#though . i think distort is maybe the wrong word

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Do you think Suguru could have lived a happy, good life had he just stayed in the countryside, away from Jujutsu society, or is fate cruel enough to doom him regardless of the path he had taken?

I DO ….. the thing is that this would sort of Have to be an au where curses don’t exist, because there is no universe where suguru chooses not to integrate into jujutsu society (and in doing so there is no Escape). he would see it as a responsibility as well as a chance to free himself from what he’s been bound to all his life — it must’ve been just . horrific growing up seeing curses and having nobody understand or believe you. maybe his mother did, maybe she didn’t. and living in the countryside on top of that ……..

well it doesn’t matter all i’m saying is ! there is no world where suguru has his cursed technique and doesn’t become a sorcerer. it doesn’t exist. it’s very telling that the two choices he envisioned when he was at his absolute lowest were to either stay in the rat race of jujutsu high (a choice that Would have ended in him dying. there’s no debating this) or leave and choose the path of extremity — there was no thought of leaving it behind him. suguru needs to be needed. i say it a lot but it’s seriously true and like. the saddest thing about him. i would say the biggest cause of his defection aside from the curse eating and isolation was his own sense of worthlessness.

….. sorry started yapping lol ANYWAYYY if he was capable of moving away . from it somehow — if he really made that choice (tho as . has been established he just Wouldn’t) then yes, i think it could have saved him. i really really hate the idea that he was doomed to fall or die because that line of thinking sort of glosses over the fact that he was a victim of sickening circumstances. he’s quite literally a child soldier and the adults in his life all fucking suck i hope yaga dies Anyway ^_^ . sorry but yeah i personally hate that idea and reject it whole-heartedly as a rule of thumb… i think suguru could only have been saved through community and satoru in particular but like …. if he moved away from it i do think he could maybe heal in some sense of the word. live far away, with nanako or mimiko. or maybe shoko or haibara. (satoru couldn’t leave if he tried.) pretend he isn’t rotting with guilt. it could work

[nastybuckybarnes]

Cling to me

Pairing: Steve Rogers X Reader

Summary: You overhear something you weren’t meant to hear. 

Warnings: Angst, Language, Fluff, 

Word Count: 2.1k

A/n: wrote this one a year ago teehee but I LOVE this kinda shit I live for it. hope y’all enjoy 

~*~

“So things are going well, then?”

You shouldn’t be eavesdropping, you really shouldn’t. It was an accident.

You had approached the bathroom door to ask Steve for a towel, not wanting to drip water all over the carpeted hallway, when you heard him and Bucky talking.

The bathroom fan is on, drowning out the sound of you stepping closer to the wood.

“Well, yeah, I guess so. I mean... I guess.”

You frown.

You thought things were going great.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Steve lets out a heavy sigh and glances at the bathroom door then slightly lowers his voice, but you can still hear him clearly.

“She just... she’s real needy, Buck. She’s physically clingy, always sitting by me or on me and holding my hand and stuff... and she never leaves me alone when I’m out on assignments. I’m just... I need some space.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest for a moment before beating twice as hard, each beat smashing against pins and needles and sending pain radiating through your chest.

Too needy.

Steve thinks you’re too needy.

This is how it started with Jeremy.

You were too clingy.

Slowly, you back away from the bathroom door and slide down the wall, shivering at the wet droplets clinging to your skin, then put your face in your hands.

Steve won’t be like Jeremy. He can’t.

Everything will be fine, you just need to give him space.

You can almost hear Jeremy’s voice in your head, whispering words that he’d repeat when you were with him. But maybe he was right.

Just because you like being physical and spending time with him doesn’t mean he wants that too. You haven't even taken his wants into consideration.

A knock on the bathroom door startles your face out of your hands and you flip your head up, looking at the door with wide eyes.

“Honey? I’m just gonna go grab some drinks with Bucky and Sam. I’ve got my phone and I shouldn’t be home too late.”

You take a deep breath and nod even though he can’t see you.

“Okay, have fun!”

Your voice is a little duller than usual, a little less lively, but Steve chalks it up to the fan distorting your voice.

You stay rooted in place on the bathroom floor, knees hugged up to your chest, for hours.

You’re not sure why, whether it’s out of fear that he won’t come back or that he’ll be waiting out there to break up with you, but you’re terrified.

Eventually, after the chills have sunk into your soul and shivers are shaking your bones, you leave the bathroom and get dressed.

Usually, you’d put on a pair of panties and one of Steve’s shirts, but you can’t bring yourself to touch his stuff after what you heard.

You pull on a tank top and a sweater and your fuzziest socks, hoping to chase away the cold, though it feels like it’s here to stay.

The apartment seems so empty without him there, and you yearn to check up on him and make sure he’s okay, but you don’t go near your phone.

He’s a grown man and he can take care of himself.

You barricade yourself in the bedroom, cuddled up under the blankets and holding one of your pillows to your chest as you watch reruns of Golden Girls.

You fall asleep before he gets home, though you’re awoken by the sound of the door opening.

Instead of perking up and meeting him like you usually would, you stay in bed, pillow hugged to your chest and eyes shut.

He’s stealthy as he joins you in bed, sliding in behind you and wrapping an arm around your waist.

It takes everything in you not to shake his arm off.

As he leans forward and presses a kiss to the back of your neck, a tear slides down your temple and buries itself in the pillows.

~*~

Steve’s confused at your sudden change in behaviour, constantly checking his phone for texts from you and missing your touch when he sits on the couch reading a report.

You’re standing in the kitchen a few days later, talking softly to Yelena and Wanda while Bucky, Natasha, Sam and Steve all sit on the couches in your living room.

The two women lead the way into the living room and you follow them, not stopping your conversation as you take a seat between the two of them.

Steve’s eyes are focused on you, waiting for you to look at him, to realize that you’re not sitting in the right spot and that you should be closer to him, but you never do.

You stay engaged in your conversation, laughing at something Yelena says before turning your attention to Wanda.

Bucky watches curiously as Steve balls his hands into fists then turns back to the conversation he was having, his voice slightly more strained than before.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Bucky asks later that evening after almost everyone else has gone home.

You’re already in bed, oblivious to the conversation they’re having.

“I thought it was, but not cold turkey. She hardly texts me unless I text first, she doesn't kiss me goodbye anymore, and she hasn’t sat beside me once in the past week.”

Bucky shrugs, “you’re the one who said she was too clingy.”

Steve knows.

He fucking knows.

And maybe he’ll like it, but first, he needs to get to the bottom of why you’ve switched so quickly.

After bidding Bucky goodbye, Steve joins you in the bedroom, climbing into bed beside you and rolling onto his side to watch you.

Your attention is focused on the TV as if he isn’t in bed with you at all.

When he opens his mouth to speak, you reach over and turn off the lamp on the nightstand, then turn off the TV.

You don’t do it on purpose, but he doesn't say anything.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, turning onto your back and facing away from him.

He stares at you in shock.

The past couple of nights he’s come into bed after you’ve been asleep, but tonight he was sure you’d cuddle up against him like you usually do.

“Goodnight. I love you,” he murmurs, heart racing in his chest as he waits for your reply.

“I love you too.” There it is.

It settles his heart a tiny bit to hear you whisper the words, but he’s still confused by your actions.

You always cuddle up to him.

Always.

Every night that he’s been home for the past year.

And now you’re not even wearing his clothes to bed.

He can’t sleep at all that night, too focused on how strange you’ve been acting and how much he fucking hates it.

And then it dawns on him.

You must’ve heard him talking to Bucky.

That’s the only explanation.

His heart hurts in his chest and guilt floods his body. He tosses his head back against the pillows and squeezes his eyes shut, hating himself for ever speaking those stupid words.

He was just having a bad week. He was overwhelmed with work and briefings and then you were always by his side.

It was too much.

And now you’re doing everything in your power to distance yourself from him.

You’re lying in the same bed but you’ve never been further away.

Sure, he can feel the heat radiating off of your body, but you may as well be a thousand miles away.

The guilt wells up in his eyes and slips down his cheeks as he rolls onto his side and pulls you against his body, burying his face in your hair.

Fuck, he feels terrible.

All night he thinks about how much you do for him, how much you love him and everything you’ve given to him and sacrificed for him. And he couldn’t even appreciate you properly. No, he had to go and run his mouth about bullshit that he didn’t even mean.

He has to make this right.

He will.

He just has no idea where to start.

~*~

When you wake up the next morning there’s a strong arm secured around your waist.

You’re so used to waking up alone that you can’t help but cuddle into it. That is, until you remember his complaints.

Shifting as slowly as you can, you try to slip out of his grip, but he only wraps his arm around you tighter.

“You’re leaving?” He asks into your hair, his voice groggy.

You swallow hard and clear your throat.

“Bathroom,” is all you manage to whisper.

He lets out a heavy sigh but slowly unwinds his arm from around your waist.

“You’re gonna come back after, right?” He asks, his voice soft.

You hesitate before getting up, unsure of what to say.

Are you?

You don’t particularly want to.

Well, that’s not true. You want to, more than anything, but you don’t want to overwhelm him and smother him with your clingy nature.

“Do you want me to?” You end up asking, glancing over at him.

He slowly opens his eyes, sadness filling them, and you regret asking.

“Honey... what I said the other day... to Buck... I wasn’t thinking, sweetheart. I don’t think you’re too clingy, not at all. I think you’re perfect for me and the way that things have been lately… All the distance between us? It’s been unbearable. I hate it. I didn’t know what changed at first but... I’m sorry.”

Your heart is in your throat at the fact that he knows you heard what he said.

“I didn't mean to eavesdrop, I’m sorry,” you whisper, pushing into a seated position to get off the bed.

“Honey, wait. Please. Please, don’t go. I miss you. So damn much. All I want is for things to go back to the way they were. And... I know that will probably take time, but I just miss you so fucking much.”

Tears prickle at your eyes and you sniffle, refusing to look at him.

“I didn’t mean to be clingy. I know... I know I can be a lot. It’s one of the issues Jeremy and I had. I can give you space, Steve.”

His heart cracks and he sits up behind you, one hand finding your lower back in an attempt to get closer to you.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want space. You’ve given me space and it’s been the worst experience of my life. I just want you back. I want to hold your hand and kiss you and talk to you and be near you. I love you and you... you make me feel important. You make me feel loved.”

He has to fight his own tears as he speaks, and you sit silently in front of him, eyes focused on the carpet.

“For so much of my life, I felt alone, besides Bucky. I felt like I had no one and no one would love me. And then I went under and I woke up and... everything was different. I was a man out of time. I never thought I would ever have found someone who loves me as wholly as you do. And I’m sorry for ever making you feel like you need to change yourself.”

His arms wind around you and he pulls your back against his chest, slowly rocking you from side to side as you sniffle.

“You are everything I have ever wanted and more, sweetheart. I love you for everything you are and everything you do, and I’m so damn sorry I ever made you feel like you were too clingy. You’re perfect for me. Sometimes I think that you’re the reason why I survived it all. Was so that I could find you. You’re it for me.”

His words help to heal the wounds he caused, but what really does it is the meaning behind it. The love he’s pouring into every syllable he speaks is powerful enough for you to feel without even trying.

You know he regrets what he said. But, more importantly, you know he’s not Jeremy.

Steve loves you.

Slowly, you turn in his arms and look up at him, and his heart breaks even more when he sees the tears on your cheeks.

“If I’m ever too much, you gotta promise to let me know, okay?” You whisper.

He huffs out a weak laugh and shakes his head, squeezing you to his chest.

“You are never too much for me. You’re everything I could ever want or need and so much more. You’re perfect for me. And I’m gonna try my hardest to be good enough for you because I love you. I love you with my whole heart and soul.”

“I love you too, Steve,” you whisper, burying your face in his shoulder as he hugs you tightly.

And there on the bed in the dim morning light, Steve clings to you.

He clings to you like you’re his lifeline, like you’re the energy that keeps him going.

He clings to you, and he doesn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, in every life ࿐‧₊ house of m - bittersweet

chapter summary: Logan wakes up in a distorted reality created by Wanda. Everything is far too perfect, including the fact you're alive and well.

word count: 9.5k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: so this series, i love you, in every life, are all mainly oneshots of the lives you and logan have in the multiverse. unless i specify, they all are oneshots!

anyways, i wanted to do something a little different and this was actually my first idea for the multiverse concept between logan and reader. enjoy!

and, an extra note, thank y'all so much for 1k followers! i've truly had the most fun writing these stories and hearing your feedback!

warnings/tags: loosely based on 'house of m' story-line, mentioned heart problems, mentioned cardiac arrest, mentioned character death, not proofread

series masterlist

The early morning light filtered through the tall windows of the Xavier Academy. Logan sat up in bed, the tangled sheets barely covering the muscles of his broad chest. The warm smell of coffee and freshly baked bread wafted in from the kitchen. For a moment, he let himself linger, staring at the peaceful room.

It felt wrong.

The woman standing at the counter—you—shouldn’t have been here. Your laugh as you scolded the toaster for burning the bread shouldn’t have existed. And yet, it did.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” you said, your voice soft but teasing. You turned, a mug in hand, wearing one of his old flannel shirts that hung loosely over your frame. “Didn’t think you’d ever wake up. I was about to eat breakfast without you.”

Logan grunted, “maybe you should’ve.”

“Grumpy already?” You set the mug on the table near him. “You didn’t even try the coffee yet.”

He took the mug but didn’t drink. Instead, he studied your face—so familiar, so perfect. Your hair was tousled from sleep, your smile easy, as though you didn’t carry the weight of a dozen deaths. You didn’t remember them, but he did. And yet, you looked at him like you always had in those other lives, with affection, curiosity, and warmth.

“What?” you asked, tilting her head.

Logan shook his head and finally took a sip. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

---

Later that day, Logan stood outside the academy’s training grounds, watching students practice their powers under your guidance. You stood at the center of the group, gesturing with animated hands as you instructed a young telekinetic mutant on control.

“That’s it,” you encouraged, your voice carrying over the field. “Focus on the edges of what you can feel, not just the center. You’ll find more strength there.”

The student grinned as a boulder hovered unsteadily in the air, then dropped it with a soft thud.

“Good! You’re getting it!” you cheered, clapping your hands.

Logan couldn’t take his eyes off you. It wasn’t just the joy you exuded or the way you brought out the best in people. It was the fact that you seemed to belong here, as if this world had always been yours.

Except it hadn’t.

He leaned against the railing, lighting a cigar as Magneto’s words from yesterday echoed in his mind: “A world where mutants thrive is a world where we all belong, Logan. Why fight against it?”

But Logan knew better. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. And he was starting to think the cracks in this illusion were beginning to show.

Logan stubbed his cigar out on the metal railing, his jaw tight. Watching you laugh with the students made his chest ache in a way he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen that smile, those bright eyes so full of life, but it still hit him like a gut punch.

It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

He crossed the field to where you stood, finishing up with the young telekinetic. The boulder wobbled again before thudding to the ground, earning a small cheer from the group.

“Take five, guys,” you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “But don’t wander too far—we’re not done yet.”

