens sometimes.”

“yeah,” he said. “like finding someone on the same wavelength without tuning anything.”

another pause.

“do you do this often?” i asked gently. “video call someone off an app?”

he shook his head. “no. first time, actually.”

“really?”

“yeah.” he met my eyes through the screen. “i think i was waiting for someone who made me want to.”

and i didn’t know what to say to that.

because in all honesty… same.

i curled deeper into my blanket, letting the silence hold us for a moment longer.

“you falling asleep on me yet?” he asked, voice even softer now.

“maybe,” i whispered.

“then just rest. i’ll stay a little longer.”

and he did. neither of us said goodbye.

we just… stayed.

screens glowing faintly in the dark. two people, tethered by something gentle. something that didn’t need a name just yet.

should i continue? heart, reblog, or interact whatever. i highly appreciate feedback!

[thornsinwinter]

Rating: M Pairing: Nesta/Tamlin AO3 Link Written for @nestaarcheronweek Day 7 - Free Day

When prima ballerina Nesta Archeron's breaks her ankle during a performance of Giselle, the Prythian Ballet Company gives her six months to recover. It isn't enough. Now faced with the end of her career at twenty-seven, Nesta retreats into bitter isolation until her neighbor's violin disrupts her self-imposed solitude.

Tamlin Thorne, an experimental composer with his own scars, sees beyond her injury to the dancer she still is.

......

The pain was exquisite.

Nesta Archeron stood at the barre, her right leg extended in a perfect battement tendu, toes pointed so severely they threatened to break through the worn satin of her pointe shoes. She pressed harder, finding comfort in the familiar burn stretching up her calf. The bedroom she had converted into a studio was empty save for her reflection multiplied across the wall of mirrors, her shadow long in the late afternoon light.

The letter lay crumpled in her dance bag. She didn't need to read it again to know what it said. After nine years with the Prythian Ballet Company—three as an apprentice, four in the corps de ballet, and two glorious years as a soloist—she was being "transitioned out." The artistic director had used flowery language about "new opportunities" and "the next generation of dancers," but the meaning was clear.

She was done.

Nesta moved into a développé, leg extending toward the ceiling in a controlled, fluid motion. Her reflection revealed the perfect line of her body, sculpted through decades of discipline and pain. Her face remained impassive, revealing nothing of the storm raging inside her.

A sharp twinge shot through her left ankle, the injured one, as she shifted her weight. Six months of physical therapy, three surgeries, and countless hours of modified training, all for nothing. The company had given her time to recover from the fall that had shattered her ankle during a performance of Giselle, had even paid for her medical expenses, but patience had its limits.

She wasn't the same dancer she had been before. Close, but not quite. And in ballet, that fraction of difference meant everything.

What was she without ballet? Who was Nesta Archeron if not a dancer?

The violin started precisely at seven o'clock. It always did.

Nesta's concentration fractured as the first jarring notes penetrated the thin walls of her apartment. She lowered her leg from the stretch she'd been holding and glared at the wall that separated her unit from the neighboring one. For three weeks now, the same routine: she would return from the studio, attempt to continue her exercises at home, and promptly at seven, her new neighbor would begin what could only charitably be called "practice."

The sound wasn't unpleasant, exactly. The player was technically skilled. But the music was wild, experimental, with jarring dissonances and unpredictable rhythms that made it impossible to maintain the structured discipline ballet required.

Tonight, she couldn't take it anymore. Not with the letter. Not with everything falling apart.

Nesta pulled on a loose sweater over her leotard and leggings and marched to the door, barely pausing to slip on a pair of flat shoes. In the hallway, she squared her shoulders and knocked sharply on the neighboring door.

The violin continued uninterrupted. She knocked again, harder.

The music stopped mid-note, and moments later, the door swung open.

"Can I help you?" The man who stood before her was tall with broad shoulders and golden-blond hair tied back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck. He looked more like a football player than a musician, she thought. His green eyes studied her with mild curiosity, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"I'm your neighbor," Nesta said, her voice clipped. "And I would appreciate it if you could practice at a more reasonable hour. Or perhaps invest in some soundproofing."

Something flickered across his face—amusement? Irritation? It was quickly replaced by a polite, if somewhat rigid, smile.

"I'm Tamlin Thorne," he said, extending a hand that she pointedly ignored. "And I'm afraid seven is one of the few times I have to practice these days. I teach at the conservatory during the day."

"Well, Mr. Thorne, your 'practice' is disrupting mine." Nesta crossed her arms. "I'm a professional dancer, and I need silence to concentrate."

He leaned against the doorframe, the violin still held loosely in one hand, the bow in the other. "Professional dancer? With which company?"

The question hit like a physical blow. Nesta fought to keep her expression neutral.

"The Prythian Ballet," she said after a moment. It wasn't a lie. Not yet. She had three more weeks before her contract officially ended.

Tamlin's eyes widened slightly. "Impressive. I've attended several of their performances." His gaze swept over her, professional rather than lecherous, assessing. "Soloist?"

"Yes." The word came out sharper than intended.

His gaze dropped briefly to her left ankle, where a thin scar was just visible above her shoe. His expression changed subtly, a flash of recognition crossing his features. "I see."

Nesta stiffened. She hated that look, the one people gave when they connected her to the accident that had been written up in all the arts sections. The star soloist who fell during what had been looking like her best performance. The promising career cut tragically short.

"Ms...?" He prompted.

"Archeron. Nesta Archeron."

"Ms. Archeron. Perhaps we can reach a compromise. I have a strict schedule I need to maintain, but I could rearrange some things. Would earlier be better? Say, five o'clock?"

Five was when she usually when she was cooking or doing chose after returning home from the studio. Soon, she would have no studio to return from.

"That would be... acceptable," she managed.

Tamlin nodded. "Five it is, then." He paused, studying her face. "Are you alright? You seem..."

"I'm fine," she snapped, stepping back. "Five o'clock. Thank you."

She turned before he could respond, retreating to her apartment and closing the door firmly behind her. Leaning against it, she released a shuddering breath. She hadn't expected him to be reasonable. Hadn't expected him to be familiar with ballet. Hadn't expected him to look at her with those perceptive green eyes that seemed to see too much.

The violin resumed a few minutes later, but softer now, almost as if he was trying to mute the sound. The melody was different too, less experimental, more classical. Bach, she realized. A concerto she recognized from her days at the academy when they had practiced to classical recordings.

Nesta sank to the floor, back still against the door, and allowed herself to listen. Really listen. There was a strange, raw emotion in his playing, precise yet passionate, controlled yet somehow wild. It reminded her of the feeling she got in those rare perfect moments on stage, when technique fell away and pure expression took over.

She closed her eyes and let the music wash over her, a single tear escaping down her cheek.

.....

This one got kinda long and away from me so I wont post the full thing on tumblr. Finish reading it on ao3!

[rjalker]

I'm laughing so hard I'm crying.

Please enjoy some schadenfreude, on me. It is just as entertaining to rewatch your own videos of playing this game as it is to watch other people get the crap scared out of them by this game.

[ID: A short video clip of the game Alien Isolation being played in VLC media player, with the voiceover of the player saying resignedly, as part of a longer sentence cut off by the start of the video, "...and there's a xenomorph in here with me". while quiet alarms sound and red lights on the ceiling pulse. The player walks up a short flight of steps, and is about to continue down the hospital's corridor, when there is a sudden creak of metal from ahead, and a section of metal grating on the ceiling is sent to the floor in a cloud of steam. Immediately the player cries a wordless N sound like the word "no" endlessly stretched out, backing down the stairs as a xenomorph's hiss sounds, drowning out the sirens. The player continues to make the sound in fear, rising in pitch as the camera turns around as the player hurries back down the stairs and hides under a nearby hospital bed as the sound of the xenomorph's feet and claws on the metal sound, and it hisses even louder. The video ends with the player character staring at the metal wall while continuing to hide under the bed. End ID.]

[noisydelusionlove]

Chapter 25: Back to business

Pairings: Poly141xOC 

Warnings: A/BO dynamics, dubcon, emotionally constipated characters, aggression

Note: Aurora is out of heat and back to herself, what does that mean for the dynamic they created during her heat?

The sheets were icy when she woke, the chill seeping into her bones as Aurora blinked away the remnants of sleep. She stared at the ceiling of the mansion, the faint scent of her recent visitors still lingering in the air. Her skin prickled with the ghostly touch of their hands, the echoes of their laughter, and the fog of primal instincts that had consumed them all. But now, the room was quiet, and she was alone.

She dragged herself from the bed, ignoring the leaden weight in her limbs, and padded toward the ensuite bathroom. The tile was cool and unforgiving against her bare feet. She turned the water up as hot as she could stand and stood under the spray until her skin flushed and steamed. She scrubbed at her body, determined to rid herself of any lingering scent but her own.

By the time she emerged, towel-drying her hair, her decision was made. She dressed quickly in her usual attire—black cargo pants, a fitted tank, and her trusted hoodie. There was no room for softness or mixed signals today.

The sitting area was dimly lit when she entered, but Price was already there, his steady presence a comforting constant. He sat on one of the oversized leather couches, a file open on his lap, but his eyes lifted to meet hers as she stepped in. "Morning," he said evenly, his voice a low rumble. "Captain."

Her voice was neutral, clipped. "Price." She sat across from him, her posture stiff and unyielding.

He set the file aside, his sharp, perceptive eyes never leaving hers. "Feeling all right?" he asked, his tone careful but concerned.

"Fine," she answered stoically, her voice leaving no room for argument.

He nodded slowly, allowing the silence to stretch between them for a moment. "We can head back to the building when you're ready," he said finally, his voice a low, steady drumbeat of reassurance.

Aurora nodded, then paused, her voice barely above a whisper. "And… them?"

"They'll follow your lead," Price replied, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "You want things to go back to how they were, they'll respect that. No pressure. No expectation."

Her chest ached, but she forced the words out anyway. "That's what I want."

Price studied her for a moment longer, his eyes seeing too much, but he didn't push. He simply nodded once and stood. "Then that's what it'll be."

The ride back was quiet, the mansion receding into the distance like a faded dream. Aurora stared out the window, her heart aching with a mix of relief and longing. She hated how much she already missed it—the safety, the warmth, the fleeting sense of belonging. Their building loomed ahead, industrial and functional, a stark contrast to the mansion's comfort.

Their building was just as she had left it, the scent of home wrapping around her like a familiar, static-laced embrace. The boys were there; she could feel their presence like a low hum in the air. She returned to her room, her boots echoing down the hallway, the sound a stark reminder of her isolation.

Lunch came quickly. She didn't avoid them or sneak in late; instead, she grabbed a tray and slid into her usual seat between Soap and Gaz, opposite Price. Ghost was already there, hunched over his food, his silence a physical barrier.

Soap greeted her with a cautious smile. "Welcome back."

She gave him a small, noncommittal nod. "Not like I went far."