The students scattered, leaving you alone with Logan as he approached. You tilted your head, giving him a curious look.

“What’s up, honey?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Logan’s lips twitched at the nickname. You’d called him that in another life, a long time ago—at least that’s what it felt like. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to find the right words, but everything felt too big to say out loud.

“You’re good with them,” he finally said, nodding toward the students.

Your smile grew, soft and pleased. “They’re easy to work with. Just need someone to believe in them.” You stepped closer, tilting your head to study him. “What’s really on your mind, Logan? You’ve been watching me like I’ve got a third eye.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re not wrong.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Logan looked away, his gaze falling on the boulder the kid had been lifting. “This place,” he said after a beat. “Feels too good to be true, don’t it?”

You frowned, stepping closer so you could look up at him. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the field, the academy, and then to you. “All of it.”

Your brows knit together, and your voice softened. “Logan, what’s going on? You’ve been acting... off.”

Logan’s eyes snapped back to yours. He wanted to tell you everything—to unload the weight he carried, to make you understand that none of this was what it seemed. But how could he, when you were at the center of it all?

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly, turning to walk away.

You grabbed his arm, your touch grounding him. “Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t shut me out. Not after everything.”

Logan froze. The sincerity in your voice cut through him like a knife. He turned back to face you, his eyes searching yours. “After everything, huh?” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You don’t even know the half of it, darlin’.”

You blinked, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of Magneto’s voice interrupted him.

“Logan,” Erik called from across the yard, his tone calm but commanding. “A word.”

Logan clenched his jaw, then glanced back at you. “I’ll catch you later.”

“Logan—”

But he was already walking away.

---

Inside the academy’s briefing room, Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed as Magneto stood at the head of the table.

“You’ve been restless,” Erik said, watching him closely.

Logan snorted. “Restless? That what you’re callin’ it?”

Erik’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what you’re thinking. That this world isn’t real. That it’s an illusion.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I am,” Erik said simply. “Because it’s a better world. A world where mutants thrive, where humans no longer threaten us, and where the people we love are alive.”

Logan’s chest tightened. “It ain’t real, Erik. None of it is. And when it all comes crashin’ down, what then?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Erik said. “But you? You’re torn. I see the way you look at her, Logan. Y/N’s alive here. Isn’t that enough?”

Logan pushed off the wall, his fists clenched. “You think I don’t want this to be real? You think I don’t wanna believe that she’s really here, laughin’ and smilin’ like she used to?” He shook his head, his voice dropping. “But it ain’t real. And if I let myself believe it is... I lose her all over again.”

Erik’s expression softened, just slightly. “Sometimes, Logan, the illusion is better than the truth.”

“Not for me,” Logan growled, turning on his heel and storming out.

---

You found Logan later that night in the library, nursing a drink and staring out the window. The moonlight cast a faint glow over his rugged features, and he looked older, more tired than usual.

“Didn’t think you were the library type,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

He didn’t turn around. “Couldn’t sleep.”

You stepped closer, sliding into the chair across from him. “Wanna talk about it?”

Logan glanced at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You ever feel like somethin’ ain’t right, but you can’t put your finger on it?”

You frowned, leaning forward. “Sometimes. Why?”

He hesitated, then sighed. “This world... It’s too perfect, Y/N. Too... clean. Like it’s all been stitched together from pieces that don’t quite fit.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “What are you saying, Logan?”

“I’m sayin’...” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to his drink. “I’m sayin’ I don’t think this is real. Any of it.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “Logan, that’s... That’s a lot to drop on…” You trailed off, almost like someone cut off your train of thought and replaced it with a new one. “But if things are better now, isn’t that good?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and he leaned back in his chair, swirling the liquid in his glass. His gaze didn’t leave yours, but his expression hardened, like he was fighting to keep something buried.

“Good for who, darlin’?” His voice was low, rough, and filled with a tension that made your stomach twist.

You frowned. “For us. For the kids. For everyone.” You gestured vaguely toward the window. “Logan, this—whatever it is—it’s not perfect, but it’s better than what we’ve had before, isn’t it? You’re not running. I’m not… gone.”

His hand froze mid-motion, the glass hovering just shy of his lips. He set it down carefully, his movements deliberate, like he was holding himself back.

“That’s the problem,” he said, voice quieter now but no less intense. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You blinked, confusion knitting your brows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He hesitated, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

Logan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at you like you held all the answers to questions he was too afraid to ask. His voice softened, tinged with something that sounded almost like guilt.

“You died,” he said, the words landing heavy between you.

Your breath caught, the room seeming to close in around you. “Logan…”

“I saw it,” he continued, his voice rough and unsteady. “You had a heart attack. Dropped dead to the ground and only survived because Jean did chest compressions until the ambulance came. You were only in the hospital for two hours before you had another one. They said it was an undiagnosed hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”

Logan’s voice cracked slightly as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze locked on you. “You were too damn young for somethin’ like that.” His knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the table. “One minute, we were talkin’ about dinner plans, and the next... you were gone.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. “Logan, I—” You stopped, searching his face for something, anything that would make sense of what he was saying. “That doesn’t make any sense. I’m here. I’m fine.”

He exhaled sharply, the sound almost a growl. “That’s what’s wrong with all this, darlin’. You’re here, smilin’, laughin’—but you’re not supposed to be. You died.” His voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge. “And now you’re here, like it never happened.”

You blinked, trying to process what he was saying. “I don’t—Logan, do you hear yourself? That’s insane.” You rubbed at your temples, a headache creeping in. “I didn’t die. I’d remember if something like that happened.”

He let out a bitter laugh, the sound low and filled with frustration. “That’s just it. You don’t remember because this place—it’s not real.”

You froze, your hand dropping to the table. “What are you talking about?”

Logan leaned forward again, his hands clenched into fists on the table. “Wanda,” he said, his voice rough. “She made this... world. A perfect little picture where everyone’s happy, where the people we lost are back.”

You stared at him, your mind racing. “Wanda? What does she have to do with this?”

“She’s the reason you’re here, sweetheart,” Logan said, his gaze unwavering. “She did this for her own reasons, but you—she brought you back too.”

You shook your head, standing up abruptly. “No. That doesn’t make sense. Why would Wanda do something like that? And why... why me?”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he stood, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Because she cared about you. She couldn’t stand what happened. Hell, I couldn’t stand it either.” His voice softened, and he took a step closer. “But it ain’t real, Y/N. No matter how much I want it to be.”

You stepped back, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re saying this—me being here—is some kind of... illusion? Like I’m not even real?”

“No,” Logan said quickly, his voice firm. “You’re real, darlin’. But this world? It ain’t. It’s Wanda’s doin’. She twisted everything to give us what we wanted.” He paused, his expression conflicted. “And I’m guessin’ she thought I wanted you.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “And do you? Want me here, I mean?”

Logan’s expression softened, the hard lines of his face easing as he stepped closer. “You think I’d ever not want you here?” His voice was low, rough with emotion. “Every time I lost you, it felt like I lost a part of myself. You think I don’t want this? That I don’t want to wake up every damn day and see you smilin’ at me?”

Your breath caught as he reached out, his hand brushing against yours. The warmth of his touch was grounding, even as everything else spun out of control.

“But it ain’t real,” he continued, his voice heavy with regret. “And if I start believin’ it is... I’ll lose you all over again when it falls apart.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “Logan, if this isn’t real, then... what happens to me?”

He flinched, the question hitting him like a punch to the gut. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’ll be damned if I let it happen without a fight.”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady yourself. The room felt too small, too overwhelming. “I need... I need to think,” you said, stepping back.

Logan let you go, his hand falling to his side. “Take all the time you need, darlin’,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “Just don’t forget—no matter what happens, I’m here. Always.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to respond, and turned to leave. But as you walked away, his words echoed in your mind, filling the silence with a truth you weren’t sure you were ready to face.

---

You found Wanda standing by the edge of the mansion’s sprawling grounds, her gaze distant as if she were watching something far beyond what anyone else could see. Her crimson coat fluttered lightly in the breeze, and the energy around her felt heavier than usual—a tension you couldn’t quite place.

“Wanda?” you called, your voice trembling slightly.

She turned, her expression calm but with a faint shadow behind her eyes. “Hey,” she greeted softly. “You okay?”

You took a deep breath and stepped closer, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “Something feels... off. I mean, this place—everything—it’s almost too perfect, you know?”

Wanda’s lips quirked into a small, unreadable smile. “Too perfect? That’s not something I hear often.”

You hesitated, unsure how to put your swirling thoughts into words. “Logan said something. He said—” You stopped, your voice faltering as her gaze locked onto yours.

“What did Logan say?” she asked, her tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of something sharper.

“That this... all of this... isn’t real,” you said slowly, watching her reaction. “He thinks you... made it all up. That you brought me back somehow. Is that true?”

Wanda’s expression softened, her eyes filled with something like sorrow. “Y/N, why would he say something like that? You’re here. You’re alive. Isn’t that what matters?”

“That’s not an answer,” you countered, stepping closer. “Wanda, please. I need to know. Am I—” Your voice cracked, but you pushed on. “Am I real? Is any of this real?”

For a moment, Wanda’s face flickered with something—guilt, maybe? Or hesitation? Then she reached out, placing her hands gently on your shoulders.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “You’re overthinking this. You’ve been through so much; it’s natural to feel... disoriented.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “This isn’t just me overthinking. Logan said—”

Her eyes glowed faintly red, and the air seemed to hum around you. “Logan’s been through a lot too. Sometimes he... struggles to separate the past from the present.”

Her words made sense—or at least, they should have. But there was a nagging doubt in the back of your mind, a thread you couldn’t quite pull free.

“Wanda, I—”

“Shh,” she murmured, her hands moving to cradle your face. The red glow in her eyes intensified. “You don’t need to worry about this, Y/N. Just... let it go.”

The hum grew louder, and a sudden wave of warmth flooded your mind, like slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep. The doubts, the questions, the gnawing sense of unease—they all seemed to dissolve, leaving behind only a gentle calm.

You blinked, your thoughts fuzzy. “What was I saying?”

Wanda smiled, her hands dropping to her sides. “Nothing important. You’re just tired, that’s all. Why don’t you take a break? Go spend some time with Logan. He’s been worried about you.”

You nodded slowly, the lingering haze in your mind making it hard to argue. “Yeah... maybe you’re right.”

Wanda watched you walk away, her expression unreadable as she turned back to the horizon. The faint glow in her eyes dimmed, and the breeze carried a whisper of her voice, too soft for anyone to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

---

From the shadows, Logan watched as you disappeared into the mansion. His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides. He’d seen Wanda’s subtle hand movements, the faint glimmer of red that surrounded you as she spoke.

“She took it outta her head,” Logan muttered to himself, his voice rough with anger. “Dammit, Wanda.”

The truth hadn’t just been hidden—it had been stolen from you. And Logan knew he’d have to find a way to get it back.

---

Logan leaned against the doorway of your shared room, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a warm glow over you as you flipped through a magazine, completely at ease. Your relaxed posture, your soft smile—it all seemed so real. But Logan knew better.

You glanced up, your eyes lighting up when you saw him. “Hey,” you greeted, setting the magazine aside. “How long have you been lurking there?”

“Long enough,” Logan said, his voice rough but tinged with affection. He walked in, pulling the chair from the corner and spinning it around to sit backward, arms resting on the backrest. “We need to talk, darlin’.”

The tone of his voice caught your attention, and you straightened slightly. “That sounds serious. What’s going on?”

He took a deep breath, his gaze meeting yours. “It’s about Wanda. About all of this.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “What about Wanda?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, and his fists clenched against the chair. “This... this world we’re livin’ in? It ain’t real. She made it.”

Your brows furrowed, and you leaned forward, confusion flickering in your eyes. “Logan, what are you talking about? Of course, it’s real. We’re here. We’re together.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, his voice heavy. “It’s too perfect. Think about it. The mansion’s in one piece. No one’s fightin’. You’re here. Alive.”

You blinked, the weight of his words hitting you like a sudden gust of wind. “What do you mean, I’m alive? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Logan hesitated, the memory of losing you—your last breath, the stillness that followed—flashing behind his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing. “You don’t remember, do you? We had this conversation a few hours ago. You died, a few months ago.”

You stared at him, your voice steady but softer than usual. “Even if it’s not real, why can’t you just accept it?”

Logan’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening as he leaned forward in his chair. “Because it ain’t real, darlin’. You know me. I don’t do ‘perfect.’ This—” he gestured vaguely, his fingers flexing—“this whole thing? It’s like livin’ in a dream, but dreams don’t last. They break. And when this one does...” He trailed off, his throat working around unspoken words.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to break,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his. “Maybe we could just let it be.”

“That’s not how it works, sweetheart,” Logan said, shaking his head. His voice was rough, the weight of years pressing down on each word. “I’ve seen too much, lost too much, to believe in fairy tales. And this? This is Wanda’s doing. It ain’t right.”

You exhaled slowly, sitting back on the bed. “Logan, why does it matter if it’s real or not? If it feels real—if we’re together, happy—why can’t that be enough for you?”

Logan let out a sharp breath, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Because you died, Y/N,” he snapped, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “I held you, felt your heartbeat stop. I buried you, darlin’. That’s real. That’s what I remember.”

The room fell silent except for the faint hum of the lamp. You looked at him, your expression unreadable, before speaking softly. “And now I’m here.”

“That ain’t how it works!” Logan growled, his voice rising before he caught himself. He ran a hand through his hair, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he tried to rein in his frustration. “People don’t just come back. Not like this. You know it, Wanda knows it, and—dammit—you should know it too.”

“I know you’re hurting,” you said, leaning forward and placing a hand on his arm. “But what if this was her way of fixin’ things? Of givin’ us another chance?”

Logan stared at your hand on his arm, his jaw clenching tightly. “She didn’t ‘fix’ anything,” he said after a long pause, his voice low. “She twisted it. Made somethin’ up ‘cause she couldn’t face the truth. That’s not the same.”

“And what’s the truth, Logan?” you challenged, your voice firm but still gentle. “That I’m gone? That you’re supposed to just keep going, living in that pain forever? What’s wrong with her wantin’ to take some of that away?”

Logan’s eyes flicked to yours, a storm brewing behind them. “It ain’t about me, darlin’. It’s about you. She’s playin’ with your life like it’s a toy, like it’s somethin’ she can rewrite when she feels like it.”

You hesitated, your grip on his arm tightening slightly. “If I’m here now—if I get to wake up every day and see you, talk to you, love you—then maybe it’s worth it.”

He stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “You don’t understand,” he said, pacing a few steps before turning back to face you. “When this falls apart—and it will—it’s gonna tear us both to pieces. Again.”

“Maybe it won’t,” you countered, standing to meet his gaze. “Maybe it can last.”

Logan scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause she made sure you’d believe it.”

“Or maybe,” you said, your voice rising slightly, “I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I want to believe it. Because I choose to.”

The weight of your words hung between you, the space between you both charged with unspoken emotions. Logan’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving as he stared at you.

“You really think this is what you want?” he asked, his tone softer but still laced with frustration. “To live in somethin’ that ain’t real, just ‘cause it feels good?”

“Yes,” you said simply, your voice unwavering. “Because being with you? It feels right.”

Logan closed his eyes for a moment, his shoulders slumping slightly. When he looked at you again, there was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze. “You deserve better than some fake life, Y/N. You deserve somethin’ real.”

You stepped closer, placing your hand on his cheek. He didn’t pull away. “And maybe, for me, this is real. You’re here. I’m here. That’s all I need.”

His hand came up to cover yours, his calloused fingers rough against your skin. “Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice breaking slightly, “if I lose you again...”

“You won’t,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his cheek. “I’m here, Logan. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

He didn’t respond, just pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if you might disappear at any moment. The warmth of his embrace was familiar, comforting, and for a moment, it felt like maybe you could convince him. Maybe you could make him believe.

But deep down, you knew Logan’s grip on reality was stronger than your faith in this world.

---

“Hey! I was gonna ask you to explain quantum—” Peter cut himself off from his excited question, only to quickly turn his head behind him like he sensed something.

“Peter?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched him freeze mid-step. “Everything alright?”

Peter blinked rapidly, his usual boyish energy dimmed as his gaze darted between you and the empty hallway behind him. He scratched the back of his neck, forcing a sheepish smile. “Yeah, yeah. Totally fine. Just thought I heard something, but, uh, guess it was nothing. Mansion’s old, you know? Creaky floors and all that.”

You narrowed your eyes, not quite buying his excuse. “Since when do creaky floors freak you out? You’re Spider-Man, Peter.”

He laughed nervously, adjusting the strap of his backpack. “True, but, you know, sometimes even Spider-Men get spooked by weird noises. Occupational hazard.”

“Uh-huh,” you replied, crossing your arms. “What were you gonna ask me before you got distracted?”

“Oh, right!” Peter brightened slightly, though there was still a flicker of unease in his expression. “I was gonna ask if you could explain quantum entanglement again. I swear, I’ve read about it like a million times, but my brain just refuses to cooperate.”

Before you could answer, Logan’s voice echoed from down the hallway. “Parker. Got a minute?”

Peter turned, relief flashing across his face like Logan had just handed him a lifeline. “Uh, yeah! Sure thing, Mr. Logan. I mean, Logan. I mean, uh—”

“Just get over here,” Logan said gruffly, jerking his head toward the corner.

You frowned as Peter shot you a quick, apologetic grin before hurrying off to join Logan. Something about the exchange felt... off. Logan had been acting strange ever since your conversation earlier, and now Peter seemed jittery too.

“Logan?” you called after them, but neither turned back.

Curiosity gnawed at you as you debated whether to follow. Ultimately, you decided to let it go—for now. Whatever they were discussing, it could wait.

---

“What’s goin’ on, kid?” Logan asked, his tone low as Peter reached him. He glanced over Peter’s shoulder to make sure you hadn’t followed.

Peter shifted uncomfortably, his usual confidence faltering under Logan’s intense gaze. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding... crazy, but—does something feel... wrong to you? Like, about all of this?”

Logan crossed his arms, his expression hardening. “You pickin’ up on that too?”

“Yeah,” Peter admitted. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna say anything because it’s, like, Wanda. And she’s scary enough when she’s not messing with reality, but now... I don’t know, man. It’s like I can feel the edges of it. Like it’s all just... holding together by duct tape or something.”

Logan nodded slowly. “You’re not wrong. This whole thing—it ain’t real. It’s Wanda’s doin’. She created all this.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “So, what do we do? I mean, if it’s not real, we can’t just—”

“We’re not doin’ anything yet,” Logan interrupted, his voice firm. “First, we gotta figure out how deep this goes. She’s got Y/N wrapped up in it, convinced it’s all sunshine and rainbows.”

Peter’s face fell. “Does Y/N know?”

Logan let out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair. “She knows what I told her, but Wanda’s got her so tied up in this illusion, she doesn’t wanna believe it. Thinks maybe this is better than the real thing.”

Peter hesitated, glancing back toward the direction you’d gone. “Do you think she’s right? About it being better, I mean.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping to a near growl. “No. ‘Cause when this all comes crashin’ down, it’ll hurt her worse than losin’ it the first time. And I’m not lettin’ that happen.”

Peter nodded, his usual quips forgotten in the weight of the moment. “Alright. Just tell me what you need me to do.”

“For now? Keep this between us,” Logan said. “And keep an eye on her. If Wanda tries to mess with her head again, you let me know.”

“You got it,” Peter said, his tone more serious than Logan was used to hearing.

Logan clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Good. Now get outta here before she gets suspicious.”

Peter gave a quick salute and took off down the hallway, leaving Logan alone with his thoughts.

---

When Logan finally made his way back to your shared room, he found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your arms wrapped around your knees. You looked up as he entered, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Hey. What was that about with Peter?”

“Kid just had some questions,” Logan said, brushing off the topic as he closed the door behind him.

“Uh-huh,” you said, your tone skeptical. “And you couldn’t have answered them in front of me because...?”

Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair as he moved to sit beside you on the bed. “It wasn’t anything important, sweetheart. Just somethin’ about training.”

You studied him for a moment, your gaze searching his face. “You’ve been acting weird ever since we talked about Wanda earlier. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Logan hesitated, his instincts warring with his desire to protect you. Finally, he let out a heavy breath. “Darlin’, I told you everything I know. This ain’t real. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop tryin’ to keep you safe.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m not scared, Logan. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out together. Okay?”

He looked at you, his heart aching with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. Instead, he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured.

But deep down, he knew the fight was far from over.

---

The illusion Wanda created was starting to fracture, but only those closest to her could see it. To everyone else, it was as if the world had always been this way—serene, idyllic, perfect. For Logan, it was anything but. He watched carefully, taking note of small inconsistencies no one else seemed to notice: the same bird flying in the same pattern every morning, children laughing at nothing, and the way the sun never seemed to fully set, as though Wanda didn’t have the energy to finish the day.

He wasn’t the only one noticing. Erik, though far subtler in his observations, had begun pulling Wanda aside more often, his sharp gaze never leaving her. Meanwhile, the Avengers who were scattered across this fabricated utopia seemed to be... different. Thor had grown quieter, almost distant, his booming laugh no longer ringing through the mansion. Natasha occasionally paused mid-conversation, her expression going blank for a moment before she’d snap back to herself. Steve? He smiled too much, too wide, like he was trying to convince himself this world was real.

But for you, things had only grown more complicated.

---

The evening light filtered through the mansion's wide windows, painting everything in golden hues. You sat on the couch, flipping through an old book. Logan entered, his steps heavy, his expression unreadable. You glanced up, offering him a soft smile.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, his voice low as he settled beside you.

“Hey yourself,” you replied, setting the book down. “Rough day?”

“You could say that.” He hesitated, his gaze drifting toward the window. “You ever feel like somethin’ ain’t right? Like... this place, this whole damn thing, is holdin’ its breath?”

You frowned. “Logan, we’ve talked about this. I know you’re still adjusting—”

“Adjustin’?” he cut in, his tone sharper than he intended. “This ain’t about me. It’s about you. About what’s real and what ain’t.”

You stiffened slightly, your heart sinking. “Logan, we’ve been through this. I am real. I don’t know why you keep doubting that.”

“Because this world ain’t real, sweetheart,” he said, his frustration clear. “It’s Wanda’s doin’. And I think, deep down, you know that too.”

You shook your head, your voice rising slightly. “So what, you think I’m just... some figment of her imagination? That I’m not really here?”

“I think she brought you back,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. “But not like you think. And now it’s all startin’ to fall apart.”

You wanted to argue, to insist that he was wrong, but his words planted a seed of doubt that you couldn’t shake. “If this world is falling apart,” you said carefully, “then why are we still here? Why is Wanda still holding it together?”

“Maybe she’s tryin’ to keep you,” he replied. “Maybe you’re the reason she did all this in the first place.”

The air between you grew heavy, and for the first time, you found yourself unable to meet his gaze.

---

Elsewhere in the mansion, the cracks in reality were becoming impossible to ignore.

In the kitchen, Storm froze mid-motion, a glass slipping from her hand and shattering on the floor. She blinked rapidly, confusion washing over her face. “Where... where am I?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Tony Stark stood in the hallway, staring at a photo on the wall. In it, he stood beside Steve, Thor, and Natasha, all of them smiling. But the faces in the photo shifted subtly, warping into something unrecognizable before snapping back to normal. “Friday,” he murmured, though his AI didn’t respond. “What the hell is going on?”

And then there was Charles. He sat in his study, his hands pressed to his temples as he tried to focus. “Wanda,” he whispered, his voice strained. “You need to stop this. It’s breaking.”

But Wanda, standing in her room, refused to listen. Her fingers trembled as she clutched a framed photo of you, her lips moving in a silent mantra. “It’s perfect. It has to stay perfect. They deserve this.”

The glow of her magic pulsed erratically around her, and for a moment, the world flickered. The colors dulled, the mansion creaked as if it were alive, and the faint sound of static buzzed in the air.

---

You found Wanda as she exited Billy and Tommy’s shared bedroom, her steps hesitant as she moved down the hall toward the library. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and her expression was distant, like she was lost in a storm of thoughts. You called out to her, your voice firm, cutting through the silence.

“Wanda.”

She froze mid-step, her shoulders tensing before she turned to face you. Her eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you. “Y/N,” she said softly, her voice careful. “What are you doing up? It’s late.”

You crossed your arms, holding your ground. “I could ask you the same thing. What were you doing in the boys’ room?”

Her jaw tightened, but she didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she stepped closer, her tone soothing. “I was just checking on them. Making sure they were okay.”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, taking a step back. “Don’t try to brush me off like that. We need to talk.”

“About what?” she asked, though you could see the flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

You clenched your fists at your sides, willing yourself to stay calm. “Logan told me. About all of this. About what you’re doing. And I want the truth, Wanda—not some carefully constructed excuse. No wiping my mind, no distractions. Just tell me.”

Wanda’s lips parted as if to respond, but she faltered, her gaze dropping to the floor again. Her silence was answer enough. You took a shaky breath, pushing past the lump in your throat.

“It’s true, isn’t it? None of this is real.”

“It’s real,” she said quickly, her voice laced with desperation. “It’s real because I made it real. I did this for you, Y/N. For them.” Her hands gestured vaguely toward the hallway, where Billy and Tommy’s room was.

“And Vision,” you added quietly. The name hit her like a slap, and her expression crumpled for a brief moment before she steeled herself again.

“For all of us,” she whispered.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “No. You didn’t do this for all of us, Wanda. You did this for you. Because you couldn’t let go.”

Her breath hitched, and she took a step closer. “You don’t understand. You—you died, Y/N. Do you remember that? How helpless I felt when you—when I couldn’t—” She broke off, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions.

“I know I died,” you said, your voice steady despite the knot in your stomach. “Logan told me. But that doesn’t justify this.”

“You don’t understand,” she repeated, her tone defensive. “You don’t know what it was like to lose you. To lose them. It was too much, Y/N. I couldn’t—I couldn’t do it.”

Your heart twisted at the pain in her voice, but you refused to let it cloud your judgment. “So you decided to rewrite the world instead? To play god and pull us all into your grief? Wanda, you can’t keep doing this. You’re hurting everyone, including yourself.”

Her hands trembled as she reached for you, but you stepped back again. Her face crumpled, and for the first time, the cracks in her façade were fully visible.

“I didn’t mean for it to go this far,” she admitted, tears welling in her eyes. “I just wanted us to have a chance. To have peace.”

“Then show me,” you said, your voice softer now. “Show me what happened. How I died. I need to see it, Wanda.”

Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “No. I can’t do that to you. It’s too much—it’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care,” you said firmly. “I deserve to know. I need to know.”

Wanda hesitated, her hands clenching at her sides. “Y/N, please—”

“Please, Wanda,” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “If you care about me at all, you’ll show me.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, with a shaky breath, she nodded. “Alright. But... I’m sorry.”

---

You and Logan were eating leftovers that Ororo had made earlier in the day—the two of you had been… preoccupied with something else during dinner time.

“We could go to that Chinese place you’ve been wantin’ to go to.” Logan said.

“After we go to the bookstore?” you asked sweetly, leaning back in your chair. “I want to see if they have that book I’ve been wanting.” You rolled your shoulders again, wincing slightly as a dull ache pulsed between your shoulder blades.

Logan, sitting across the table from you, gave you a look. “Still feelin’ that?” he asked, his tone sharp with concern.

You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s probably just from sitting weird or something. I’ll stretch later—it’ll be fine.”

“Darlin’, you’ve been complainin’ about that for days. And that stomach pain you had last night? Maybe you oughta talk to Jean, just to be safe.”

You sighed, a bit exasperated. “I will, Logan. Tomorrow morning, before we head out, okay?”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he gave a short nod. “Good. I ain’t takin’ chances with you.”

You smirked, rising from your chair with your plate in hand. “What, suddenly all cautious? Didn’t seem that way earlier when we were—”

Logan gave a low growl, his expression softening into an amused grin. “Keep talkin’, sweetheart. See where it gets ya.”

You laughed, placing the plate in the sink and rinsing it off. Over your shoulder, you teased, “Maybe I’ll save that for later. You know, give you something to look forward to.”

“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, shaking his head, though his lips twitched upward. You could feel his eyes on you as you moved to the fridge and grabbed two beers, popping the caps off on the counter.

“You want your usual toast to Ororo for dinner?” you joked, turning back to him with a beer in hand. “Something like ‘thanks for makin’ us look bad in the kitchen’?”

“Funny,” he deadpanned, reaching for the beer as you handed it to him. “You should quit physics and take up comedy.”

Before you could reply, a wave of dizziness washed over you, sudden and disorienting. Your vision blurred, and the edges of the room seemed to darken. The beer bottle slipped from your grasp, shattering on the floor as you staggered back.

“Y/N?” Logan’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and alarmed.

You tried to steady yourself, but your legs gave out, and you crumpled to the floor. Your chest tightened painfully, the ache between your shoulder blades now radiating outward like fire. You could barely hear Logan as the room tilted further into darkness.

“Jean!” Logan bellowed, his voice raw with panic. He was at your side in an instant, his hands trembling as he tried to rouse you. “Darlin’, stay with me. C’mon, open your eyes!”

Footsteps pounded down the hall, and then Jean and Scott burst into the kitchen. Jean dropped to her knees beside you, her fingers immediately moving to your neck to check for a pulse.

“Her heart’s stopped,” Jean said urgently, already positioning her hands on your chest. She began compressions without hesitation, her movements precise but desperate. “Scott, call 911. Now!”

Scott fumbled for his phone, his usually steady demeanor cracking as he dialed. “We need an ambulance at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. It’s an emergency—cardiac arrest.”

Logan hovered over you, his hands balled into fists as he fought the urge to intervene. “Jean, she—she just dropped. She said her back was hurtin’, her stomach—”

Jean cut him off, her tone firm. “Logan, give me space! Keep talking to her—she might still hear you.”