Gaz passed her a bottle of water without a word, his gaze flicking toward her but not lingering. Price ate quietly, his eyes occasionally meeting hers with a mixture of concern and understanding. Ghost didn't look at her at all, his presence a dark, brooding shadow at the end of the table.

The conversation was thin, centered around training drills, updated protocols, and new recruits. Aurora listened but didn't contribute, her stomach churning with a mix of anxiety and uncertainty. She could feel Soap's knee brush against hers now and then, subtle and intentional. She didn't pull away.

By dinner, the tension had settled into something almost bearable. They talked more this time, the jokes from Soap and dry commentary from Gaz almost normal. Price threw in the occasional amused grunt, and Ghost remained quiet, his eyes shadowed and unreadable.

Aurora sat between the same two as before, her body angled slightly toward the table, arms resting loosely at her sides. It felt almost normal. But not quite. Soap kept glancing her way like he wanted to say something but didn't know how. Gaz’s voice was gentle and careful, which only served to annoy her more. And Ghost—Ghost was ice, his scent locked down, his voice nonexistent. But every so often, when she looked up, she caught him watching her from beneath his lashes, and it made her feel too much. She didn’t speak to him. Not yet.

The barracks were too quiet that night. Aurora tossed and turned, the fabric of her hoodie twisted around her, clinging like a second skin. Her body buzzed with leftover energy—restless and raw—and her thoughts refused to settle. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was oppressive, like the building itself was waiting for something to break.

She needed air. She slid out of bed barefoot, padding silently through the dim hall until she reached the kitchen. The hum of the fridge and the faint drip of the faucet were the only sounds. She opened the cabinet, grabbed a protein bar, and leaned against the counter, chewing slowly. Her hoodie sleeves dangled past her fingers, and she kept her eyes down, lost in thought.

And of course, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, he appeared. Ghost stepped into the kitchen like a shadow peeled from the wall, his presence sudden but not surprising. He didn't say anything at first, just moved to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap with too much force. Plastic cracked under his grip.

Aurora didn’t look at him. "Midnight snack?" she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I could ask you the same," he replied, his voice low and rough, not sleepy or soft, and definitely not unaffected.

She stayed quiet, her heart pounding in her chest.

"You smell different," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "Less… sweet."

"Yeah. That's how post-heat works," she replied, her voice flat and unemotional.

Ghost's jaw ticked, his scent flaring briefly before he smothered it again. "You act like it didn't mean anything."

"It didn't," she snapped, turning to face him fully, her eyes narrowed and fierce. "It was heat, Ghost. Biology. Not fate or love or whatever primal bullshit you think it means."

His gaze darkened, a storm brewing in his eyes. "You touched all of us like you meant it," he growled. "You let me—fuck, you let me hold you like—"

"Don't," she hissed, cutting him off. "You don't get to rewrite what happened."

He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his eyes burning into hers. "You think you can ignore this?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

"I am ignoring it," she spat, her voice shaking with emotion. "You're not my alpha. You never will be."

His nostrils flared, and the air shifted—thick with power and anger. His apex instincts surged to the surface like a wave, his presence suddenly massive, oppressive, and suffocating. Her pulse pounded in her ears, every instinct inside her screaming to submit, to yield, to soothe the beast before her. But she didn't.

"I said no, Ghost," she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "You don't get to bully me into being yours just because the universe had a sick sense of humor."

And that was what finally cracked it. His control slipped—just for a second. His hand slammed against the cabinet next to her head, not touching her, but close. Too close. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling like he was holding something in with every fiber of his being.

And then—just as fast—he backed off. Three steps. Four. His scent retracted like a slammed door. "You think I want this?" he bit out, his voice a low, pained growl. "You think I'm happy about the bond? I've spent every night since your heat trying to scrub the fucking need out of my skin."

"Then go find another omega," she said coldly, her voice a sharp, cutting blade. "You're good at that, right?"

His eyes burned behind the mask, and for one blistering second, she thought he might snap again. But instead, he stormed out, his footsteps heavy, the door swinging shut behind him with a sharp clang. Aurora stood there in the silence, her heart pounding, her mind a whirl of emotions. She bit the inside of her cheek, hard enough to hurt, tasting blood. She meant what she said. She just hated how much she wished she didn’t.

Ghost stormed through the hall like a fuse had been lit behind his ribs, ready to blow. He didn't notice how loud his boots were or care when his shoulder clipped the doorframe as he shoved his way into his room. The air inside was stale, thick with frustration and unspent emotion.

He ripped off his mask, throwing it across the room, and braced his hands on the edge of his desk, breathing hard. His reflection in the dark window was just a blur of sharp angles and trembling restraint. His fists clenched, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

He could still feel her voice in his head, hear the way she said you’re not my alpha like it wasn’t already written into his bones. She didn’t want him. But every part of him ached for her. There was a quiet knock—barely a tap—before the door creaked open.

"Soap?" Soap’s voice was hushed, gentle, a soothing balm to Ghost’s raging emotions. "Heard you slam the door. You alright?"

Ghost didn’t turn around. "Go back to bed, Johnny."

Soap stepped in anyway, barefoot and half-awake in a loose shirt and joggers. His gaze swept the room, taking in the discarded mask, the rigid line of Ghost’s shoulders, the tension coiled so tight it felt like the whole room was vibrating.

"You're bleeding scent like a bomb just went off," Soap said softly, his voice a gentle, calming melody. "Want me to help?"

Ghost’s head dropped between his shoulders, his voice a low, strained whisper. "I can’t breathe, Johnny."

Soap’s heart clenched. He moved closer, slow and careful, until he was right behind him. "She say something?"

Ghost gave a bitter laugh, a dark, pained sound. "She said it was just biology. That I’m not her alpha. That she doesn’t want any of this."

Soap laid a hand gently on Ghost’s back, his touch a grounding force. "You know her. She’s scared."

Ghost shook his head, voice low and strained. "She’s right to be."

"She’s not," Soap said, firm now, his voice a steady, unyielding force. "You’re not the type to force a bond. You’re just hurting."

He let his other hand curl around Ghost’s bicep, grounding him, anchoring him to the present. "Come sit."

Ghost let himself be guided. He collapsed onto the edge of the bed like he’d finally run out of fight, elbows on his knees, hands scrubbing over his face. "I want her," he said, his voice a low, pained whisper. "But I don’t want to want her like this. I don’t want to lose control."

Soap knelt in front of him, his eyes locked onto Ghost’s, his presence a calming force. "You didn’t," Soap murmured, his voice soft but firm. "You pulled back. You came here. That’s control, Simon."

Ghost met his eyes for a second—haunted, wild, exhausted. Soap reached up and gently pressed his forehead to Ghost’s, their breaths mingling, their hearts beating in sync.

"I’ve got you," Soap whispered, his voice a soft, reassuring promise. "Just breathe with me, alright?"

And so they sat there, forehead to forehead, as the storm inside Ghost slowly began to settle. The weight of the bond didn’t go away, but it didn’t crush him either. Not while Soap was there, grounding him, holding him together.

<<<Previous Chapter

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Masterlist

This story is completed

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Credits-

Silver heart knot divider by @tsunami-of-tears

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Header by me

[hoursofreading]

I BOUGHT A SWEET TEA at a downtown lunch spot and reviewed the notes for my talk. Before I arrived at the conference, I had decided to discuss bias in algorithms. The essence of my argument was this: In 2019, shortly after I finished graduate school, I worked for a company that made a real estate chatbot called Brenda. Brenda answered questions about apartment listings and booked prospective tenants for tours. My job was to supervise Brenda’s conversations as an “operator,” and if she went off script, which she often did, I took over until she regained her bearings. Over thousands of conversations with strangers, I began to suspect that Brenda’s diction — and the very fact of her texting interface — was most palatable to the young, affluent, and white. I feared this had real effects on which people booked tours, and which people were so put off by the experience of speaking to Brenda they looked for housing elsewhere. Was this not redlining by algorithm? The peculiar mental burden of the job was that I was made to live in parallel but opposite realities. On the one hand, our Slack channels were filled with messages from developers claiming righteous intentions. Brenda was making the rental process accessible, democratic, quick as a text. And yet every night I watched how this bot, with her blameless, chirpy affect, was an instrument of isolation, a digital bully that landlords used to create distance between themselves and their tenants. Though she hadn’t crossed my mind for some time, I remembered Ella, a woman who messaged Brenda so often I came to recognize her on my shifts. Ella spoke only Spanish. Brenda did not, and neither did most of the chatbot operators, so we corresponded with Ella by copying and pasting Spanish phrases from a Google Doc we had compiled on our own time. Ella was a tenant at one of Brenda’s properties. Ella’s messages were urgent and anguished. She spoke of violencia and God. Her situation was unclear. She sent video clips of her walls and ceilings, which came through as still images without sound. We were fairly certain Ella was trying to report domestic violence in the apartment next door. We told Ella that if she or someone else was in danger she should call 911. Ella did not call 911; it was possible she was afraid to engage the police. We told Ella to call building management, but the management’s only phone number rerouted to Brenda, the chatbot who handled rental inquiries. Ella, I should note, was not the woman’s name. She offered us her real name several times, which we manually added to her file. But Brenda, ever keen, kept spotting the feminine singular pronoun ella — a more suitable name by Brenda’s logic, more like the names she had seen before — and entering it into the name field, obliterating whatever had been there. “Como te llamas?” we would ask. “¡Ya te dije!” she would say. The woman’s true name was finally lost.

An Age of Hyperabundance | Issue 47 | n+1 | Laura Preston

[blackjackkent]

Ask meme prompt fill for @theajaheira from this ask meme: Even More Popular Text Posts Ask Meme Hector/Karlach - "concept: it’s 3 am. candle lit room. a record is spinning. you’re kissing me. we have no worries in the world. we’re warm and content." I had a couple different ideas for this, but this one stemmed from the realization that the prompt, completely by coincidence, already had exactly 25 words. XD (Also before anyone says it, yes, I know Sending can't actually be cast as a ritual spell but, crucially, I don't care. XD )

-----

Learning the spell Sending, Hector has come to realize, is something of a mixed blessing.

There are a lot of bright sides, of course. It’s been the culmination of extended, careful work on his part to maintain a connection to Selune in spite of his self-imposed exile in Avernus; the first day that he was able to communicate a message to Karlach when she wasn't in the room felt like moonlight breaking through ever-thickening clouds. And there’s no question that it makes all of them - him, Karlach, and Wyll - much safer, as it gives them another line of communication during the frenetic battles with the devils and demons they fight every day.

The downside, primarily, is that Hector is the only one who can trigger a message without assistance; Wyll and Karlach can only respond. The other downside is more subtle and far more selfish. With Sending in their back pocket, splitting up becomes a more viable strategy, and he and Karlach both feel it keenly when they aren’t able to keep a direct eye on each other.

But that, unfortunately, is how he comes to be here, curled up in a cave all by himself near the outer wall of the fortress of one of Zariel's top lieutenants. Strategically, the idea is sound - position themselves at three separate vantages, get as much rest as they can, and then strike simultaneously from different angles in the very early morning. Intellectually, Hector knows it's the best chance of success. 