“Darlin’, you gotta fight this,” Logan rasped, his voice breaking. “You hear me? You ain’t quittin’ on me, not now. Not ever.”

The minutes stretched agonizingly, Jean alternating between compressions and breaths while Scott relayed information to the dispatcher. Finally, you gasped—a ragged, shallow breath that made Jean sit back in relief.

“She’s back,” Jean said, though her voice was tight with worry. “But we need to get her to the hospital. There’s something—”

Before she could finish, the sound of sirens cut through the air, and the paramedics arrived. They worked swiftly, loading you onto a stretcher and carrying you out, Logan never leaving your side until they pushed him back to allow the medics room to work.

At the hospital, hours passed in a tense blur. Jean, Scott, and Logan paced the waiting room, the latter practically wearing a groove into the floor. When a doctor finally emerged, Logan surged forward, his expression dark with worry.

“She’s stable, for now,” the doctor said carefully. “But she experienced a significant cardiac event. We’re running tests, but it appears to be hypertrophic cardiomyopathy—an undiagnosed condition.”

“And what the hell does that mean?” Logan demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

“It means her heart’s working overtime. There’s thickening in the walls, and it likely led to her arrest,” the doctor explained. “She’ll need monitoring and possibly surgery to prevent future complications.”

But you never made it that far. Two hours later, as Logan sat by your side, clutching your hand in his, the monitors began to wail. Your heart stopped again. The staff rushed in, pushing Logan aside as they tried to revive you.

This time, you didn’t come back.

---

Your eyes opened with a sharp gasp, the room spinning as you met Wanda’s tear-streaked face. Her red, glowing irises flickered and dimmed as her powers pulled back, leaving her looking more broken than you’d ever seen her. The weight of what you’d just witnessed crushed your chest—it felt too real, too vivid to be anything but the truth.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Wanda whispered, her voice trembling, the Sokovian accent she’d long suppressed slipping through as her emotions bled into every word. Her hands hovered near you, like she wanted to comfort you but didn’t know if she deserved to.

You blinked rapidly, trying to steady your breathing as the memory of your death burned in your mind. The ache between your shoulder blades and the tightness in your chest felt so fresh, so real, it was hard to remember you were sitting in front of Wanda, not in a hospital bed.

But there was no time to focus on yourself. You sat up straighter, your voice trembling but firm. “Wanda, this has to stop.”

She flinched like you’d slapped her. “No,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “You don’t mean that. You can’t mean that, Y/N.”

“I do,” you said, meeting her gaze, your eyes stinging with unshed tears. “I’m dead, Wanda. I died. And nothing you do can change that.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” she insisted, her voice rising, more desperate now. “I fixed it. I brought you back—I brought all of you back. Billy, Tommy, Vision—they’re here, Y/N. We can all be together, like it was supposed to be.”

“Wanda,” you said sharply, cutting her off. “This isn’t real. You didn’t fix anything. You’re just… avoiding it.”

“No!” she cried, her voice cracking. “I gave us a second chance. Isn’t that what you’d want? To see Logan again? To see the boys smiling and safe? Don’t you want this?”

Your heart twisted at the anguish in her words, but you couldn’t let it sway you. “Of course I want that. Of course I want to be with Logan, with all of you. But not like this. Not if it’s a lie.”

She stared at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly as her breathing grew uneven. “Why does it matter if it’s a lie?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “It feels real, doesn’t it? It’s real enough.”

“It matters because it’s hurting you, Wanda,” you said, your voice softening. “And it’s hurting everyone else, too. Logan knows, doesn’t he? And Erik? They’re just as trapped as you are.”

Her lips trembled, and she looked away, unable to meet your eyes. “They don’t understand,” she muttered. “They think they do, but they don’t. Erik has lost people before. Logan… he’s lost you more times than I can count. But it’s different when it’s your children, Y/N. You don’t know what that’s like.”

You hesitated, the weight of her grief pressing down on you. “No,” you admitted quietly. “I don’t. But I know what it’s like to love someone so much it hurts. And I know that love means letting go sometimes, even when it’s the hardest thing in the world.”

Her shoulders shook, and she hugged herself, as though trying to keep from falling apart. “I can’t let go,” she said, her voice so small it was almost swallowed by the silence. “I can’t lose you again. Or them. Or Vision. I can’t.”

“Wanda,” you said, your voice firm but kind. “You already lost us. I’m gone. Vision’s gone. Billy and Tommy… they were never real to begin with.” You reached out, touching her arm gently. “This isn’t peace. This is a prison you built for yourself.”

Her tears fell freely now, and she covered her face with her hands, her sobs shaking her whole body. You stood, closing the distance between you and pulling her into a hug. She stiffened at first, but then she crumpled against you, clutching your shirt like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered brokenly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” you murmured, stroking her hair gently. “But it’s time to let go. It’s time to set things right.”

She pulled back just enough to look at you, her expression conflicted. “But if I let go… you’ll be gone.”

You smiled sadly, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I’ll always be with you, Wanda. But you have to let me go. You have to let all of us go.”

Her lip quivered, and she nodded slowly, though it looked like it physically hurt her. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she admitted.

“You can,” you said firmly. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Wanda closed her eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When she opened them, they glowed red again, her powers swirling to life around her. The walls of the room seemed to shift and crack, and the sound of children laughing echoed faintly before fading away.

“I love you, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes.

“I love you too,” you replied, squeezing her hand one last time before the world dissolved into light.

---

Logan walked to the library, his heavy boots echoing in the quiet hallways of the mansion. His hands were shoved deep in his jacket pockets, fists clenched tight. He could feel the tension in the air—a crackling weight that made his skin itch. It wasn’t just Wanda’s doing; it was him, too. He couldn’t sit back anymore. Not when he knew what was at stake.

Halfway there, Erik stepped into the hallway, his broad frame blocking Logan’s path. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp in his gaze.

“Outta the way, Erik,” Logan growled, his voice low and steady.

“You can’t confront her now,” Erik said, his tone just as calm, but there was a warning there. “It’s too fragile. If you push her too hard, this entire illusion could collapse violently. Do you want to hurt her more than she’s already hurting?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as he stepped closer. “This illusion is hurtin’ her. Hurtin’ all of us. She’s gotta let it go. You know that as well as I do.”

Erik didn’t move. “And if she can’t? If you force her hand and she snaps? This isn’t just about you or me or even her. Think about the others—Billy, Tommy, Vision. They’re as real to her as the air she breathes.”

Logan’s eyes darkened, a flicker of pain crossing his face. “Don’t think I don’t know that. But I lost her once. Hell, I’ve lost her more times than I can count. I ain’t gonna lose her to some damn fantasy.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping. “She created this because she lost too. She’s clinging to what little she has left. Are you really ready to take it all away?”

Before Logan could respond, the walls around them began to tremble. The faint sound of children laughing echoed through the hallway, followed by a low hum of static. Logan’s sharp eyes flicked around, taking in the cracks spreading along the edges of the illusion.

“Looks like it ain’t up to me anymore,” Logan muttered, his voice grim. He pushed past Erik, who didn’t stop him this time.

As Logan stormed toward the library, the tremors grew stronger. The pristine walls of the mansion shimmered, flickering between their familiar design and something darker, rawer. By the time Logan reached the library doors, he could hear crying and hushed reassurances.

He opened the door to find you and Wanda kneeling on the ground, the former holding onto you tightly as her hands glowed red.

You looked over at Logan as the world around you shimmered red and mouthed “I love you” right before everything went white.

As the shining light faded away, the mansion reappeared around them, quiet and still. Wanda knelt on the floor, her arms outstretched toward the air where you had been moments before. Her hands fell limply through the space, trembling as she stared at the emptiness in front of her. The tears on her cheeks glistened faintly in the flickering light.

Logan stepped into the room, his heavy boots echoing against the hardwood floor. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes dark with fury and heartbreak as he took in the sight of Wanda. She was a shadow of herself—broken, sobbing, and clutching at nothing.

“Wanda,” Logan growled, his voice low and menacing.

She flinched at the sound, her red-glowing eyes darting up to meet his. Her lips trembled, and she opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

Logan didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance between them in three long strides, his hands grabbing Wanda by the arms and yanking her to her feet. He slammed her back against the nearest bookshelf, the impact shaking loose a few books that thudded to the ground. His claws extended with a sharp snikt, the shining adamantium glinting dangerously as he pressed them to her throat.

“Why?” he snarled, his voice rough and ragged. “Why’d you bring her back, just to tear her away from me again?”

Wanda gasped, her hands coming up instinctively to grip his wrists. “Logan,” she choked out, her voice strained. “I—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting her off. His claws twitched, close enough to graze her skin. “You don’t get to explain it away. You don’t get to justify this. You knew what you were doin’, and you did it anyway.” His voice cracked, the raw pain bleeding through. “You brought her back, Wanda. I saw her. I held her. And now she’s gone again.”

Tears streamed down Wanda’s face as she shook her head frantically. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered. “I just—I couldn’t—”

“Couldn’t what?” Logan barked, his voice rising. “Let go? Face the truth? You think you’re the only one who’s lost her? I’ve been losin’ her for centuries, Wanda. Over and over again. And every goddamn time, it breaks me. But this—” He gestured around the room with his free hand, his claws still hovering at her neck. “This was worse than any of it. This was cruel.”

Wanda sobbed openly now, her body trembling against the bookshelf. “I just wanted to fix it,” she said, her voice cracking. “I wanted us all to have a second chance—Billy, Tommy, Vision… you. I thought if I could bring her back, you’d be happy again. I thought it would make everything right.”

Logan let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and cutting. “Happy? You think this made me happy? Watchin’ her slip away again? Watchin’ her know what was happenin’ and still tryin’ to make you feel better?” His claws retracted suddenly with a metallic hiss, and he stepped back, releasing her roughly.

Wanda sagged against the bookshelf, her hands clutching at her chest as though trying to hold herself together. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it would fall apart.”

“You didn’t think,” Logan spat. “You didn’t care. You were so wrapped up in your own grief, you didn’t stop to think about what it’d do to the rest of us. Erik told me not to push you. Said you’d snap if I did. But guess what, Wanda? You already snapped. And you dragged us all down with you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with desperation. “I just wanted her back,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I wanted all of you back.”

Logan’s face softened slightly, the anger giving way to the raw ache beneath. He sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to steady himself. “I get it,” he said quietly. “More than you know. But what you did—it ain’t right, Wanda. It ain’t real. And it ain’t fair to her or any of us.”

Wanda nodded slowly, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I’ll fix it,” she said shakily. “I’ll make it right.”

“You better,” Logan said, his voice low and dangerous. He turned on his heel, heading for the door. But before he left, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “One more thing,” he added. “Don’t ever use her like that again. Not for your pain. Not for anything.”

And then he was gone, the echo of his footsteps fading into the silence.

Wanda sank to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself as she sobbed. She had thought she was giving everyone a gift, but now she saw it for what it was—a prison of her own making, one that had only brought more pain.

In the distance, Logan stalked down the hallway, his mind swirling with the memory of your voice, your touch, your final words. I love you.

He clenched his fists, his claws threatening to break through again as he let out a low growl. Wanda might fix the mess she’d made, but nothing would erase the weight of losing you again. Not this time. Not ever.

first, i just wanna say thank you to dr. mike for teaching me that when someone goes into cardiac arrest you should immediately start chest compressions, chest compressions, chest compressions! (iykyk)

also, i know this is not an accurate representation of the 'house of m' storyline, but it's somewhat close? right? anyways, i think the next one of these is gonna be the logan movie, so buckle up!

[lazysoulwriter]

off key. - rapper!lewis hamilton.

requested! hope you like it, hun! - requested are open.

---

You walked into the studio already annoyed.

Not because you didn’t want to be here—music was your whole life—but because you’d spent the entire morning listening to voice memos of Lewis Hamilton’s beats, and not one of them had anything resembling subtlety.

Drums, bass, attitude. That was it.

Where were the layers? The emotion? The strange little imperfections that made a song feel like it had a soul?

The engineer greeted you with a nod and a tight smile, gesturing toward the booth. Lewis was already there, hoodie over his head, one AirPod in, lazily scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up when you walked in.

Of course he didn’t.

“Hey,” you said, dropping your bag on the couch and pulling your guitar from its case. “You got the stems?”

He finally looked up.

Brown eyes sharp, assessing. A smirk forming like he already didn’t like you. “You must be the folk fairy.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stood, stretched, and sauntered over like this was his studio, his city, his universe. “That’s what Marcus said. You’re the one who likes real instruments and long-ass intros, right?”

You narrowed your eyes. “And you’re the one who rhymes 'ice' with 'ice' and calls it genius.”

That earned a real laugh. Deep, warm, unexpected. “Okay, cool. So we’re not pretending to be nice.”

“Why waste time?”

Lewis shrugged and pulled his phone out again, swiping to a beat. The speakers pulsed with a tight, aggressive rhythm—fast hi-hats, distorted 808s, a few synths. Clean. Cold. And completely wrong for you.

He watched your face. “Not vibing?”

You picked up your guitar and strummed a few minor chords, dark and slow, fingers moving instinctively. Then you layered in a few notes on the keyboard beside you, the melody soft and strange.

“I was thinking something with space,” you said. “Room for breath. For words to mean something.”

He frowned. “It’s a collab, not a lullaby.”

You looked at him. “You scared of something a little softer?”

“I’m scared of boring.”

Your jaw clenched.

For the next three hours, it went like that.

You’d bring in an idea, he’d twist it into something louder. He’d write a hook, and you’d dismantle it line by line until he looked like he might actually throw his phone at the wall. Every attempt to compromise ended with you both retreating to opposite corners of the room, seething.

But still… you didn’t leave.

Because even though you hated his arrogance, his style, the way he chewed his pen cap when he was thinking—you also liked the way his lyrics hit when he was actually paying attention. The way he listened so carefully when you sang something raw. The way his voice sounded on the mic, low and rich, like smoke curling through velvet.

By the time night fell, the track was still a mess. But there was something.

You were on the floor, tuning your guitar, and Lewis was on the couch behind you, watching.

“You always play like that?” he asked suddenly.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to confess something.”

You blinked.

He shrugged. “Even when you’re mad, it’s in there. Makes people want to listen.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that.

“You’re not as annoying as I thought,” he added. “Still bossy, though.”

You laughed under your breath. “And you’re still full of shit.”

He grinned. “But charming.”

You turned to face him fully. The room was quiet, the lights low. His hoodie was off now, and he looked… tired. Warm. Real.

“I think this might work,” you said softly.

“The song?”

“Maybe.” You paused. “But I wasn’t talking about the song.”

The silence stretched. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on yours.

“Say it again.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t talking about the song.”

He stood slowly, walked over, and offered his hand.

You didn’t know if you were about to fight or kiss—but either way, it felt like music.

---

[n1ght0f-nyx]

I love your work, could I request a fem reader with Simon / Ghost from Call of duty. If you're comfortable with it could it be smut such as accidental aphrodisiac maybe from a mission. Love confession and reader helping him through it.

note- i am no scientist i dont think there is any gases with aphrodisiac affects do not come at me i am but a humble whore

simon ghost riley x fem!reader smut

warnings/tags- smut, semi non-con? aphrodisiac, simon loves you but tries to hide it, even after you two fuck, kinda ends with angst, handjob and semi dry humping, ghost is kinda submissive under the drug effects, no actual pnv, yall fuck in soaps bed i am so sorry about how long this took ive been so busy <3 word count- 3002

The dark canopy of the woods stretched out above, dappled sunlight barely breaking through the dense trees as you and Ghost moved silently through the underbrush. You had worked with Simon countless times before, and even though the man was a legend in the field, you couldn't help but notice the subtle shifts in his behavior around you. There was something about the way his eyes lingered just a bit too long, or how he always seemed to position himself closer than necessary during missions. But you never pressed him about it—especially not when you were on a mission. Professionalism was key.

At least, it was supposed to be. As you crept closer to your target, you felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Something wasn’t right. You glanced over at Ghost, his skeletal mask somehow making him more imposing in the eerie quiet of the forest. He gave you a quick nod, acknowledging the silent tension that had begun to build.

"Stay sharp," he murmured through his comms, voice gruff and low.

Suddenly, a crack in the distance—a single twig snapping underfoot—followed by the unmistakable sound of hissing. Gas. You and Ghost were trained for this; the masks went on instantly, the world around you slightly distorted through the visor.

"Ambush!" Ghost barked, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind a tree as gunfire erupted.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you returned fire, quickly scanning the area for the source of the gas. A canister lay nearby, still spewing its noxious fumes into the air. You couldn't tell what type it was, but your gut told you this was more than just a smoke screen.

"Gas masks on!" you yelled, even though you both had already secured them.

Ghost was already engaging the enemy, his shots precise and lethal. You took cover beside him, suppressing the approaching force. But the gas... something about it was different. You could feel the tension in the air, and though your mask kept you from inhaling most of it, a small tear in Ghost’s mask had let just enough of the gas slip through. You saw him falter for a split second, just before you took out the last enemy.

"Simon?" you asked, voice laced with concern as the gunfire died down.

"I'm fine," he growled, but his voice was shaky. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to clear it.

"We need to fall back to base, now," you insisted, watching him carefully. Something was off, but there was no time to analyze it here. You grabbed his arm, tugging him along as you both made a hasty retreat.

The journey back to base was tense. Ghost was unusually quiet, and though he was always the stoic type, this felt different. He kept pace with you, but you could feel his eyes on you through his mask—watching, lingering.

Once you made it back to the extraction point, the helicopter ride to base was eerily silent. You tried to focus on the mission debriefing, but your thoughts kept drifting to Simon. You could tell something was wrong, but it wasn’t until you landed and headed to the barracks that he finally spoke.

"That gas...'s fuckin' me up" he muttered under his breath as you both made your way to the decontamination area.

You paused, turning to him. "What do you mean? are you alright?"

He lifted his mask just enough to reveal the lower part of his face, and you noticed the slight flush in his cheeks. His pupils were dilated, and his breathing was heavier than it should have been after a mission. It hit you then—whatever was in that gas, it had gotten to him.

He can't help but feel a powerful surge of attraction towards you, and the usual emotional barriers that usually hold him back now seem to dissolve. As drool trickles down the corner of his lips, he struggles to focus on the task at hand - getting medical attention - while his body seems to have a mind of its own, responding to the intense physiological effects of the chemical. His voice slurs ever so slightly, and his gaze falls on you, his eyes clouding over in a daze, his hand instinctively reaching out to pull you closer.

"I'm fine," he mumbled again, though this time his voice was softer, almost... vulnerable. "But you... look different."

You blinked. "Different? Simon, you're not making any sense."

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your neck despite the cool air of the base. His mask had slipped down further, and for the first time, you saw a hint of the man beneath. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, were now filled with something you couldn’t quite place. Something deeper. Something raw.

"You have no idea, do you?" he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. "How long I've waited... how much I've wanted to..."

You stood frozen in shock, his words hanging in the air like a confession. A part of you wanted to step away, to put some distance between yourselves, but another part of you was drawn to him, his words and actions fueled by the chemical in his system. His touch was intoxicating, the warmth of his breath sending shivers down your spine. Despite the danger that was lurking within him, your heart raced at the proximity, your skin tingling with anticipation.

His pupils dilated as he moved closer, his voice husky as he whispered, "I've wanted to touch you, to feel you under me. I've wanted to taste you for so long." His fingers brushed against your cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through you as he continued, "I've wanted to make you moan, to drive you wild, to hear you scream out my name."

His words were a promise, a warning, and yet... it was also something more. It was as if, despite the chemical's effects, Simon was speaking from a deep, buried part of himself, a place where emotions ran deeper and his desires were raw and honest. And in that moment, you couldn't help but wonder, what did he really want from you? What did he truly desire beyond the surface level of lust and adrenaline?

Simon's hand slid down your arm, his touch sending sparks along your skin. You felt your defenses begin to crumble, his words and actions weaving a spell around you that was hard to resist. But even as your body responded to his touch, your mind was racing with questions - what had been in that gas? What did Simon truly want from you? And what would happen if he didn't get what he desired?

Despite the trepidation, a thrill coursed through you as Simon leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a gentle, possessive gesture. His mouth tasted like the desert air, warm and dry, with a hint of salt from the sweat on his skin. The kiss was a slow burn, igniting a fire within you that you couldn't contain.

"Simon," you breathed, your hands reaching up to grip the sides of his mask, pulling him closer.

His grip on you tightened, his hand cradling the back of your head as his lips pressed harder against yours. The kiss deepened, his tongue dancing against yours with a reckless abandon that sent shivers down your spine. You could taste the faint hint of chemicals still lingering on his breath, a reminder of what had happened, but also the intoxicating allure that drove him to want you like this.As you pulled back from the kiss, his eyes remained closed, his face inches from yours, his breathing heavy and labored. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drumbeat in the silence. For a fleeting moment, the chaos of the world outside receded, and all that remained was this intense, overwhelming feeling between you both.

you smile and look up at him, seeing the lust and want in his eyes, you could tell he was high both off the gas and off his feelings, The hand cradling the back of your head tightened its grip, pulling you closer. He leaned in once more, his mouth inches from yours, his breath hot against your lips. The air was charged with tension, the atmosphere electric.

The mask's grip on you tightened, and you felt a jolt of excitement run through you as Simon's breath washed against your lips, the air between you both charged with electric tension. His eyes, though cloudy from the gas, locked onto yours, his gaze burning with a deep-seated craving. It was as if the chemical cocktail had set free a part of him that you hadn't seen before, a raw and primal desire that threatened to consume him whole.

With a gentle push of his face, Simon pressed his mask against yours, his lips tracing a delicate path against the edge of the visor, sending shivers down your spine. You felt your body respond to his touch, the heat between your legs growing more insistent with each passing moment. His hand, still cradling the back of your head, drew you in closer, his mouth moving in a slow, languid dance along the curves of your face.

"You," he whispered, his voice a low growl of longing, "have always been the one I want, even when I didn't know what it was." His words were a mixture of honesty and drunkenness, but it didn't matter. The sincerity in his voice, the urgency in his movements, was enough to have you drowning in the depths of his passion.

His chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes locked onto yours, burning with an insatiable longing. Without saying a word, he reached for the zipper on your jacket, slowly sliding it down your torso. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed to the chill night air.

A tremulous whisper escaped your lips as his hands began tracing patterns across your bare skin, mapping every curve and contour. Each brush of his fingertips ignited a trail of flames, spreading outward from the contact points. You arched toward him, craving more of those electrifying sensations.

Inside the barracks, the silence was oppressive, punctuated only by the creaking of old wooden bunk beds and the distant hum of the base's generators. The dim lighting cast long shadows, making it seem as though the very darkness itself was alive and watching.

Simon's pace was labored, his gait uneven as he stumbled through the shadows towards you. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and stale air, but to you, it was a familiar comfort, like coming home. You could sense Simon's struggle to focus on anything except for you, his eyes darting around as if searching for something, anything else.

As he reached the edge of the room, he turned back, a look of desperation crossing his features. He lunged towards you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest.

The kiss was frantic, passionate, as though they were fighting against a tide that threatened to tear them apart. You could taste the fear, the panic, beneath the surface of his emotions. It sent a thrill of excitement through you, a primal urge that told you to give in to whatever this was, this explosive energy between you.

they collapsed onto the closest bed (which just happened to be soaps), entwined in a heap of limbs and tangled sheets. Their chests heaved in tandem, their breaths coming in ragged gasps as they struggled to catch their breath.

As you leaned in closer, your hand brushed against his thigh, sending a shiver down his spine. His body responded instinctively, hardness pressing against his pants. He winced at the sudden ache, his breath quickening in anticipation of what was to come.

The leather of his belt creaked as you released the buckle, the sound echoing through the silence of the barracks. His pulse raced with excitement and nerves, his eyes never leaving yours as you slid the strap down, revealing the outline of his arousal beneath.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. There was a part of him that didn't want to know, a part that wanted to remain innocent and untouched. But another part, the part that had been screaming for release all evening, urged him to let go and surrender to the sensations you were about to awaken.

Your fingers danced across the fabric of his underwear, teasing and probing the sensitive skin beneath. He closed his eyes, feeling a rush of warmth flood through his body as his senses were awakened. His hips jerked involuntarily, seeking more pressure, more stimulation.

As you guided him out of his clothes, he opened his eyes to watch you, mesmerized by the sight of your hands moving deftly over his naked form. His erection throbbed with expectation, begging for relief from the pent-up tension.

He knew he shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be letting things escalate this far. But he couldn't stop, wouldn't stop, because the prospect of losing control, of giving in to the primal urges raging within him, was too enticing to resist.

With a final tug, you freed him completely, exposing his throbbing cock to the cool air of the barracks. He gasped softly, his eyes widening in awe as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking him gently, coaxing forth a stream of precum that slicked his length.

He bucked his hips, urging you on, wanting more, needing more. His breath hitched in his throat as he realized the extent of his submission, the depths to which he was willing to sink to satisfy his cravings.

His eyes glazed over, his breathing quickening as you pumped your fist up and down his shaft at an alarming rate. The skin around his eyes began to tighten, his pupils dilating until they seemed to suck in every ounce of light.

His hips thrust up to meet your hand, a silent cry building in his throat. The pressure began to build in his groin, threatening to overflow as you relentlessly worked his erection.

His hands clenched and unclenched, the muscles in his arms taut with tension as you brought him to the brink of orgasm. The room spun around him, the sounds of the barracks fading into a distant murmur as everything focused on the intense pleasure coursing through his body.

His vision blurred, his world narrowing to a single, burning point. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything except feel the impending climax.

Then, in a flash of heat and release, it came. He arched his back, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as he spilled forth, the pleasure ripping through him like a wildfire. you climb over to straddle his lap, grinding your clothed cunt over his cock

His eyes snapped shut, his hands rising to massage your tits as you started to ride him. The fabric between your flesh and his dick created a maddening friction, sending shockwaves of pleasure through him.

His cock jerked beneath you, straining against the fabric to get closer, to delve deeper into the heat of your center. His breath caught in his throat as he felt the wetness of your desire, the urgency with which you sought to sate your own needs.

His fingers dug into your flesh, holding you close as you ground against him, your movements building in intensity and speed. The pressure mounted, his climax imminent.

He grasped his balls, squeezing them gently as he felt the rush of pleasure building to a head. The room around you faded to nothingness, leaving only the two of you, lost in the vortex of your combined desires.

With a hoarse cry, his orgasm shattered through him, the release so intense it bordered on agony. You rode out the wave of ecstasy, your own pleasure reaching a fever pitch as you climaxed in tandem with him.

The aftermath was a haze of exhaustion, your bodies spent, your breathing ragged. He lay there, his cock still buried between your thighs, his chest heaving with exertion. His eyes drifted open, locking onto yours, and for a moment, you glimpsed a glimpse of the real person beneath the mask, the vulnerability and intimacy that existed between you both.

It was a fleeting moment, gone as soon as reality set in. He withdrew from you, rolling onto his back, panting heavily. The silence that followed was palpable, the tension between you thicker than the air.

You sat up, running a hand through your damp hair, trying to process the events that had transpired. The gas, the adrenaline, the sheer intensity of the moment—it all swirled together in a confusing mess.

He lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling with each ragged breath. You wondered if he'd say anything, if he'd acknowledge the depth of his emotions, but instead, he simply lay there, lost in thought.

The silence grew longer, stretching out like a thin thread connecting you both. Finally, he stirred, pushing himself upright, his eyes fixed on you with a renewed intensity.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice hoarse from exertion.

You nodded, still trying to wrap your head around the events that had unfolded. "Yeah, I'm good."

He looked at you, studying your face, searching for something. After a moment, he nodded, seeming to accept whatever answer he found.

Without another word, he climbed off the bed, dressing hastily, his movements economical and efficient. Once clothed, he turned back to you, his eyes serious.

"thanks for that" he said, his voice devoid of inflection, trying to disguise his love for just a drugged favour. "Don't wait up."

With that, he walked out of the barracks, leaving you alone in the darkness, wondering what exactly had just occurred.

[eunseoksimp]

west coast — p.wb [vol 3]

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 lead singer park wonbin, bass guitarist reader, angst, songfic

synopsis: getting over park wonbin was supposed to be the final verse, the closing note to a song that never belonged to you. you’ve buried every unspoken feeling in music, poured every lingering ache into the strings beneath your fingertips. and then beomgyu arrives—effortless, magnetic, a new harmony in a melody that was never meant to be yours alone. but the closer you move toward something new, the more wonbin begins to unravel, caught between the distance he created and the realization that it was never you who needed to let go. it was him. and now, he might be too late.