However, that doesn't change the fact that this is the loneliest he's felt in a long time. Once, in his old life, such isolation came naturally to him, but no more. It's desperately hard to sleep alone in this bleak little hole, knowing that Karlach is similarly alone out in that dangerous wasteland and far out of his direct reach. 

He rolls onto his back for the twentieth time and states at the rocky ceiling with a sigh. Then, feeling somewhat pathetic, he drifts his eyes half-closed and focuses inward, prodding cautiously at the filaments of the Weave with the magic Selune has granted him. 

Are you still awake, love? he sends cautiously. 

She responds almost instantly, which tells him she too is feeling the strain of the night's isolation. Her magically transmitted voice resonates inside his head, vibrates at the base of his skull and through his teeth, and she answers in clipped sentences due to the spell's word limit, as he taught her. 

Yeah. Brain's buzzing. Can't turn it off. Need to sleep. This fucking sucks. I miss you. Taters. A brief pause, and then - rapidly before the spell can die out, filling the last few words: I love you so much. Keep sending. Please?

He smiles, relaxing a little and fully closing his eyes. If he holds very still, he can almost imagine she's there whispering in his ear, that he'd only have to turn his head to see her lying next to him. 

Taters, he sends. I miss you too. Only a few more hours. Then we fight, and then we can go home. And then I'm all yours. 

He half-expects her to take this as an invitation to tease him with images of what she plans to do to him when they're reunited. But she takes a gentler tack instead. Home. Yeah. Funny that Raphael's old shithole is “home” now. The safe place. A slight pause. You think we'll ever have a real home, Hec? Together? 

The gentle, weary pathos in her mental tone makes his heart turn over in his chest. I know we will, he sends fiercely. Those blueprints are the key, I'm sure of it. And we're finding Zariel's weak points. Pretty soon we'll-- He breaks off, counting rapidly on his fingers. Shit. Next message. 

Standing by, Karlach responds with a flicker of humor while the spell resets.

Pretty soon we'll finish her for good. I swear it, he completes earnestly. And with those blueprints, we'll fix your heart. And then we'll go. Away from here. Anywhere you want. 

Anywhere? she answers. Again that dash of amusement. That's a big promise, Hec. Gonna take me to Mount Celestia if I ask? 

A pause. He summons the spell again - and it takes a little more effort this time around the sudden surge of emotion clogging his thoughts. Anywhere, he repeats earnestly. But it should be the Gate, really. Your city. Near that park, maybe. A dash of green. No more brimstone stink. Clean air and--

The spell cuts him off mid-sentence, but Karlach picks it up in her answer, almost at once. --and the river. Yeah. My city. He can feel her emotion rising in answer to his, an odd thickness in the mental ‘voice’. You and me in my city. Little place near the river, maybe. Somewhere we can hear and see everything… 

A long pause. He's drifted into utter stillness now, all his attention focused inwards. It's a strangely meditative state, and it simultaneously comforts him and makes him wish for her touch with an ache that is physically painful. 

Picture it: it’s 3 AM, he sends, his mental voice low now, as he might murmur against her ear. Candle lit room. Music's playing somewhere. You’re kissing me. We have no worries in the world. We’re warm and content… 

There's a long pause before she responds. Well. We've got the ‘warm’ part already. It's a weak attempt at a joke; he can hear the weight of tears in her voice even though it's not spoken aloud. His own eyes feel damp under their closed lids. Promise me. Promise me we'll get there one day. Somewhere soft and safe. Somewhere far away from here.

I promise. He can picture exactly how he'd touch her if she were here - a gentle brush of his fingertips over her lips, along her cheek and back through her hair. Soothing. Reassuring. I promise. We'll get through this, and we'll be free one day. I love you. I love you, and I promise. I promise. 

I love you, she answers. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Taters. 

[profile-234]

The Role of Drywall in Soundproofing Your Home

When it comes to creating a peaceful, quiet environment at home, soundproofing is often a priority. Whether you live in a busy neighborhood, work from home, or simply enjoy some serenity, controlling noise levels is key. One of the best materials to achieve effective soundproofing is drywall. Not only is it commonly used for interior walls and ceilings, but it also plays an essential role in minimizing unwanted sound.

How Does Drywall Help with Soundproofing?

Drywall is a dense material, and the thicker it is, the better it can absorb sound. It acts as a barrier, stopping sound waves from passing through walls and ceilings. When installed correctly, drywall helps reduce noise from traffic, noisy neighbors, or even the sounds of family members in other rooms.

The soundproofing quality of drywall can be enhanced further when combined with additional materials. For instance, soundproof drywall is a specialized product designed to offer superior soundproofing benefits. It includes additional layers of gypsum or a sound-dampening core material that make it more effective than regular drywall.

But even with standard drywall, there are ways to improve its soundproofing capabilities. Adding insulation behind the drywall, using acoustic sealants on joints, or installing a double layer of drywall can significantly reduce sound transmission.

Key Advantages of Drywall in Soundproofing

Cost-Effective: Compared to other soundproofing methods like foam panels or specialized acoustic materials, drywall is a more affordable solution that still offers effective noise control.

Flexibility: Drywall is versatile and can be used in almost every room in the house. Whether you want to soundproof a home office, a bedroom, or a shared wall in an apartment, drywall can be the perfect solution.

Ease of Installation: Drywall is relatively easy to install compared to other soundproofing options, and it doesn’t require major construction work. For most homes, drywall installation is quick and hassle-free.

Aesthetic: Not only does drywall help reduce noise, but it also offers a smooth, clean surface that can be painted or decorated to fit any room’s style.

Additional Tips for Enhancing Soundproofing with Drywall

To get the most out of drywall for soundproofing, consider a few additional steps:

Acoustic Insulation: Adding acoustic insulation between the studs before the drywall goes up can significantly improve sound isolation. Mineral wool or fiberglass insulation are good options to absorb sound effectively.

Decoupling: This involves creating a break in the wall structure to prevent sound vibrations from traveling through the studs. Specialized clips or resilient channels are used to create space between the drywall and the studs, reducing the transfer of sound.

Double Drywall: Adding an extra layer of drywall can greatly enhance soundproofing. When the two layers are separated by a layer of soundproofing glue, the result is a much quieter room.

Sealing Gaps: Even the tiniest gaps or cracks can allow sound to leak through. Use acoustic sealant around edges, joints, and at the baseboards to ensure there’s no space where sound can sneak through.

Why Choose Atlantic Builders WY for Drywall Installation and Repair in Jackson, WY?

If you're considering soundproofing your home with drywall, it’s important to work with a professional who understands both the installation and repair processes. That’s where Atlantic Builders WY comes in. Based in Jackson, WY, they specialize in drywall installation and repair services that can improve your home’s soundproofing.

Whether you’re building a new home or renovating an existing space, Atlantic Builders WY’s skilled team can ensure your drywall is installed properly, maximizing its soundproofing benefits. They can also help repair existing drywall to address any issues that might be affecting your home’s noise control.

Their experienced crew is equipped with the tools and knowledge needed to handle drywall installations, repairs, and enhancements that can make your home quieter and more comfortable. With their expert services, you’ll enjoy a peaceful living environment that’s protected from unwanted noise.

Final Thoughts

In conclusion, drywall is a fantastic material for soundproofing your home. It offers a simple, cost-effective way to block unwanted noise and create a peaceful living space. With the right installation techniques and a few additional tips, drywall can significantly enhance your home’s sound isolation.

If you're looking for the best drywall installation and repair service in Jackson, WY, Atlantic Builders WY is a trusted choice. Their expertise in drywall will ensure that your home remains a quiet and serene sanctuary, free from unwanted sounds.

[learnhowtocreatemusic]

Innovative Soundproofing Methods for a Drum Room: How to Reduce Noise and Improve Acoustics

Drum rooms can be one of the most challenging spaces to soundproof. Drums are loud, and their vibrations can easily travel through walls, floors, and ceilings, making it difficult to contain the noise. Whether you’re a professional drummer or a hobbyist, finding effective ways to soundproof your drum room is essential—not only to keep your neighbors happy but also to improve the acoustics of the room for better recordings and practice sessions.

In this blog post, we’ll explore some innovative soundproofing methods that can help reduce noise while enhancing the overall acoustic quality of your drum room.

1. **Use Mass-Loaded Vinyl (MLV)**

Mass-loaded vinyl (MLV) is a flexible, heavy material that is highly effective at blocking sound. It can be applied to walls, floors, and ceilings to create an additional barrier against noise transmission. MLV works by adding mass to the surfaces of your room, which helps prevent sound waves from passing through.

- **Application**: MLV can be installed between layers of drywall, under flooring, or even hung as a soundproof curtain around the room.

- **Benefits**: It’s particularly useful for low-frequency sounds like the booming of a bass drum, which are harder to block.

**Pro Tip**: When using MLV, make sure to seal any gaps or seams to prevent sound leakage.

2. **Build a Room-Within-a-Room (Floating Room)**

The concept of a room-within-a-room is one of the most effective soundproofing techniques. This involves building a second layer of walls, ceiling, and floor inside your existing drum room, creating an air gap that helps isolate sound.

- **How It Works**: The air gap between the two layers acts as a sound buffer, preventing vibrations from traveling through the building structure. This method is especially useful for reducing low-frequency sounds that easily travel through solid surfaces.

- **Construction**: You can use resilient channels, sound isolation clips, and double layers of drywall to create the inner structure, with the outer room acting as a barrier.

**Pro Tip**: Use dense materials like **Green Glue** between drywall layers for added soundproofing. Green Glue is a noise-dampening compound that absorbs sound energy.

3. **Install Acoustic Panels**

While soundproofing focuses on blocking sound from escaping, improving the acoustics of your drum room is equally important. Acoustic panels are an excellent solution for reducing echoes and controlling room reflections, which can make your drumming sound clearer and more balanced.

- **Types of Acoustic Panels**: Choose **foam panels**, **fabric-covered fiberglass panels**, or **DIY acoustic panels** made from sound-absorbing materials.

- **Placement**: Position acoustic panels strategically on the walls, particularly in areas where sound reflects the most, such as directly behind and in front of the drum kit.

**Pro Tip**: Combine acoustic panels with bass traps in the corners of the room to absorb low-end frequencies, which can often build up in smaller spaces.

4. **Use Drum Shields**

Drum shields, also known as drum screens or drum cages, are clear acrylic barriers that can be placed around the drum kit to reduce the spread of sound. While they don't completely eliminate noise, drum shields can help control the volume and direction of the sound within the room.

- **Benefits**: Drum shields are particularly useful in shared studio spaces where drums need to be isolated from other instruments. They also help control the amount of sound that reaches microphones during recordings, leading to cleaner recordings.

- **Combined Approach**: Drum shields are most effective when used in combination with other soundproofing methods like acoustic panels and soundproof curtains.

**Pro Tip**: Add sound-absorbing panels around the drum shield to further enhance noise reduction and prevent sound from reflecting back into the room.