WARNINGS: more alcohol consumption (i promise i'm not an alcoholic), brief mention of substance abuse, swearing, more hopeless pining, wc is somehow now 32k which is crazy, wonbin is a little bit of an idiot

part 1 | part 2 a/n: thank you so much for enjoying the last two parts, i've enjoyed reading your comments. i originally intended for this to be the final part but i got far too carried away (as you can tell by the 32k word count), so think of this as the prelude for the finale :)

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the kiss is still there.

not just on your lips, but in the hollow of your chest, in the marrow of your bones, in the quiet spaces where breath should be, but isn't.

it lingers, wrapping itself around your ribs like a vice, threading through your veins like something poisonous—slow, steady, inescapable. it doesn’t fade with time. if anything, it deepens, carving itself into you like an echo of something you were never meant to hold onto.

you think about how he tasted—like warmth and something intoxicating, like all the things you told yourself you didn’t need but still reached for anyway. you think about the way his fingers curled against you, just enough to make you believe that maybe, for once, you weren’t the only one feeling this. 

and for the briefest, most devastating moment, you had believed it, but hope is cruel. 

it is insidious, creeping in through the cracks no matter how hard you try to keep it out. it takes root in the deepest parts of you, whispering its sweet lies, convincing you that maybe, just maybe, you were wrong. that maybe this was something more than a moment, more than a fleeting indulgence. but it wasn’t. it never was.

and now, in the quiet aftermath, all that’s left is the weight of it pressing against your skin, sinking into your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it sits heavy in your throat, an ache you cannot swallow down, a grief so sharp it cuts through you like glass. you close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. the memory of him is burned there, seared into the backs of your eyelids, an imprint you cannot shake.

you tell yourself this is the end. that whatever thread of longing still tethers you to him must be cut, no matter how deeply it severs your soul. because if you don’t let go—if you cling to this last trembling shred of hope—you know it will destroy you piece by piece. 

and you cannot survive loving him one heartbeat longer.

the studio is the same as it’s always been—four walls soaked in the echoes of late-night recordings, the scent of old wood and metal, the faint vibration of a bassline bleeding through the floor. but today, it feels different. today, it feels like a cage.

your guitar rests heavy in your lap, the strap biting into your shoulder, the callouses on your fingers pressing into the strings. it should be comforting, grounding. but nothing is. not today. the weight in your chest is heavier than the instrument in your hands, a hollow, aching thing that no amount of music can smooth over.

you sense the others in the periphery, their voices rising in half-laughed jokes and half-formed plans. their words reach your ears as though submerged in water: distorted, distant, unreal. 

you know you should join them, at least offer a nod or smile, but the simple act of speaking feels insurmountable. instead, you stare at your own hands, flexing your fingers to chase away the tremor that won’t quite fade. when it grows too strong, you close them into fists, as if to trap your own unraveling inside.

you tell yourself to focus. on the music. on the work. on anything but the way his presence stretches across the expanse of your mind, a gravitational pull you refuse to acknowledge. 

when the door swings open, the air in the studio shifts so subtly that no one else seems to notice, but you do—like a single drop of ink bleeding into water, it spreads through your senses with dizzying inevitability.

your breath snags, and a tremor ripples through your bloodstream as the walls seem to inch closer. everything around you tightens, and for an unnerving heartbeat, it feels as though you’re drawing in less and less oxygen, like the atmosphere itself is conspiring to steal your composure.

wonbin steps inside with that calm assurance that has always set him apart. nothing about him betrays any hint of turmoil, and it’s infuriating how his every movement looks effortless. his dark hair, styled in a way that accentuates the sharp angles of his face, catches the overhead light, and there’s a sculpted symmetry to his features that feels almost inhuman in its perfection. 

even his eyes—dark, fathomless, and framed by lashes that seem almost too long—carry a magnetism that draws attention whether you want it to or not. 

he is all devastating beauty and disarming grace, the sort of presence that makes you want to stare even as you force yourself to look away.

you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. one glimpse of that face—one flicker of those eyes—and you know you’ll come undone. instead, you grip your guitar until your knuckles whiten, your fingers pressing so tightly into the frets that the steel strings cut into your skin. 

normally, the instrument feels like an extension of yourself, a lifeline to something steadier than your own heartbeat. but right now, it’s as though the resonance is muffled beneath the roar of the emotions you’re trying so desperately to suppress. each note you test feels like it’s being played underwater, distorted and dull, incapable of drowning out the pang in your chest.

your throat constricts, a rush of bile climbing upwards, hot and acidic, until you force it back down with a harsh swallow. you stare fixedly at the curve of your guitar’s body, trying to remember what it felt like to be calm, to be confident, to be unaffected by his presence. 

you inhale, exhale, and inhale again, mentally chanting that this is exactly what you asked for—to move on, to be indifferent, to unchain yourself from all those treacherous hopes.

yet it’s so much harder than you imagined. with every slow step wonbin takes into the room, the tension inside you twists tighter, threatening to snap. you keep your head down, straining to maintain even a veneer of composure, and pray that no one else can sense the frantic thunder of your pulse. 

you tell yourself this is how it has to be, that you wanted this distance, that you chose this detachment. but as you force your fingers into position on the fretboard and pretend to tune the strings, you can’t ignore the gnawing sense that each second you spend in his orbit only deepens the ache that’s tearing you apart.

“morning.” 

the single word drifts into the room, warm and easy, yet somehow jarringly out of place. you hear wonbin’s greeting directed toward everyone at once, spoken in that gentle, laid-back tone he’s always had—like the world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, like the ground didn’t fracture beneath your feet the last time the two of you were alone. 

from the corner of your eye, you catch a hint of him moving closer: the casual stride, the subtle brush of fabric, the rhythmic tap of soles on the floor. he stops right in front of you, and the air turns thick as syrup. your pulse thrums in your ears, drowning out the rest of the band’s chatter. 

then you hear it—your own name, quietly shaped by his lips. he says it like he’s testing the fragile calm you’re clinging to, like any misstep might shatter what little resolve you have left. the guitar in your lap feels like a dead weight; your hand is locked around the neck, strings biting into your fingers. 

you want—need—to look up, to meet his gaze with something resembling composure, but your eyes remain fixed on the scuffed floor. suddenly, the room seems too small, the walls pressing inward, leaving barely enough space to breathe.

you force a sharp inhale through your nose, summoning what remains of your courage to speak, to pretend that everything is perfectly fine, but your throat constricts, and the words refuse to form. 

not when wonbin stands so close, not when the space between you feels like a gaping wound still raw and exposed, like a chord left unresolved—hanging in the air, vibrating on a note you can’t bear to let go.

he says your name again, his voice quieter this time, so tentative it feels like he’s reaching out with trembling hands, uncertain of what he’s grasping for. instinctively, you tighten your hold on the guitar’s neck, as though the firm press of steel strings against your fingertips could somehow tether you to reality. you focus on that bite of metal and the ridges beneath your calluses, desperate to drown out the way his voice caresses each syllable—a sound at once familiar and utterly wrecking.

you don’t need to look at him to know what expression he’s wearing. you’ve seen it countless times before, an intensity in his gaze that demands a response you can’t muster. it’s suffocating, the weight of it pressing against your chest, threatening to crack the fragile shell of composure you’ve managed to piece together. with your ribs barely containing the storm of turmoil inside you, you can’t afford to let him see even a fraction of what you’re feeling.

but for some reason—maybe habit, maybe masochism—you glance up. it lasts all of a breath, but it’s long enough to register the dark, searching depths of his eyes, just as they were that night. something raw flickers there, hidden behind unreadable shadows, and it knots your stomach in a violent twist of memory and regret. 

not long ago, you would have let yourself sink into that look until it consumed you completely. never again, you tell yourself.

you choke down the tightness in your throat and manage a smile so thin it barely qualifies—just a hushed “hi” that sounds hollow, like it belongs to someone else. 

before he can respond, you tear your gaze away, pretending that the guitar’s tuning pegs suddenly require your undivided attention. it’s a flimsy defense, but it’s all you have.

even without looking, you can sense the small furrow that forms between his brows, the slight tension drawing his features together. you feel the pause that settles around him, heavy and complicated, tinged with an almost unbearable fragility. 

and for the first time since you met him, you allow that silence to stand. you make no move to bridge the gap, to smooth over the discomfort. you simply let it exist, a quiet testament to the wound between you—still raw, still bleeding, and impossible to ignore.

hongjoong clears his throat, the sound slicing cleanly through the suffocating silence like a blade meeting taut string. 

“alright,” he says, keeping his voice deceptively light yet carrying that familiar edge of authority—the same tone he uses whenever he senses the delicate balance in the room is about to tip. 

“let’s get into positions. we’ve got a lot to run through.”

the energy shifts in an instant. 

gunil responds with a dramatic groan, scuffing his feet against the floor as he trudges toward his drum kit. minjeong mutters something inaudible, likely another complaint about how early it is for “all this emotional tension,” and yunjin silences her with a sharp look, before she glances back and forth between you and wonbin. her quick, discerning eyes flick over the two of you, sensing the undercurrent that crackles in the air, thick as humidity before a storm.

but wonbin doesn’t budge. he lingers where he is, gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse stumble. it’s as if he’s waiting for a sign—for your eyes to lift, for some unspoken acknowledgement that might mend the rift between you or at least let him know where you stand. 

you keep your attention riveted on your guitar, every muscle in your body locked, determined not to surrender an inch of composure.

eventually, you hear him exhale. the sound is caught somewhere between disappointment and acceptance, a delicate mixture of frustration and resignation that pricks at your heart even as you force yourself to remain still. 

“yeah,” he murmurs under his breath, raking a hand through his hair before taking a measured step back. 

without another word, he turns toward the mic stand at the front of the room, moving into position with a forced nonchalance that does nothing to mask the tension simmering between you.

and just like that, the rehearsal moves forward—everyone falling into their roles, the crushing weight of unresolved feelings hovering in the space you refuse to share.

the instant he steps away, the grip around your lungs loosens, and you finally manage a tremulous inhale. that’s when you feel it—a warm, steady hand on your shoulder. you glance up, and there’s hongjoong, gaze calm but threaded with concern.

“you sure you’re okay?” he murmurs, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear, asking the question again.

you nod—too fast, too reflexive. 

“yeah. fine.”

his fingers linger a beat longer, a gentle pressure that speaks of quiet understanding. he doesn’t push for more, doesn’t pry into the whirlwind of emotions you’re struggling to keep hidden. he simply offers another gentle squeeze before releasing you, moving back to adjust his guitar strap as though the moment never happened.

he wasn’t there that night; he never witnessed the wrenching intimacy that now weighs on every breath you take. but somehow, he knows. he sees the fracture lines you’re trying to spackle over with silence. and for now, his simple acknowledgement—that unspoken kindness—is enough to steady you just a little longer.

the first notes ripple through the room, filling every inch of space, but they feel distant—like something playing from another lifetime, slipping through your fingers before you can grasp it. your hands move on autopilot, fingers pressing against the familiar grooves of the strings, but the music doesn’t reach you, doesn’t settle into your bones the way it should. 

it feels like playing inside a dream, a step removed from reality, floating somewhere just outside of your grasp. and you know exactly why.

he’s there. he’s always there. just a few feet away, standing at the mic with his head dipped low, dark strands of hair falling across his forehead, his fingers curling loosely around the stand in a way that should seem effortless but doesn’t. there’s a tension in his shoulders that wasn’t there before, a weight in the air between you that makes your breath come just a little too fast, your heart beat just a little too loud.

you try not to look at him, try to drown yourself in the melody, in the steady pressure of steel strings against your fingertips, but your body betrays you. your eyes flicker toward him without permission, and he’s already watching.

the second your gaze meets his, the world tilts.

it’s barely a glance, a flicker of a moment that shouldn’t hold so much weight, but it does. his brows knit together slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s something there—something searching, something unreadable.

but you can’t do this. not now.

you force your gaze away from him, willing your attention back to the guitar in your lap and the rhythmic rise and fall of your own breath—anything to ignore the way his stare seems to linger, as though he’s perched at the edge of a confession he can’t quite put into words. 

but then the chorus arrives, your cue to join in, to braid your voice with the melody the way you’ve done a thousand times before. except this time, the words lodge in your throat. they stick, trapped under the ache in your chest, and your fingers slip just enough to produce a sharp, dissonant chord. the sound cleaves through the music like a fracture through glass, and everything stutters to a halt.

hongjoong’s head snaps up first, his expression pointed with a sudden awareness. minjeong’s posture shifts, and though she doesn’t speak, her scrutiny is palpable, reading the tension in every rigid line of your body. the amps still hum in the silence, but nobody rushes to fill it. 

not until wonbin’s voice—lower than usual, quiet enough to feel private—trembles through the room: 

“hey, are you alright?”

his words catch you off-guard, pressing into the rawness you’re desperately trying to hide. for a moment, you can’t breathe. he’s not too close in a physical sense, but the concern in his gaze closes the distance regardless, wrapping around you with a weight that leaves no space for air. 

it’s as though he sees more than you’re ready to show, and your heart buckles under the intensity of it. you curl your fingers around the guitar’s neck until they sting, forcing a semblance of a smile. it feels flimsy and hollow, but you hope it’s enough to satisfy him.

“sorry,” you whisper, voice tight, forcing yourself to exhale the static that’s clawing at your mind. 

“just lost focus for a second.”

hongjoong looks to yunjin, something subtle and unspoken passing between them, but neither calls you out. and wonbin—he doesn’t so much as budge, his gaze still pinned on you with that unsettling blend of uncertainty and resolve. you can almost sense him gathering questions he doesn’t know how to ask.

refusing to meet his eyes for any longer than necessary, you adjust your grip on the guitar and find your breath. 

“let’s go again,” you say, your words firmer now, as though you can brute-force the tremor from your voice. “i’ve got it.”

there’s a pause—the faintest hesitation—before hongjoong nods and resets his hands on the keyboard, yunjin aligning herself at the mic with one last worried glance in your direction. wonbin doesn’t argue, but you feel the weight of his stare as he lifts his own mic, the barest flicker of doubt in his eyes. 

then the music swells once more, and you cling to the sound like a lifeline, hoping it drowns out the jagged reminder of how precariously everything hangs between you.

practice finally grinds to a halt in a discordant blur of unfinished chords and awkward silence. all eyes land on you—the one who never falters, the perfectionist who can coax flawless sound from six strings without so much as a glance. 

and yet, you faltered.  you, the one who normally spots everyone else’s slip-ups, are suddenly the center of concerned stares. a heated flush creeps up your neck as you blink rapidly, pretending to fuss over the tuning pegs of your guitar. it’s easier to focus on the tiny adjustments, to count the turns and pretend each one steadies your heart rate. 

still, you can feel their gazes piercing your peripheral vision, scrutinizing you with a mix of confusion and worry. you swallow hard, pressing your lips into a tight line, hoping the rush of blood in your ears drowns out the unspoken questions hanging thick in the air.

gunil taps a drumstick against the edge of his snare, lifting his eyebrows with a mischievous smirk. 

“well, well,” he drawls, “guess little miss perfect finally joined the club, huh?” he waggles the drumstick in your direction. 

“nice to know you’re human after all.”

he barely finishes the sentence before minjeong’s hand darts out, delivering a sharp slap to the back of his neck—her silent command for him to stop talking. a startled laugh dies in his throat, and the studio settles into another strained hush. 

gunil rubs at the sting, muttering, “alright, alright,” under his breath while trying to salvage a shred of dignity.

amid the tension, you become acutely aware of wonbin. 

his grip on the mic wavers, knuckles white with urgency as he tries to mount it onto the stand. it only half latches in place, nearly tipping over before he catches it, eyes never leaving you. the concern in his features is raw, unguarded—completely at odds with the polished frontman you know.

your pulse rattles in your ears as he starts toward you, closing the distance with deliberate strides. it’s as though the rest of the band ceases to exist; every inch of him focuses on you and the inexplicable break in your usual composure. 

your heart thrums a frantic warning—too close, too soon, too much.