5. **Install Soundproof Doors and Windows**

Doors and windows are common weak points in any soundproofing setup. Regular doors and windows allow sound to escape easily, so upgrading to soundproof alternatives is crucial for reducing drum noise.

- **Solid-Core Doors**: Replace hollow-core doors with **solid-core doors**, which are much denser and better at blocking sound.

- **Soundproof Windows**: If possible, install **double- or triple-pane windows** to block outside noise. For an added layer of soundproofing, use **soundproof curtains** or **acoustic blankets** over the windows.

**Pro Tip**: Use weatherstripping around the door and window frames to seal any gaps where sound might leak out.

6. **Soundproof Flooring with Isolation Pads**

Drums create significant impact noise, especially through the floor. Using drum risers or isolation pads can help reduce the amount of sound and vibration that travels through the floor and into neighboring rooms.

- **Drum Risers**: A drum riser lifts the drum kit off the floor and absorbs some of the impact noise. You can build a DIY drum riser using plywood and soundproofing materials like foam and carpet.

- **Isolation Pads**: Place **rubber isolation pads** or **anti-vibration mats** under the drums and cymbal stands to reduce vibrations that would otherwise be transmitted through the floor.

**Pro Tip**: Combine isolation pads with heavy rugs or carpet underneath the drum kit to further reduce noise.

7. **Seal Gaps and Cracks**

Even the smallest gaps in your drum room can allow sound to escape, so it’s important to seal any cracks or openings around windows, doors, and walls.

- **Acoustic Sealant**: Use **acoustic caulk** or sealant to fill in gaps around doorframes, windowsills, and corners.

- **Weatherstripping**: Apply weatherstripping around doors and windows to prevent sound leakage. This is a quick and inexpensive way to improve soundproofing without extensive renovations.

**Pro Tip**: Pay special attention to any electrical outlets, light switches, and ventilation grilles, as these are often overlooked areas where sound can escape.

8. **Decoupling with Resilient Channels**

Decoupling involves separating two structures to prevent sound from transferring between them. **Resilient channels** are metal strips installed between drywall and the studs or ceiling joists. These channels create a flexible barrier that prevents sound vibrations from traveling through the walls and ceiling.

- **How It Works**: Resilient channels effectively “float” the drywall, minimizing contact with the structure of the room and reducing sound transmission.

- **Where to Use**: Install resilient channels on both walls and ceilings for the best results.

**Pro Tip**: Use resilient channels in combination with **double layers of drywall** and **Green Glue** for maximum soundproofing.

Conclusion

Soundproofing a drum room requires a combination of methods to reduce noise transmission and improve room acoustics.

[vibrasonicsblog]

REGUPOL SonusClip - Product Spotlight

Danielle Macey of Vibra-Sonic Control shows off the REGUPOL SonusClip. These isolation clips make improving the acoustic performance of walls and ceilings simple and effective.

[grippingbeskar]

salt, ice and fire | frank castle

chapter one - a glimpse of the sun

[series masterlist]

frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: graphic description of injuries, mentions of blood, allusion to torture/minor sa themes in the future (doesn’t actually happen)/unwanted advances, body checking, mention of seeing bones/starvation, mention of mental illness/panic attacks in future chapters, canon typical violence

a/n: this is a long time coming guys wow. i hope you guys enjoy this series, i cannot wait to get it all out there! let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gunshots woke you from sleep.

They were incessant; rattling off a clip every second, paired with bodies slumping onto the floor. You rolled over in the make shift bed, switching to put your right arm under your head, keeping your face off the cool metal that laid beneath instead of a mattress. Gunshots were normal in this place, but the amount of noises and shouts that went with them was making you antsy. Whatever was happening above you, it wasn’t the normal operations.

The chaos above your cell was growing louder, even with your elbow pressed tighter to the side of your head. The shots weren’t so much as being fired as they were let off. Automatic, probably an assault rifle. No time between reloads meant no taking aim, no care for who would get caught in the crossfire, just constant shots hitting as many bodies as possible. Usually, the base you were currently being stored in was full of gunshots, so that wasn’t what you were focusing on. You know there was executions, gangs like your captors did them all the time, but the automatic fire spraying the floors above you was out of the ordinary.

You didn’t give a shit - all those men could drop dead in the next second and you wouldn’t so much as shed a fucking tear, but someone needed to feed you. Or at the very least, let you out.

“Down here, Colonel.” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. You have no idea how far away they are, never seeing the outside of the four walls you’ve been shut into for the past three years hasn’t allowed for a whole lot of exploring, but he sounds closer than the gunshots. He also sounds ordered - footsteps in time with his partners, heavy boots beating down the concrete staircase. Heading down.

Down to you.

You were the only living thing down here; it’s been that way since you arrived. Sitting up, the chains around your wrists and ankles chatter on the ground, dragging and clicking as you get up and move to the back corner. You don’t recognise the voices, which is both good and bad.

Good, because maybe those assholes above you finally got what was coming to them, and a rival gang or the FBI or some shit had torn them apart. 

Bad, because new people meant new problems, and you were in no position to fight your way out of here. 

People were not good. Few as you had seen over the past three years, every single one wanted a piece of you. Whether it was to pull you apart, test you and cut you open, or to just watch you work, every single person that has come down those stairs had wanted something from you.

You know what you are, what you could offer people in this industry. You were lethal, and they wanted to glimpse the potential of new technology, to witness the dawn of a new age.

You looked at the bones protruding from your hands.

Some weapon you were anymore.

“Get me eyes on Castle. I need a clear exit after acquisition. And tell Bobby we are moving.” Another voice broke the quiet of your isolation. They were on the floor now, boots marching in time, coming down to the end of the hallway. 

You lifted your head that had dropped onto your knees, managing to squint your eyes in an attempt to see your visitors. You blink a couple times, the dehydration wracking your body so thoroughly even your eyes were dry. You see no faces - they weren’t close enough yet, just a dim orange light hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the long corridor that leads to the front of your cell, along with eight figures dressed in uniform. Camouflage uniforms.

Your heart, cold and hard as it is, lurches in your chest.

Were they army? Were they here for you? Fuck, could you dare to imagine? What if they were here to help-

“This is it?” A man steps forward, his nose turned upwards, and just by the tone of his voice, by the way he addresses you, all the hope dies as quickly as it came. “It’s... Christ, it’s half dead.”

Your head managed to hold itself upright despite the screaming in your muscles to crumple to the floor. You could see the bruises that never healed peppering your arms and legs, your eyes following his down your body. The dried blood you never bothered to wash off. You supposed you were half dead. With a few more weeks like this one, you would be dead.

The idea didn’t seem so scary anymore, but you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not when you knew what you were protecting. 

“They’ve been keeping it down here for years. With Castle and the FBI getting closer, though... No one’s been down in weeks. I’m surprised it’s still here.” The man, who is clearly the superior here, squats down in front of your cell. There was a time when men wouldn’t dare cross the faded yellow line in front of your door, but that was also a time when you could manage to keep yourself upright without the aid of the wall behind you.

The door swings open with little resistance, keys clanking to the ground, and the men step inside. 

The chains around your wrist cut into your skin as you strike forward, and just as fast as you moved they haul you back, slamming you into the concrete. You wouldn’t lay down and let them kill you. You wouldn’t let them circle around you like a zoo animal, not while you could still fight. The man seemed happy you had some fight left, a small smile appearing on his face as he stalked around to your right.

“It’s still under there, somewhere. We can fix it, in due time.” He takes another step forward.

“Sir, we aren’t supposed to...” He flicks his hand in a signal to cut off the uniform at the door. Reluctantly, the soldier bends down and hands the keys to his superior, and quickly steps back outside.

“Those look painful.” He remarks mockingly, squatting down again, in front of you this time. Just out of reach of the chains if you lept forward. He wasn’t afraid of you, but he also wasn’t stupid, it seemed. A shame. You had a sudden urge to know what his flesh felt like under your fingernails.

He lifts his head, looking down at the scars around your ankles. You couldn’t remember how many times they had healed over, only to be torn through again. 

“I can take them off, if you’d like.” You squint. Assessing. There’s always a catch with a guy like this. His military uniform is stacked full of medallions, tinkling together every time he shifted closer. You don’t move, don’t react as he pulls out a key.

“I know why you’re down here. I’d like to offer you something, if you can help me.” The gun shots still ring out upstairs, the sounds of men screaming echoing down the hall. “I’ll get right to it. I have some targets I need acquired. If you complete the job, I’ll give you exactly what you want. What these guys have been hanging in front of you for years.”

You suck in a breath - the most human thing you have done in what feels like years. The one thing you want, the reason you haven’t torn apart every single person that came down here. The reason you sit here, letting this man inch closer and closer, his bloody hand almost ghosting your wrist. The idea of him touching you makes you want to vomit, but you don’t move.

If he has what you want, you will endure. Endure him - men like him always gave in eventually. 

“That’s right. I have your brother.” The last of the water your body had retained spills out in a single tear that falls down your cheek. 

“The Gnuccis have my brother.”

“Not anymore.” A sick smile spreads across his features. His hand clamps down on your forearm, hard. He watches you for a reaction. You give him no such satisfaction. “Aquire the targets, and I’ll give him to you.”

“You expect me to believe someone like you-“ You look him up and down, just like he did to you. “-took on the most famous crime family in America. And pulled it off.” He smacks you across the face, blood flowing down your chin as the scars there reopen.

“I will give you back to them and kill the boy, if that’s what I please. Let them tear you apart a little more. Or maybe I’ll do it myself. I have a feeling I would like to hear you scream.” His hand slides a little higher on your forearm, and everything in you screams to run. To get as far away from the man as possible. The chains that tug on your ankles remind you that you can’t.

And that he holds the key.

He smiles, staring at you with cold eyes, waiting for your answer, or maybe for you to beg him not to hurt your brother. You would - if that’s what it would take, but you have no clue if this man is telling the truth. Your face hasn’t changed, and the man stands, going to head towards the door.

Everything starts to get very real, very fast, and you feel your body start to shake.

“Wait.” You croak out. You hadn’t heard your own voice in weeks, and it came out strangled and dry. He turned back around. The gunfire upstairs was still loud, and you knew in a few weeks, if you were left down here you would die alone, and no one would be left to fight for your brother. You shoved your pride, and your better judgement down, and answered. “I need time. I’m not - strong, like before.”

“You will have it.” He steps back into the room. “Food. Maybe even a room with a real bed.” The insinuation makes you nearly gag, and his hand was now grabbing your elbow. 

“How do I-” you have to cough, throat dry as you tried to make sense of the situation. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“You do as I say, you’ll get your proof eventually. Six months of service. Then you get what you are so desperate for.” He nearly laughs, and motions for you to bring your wrists forward so he can unlock them. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. You don’t have much of a choice.” You hated that he was right. No one else was coming for you. You had nothing but this. You let him undo the cuffs.

You don’t get to enjoy the feeling of freedom for long, because one is replaced with another as he locks a thick, heavy, black cuff on your left arm. You only had a second of freedom before you were locked in again.