“uh… i need some air,” you blurt, pulling your guitar strap over your shoulder. 

the words tumble out so fast they almost sound like one, not waiting for a response as you slip past yujin’s concerned gaze, past gunil’s half-formed protests and the weight of everyone else’s eyes. 

you don’t stop until the studio door clicks shut behind you, sealing in the static hum of amplifiers and half-swallowed tension. out here, the hallway is nearly silent—just a muted throb of lingering music bleeding through the walls. you lean against the cool cement, letting the chill press hard into your back, a sharp contrast to the heat in your cheeks.

your palms drift to your face, fingertips skimming over the contours of your skin as if you could somehow rub away the ache that’s lodged itself beneath your ribs. the chill is biting, but it does nothing to ease the heaviness clinging to your lungs.

beyond the door, you can still hear the faint buzz of bandmates reorganizing themselves for another run-through, their muted chatter rising and falling like distant thunder. that gentle hum of routine only makes the ache sharper; it’s a reminder that they’ll go on, that the music will continue, even while you’re out here trying to hold yourself together with breath after shaking breath. 

you close your eyes and pray this moment of solitude will be enough to keep you from fracturing completely—just a heartbeat of silence in which to remember how to breathe.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you used to believe that music could mend any wound, that every chord change and carefully chosen lyric was a kind of alchemy—turning your deepest aches into art. and now, it’s the only thing holding you together. 

late into the night, long after your bandmates have left the studio, you stay behind, coaxing heartache into melodies that shimmer with vulnerability. you press your fingertips against the strings until they’re raw, shaping chords that vibrate with longing, pouring every unspoken thought and jagged emotion into the mic. 

the result is a collection of songs so nakedly honest, they leave you trembling in the aftermath of each recording—yet they are undeniably beautiful in their pain, a tangible testament to the heartbreak you can’t seem to escape.

and so the lyrics take on a life of their own, sprawling across the pages of your notebooks in fevered handwriting—scribbled lines that map out every pang of sorrow, every ounce of desperation you’ve wrestled with in the still hours of the night. you catch yourself pouring over them at odd moments, fingertips grazing the ink as if touching the words might somehow ease the heaviness clamped around your heart. 

it doesn’t, of course—but writing them down becomes the only breath of relief you can find. these fragile sheets of paper become your confessional, a safe space where grief can take shape without censure, where heartbreak is allowed to be as overwhelming and unrelenting as it truly is. 

it’s not about seeking closure, not yet; it’s about survival. because in the wake of love that slipped through your fingers, every chord progression, every line of verse, feels like a tether keeping you from drifting into a darkness that threatens to swallow you whole. the pain might be soul-crushing, but channeled through pen and strings, it transforms into something almost beautiful—if only because it’s the raw, undeniable truth of how deeply you once dared to feel.

at night, when the city is hushed and every streetlight seems to glow with its own private sorrow, you find yourself wide awake, thoughts circling like moths around a single flame. sleep becomes an elusive dream, trailing just beyond your grasp. 

but instead of lying there, suffocated by what-ifs and never-weres, you reach for your notebook. in the thin glow of a bedside lamp, you let each lingering thought of him trickle down your arm, gathering ink at your fingertips until it spills onto the page. 

there’s a catharsis in it—in scribbling down memories that ache like fresh bruises, in shaping them into words and phrases that pulse with hidden yearning. whenever the pain gets too close to unbearable, you scrawl another line, another verse, until the torment feels contained, anchored by the weight of ink on paper. 

and in that fragile, solitary ritual, you discover that maybe, just maybe, these sleepless nights hold the key to something transcendent: turning heartbreak into art, grief into something that can be sung instead of silently endured.

yunjin and minjeong notice the way your gaze drifts off during rehearsals, how your fingers itch for the pen tucked behind your ear instead of the instrument in your lap. they exchange glances full of quiet concern, and sometimes, one of them will call your name softly, as if hoping to coax you back from wherever your thoughts have taken you.

“everything alright?” minjeong tries one afternoon, leaning in close and tapping a gentle rhythm on your notebook.

you force a small smile, nodding in what you hope is a reassuring way.  “i’m good,” you murmur, your voice catching on the lie. “just… working out some ideas.”

it isn’t that you don’t appreciate their worry. in fact, a part of you aches with gratitude for friends who care enough to ask. but you’ve come to prefer this realm of ink and paper��a sanctuary where you can shape the pain, control its borders, and hush the roiling anguish inside you. 

here, in the hush of your own scribbled words, you can be honest about how lost you feel. out there, in the real world, that honesty threatens to splinter you wide open in front of people who might never understand. so you keep your eyes down, scrawl out another line, and let the comfort of creation shield you from the weight of a reality you’d rather not face.

another day, another unsteady round of practice filled with frayed nerves and half-formed ideas. drums stutter to a stop, and the hiss of an amplifier crackles into silence. hongjoong scrubs a hand over his face, frustration evident in the downward curl of his lips.

“we’re stuck,” he mutters, glancing around at everyone. 

“i don’t know if we’re burnt out or just missing something, but…” he trails off, his gaze landing on you in silent question. 

you feel your pulse quicken—your notebook is clutched protectively in your arms, pages overflowing with songs you’ve written in the lonely hours, words you’ve never shown anyone.

minjeong notices the hesitation in your eyes and nudges your elbow. 

“come on,” she says softly. “it can’t hurt to share.” 

your heart hammers against your ribcage, and for a moment, you almost refuse. these lyrics aren’t just scribbles on paper—they’re pieces of you, soaked in raw, unfiltered heartbreak. 

but the band’s desperation presses in on you, thick and urgent, and you catch the flicker of hope in hongjoong’s gaze. with a shaky breath, you loosen your grip on the worn cover. 

“it’s… it’s not exactly polished,” you whisper, voice trembling.  “but maybe there’s something you can use.” 

hongjoong nods, expression solemn. “we’ll take whatever you’ve got.” 

carefully, you hold out the notebook, fingers reluctant to let go even as you extend it his way. when he finally takes it, you swear you feel a piece of your heart leaving your hands. he offers a small, grateful smile—a delicate gesture of trust that makes your chest tighten painfully. 

you step back, arms folding around your middle as if to protect the hollow ache still pulsing inside you. someone flips the pages, scanning lines of ink etched by your sleepless nights, and the room goes quiet—respectful, expectant, and heavy with the vulnerability you’ve just laid at their feet.

a hush falls over the room, the quiet so deep it nearly rattles you. your pulse thunders in your ears, and a tremor curls around your spine—the urge to snatch the notebook back from hongjoong’s hands is almost more than you can bear. you can’t decide if it’s dread or hope swelling inside your chest, a tension so taut you wonder if everyone else can feel it, too.

hongjoong turns another page, eyes flicking across your scribbled verses with a kind of reverent intensity. finally, he looks up at you, and what you see in his expression leaves you breathless: a glimmer of recognition that feels both comforting and terrifying, as though he’s glimpsed the raw nerve pulsing behind your words.

he exhales slowly, lips parting in something close to wonder. 

“it’s beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hushed but brimming with emotion. “really. you’re a genius.”

the words collide with your heart, sending a quiver through your stomach that’s equal parts pride and panic. you press your lips together, overwhelmed by a swirling tangle of relief, fear, and the faintest spark of validation. 

you’ve spent so long scribbling confessions into these pages—never imagining they’d be read with such understanding. yet here hongjoong stands, holding your deepest ache in his hands like it’s something precious.

a collective urgency ripples through the room as minjeong and gunil close in, desperate to see what has their usually composed leader looking so struck by emotion. they crowd around, leaning in over hongjoong’s shoulder, scanning your words with hushed exclamations. the air thickens with excitement, almost electric.

in any other context, the band’s awe would send warmth flooding through your veins. but now it feels like a spotlight, burning through every carefully built defense. their voices rise, echoing with praise, and you force a small, shaky smile. 

part of you craves their acceptance, their validation that you can create something worth hearing. yet another part reels at the thought of them glimpsing the bruised core of your heartbreak, spelled out in verse and chord progressions.

your gaze drops to your feet, and a flush heats your cheeks. for a fractured moment, all you want is to run—to yank the notebook free and hide your confessions away forever. but you don’t. 

you stand there, arms folded across your chest, absorbing their words as best you can, torn between the desperate need to keep your secrets safe and the faintest spark of hope that, maybe, they finally get it.

it’s not until the others step away that wonbin finally moves in, slow and measured, like he’s bracing himself for whatever he might find between those pages. you can’t look at him. your heart is already pounding at the base of your throat, each beat warning you of the closeness—the possibility that he might realize the truth behind your words. 

yet as he takes the notebook, something gentle lights in his expression, a quiet awe that forces your breath to stutter. he flips through the lines one by one, dark eyes scanning with a calm intensity that makes your nerves tingle.

for a moment, no one else seems to exist. the hush feels louder than any applause you’ve ever heard, your pulse hammering an unsteady rhythm against your ribcage. then he looks up and, slowly, hands the notebook back to you. 

“he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is,” wonbin says, voice low and laced with a hint of warmth. 

the words stagger through your chest, colliding with the painful realization that he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t see that he is the one you’ve been tearing your heart out for.

there’s a flicker in his gaze—something almost vulnerable, almost questioning—before it smooths over into his usual calm. your stomach drops, your fingers curling around the worn edges of your notebook like a lifeline. 

if he felt anything at all, it’s swallowed by his assumption that these are just words spun from a distant heartbreak, a story that couldn’t possibly be about someone standing right in front of you. and the pain of it—of knowing he thinks your confessions belong to someone else—chisels deeper into the crack in your chest.

you feel your shoulders sag the instant he turns away, a wave of hollow disappointment robbing you of breath. 

of course he wouldn’t guess the truth. why would he? 

you’re barely keeping your own emotions stitched together, let alone brave enough to let them spill beyond the safe confines of your notebook. part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity—to mock yourself for the audacity to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d see through the ink and realize you wrote each line for him. 

instead, your heart throbs with the realization that this one-sided longing has become your own private prison. you clutch the notebook to your chest, foolish for ever believing its words could speak louder than the walls you’ve built around your longing. even your own pulse feels like a betrayal, still hammering for someone who might never feel the same.

for a fleeting moment, it had seemed possible—he might see the truth beneath the metaphors, might hear his name in every chord you’d strummed until your fingertips bled. but his departure, casual and unknowing, leaves behind a cavernous emptiness. reality crashes over you, brutal and unrelenting: he doesn’t realize you wrote those words for him, and maybe he never will. 

a ragged exhale rattles through you, and in the quiet that follows, you feel something inside you break. because if he can’t see it now—if he can’t sense that the music you’ve spun from sleepless nights and unquenchable longing belongs to him—then there’s no point in clinging to the tiny, wavering flames of hope. 

you press your lips together as tears threaten to spill, willing them back because crying here, now, might tear you apart completely.

you tell yourself it’s time to stop, to tear yourself away from the gravitational pull of his smile, his voice, his unknowing presence in every note you play. it’s time to let go of a future that was never meant to be. 

and in that moment, the resolve sinks in—heavy, devastating, final. pain coils around your heart, searing and sharp, and you can almost taste the loss in the back of your throat. yet you cling to it with white-knuckled determination, because moving on is the only way to survive a love that leaves you hollow.

so you choose to let him go—even if it means leaving a piece of your soul behind with every chord you’ll never again write for him. you close your eyes against the ache, telling yourself that it’s for the best, that the agony of walking away is easier to bear than the agony of hoping in vain. 

and in that moment, a single silent promise reverberates through your mind: you will learn to breathe again, even if it feels like dying first.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

you do everything in your power to sever the connection between you and park wonbin—a polite nod in passing, a half-muttered reply when he asks a question, your gaze skittering away the instant his dark eyes threaten to snare you. 

it’s exhausting, pretending you don’t still feel the ghost of him in every chord you play. some part of you wants to give in, to let your guard slip just enough to catch that crooked smile, but the memory of how devastating it felt to realize he would never truly be yours keeps you resolute. 

so you steel yourself with shallow breaths and quick goodbyes, forcing your heart to accept a distance that chafes with every moment spent in the same room. it’s not easy—your pulse kicks every time he crosses your line of vision, and you find your hands trembling on the fretboard when he stands too close. 

yet you cling to this self-imposed barrier, convinced that holding him at arm’s length is the only way to reclaim the parts of yourself you’ve been bleeding into unrequited love. slowly, you pray, the ache will fade into something more bearable, and you’ll finally be free from the weight of loving someone who can’t—won’t—hold you in return.

he steps toward you at the end of today’s rehearsal, hair damp and clinging to his brow in a way that feels almost too intimate for the moment, shirt hanging from his shoulders as though it might slip free if the tension snapped any tighter. 

the pungent mix of stale coffee and sweat-soaked air hovers like a suffocating blanket, amplifiers still humming with the echo of that half-finished bridge you never quite nailed. he draws in a breath, and his voice resonates with the adrenaline of performance, tinged by a confusion he can’t quite hide. 

“we sounded off during that last part,” he murmurs, eyes darting between you and the rest of the band, “should we run it again?” 

the question sets your pulse tapping wildly against your ribs, but you keep your gaze pinned on the guitar cable you’re meticulously looping between your fingers. each coil feels like a lifeline—a distraction from the heat radiating off him, from the quiet scrutiny you can sense in his stare. 

“ask hongjoong,” you snap, a hardness in your tone that almost surprises you. 

“he’s the leader.”

it’s a single strike, like a pick snapping against a string, and the look on his face wavers, uncertainty mixing with an unspoken plea you refuse to acknowledge. around you, the others fall silent, the air so thick with tension it feels like a physical pressure against your chest. 

you sling the coiled cable over your shoulder, letting it pull you back a step, aware that the distance between you and him is more than just a few feet of studio floor. the unspoken tension in the room presses in, like the unresolved chord progression still ringing in your ears, waiting for a resolution that, in this moment, you can’t—or won’t—provide.

he stays exactly where he is, rooted to the spot as though your clipped response has momentarily robbed him of speech. his brows pull together in a way that makes your heart lurch, like he’s sifting through every subtle shift in your demeanor for answers you can’t afford to give. 

the final chords of rehearsal still hang in the air—a phantom echo blending with the metallic taste of adrenaline on your tongue—and you force yourself not to inhale too deeply, not to catch the faint trace of cologne and sweat that clings to him. you can feel the electricity of his presence, almost see it crackling in the space between you, and it takes every fiber of your being not to let that pull unravel your carefully maintained composure.