At least this one allowed you to move your arms. 

He left the right wrist free of cover, and unlocked your ankles, dropping the chains to the floor. You examined the new cuff, a green, blinking light intermittently flashing, so bright it made you squint. The man stands, throwing the keys back to the soldier at the door.

“If you go anywhere I dont tell you, it goes off. You do something I don’t like, it goes off. You look at me wrong, it goes off.” Goes off. In your head, you don’t think that would be the worst thing in the world. At least it would be fast.

You use both arms and push yourself onto your feet, but the movement is too fast for your weak body, and the man has to grab your arm to keep you from falling over. “Fucking hell. Joey, Sam - get it out of here.”

The two soldiers at the door grab you under each arm, and they move so fast your feet drag along the concrete. A faint beeping from your wrist draws your attention, and your head turns just as you pass the bottom of the stairs.

A door opens ahead of you, and all the sudden movements mixed with the bright lights of outside make you drift off into unconsciousness, but not before you catch a glimpse of a black vest and a man underneath it, a gun in each hand, and a white skull painted on his chest. 

You see his face, only just, with the light from the open door. It’s covered in blood, but you see it. You don’t know who it is, or why he’s shooting at the men carrying you out, but all you know is that someone else came. Maybe not for you, but they came.

They take you out through the open door, and you pass out before you can see the sky.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[two months later]

“Where should I put this next?” Frank slides the sharp tip of the knife past the mans jawline and down his neck, watching as he draws just enough blood to make him sweat. It drips down onto his chest, and he watches the man’s eyes widen as he panics.

“Man, I already told you! Th-they don’t tell us anything about that stuff!” He takes the knife off his neck, and lets the guy have a moment of relief before he slams it down into his thigh, all the way to the hilt. “Fuck!”

“You think I’m dumb, huh? Your boss has an armed assassin killin’ dozens of men all around New York, and you expect me to believe you boys know nothin’ about it?” He twists the knife to the right. He can feel the blood seeping out of the wound, and the man swears again, breathing ragged.

“Fuck - okay! I-I hardly know - God, I’ll tell you, okay! Just stop, please just st-st-” Blood was rushing out of his leg now, and Frank knew he only had a few more minutes before he bled out in the chair. He let go, swinging a leg over the chair opposite his captive; waiting for the answer to his question. “They don’t have a name for it. The Colonel sets it a target, and in 12 hours it brings back the head as proof. I don’t - I don’t know where they got it, or what it - is.”

“The head?” Frank Castle leans forward.

“That’s all that’s left. He got a call about some kind of weapon, and he…” The captives head - Sam, he thinks his name is, falls forward, and Frank shoves his chair out from under him and gets back up, using one hand to grab Sam’s jaw and force him to open his eyes. They nearly roll back in his head.

“Why is the Colonel using this thing to take hits? Isn’t that what you are for?” 

“We aren’t hitmen. The Colonel wants our hands clean, better for the organisation. Nothing leads back to us - to him.” Sam spits up blood, and Frank shakes his head in his hand.

“Focus.” For a second, the mans eyes open, and Frank knows what he’s thinking. He knows the look in his eyes - of a man who realises survival is no longer an option. “What is it?”

“Dunno.” He slurs, and Frank twists the knife out of his leg. He hardly flinches, and he knows he’s on borrowed time.

“Is it a machine? One of those super soldiers?” The man smiles, almost laughing in between gasps for air.

“Nothin’ that sweet.” His head lulls to the side, and Frank feels his pulse come to a stop under his hand. Shoving the dead body away, Frank grabs the rest of his shit and starts to head out of the garage he’d been stuck in for the past hour with that piece of shit.

The list of people that Sam guy had fucked up in the past few months was long enough to rival Frank’s, so he felt nothing as he closed the shutter door to he garage, leaving his body bloody and bruised.

Frank starts the van when he finally reaches it around the corner, resisting the urge to drive it straight down to where he knew this ‘Colonel’ had last been. The FBI were still crawling the scene, and Madani told him to stay clear until she could be sure what it was.

In truth, the FBI had no fucking clue. Whatever this thing was, it was fast, strong and lethal. In the past two months - ever since Frank had shot up the Gnucci crime families main operation building out in Washington - this killing machine had been attributed to over 2 dozen murders.

Not just any murders either. The crime scenes were intense, and nearly all the victims had been high profile criminals or corrupt officials. Frank hadn’t bothered to learn the names of the scumbags, but when Madani had called him in after the first hit, he took personal interest.

This ‘Colonel’, whoever he was, was using a fake title, one he shed no blood and made no sacrifices for, and recruiting any shit-for-brains asshole who walks off the street to form some kind of militia style army. These guys had been on Franks radar for a while, the growing organisation pissing him off in its blatant disrespect for real troops who actually put their life on the line to defend their country, not use a title and fake uniforms to commit petty crime and scare people into listening to them.

Then he saw them at the Gnucci base, and Madani had called him days later.

The Gnucci family was one of the biggest crime families in America, and if these guys were linked to them in any way, it could only be bad news. When Madani called, she let him know that the Colonel’s group, going by some dumb ass name like ‘New America’ had started to get a little traction, and their leader was surprising highly trained.

It had been that very day that they had successfully used the chaos Frank created above them, shooting up whoever he could catch with a bullet, to sneak out a highly valuable asset from the Gnucci basement. When he’d caught a glimpse of what they were sneaking out, he’d almost thought it was a girl, but that was impossible. They were talking about an asset - some kind of machine or something.

Frank drives west, and the sun starts to set as he heads toward what passes as his home these days. Life after Billy Russo, after sending Amy out to Florida was surprisingly… calm. Sure, he had just spent the day torturing a man in an abandoned car garage, but that was what constituted calm for Frank Castle. It had seemed like everything was settling, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being… alone.

He had a place in New York, a small apartment just above that diner he likes. He had a steady income, his phone never ceasing with calls from Madani now that she had worked her way up into the CIA, and every so often he chased his own leads. Call it penance - giving back to the city that has given him a second chance. That’s what he was doing now. Having a killer this efficient running around on the streets was bad enough, let alone if they were being controlled by a group as manipulative and warped as ‘New America’.

The stories he’d heard of their initiations, the way they spoke about people in their little online forums Frank had had the pleasure of scrolling through - it was almost therapeutic to be chasing these guys down and ripping them apart, and that wasn’t even starting on the kinds of things Madani had told him they’d been up to.

Frank pulls up to his place, a crappy looking apartment building just on the edge of the city. It’s probably a little worse than he could afford, but the idea of living somewhere nice, somewhere he would have to get comfortable, buy a new couch and all that shit. He doesn’t think he has it in him. So, he takes the stairs because the elevator doesn’t work, and jams the key into the lock.

Immediately, he knows somethings wrong. The key doesn’t turn the lock over, which means it was already unlocked. He never left his place unlocked.

Gripping the hand gun strapped to his belt, he waits a few seconds outside the door. His position is given away, whoever’s on the other side could be waiting, already aiming when he steps inside. He tries to listen but doesn’t hear any breathing.

He knows if someone walks around inside, he would be able to hear the creak of the shitty floorboards, and he might even be able to gage a location depending on where they step. He hears nothing, and slides the gun out of his holster, clicking off the safety.

In one motion he kicks the door open, gun trained straight, and takes cover behind the small island in the kitchen. He expects the shot to go off, maybe in warning, or a late reaction, but nothing does. He doesn’t hear…. anything. Taking a chance, he glances behind his shoulder, only an inch of his face exposed. He sees it.

Her.

“Frank Castle?” A voice calls from the opposite side of the apartment. It’s small, so when he turns around, still half behind cover, he can see the shitty excuse for a living room, and can also see, plain as day, the woman sitting on his couch.

“Who the fuck are you?” He watches as she gets up, the thick black cuff on her wrist flashing a green light.

“Are you-“ She looks down at the watch. “Frank Castle?” He stands, gun still trained on her in front of his face as she takes two steps forward. She couldn’t be older than mid twenties, and as she walks through the doorway leading to the front room, she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he’s got his gun aimed on her. “Are you?”

“Who’s askin’?” Her shoulders slump down slightly, and she sighs like he’s asking her about the weather.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” He watches her eyes as they squint in focus. She presses a button on her cuff, and it beeps twice. She takes a step forward. “The Colonel sends his regards.”

It’s the last thing he hears before she rips the gun away from his hand with almost inhuman speed, and he can hear the shatter of his right forearm as she crushes it with ease in just one hand.

[next chapter]

[peachy-panic]

Kneel.

Surprise, another Jaime-in-training drabble for the masses.

Warnings: Handler Smith, BBU/BBU-adjacent, stress positions, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper, (accidental) hanging reference, choking

A hook has been attached to the back of his collar, a chain pulled taut between the anchor point on the ceiling and where Jaime kneels in the center of his cell.

Well, not quite kneeling.

While the hook forces him upright with the constant threat of strangulation, another restraint keeps him from standing. Or, for that matter, even stretching up into a ninety-degree angle on his knees to alleviate the strain in his thighs, which hold his body weight in the half-elevated stance. His hands are cuffed behind his back with the same unbreakable metal that he wears permanently around his neck, and there’s another chain securing them to a bolt in the floor between his ankles.

No way to settle into the kneel. No way to rise out of it.

For hours—god, it had to have been hours by now—Jaime has been forced to maintain his position. His quads scream out from the exertion of balancing his weight in the awkward angle. Sweat runs in thick rivulets down his back, his face, his arms. The slow trickle is its own torture; a faint buzz of sensation that only grows more unbearable because he can do nothing to wipe it away.

All because of a single mistake. An isolated moment of defiance bred from days of complete and utter soul-destroying obedience. He had been doing so well. Handler Smith had even given him small bites of his lunch nearly every day this week for his compliance.

And now, because Jaime couldn’t resist a knee-jerk reaction of fear last night when Handler Smith had backed him into a corner and told him to get on his knees, all his progress—or what passes for it in this place—is lost. He had refused to kneel, just once, and now he isn’t given a choice.

You’ll learn not to make that mistake again, he promised Jaime before leaving him like this.

Several times over the course of the punishment, Jaime’s legs have given out from under him, muscles collapsing in momentary defeat, and he has tried to endure the subsequent constriction around his neck, the loss of air, as best he can. But it hurts, and the metal of his collar is unforgiving against the tender skin of his throat, and he always finds himself forcing himself back up after only a few seconds. There’s not really a choice. There is no relief in this game. Not until he is released.

When a faint beep outside his door signals an impending entry, Jaime’s head snaps up, ready to beg, to barter, to apologize and grovel for forgiveness. And it’s… god, for once it’s a fucking relief to see Handler Smith walk through the door.

“Don’t speak,” he says before Jaime can get any words out. He snaps his mouth shut, the words dying in his throat. “I’m not ready to hear your apology yet. Not until I know you mean it.”

I do mean it, Jaime’s head screams back at him, and he’s distantly horrified to realize it’s almost true. The sound leaves his body as an involuntary whimper.

His breathing is a mess of hitching gasps and hisses between clenched teeth as Handler Smith circles him like a shark in water. Every time he rounds behind him, out of Jaime’s line of sight, the already-trembling muscles in his back knot up in awful anticipation.

Minutes pass. It’s an eternity. Smith settles back against the wall directly in front of him, legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded over his chest. And for a long time, he is content to stand there and watch Jaime suffer. His eyes are wide and pleading from his personal hell in the center of the floor, and they’re met with an amused indifference.

At one point, his hand slips down to the pocket where Jaime knows he keeps the remote to his shock clip, and it takes everything in him to bite down on the urgent please that lodges in his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t activate the shock collar on him. Instead, after entire lifetimes seem to have stretched out between them, Smith pushes off the wall and ambles toward him. Jaime is shaking so hard, his mind half-gone from the pain and the exertion and the constant, constant misery, but he still finds it in him to be terrified of whatever comes next.

Tears are making their way down his cheeks, mingling with the sheen of sweat, but he doesn’t realize until the pad of Handler Smith’s thumb swipes across their path. “Are you sorry for earlier?” he asks.

Is this another trap? He doesn’t know if he is allowed to answer. He was told not to speak, but he knows it’s against the rules here to ignore a direct question. Jaime nods, a bit more frantically than he intends to.

Handler Smith smiles. The thumb on his cheek drags slowly downward until it presses down on his lower lip. Jaime doesn’t have it in him to so much as hesitate at the silent command. He relents instantly, mouth falling open to allow his thumb entrance. He doesn’t dare pull his eyes away.

“Tell me,” he says, applying light pressure to the flat of his tongue. “I want to hear you.”

“Please. Please, I’m sorry, sir.” The words come rushing out of him like a dam has broken, garbled and misshapen around the intrusion in his mouth. Jaime doesn’t have the bandwidth to feel the intended humiliation. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hmm.” A thoughtful glimmer lights up in his handler’s eyes before he pushes his thumb further, triggering Jaime’s gag reflex. “Next time I tell you to kneel for me, I suspect there won’t be any hesitation.”

His reply comes out as a choked whine around his thumb, but he nods as much as he can manage, and finally Smith retracts his hand.

“I told you when you got here that I would make sure you learned your fucking place. Can you tell me where that is?”

Jaime doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care about the loss of dignity, the humiliation, the exchange of power he’s offering up in his words. He just needs out of this. He won’t last another minute. His legs will give out for good and he’ll end up hanging himself from the ceiling. “On my knees,” he whispers. A few more tears slide down his cheeks as he closes his eyes. “Sir.”

“Don’t fucking forget it.”

A wave of panic takes hold as the collar suddenly yanks tight against his throat, cutting off his air. His wrists burn and chafe against the cuffs as he tries to rise with the sudden upward pull of the chain. His eyes snap open, but he only has a second to process the sight of Handler Smith’s grasp on the hook before the tension releases and Jaime collapses down—fully, blessedly—onto his haunches. The clasp at his wrists is released a moment later, and he sprawls helplessly to the floor.

***

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @also-finder-of-rings @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering

[hmspogue]

Outer Banks season 2 Official Trailer shot-by-shot rundown

A comprehensive post where I scream about analyze the entire trailer frame by frame for clues, theories, and plot. Just my own opinions and general tin foil-hatting

These are screenshots from Netflix’s trailer for Outer Banks season 2. I do not claim or own any of these.

note: this post is tagged as a long post if you wish to avoid having to scroll until your thumbs break.

“My old man used to tell me, ‘it’s best to never say you’ve hit rock bottom’.”

(Putting all of these shots together since they’re scenes we already know but-) Holy shit, okay let’s just....start off like this I guess, damn.

“'Trust me’, he said...”

Kiara looking back and forth between the boys like this really just feeds the headcanon I have that her form of grief this season is going to be her trying to hold it together for their sakes (and eventually just snapping).

JJ just looks fucking furious someone give these kids a hug? I already know this scene is going to ruin me.

“You can always go...”

JJ back working at the hotel. He looks literally so angry again in this scene I could see him self destructing at work and losing his job? (Please do not be isolating yourself you beautiful son of a bitch even though I know you’re going to).

Pope in the Twinkie (costuming wise they all are in warmer looking clothes for some of the shots, so just confirming it’s a little bit into the school year when this all takes place).

“Lower”

Big John was real big into pep talks, I see. (seriously can you imagine Big John having this conversation with like 8 year old John B after he fucking dropped his ice cream cone or some shit I shouldn’t be laughing).

I’m just-

These poor kids, I wanna know how the police all the way down in the Bahama’s knew about them?

Their calves....

“RUN!”

Are going to be so fucking jacked by the end of this season I stg.

Fuck you.

“The gold from the Royal Merchant....it’s here.”

For a while, I had thought that maybe they didn’t even make it to the Bahama’s at the front of the season and ended there (because everyone had been filming in there). But I guess they’re going to be making two trips.

If I were a bird from this POV I’d shit right on that house no questions asked.

oooooh ho hokay. Just so we’re clear. Ward Cameron not only get away with murder and about two dozen other felonies, but-

“Half a billion.”

HE STILL FINDS THE GOLD IN THE CRAIN HOUSE AND GETS TO KEEP IT?

Not the polo with the snap back, I just know this man has a playlist called Sad Boi Hours that is just Juice WRLD’s top 5 songs on Spotify and he tells his friends they wouldn’t know the underground artists he listens to.

Sh, you have lost screaming privileges. Go inside and take a nap maybe.

“John B, we are fugitives in a foreign country.”

So, previously, I was talking about how I was confused how they would still be trying to find him is everyone thought he was dead, but here the wanted poster clearly says “presumed lost at sea”. I think that will be interesting to see how the Pogues all interpret that. 

Especially because they already had a memorial for John B and everything, I wonder if there will be any part of the Pogues holding out hope that they both could still be out there OUCH.

I’m going to circle back to this, but it looks like John B and Sarah are going to get separated for a little while in this man hunt, I could see my idiot himbo son trying to sacrifice himself so Sarah can get away but in reality just....stranding her.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”

Oh, sweetie....

“Well, Sarah Cameron, I do stupid things all the time without realizing it.”

The volume of his self awareness is astronomical. sir, that is your whole character summed up in your own words.

GOD, IT’S ME AGAIN. PLEASE LET THEM LEAN INTO COMPLETE HIMBO JOHN B THIS SEASON I’LL DO ANYTHING-

nyyooooOOOOOOOOOOOOM-

“Hold on!”

The complete abject terror I would feel having John Booker Routledge driving get-away and then saying the words “Hold on” while reaching fro the gear shift? The english language fails me. 

Sarah, bestie, I’m so sorry.

I just wanna know-

what the plan or objective was in this situation. What was the reason for being this dramatic.

Rest in piss, bozo <3

“Ward’s still out there...”

Okay, same conversation they were having as before. I wonder what makes them decide they need to get back to the OBX for this tho.

“I can clear my name. This can all be over in one shot.”

It looks like Topper watching this but way more concerningly, correct me if I’m wrong but this 100% looks like....John B gets caught. And the DEATH PENALTY?! He did have a mug shot for the fliers in s1 and the one above but he was never brought in? Plus he just looks super dirty and dishevled in this one so I-

Jail break anyone?

I also still want to know if they’re going to go with a Topper redemption arc this season. like, does he know more than he should just from being around Rafe and his big fat mouth? Is he going to help out the Pogues even if it’s just for Sarah?

This shot just suddenly made me really sad. The thought of this all started because Big John left one last thing for his son to find, his literal life’s work. And when it all started, it was just a fun adventure John B and his best friends were going on together and having fun with. Then it all got dragged to absolute shit and turned into what it did, including the remaining 3 Pogues thinking that this treasure hunt took their two best friends away from them. And it’s nothing like Big John intended it to be.

Why my eyes wet?

Now we’re edging into what I was talking about earlier with John B and Sarah getting separated.

“If you think there is anything I wouldn’t do...”

Once again, John B is no where to be found. Also, just in case y’all didn’t already know or forgot Ward is an actual psychopath.

I believe this one of the new character, played by Jontavious Johnson (Stubbs). Based on the voice over it lowkey sounds like they’re implying Ward maybe hired Stubbs and Cleo to find and bring Sarah back. My theory would be I bet they do go to retrieve her, but she somehow convinces them that it would be more beneficial for them in the end to be on the Pogue’s side instead.

Miss Girl you gotta be keeping your head on a SWIVEL. Especially when you’re a FUGITIVE of the LAW-

“...you haven’t been paying attention.”

My guy, who are you clarifying this for?

It’s what you deserve for monologuing.

in all seriousness, the idea of them coming to face to face with Ward in Nassau after thinking they finally escaped him is genuinely terrifying.

“SARAH!”

It kind of looks like they’re either hiding their faces or covering their noses? I don’t know maybe it was from some tactic to get away from Ward.

What did I literally jsut say about yelling privileges, you unhinged mother fucker?

“I’m calling the shots now. I’m driving.”

The following progression of scenes made me actually snort-

“I can’t drive stick.”

PLEASE THE FINGER GUNS LAUNCHED ME INTO ORBIT I LOVE THEM, YOUR HONOR.

Alright, so now it looks like we’re in Charleston. This is the same scene with Heyward’s truck that got leaked from BTS (read: JJ and Kie shoulder touch).

One of the main things that stuck out to me in the following scenes which, you will see, is it lowkey looks like Pope is kind of heading up this part of the operation, or even going in alone? The following clips are just very Pope focused. 

I don’t know what it means, it’s just an observation.

“John B was not the only one that Ward double-crossed.”

LIMBRY-

Bro, we have been hearing about this woman for literal months and I just have....so many questions? 

Who the hell is she? How is she connected to Ward? Why is she in South Carolina instead of the OBX? How do the Pogues even learn about her and how to track her down? How is she meant to “help” them? GAH I JUST WANNA KNOOOW. I already know I don’t trust her though and no I will not be offering up supporting evidence.

Sir, that is my son please unhand him.

“I think you know what I want.”

.......no? But feel....free to explain yourself?

The print on the paper is the same one that’s on the ceiling tiles in the following scene. Obviously, with a key on it that most likely goes to the place a few shots from now.

Hell yeah, son, let’s get SLEUTHING.

“The treasure belongs to the Pogues.”

DAMN STRAIGHT.

Bestie’s I’m not going to lie, I stared at this frame for a solid 10 minuets and I have no idea what it says on there I’m sorry. Someone in the comments is welcome to enlighten us.

“We gotta find it first.”

I can’t tell if that’s just dirt or if he hurt his head? But he look GOOD right now for one thing. For another, same outfit as the one in the Twinkie from the beginning of the trailer.

Look at her. LooK AT HER! LOOK! AT! HER! I MISSED HER SO MUCH even in that damn smiley face top that continues to haunt my waking hours she is in it so much and it stresses me out for literally no good reason I’m sorry-

I could literally cry right now and I think that speaks volumes to how little we actually see him genuinely happy. Have I mentioned how much I love that red hat?

Also, probably not that important, but this is not from the same scene as the shots of Pope and Kiara were. This is from the next one-

“Woogity-woogity?”

“Give me some woogity, baby!”

Yeah, this pushed me over the fucking edge, the way that they’re actually happy and laughing? The fact that they kept woogity-woogity and made it A Thing? Yes.

I am, however, going to be intentionally ignoring what appears to be the very intentional stagingof having such an obvious space between where Kiara and Pope are sitting adn where JJ sits, even including the level they’re sitting on because I don’t have the emotional capacity to face those implications right now. Thank you for your time.

Yes yeeeeEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!

GIVE ME ALL OF THE SCENES OF THEM ACTUALLY GETTING TO BE TEENAGERS AND JUST BREATHE AND LAUGH AND HAVE A GOOD TIME AND NOT BE RUNNING FOR THEIR FUCKING LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!

before Rafe comes in and literally starts shooting because they can’t breathe for more than 7 seconds but we’ll....get to that.

They refer to Sarah as a Pogue this season or I burn Netflix to the ground. Your move, Jonas.

50 bucks says John B is driving the Twinkie again for the first time since being back.

I deadass think the Pogues JUST got Sarah and John B back and they’re just having the time of their life. Kie was in her smiley face outfit when Pope was in this one a few clips ago, and I still hold to the belief that that one still they released of JJ and Kie hopping over a fence is the Pogue reunion so-

Ward? I have no idea what he’s looking at behind the wall paper and I’ll be so honest I don’t care my eyes are only seeing Pogue content right now.

“This is a map of the whole island.”

This fit, when will John B learn how to operate buttons, stay tuned for season 5. Also my previous theory of this being their reunion outfits and stuff because Pope is in the back in the same jacket as before.

The plot thickens and so has JJ’s hair, Rudy drop the shampoo brand.

Please, dear God, tell me they’re back in the sex church. For @jiaaraa sake.

Kiara, your Madison is showing.

Okay, I really did try but all I can make out is Something to the tomb begin something something.

You’re welcome.

I am no expert but I do not believe boats operate on land.

John B looks like he is in the same outfit here that is in his mug shot we saw on the TV screen so I have a sneaking suspicion this is where he gets caught. 

“John B is back-”

Once again with the damn sexual tension that’s always between Barry and Rafe in every scene they do are we about to kiss right now?

“-it’s him or me.”

First of all, no.

Second of all, I’m just....so very confused about this time line this season. It kind of looks like Ward and Rafe follow and find Sarah and John B in Nassau (unless those scenes by the truck were actually back in the OBX). So did they....go to Nassau, then just come right back when they did? I’m just confused.

Put that thing back where it came from or so help me.

Literally when will you stop at this point I am begging you. 

This looks like the same scene the Pogues were, ya know, literally just having a good time at so fuck me, I guess.

Yeah, no, it’s going to be a no from me, I’m just going to pretend like I’m not seeing this and moving on.

I have simply no idea what is going on here or who that is on the bike but maybe JJ? Maybe Luke even? I think that’s JJ’s bike. 

The sewer scene. The SEWER SCENE-

For months sicne that tiktok leaked this damn scene has been genuinely all I could think about. So (obviously) it seems like they’re sending Kie down into the sewer to go do seomthing and things go horribly, horribly wrong. 

If you haven’t seen the tiktok, essentially all it was was JJ and Pope screaming and trying to lift up the man hole cover while Kie is begging for them to hurry from inside. I’m cheating a little bit as this isn’t a shot from the trailer but this picture was posted and it’s from the same scene.

I’ll just....leave this here. Back to the trailer shots.

Nice. Also, same shirt as mugshot.

Hey, um, what? 

Kiara’s car, she’s driving, I can’t tell who’s in the back seat or the front.

Holy God what is going on and how can I as an audience member put a stop to it?

So, same scene as we will see and was in the teaser but, for some reason, they’re all jumping off of a giant ass boat into the little life raft where it looks like JJ gets hurt later but don’t you worry we’re getting to that.

JJ AND KIARA WITH THE POGUE HANDSHAKE JJ AND KIARA WITH THE POGUE HANDSHAKE THEY BOTH LOOK SO DAMN GOOD AND THEIR LITTLE SMILES SPARE ME-

Cleo 🥵

I’m so excited to see her arc and what it brings this season you guys have no idea.

Please for the love of God be about to get Ward Cameron’s ass like he deserves literally punt him into jail right from Tanny Hill.

Sarah at My Druther’s with what looks like a bloody bandage on her side? Same outfit she’s wearing when they’re running from the police on the beach and she has the bandage there too so. Interesting. 

Topper hugging who I’m pretty sure is Sarah, being a general douche because he’s clearly looking at John B like 😏 

Clips like these serve to remind me just how many of my worldly posessions I would gladly give up to be able to punch Topper Thorton in the throat one time. 

I think this is Cleo jumping off the boat with Pope after John B and Sarah. 

Absolutely busting a lung at Pope’s form in this one.

John B and Sarah waiting in the life raft, still Cleo and Pope coming after them. The obvious next question is where are JJ and Kiara. The scene I’m sure you all have been waiting for is coming up and clearly takes place in the life raft as well.

So, I really think JJ and Kie get left for last, something horrible happens as they’re trying to jump (my head instantly goes to JJ maybe like pushing Kie out of the way and getting hit on the head instead or even just some accident). 

And, oh my GOD a scene of him falling off the boat after it happens and Kiara diving in after him immediately, having to desperatly try to stop him from sinkingand get to the life raft holy shit-

Girl CATCH HIM?????

Because why wouldn’t this be Rafe’s fault. Part of me wonders if this isn’t related to JJ being hurt.

I am going to try and unpack this as calmly as possible because behind my computer screen I am vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass but respectfully.

WHAT IN THE FUCK IS TIAUEWFHLAILA

Okay, so scene wise, JJ’s hit his head somehow (probably while he was jumping with Kiara) it looks like and now they’re back on the raft. 

In my opinion, this is either:

A) JJ is in really, really bad condition after getting hurt in the jump and they’re not sure he’s going to make it. So this is a “Please stay with me, stay awake, please don’t die” hug OR

B) They very narrowly just avoided a deadly situation (my first thought is JJ hits his head while jumping, passes out in the water, maybe almost drowns but Kie and the others get him onto the life raft in time) and this is more of a “Oh my God, you’re okay, you’re safe now, we’re okay” hug. 

I honestly lean more to the second one based on the little bit of Sarah’s face we saw in the background. To me, it almost looked like she was smiling thru tears, which, fits way more with the second option than the first. 

Anyways. Moving on before I burst a lung again.

(also, before anyone comes at me, no, I’m not happy JJ is hurt, obviously.  

(Once again, arrest outfits). You can still see the bandage but it looks like Sarah’s limping now too so...good Lord give the girl a break maybe?

Everything in this trailer just went to shit so fast I think I have whip lash, can we go back to the Pogues hanging out and being happy now pkease I liked those scenes.

“I get it. You guys are scared.”

“No.”

She’s cute but, uh, hello sewer scene outfits. Seems like them planning to do whatever the hell they were going to do in the sewers but the boys are starting to get cold feet as maybe they should but hind sight is 20/20 I suppose.

“It’s kind of cute.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should’ve just led with that.”

I will never be able to express how much I adore Pogue banter and general dumbassery and I have a feeling this season will not be lacking in either department

I high key don’t think these two are actually going to be there for this scene to go down but I’ll let it slide this time because-

They do be kinda cute.

It both feels like I’ve been waiting for this damn show for 3 years and also like I just watched season 1 last month explain that to me. 

Either way holy shit. I missed this dumb show and these dumb kids so much it physcially hurts and WE GET THEM BACK IN T-MINUS 16 DAYS.

Also. Where The Hell Is Wheezie Cameron And When Will She Have The Rights She Deserves.

[mabyn-mabyn]

Like/Unlike (And Like Again) | Jinkook Fic

Title: Like/Unlike (And Like Again)

Pairing: Jungkook/Seokjin

Word Count: 18,822

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Tags: Instagram Famous AU, Introverts, Social Media, Meet Cute, Singers, Humor, Awkwardness, Romance

Summary:

Jungkook: if i like someone's post on insta and then unlike it really really fast will they still get a notification Jimin: OOH what did you DO tell us Jungkook: i was looking at this post from one of my fans and i accidentally liked it Tae: WAIT was it a dude and on a scale of 1-10 how hot was he Jungkook: you haven't answered my question??? Jimin: oh he'll definitely see your notif, kook ;)

Jungkook, Instagram-famous singer, doesn't date fans. Then he accidentally likes an old post by user Kim Seokjin. Panic ensues.

People who hate social media don't become Instagram famous.

"You wanna hear a new song, huh?" Jungkook asks, tucking a strand of dyed-purple hair behind one ear.

In his tiny studio apartment, he's both alone and not alone. Can't be alone, not with 56,000 people watching him. The number is dizzying, but the live broadcasts have gotten easier since he's learned how to pay less attention to the viewer count and more attention to the musical connection he's built with his audience.

Sure, before becoming Instagram famous, he spent 90% of his free time online, as any solid introvert might. He'd mostly been a wallflower though, lurking on other people's posts, watching their vids, laughing at their jokes.

But when he breaks out his guitar and starts to sing, a transformation comes over him. Suddenly he wants to be in the limelight.

Well, not exactly be the star, but just...share his music with other people. That magic. It's hard to define, but it's one of the few moments in which he stops feeling like an isolated atom adrift in the universe and more like he's a small part of a cosmic body breathing and existing as one.

"Let's see...I've been trying something out this week, but I'm stuck on the chorus. Tell me what you think."

He's sitting cross-legged on his narrow twin bed, the mattress sunken in the middle from years of use, with his favorite mood lamp casting colorful patterns over the ceiling. In his lap sits the same acoustic guitar he's been playing since he was twelve when his mother had finally, finally surrendered to his desire to switch from piano to guitar.

Sure, he could afford more with the money rolling in from his account sponsors, but he knows viral popularity can be short lived, so he shores up all the cash for an uncertain future and a shaky dream.

He does what he does for the love of it.

He closes his eyes and strums out a few variations on what he's been working on, a melodic ballad with a folksy vibe. The words are nonsense, but that's okay for now, it will come.

For a brief moment, the magic happens, and the guitar becomes a part of his body, and his voice blends together with the sound of the instrument. He ascends into that timeless space for a while before, just as suddenly, it drops away.

He opens his eyes, the room comes back into focus, and, clearing his throat, he scooches forward to read the comments.

Voice of an angel!

call me

What do you mean stuck on the chorus?? this one's going to the grammys!

jungkoookksdff you sexy af!!!

album WHEN

Jungkook grins happily. They like it.

Back then, his first, hesitant post—a 30-second clip of him singing a cappella in a shaky voice—turned into two, then three, and it wasn't long before he got addicted. Maybe he didn't have a lot of viewers at first, but he was finally "putting himself out there," the way Jimin and Taehyung always told him he should. Easy for them to say—there had already established huge follower counts as models.

But it turned out that he liked that feeling, the possibility that every time he posted, someone new would listen, would be inspired by him, would connect with him.

With each post, his popularity grew in dribs and drabs, and then all at once. And when the explosion happened, and the comments flooded in, and the hearts all blazed red, he found himself urged to do more, post selcas, share little notes, and offer stories to his followers. He isn't sure he's good at it, but his follower count, now reaching up to almost 950,000, says otherwise.

Jimin and Taehyung now joke that he's left them in the dust. His followers are drawn to his shyness, Hoseok always says, whose work as a choreographer in the idol industry has given him insight into what drives fan attachment. According to him, Jungkook is authentically awkward in a way that the slick influencers of YouTube and Twitter and Instagram can never quite mimic.

Jungkook leans closer to his phone as he scans through the questions that are coming in.

"Hmm...My tattoo covers my chest on one side and, well, much more," he answers one of the questions with a giggle.

It feels like hanging out with a bunch of friends who all really like him. It's hard to not be flattered. He's learned how to scroll past both the hate and the thirst comments.

The majority of his fans are actually quite sweet, posting heart emojis or complimenting his singing or asking him innocent questions. He loves it all. He's even, according to Jimin, sort of figured out how to flirt with his viewers.

"You what?" he asks in disbelief. "You want to see? I don't think so. I'd have to take off my shirt. Really?? Oh my god. You're all shameless. Okay, maybe just a little..."

He shifts around on the bed until his back is facing the camera. Thankfully, since the room is fairly dark, it's less embarrassing than it could be. Besides, it's not like he doesn't post thirst traps every other day, selcas of him wearing low-cut tanks showing off his collarbones or half-unbuttoned shirts hinting at the outline of his pecs. Taehyung's great at composition.

But taking off his clothes live while interacting with fans, no time lapse between what he's doing and the moment they see him, no editing the photographs or selecting the most appropriate one, feels more intimate and more scary.

He unbuttons the shirt just enough so that he can push it down his shoulder, giving the camera a look at the part of his tattoo that he's never revealed. It's an intricate floral pattern in a circular arrangement that brings out the shape of his muscles. He knows it's pretty.

Now his fans know, too. He thrills a little at the idea that they might find it attractive.

He turns his chin over his shoulder to peek at the camera. "You like it?"

He giggles again and tugs his shirt back up, then quickly redoes the buttons.

When he settles back into position and returns to his phone, the screen is overrun with comments. They're coming in so fast that he can barely make out what they say.

Hot as hell, Jungkook-ssi!

ooh, what is it? are they flowers?

that must've hurt!

You're so beautiful, please marry me

"Okay, one more song?" Jungkook asks, picking his guitar back up. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "How about something older, since we just heard something new?"

Song requests stream in. "Okay, yeah, we can do City Streets."

He takes a deep breath before launching into one of the first songs that earned him a real following. For this song, he neglects the guitar as he belts out each verse in full voice.

Although he's sung it hundreds of times by now, he still connects with the passion of the song. It's not exactly that shimmery, excited feeling he had when he first performed it, but rather a matured ache layered with the experience of all its previous performances and everything that followed.

"That's a wrap!" Jungkook waves at the camera and offers his brightest smile. "I'll be posting another clip tomorrow, so look out for that! And if you don't already, please give me a follow! It keeps me going. All right, everyone, borahae!"

He puts on his signature outro track. He always waits a few minutes at the end of his lives before logging off. There's something bittersweet, both sad and energizing, about the array of goodbye messages his listeners leave him before they depart.

You improve every day, Jungkook-ssi

the image of your muscled back is gonna haunt my dreams tonight istg

TAKE MY MONEY!!!

aw, this song is such a fave ::pleading eyes emoji::

One reply comes in that's so long it fills the entire screen. Jungkook can barely scan it before it floats away.

Something about life being shades of grey, with each day indistinguishable from the other, but Jungkook's art—yes, the commenter had called him an artist—being the one dash of color that got them through.

Jungkook has to remind himself not to frown too much in concentration as he reads. Jimin always said it would give him wrinkles.

He catches sight of the commenter's name before it disappears from the screen—Kim Seokjin.

Okay, Kim Seokjin-ssi. Let's see who you are, Jungkook thinks to himself as he closes down his live.

He stretches his arms over his head and bends his torso to one side, then the other. He's cramped after sitting for so long and holding his body rigid. He shifts back to the head of the bed so he can recline against the soft pillows, and curls around his phone.

He scrolls through his recent posts one at a time until he catches a comment that user Kim Seokjin left a week ago on a selca he'd taken in front of the recording studio. Jungkook is standing outside on the sun-drenched sidewalk wearing a fitted black t-shirt, and yeah, it's a bit of a thirst trap, but his fans love those.

so very pretty, jungkook-ssi

Jungkook finds himself blushing. The comment isn't that different from the usual kind of thing he gets, but something about the approving tone of it in combination with the long, emotional missive Kim Seokjin had just blasted into his live stands out to him.

Curiosity piqued, he clicks on Kim Seokjin's username, and a barrage of selcas featuring a very, very handsome man floods the screen.

"Wow," Jungkook can't help but murmur out loud. Having as many followers as he does, he's seen his fair share of good-looking men. They're eager to pack his DMs with their best selcas or send him offers of, ahem, financial support. But Kim Seokjin is of a different class entirely. He clicks on one of the photos to enlarge it. Creamy skin fills the screen. "Wow."

The man's black hair is slicked back from a broad forehead, his full red lips are parted sinfully, face tipped back. But what most captures Jungkook's attention are his eyes, narrowed slightly, enhanced with smoky eyeshadow, and gazing directly at the camera as if captured in a moment of seduction.

A flannel shirt is stretched across broad shoulders, and it's unbuttoned enough to reveal a well-used blue t-shirt. The striking thing is that the man isn't even trying to be hot. It's not a thirst trap. He's not even alone. He's sitting in a cafe with a couple of friends who are chatting, relaxed, and seem blissfully unaware of the camera. Only Seokjin seems to know they're being photographed.

The camera clearly loves his face. And honestly, how is this guy not a household name? He's easily better looking than most of the actors Jungkook lusts over.

He jumps back to Seokjin's profile. 59 followers. So definitely not a star. He's just some guy. His bio reads part-time human, full-time sloth. overthinking never brought anyone peace. An idiosyncratic sentiment, but not technically untrue. Despite the flippant line, the man is clearly someone who overthought the point to begin with.

So: a reluctant philosopher. Age? Not given. Older than him by a few years, but possibly shy of 30. Married? Children?

Jungkook clicks back to the photos and scrolls through. Doesn't seem like it. The only other people who appear are the two men from the cafe, sometimes together, sometimes just one. They're attractive in their own way, he supposes, but they're normal people.

They make Seokjin seem like he might be a real person, too, and not some account that stole the photos of a model to establish a fake identity. The friends are tagged in a few of the photos, Kim Namjoon and Min Yoongi, and the Kim Namjoon one is always obscenely, expensively well-dressed. Interspersed with the sporadic selcas are snapshots of floral arrangements spotted on city streets and scenery from vacations.

He keeps scrolling down until he comes across one post that looks different from the others. Professionally shot, Seokjin's lovely frame is draped in a bold, printed silk shirt matched with trousers so soft Jungkook can practically feel the wool between his fingers. In the hands of someone who is clearly a professional photographer, Seokjin's striking looks blossom.

The stats on the image read 56k likes. Okay, wow. Seokjin's account may be obscure, but this post clearly enthralled people. The tagline reads, Changed up my day job today. Like it? The thirsty comments that follow reveal that yes, people liked it.

Seokjin could be a model. Part of Jungkook wonders why he isn't, but he also gets it. He loves sharing his music, and he needs an audience to do that, but the attention, the scrutiny, the need to perform aren't for him. Maybe this Seokjin feels the same.

He scrolls back up the posts and decides he prefers Seokjin's casual, everyday pics instead. In them, Seokjin appears relaxed and happy, like a regular person who was accidentally born with the face of a god and hasn't quite figured it out.

Jungkook lets his finger graze over one of the pics in which Seokjin is laughing, sprawled out on a sofa and covering his body with his arms as if protecting himself. Is the person behind the camera tickling him? It must be heady to make someone like Seokjin smile so big. Jungkook finds himself strangely jealous. He gets a little lost staring into Seokjin's beautiful eyes, and when he finally shakes off the spell, that's when he notices.

The little heart below Seokjin's post is filled in red.

Wait. Did he do that? Did he like Seokjin's photo? Jungkook? When?

He looks at his traitorous finger in horror. He must have clicked it accidentally when he was tracing the outlines of Seokjin's face. Hold on.

Tracing the outlines of Seokjin's face? Who does that? The little heart glares red at him ominously.

Then an even worse thought occurs to him: Seokjin will see his like. He'll see his like and know that Jungkook was scrolling deep deep through Seokjin's page. This isn't even one of the latest posts, it's way, way down there. Seokjin will know that Jungkook has been scoping him for—how long has it been? He glances at the clock. An hour. Ugh. He's never interacted with one of his fan's pages before.

That would be weird. This is weird.

In a desperate attempt to undo the mistake, he unclicks the heart. The red drains from it immediately, leaving an empty shape outlined in black. Jungkook breathes a sigh of relief.

Erased.

But.

Will Seokjin get a notification anyway?

He will, won't he? Jungkook gets so many notifications he doesn't even see them anymore, the first few usernames appearing in his feed followed by a "+ 500 more." But Seokjin with his 59 followers? He'll see every one of them.

Jungkook peeks at how many people have liked this post. Two. Okay, yeah, Seokjin will definitely see his notification. Fuck. Seokjin's going to think he's creeping on him. (He might be creeping on him?)

Jungkook if i like someone's post on insta and then unlike it really really fast will they still get a notif

Tae what did you do kook-ah

Jungkook i can hear the judgment in that question and im offended

Jimin OOH what did you DO tell us

Jungkook no it's embarrassing, just answer

Tae YES TELL US

Jungkook god it's not a big deal, but i was looking at this post from one of my fans and i accidentally liked it, and i dont want them to think, idk!! whatever they might think

Jimin relax kook you're not wonho or sth. it's not like gonna be in dispatch that you randomly liked some dude's post

Tae WAIT was it a dude ::eyes emoji:: and on a scale of 1-10 how hot was he

Jimin yeah was he hot is that why you were insta-stalking him

Jungkook i was NOT stalking him! See!!! this is exactly what i DONT want him to think you're proving my worries are valid

Jimin SO HE WAS A 10

Tae oooh link us link us link us we wanna see

Jungkook NO. and you haven't even answered my question??? WILL HE GET A NOTIF OR NOT?? this is why i shouldve texted hobi hyung

Jimin oh he'll definitely see your notif, kook-ah ;)

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