“was there anything else?” you say, sharp and hollow, injecting as much distance into those two words as you can. 

there’s no denying how your pulse stutters when you glance at him—damp hair tousled in a way that borders on heartbreakingly angelic, the overhead lights turning the faint sheen of sweat on his skin into something luminous. 

for a second, you hate how effortlessly beautiful he is, how he can appear so ethereal even in the gritty aftermath of practice. you hate, too, how your own heart thrums in response, as if it’s trying to remind you of all the reasons you once let your guard down around him.

he opens his mouth as if to speak, then hesitates. the furrow between his brows deepens, a crease of confusion and maybe a trace of hurt. you half expect him to question you—to demand to know why you’re shutting him out, why your tone bristles with a chill that could freeze the sweat on your skin. 

but he says nothing. 

his silence seems to hum in your ears, louder even than the faint static from the amplifier behind you. your grip on the coiled guitar cable tightens, a too-familiar tension building at the base of your spine, and you silently beg your trembling knees not to give way beneath the weight of this moment.

somewhere behind you, a door hinges open, letting in a rush of cooler air, but neither of you move. it’s as though the rest of the world has receded, leaving just the two of you in this charged standoff. you feel the erratic beat of your heart like a distant drum solo, rattling inside your chest, threatening to betray the calm façade you’re fighting to maintain. 

you consider walking away—taking two steps back into the hallway, anywhere he isn’t, so you can pretend it doesn’t feel like you’re being torn in two. but a stubborn part of you refuses to budge first, refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply he can still unsettle you.

at last, he exhales, dropping his gaze to the floor in resignation. the thick tension between you doesn’t vanish so much as shift, contorting into something painfully unresolved, like a chord progression forever missing its final note. he runs a hand through his hair, damp strands raking back from his forehead, and it’s almost too much to bear—seeing him look so human, so caught in the fallout of whatever invisible line you’ve drawn.

your chest feels too tight; even breathing is a conscious effort. for a heartbeat, you consider reaching out, bridging that gap just to smooth the worried crease in his brow. but the memories of what was—and wasn’t—come rushing back, and your resolve snaps into place like a shutter slamming down over your features. 

“i’ve got to get back to playing,” you mutter, voice tense enough to cut the thick air. 

wonbin’s lips part, breath hitching like he’s about to say something—maybe an apology, maybe the question you’re dreading—when the door bangs open and your manager barrels in, derailing the moment with brisk efficiency. 

“alright, perfect, you’re all here,” he exclaims, voice echoing across the room. 

in his wake follows a figure whose presence seems to steal the remaining oxygen: he strides into the room with a quiet, self-assured grace that seems to pull every pair of eyes his way. at first glance, you notice he’s tall—easily six-foot-two, towering over most of you without even trying. 

he exudes an aura of restless artistry and enigmatic charm, like a storm frozen in time. 

his auburn hair cascades in unruly waves, catching the light like wildfire trapped in his tresses, each strand whispering tales of rebellion and untamed freedom. the messy layers frame his sharp jawline, a sculpted edge that speaks of quiet intensity, while his pale skin glows with an ethereal softness, as if he’s just stepped out of a dream.

a nose piercing flashes against his sun-kissed skin, a tiny spark of silver that gleams even in the shadowy corners. 

his eyes, deep pools of unsaid emotion, are a contradiction of vulnerability and defiance—twin galaxies reflecting both the burden and beauty of chasing greatness. they seem to catch every glint of light, pulling you into their orbit, while the shadows in their depths whisper secrets he may never share. the tilt of his lips, soft and melancholic, carries a haunting allure, like a love song left unfinished, hanging on the edge of bittersweetness.

he wears a crisp white shirt that skims his lean frame, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal muscled tattoed forearms and a hint of band-aids wrapped around two or three of his fingers—little badges of hard work that suggest he’s no stranger to late-night guitar sessions.

there’s an electricity about him, a raw, magnetic energy that feels like the moment before a guitar string snaps—a tension that holds you captive, waiting for the inevitable crescendo.

as he steps closer, you catch sight of a delicate trail of moles that sweeps along the column of his neck like tiny constellations scattered across a sky at dusk. for a heartbeat, the room seems to hold its breath; even the usual hum of amplifiers and squeak of cables recedes into the background, enthralled by his unexpected arrival. 

minjeong and yunjin exchange quick looks—part curiosity, part fascination—while hongjoong straightens up, offering a polite greeting. 

but you barely register their reactions, too aware of how his gaze drifts your way, a soft smile curving his lips. it’s a smile that promises sincerity rather than arrogance, a subtle invitation to be at ease around him despite his striking looks.

unbeknownst to you, wonbin’s attention sharpens at your side, his expression unreadable as he notes the slight widening of your eyes, the faint hitch in your breath. you can practically feel that tension coil in the air like a drawn bowstring—ready to snap at the slightest push. 

but you’re drawn to this guy’s easy confidence, the way he shifts his guitar case, the utter lack of pretension in his movements. even the quiet hush that settles over the space seems charged with possibility, making your pulse skip in a way you thought you’d forgotten.

“the company finally heard our prayers, he’s our new rhythm guitarist.”

“hey,” he finally says, directing his voice squarely at you, his tone warm and genuine. “i’m beomgyu. been following this band for a while—especially you.”

his gaze locks onto yours, open, genuine, the weight of the words settling in the space between you before he adds, almost like an afterthought, “huge fan.”

he offers his hand, slender fingers marred by those band-aids, and the gesture feels strangely personal, deliberate.

there’s a beat of hesitation before you take it, fingers brushing against the rough patches of his skin, against the heat that lingers beneath the bandages. for a second, the world narrows to the contrast of textures—the callouses against your smoother fingertips, the faintest tremor that isn’t quite nerves, but something else entirely.

“glad to have you in the band,” you say softly, forcing your voice to stay even, to mask the swirl of emotions in your gut.

the rest of the room stills, the shift almost imperceptible, yet undeniable.

from the corner of your eye, you see the way minjeong watches with quiet curiosity, yunjin with barely veiled amusement. gunil has his arms crossed, a knowing smirk already playing at his lips. it’s not lost on anyone, this moment stretching between you and beomgyu, the way his hand lingers just a fraction too long before he finally pulls back, tucking a stray strand of golden-brown hair behind his ear, revealing the constellation of moles scattered across the line of his throat.

“hope we can make something great together,” he murmurs, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. 

behind him, your manager beams, launching into a monologue about tours, albums, and new beginnings. but your attention wavers between the newcomer’s confident stance and the barely contained tension rippling through wonbin, who remains rooted in place, shoulders tight, gaze flicking between you and beomgyu as if the new guitarist’s arrival has thrown open a door he wasn’t ready to face. 

there’s a momentary lull in conversation—just long enough for gunil to pipe up with a mischievous grin, drumming his fingers on the nearest amp. 

“careful, wonbin,” he teases in a sing-song tone, “looks like pretty boy is about to take your spot.”

the quip lands in the still-charged air like a spark in dry tinder, the unintentional double meaning not lost on either of you.

you watch it happen—the flicker of something sharp passing through wonbin’s expression, the way his fingers flex at his sides, the near-imperceptible clench of his jaw. it’s brief, a flash of heat before the mask settles back into place, but you see it, and so does beomgyu.

he doesn’t say a word, but the shift in his posture is unmistakable, a simmering kind of frustration that betrays more than he likely intends. even beomgyu catches it, eyes flicking between wonbin’s stony expression and gunil’s attempt at levity. 

as the laughter from gunil's joke fades, the manager swiftly intervenes, redirecting the focus back to business. he launches into the practicalities of band life—rehearsal schedules, upcoming gigs, studio expectations—guiding beomgyu through the nuances with the ease of a seasoned conductor. 

the session winds down, the sharp clang of cymbals and the soft rustle of cables being coiled into loops filling the space with a familiar, rhythmic dissonance. cases click shut, tuning pegs are given last-minute adjustments, and the hum of idle chatter wraps around the room like the lingering reverberation of a final note that refuses to fade.

in the midst of it all, yunjin sidles up to you, her movement fluid, seamless—like she’s been waiting for the right moment to slip in unnoticed. she leans in close, her perfume a soft contrast to the stale scent of sweat and metal that clings to the air, her gaze flicking from beomgyu, who is effortlessly charming his way through conversation with gunil, then back to you, the glint in her eyes unmistakable.

with a discreet wiggle of her eyebrows, she murmurs just low enough for only you to hear, "he's definitely hot, right?" 

there’s a teasing lilt to her voice, lighthearted on the surface, but you know yunjin—know the way she watches, the way she picks up on the smallest shifts in dynamics before anyone else even registers them. this isn’t just idle commentary. this is her testing the waters, waiting to see if something in you cracks open, if there’s something worth prying into.

you pause, fingers still curled around the neck of your guitar, debating your response. beomgyu is attractive—undeniably so—but acknowledging that feels like stepping onto shaky ground, like introducing something you’re not sure you’re ready to entertain. so instead, you settle for a small, noncommittal smile, tilting your head in vague concession.

yunjin, never satisfied with half-hearted reactions, nudges you lightly with her elbow, her grin widening. “oh, come on,” she presses, voice barely above a whisper but still somehow managing to sound incredulous. “don’t act like he isn’t.”

you exhale a soft laugh, lifting your hands in mock defense. “i didn’t say anything.” the gesture is both a concession and a deflection, an admission that, yes, the new guy has a noticeable allure without giving away anything more personal about your thoughts. 

“exactly.” she narrows her eyes at you, a knowing gleam sparking in them, as if she’s already forming her own conclusions regardless of what you do or don’t say.

the exchange lasts only a few fleeting seconds, but as your gaze flickers instinctively across the room, it snags—inevitably—on him.

wonbin stands a few feet away, his back straight, arms loosely crossed, posture seemingly at ease. but you know wonbin. you know the sharpness in his jaw when he’s tense, the way his fingers twitch against his biceps when he’s holding something back. he’s listening, even if his eyes remain on the manager, even if he looks entirely unaffected.

hongjoong, ever the diplomat and peacemaker of the group, seizes a moment of calm to usher in a new tradition. 

“team lunch,” he announces with an authoritative nod, his voice carrying over the residual noise of packing. “it’ll be good to get to know beomgyu.” 

the idea is met with a chorus of enthusiastic approvals, the underlying unspoken truth being that hongjoong is famously generous when the bill arrives—his treat often being the sweetener that draws unanimous agreement.

as the band members start to chatter about where they might go, you focus on securing your guitar in its case, fingers working deftly at the latches. yunjin is still hovering, her presence a reminder of the conversation you’d rather let fade, when beomgyu approaches again. 

his timing is impeccable or perhaps intentionally calculated to catch you alone, just as you linger by your guitar case, about to close it, beomgyu circles back to your side, his approach quiet but intentional. 

he pauses, nodding towards your instrument with an appreciative tilt of his head. 

“mine’s black too,” he comments, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “best color there is, right?” 

his tone is light, yet there's a nuanced undertone of camaraderie, as if this small shared preference might bridge the gap between newcomer and established band member.

you look up, caught slightly off-guard by his proximity and the unexpected warmth in his voice. 

“yeah, it’s classic, probably my favourite colour” you respond, your words measured, but not unfriendly.

beomgyu doesn’t step away, doesn’t shift back into the polite distance most new members might maintain. instead, his fingers brush against the case’s handle, grazing your own in a fleeting touch that lingers longer than it should..

“let me help with that,” he offers, and before you can protest, he lifts the guitar with effortless grace, his other hand gesturing towards the instrument room. the ease with which he hoists the weight makes it seem as light as air, a display of strength that doesn't go unnoticed by yunjin who watches, her eyes wide and a bit dreamy, from a few steps away.

you follow him, your steps matching the rhythm of his, aware of every glance thrown your way by the other band members. the corridor to the instrument room stretches out, lined with the muted colors of the studio walls, a backdrop that suddenly seems to highlight beomgyu’s presence—a vibrant contrast, like a vivid stroke of paint on a dull canvas.

inside the instrument room, the air is cooler, filled with the scent of wood and metal, the sacred quiet of a space dedicated to the tools of your craft. beomgyu sets the guitar down gently, handling it with the care of a true musician respecting the soul of another’s instrument. 

“you have a great setup here,” he observes, turning to scan the array of gear and instruments, each piece a testament to countless hours of practice and performance.

his comment draws a nod from you, the simplest acknowledgment, yet there's a depth to the exchange, a sense of shared understanding about the life of musicians bound to their art

“thanks,” you say, feeling the space between you charged with an unspoken recognition of your mutual dedication. “we’ve built it up over the years.”

beomgyu's eyes meet yours again, and in that moment, the room seems to shrink, the walls inching closer as if to eavesdrop on this quiet moment of connection. 

“i’m really looking forward to adding to it,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, almost lost in the hush surrounding you. 

his gaze is steady, inviting a level of sincerity that you hadn’t anticipated, pulling you into a narrative that suddenly includes him in ways you’re still trying to understand. you manage a smile, small but genuine, touched by the earnestness in his tone.

as you and beomgyu emerge from the instrument room and reenter the main studio, there's a palpable shift in the atmosphere. the others are clustered near the door, seemingly caught between preparing to leave and the palpable buzz of curiosity about the new dynamic you and beomgyu might bring. 

you catch the tail end of a shared chuckle, their heads turning toward you with an array of mischievous grins. it's as if they've been waiting for this very moment to tease you about the apparent ease with which you and the new member have started to bond, their eyes sparkling with the kind of playful complicity that usually prefaces a round of good-natured ribbing.

however, amidst the laughter and whispered side conversations, wonbin stands slightly apart, his attention tethered to his phone. his fingers swipe absently across the screen, a frown knitting his brow as if he's engrossed in something far removed from the light-hearted banter filling the room. 

every so often, his eyes flick up, scanning the room with a detachment that borders on disinterest. 

why would he care? the thought stabs at you with an unexpected pang of regret. 

despite everything—the tension, the past connection, the unresolved words hanging between you—it stings to see him so deliberately disconnected from the moment, so unaffected by the camaraderie that has always been a cornerstone of the band's spirit.

you pause, the weight of his indifference settling over you like a cold shadow. in contrast, the others seem almost eager to draw you further into the fold, their laughter a warm invitation back into the light. 

minjeong nudges you gently, leaning in to whisper with a conspiratorial wink, "looks like someone made quite the impression." 

her gaze flicks meaningfully toward beomgyu, who is now chatting with hongjoong about potential song ideas, his enthusiasm palpable even from a distance.

"give it a rest," you mutter, though your words lack real heat. despite yourself, a reluctant smile tugs at the corners of your lips, softened by the familiar comfort of your bandmates' teasing.

meanwhile, wonbin's isolation grows more pronounced, his presence like a note held too long in a song, creating a dissonance that even the laughter around you can't quite drown out. it's clear he's made his choice to remain aloof, perhaps as a shield against the complexities of change or as a defense against a pain he won't acknowledge. 

as the group begins to move toward the exit, chatting about where to go for lunch, you cast one last glance at wonbin. his eyes meet yours briefly, a flash of something indecipherable crossing his features before he looks away, turning back to the inscrutable safety of his phone screen. in that fleeting moment, the distance between you feels wider than ever, filled with unspoken truths and missed connections. 

the evening air is thick with the remnants of summer, warm and heavy, curling around your skin like a second layer. the sky is a dusky violet, the city stretching long and endless in front of you, neon signs flickering like distant constellations against the deepening horizon. the band walks together, clustered in pairs, their voices filling the streets with easy laughter and lingering conversation. there’s something familiar about it, the way the five of you fit together like notes in a song, but tonight, there’s a new rhythm beneath it all—one that wasn’t there before.

beomgyu walks beside you, his long strides effortlessly matching yours, the warm streetlights casting golden reflections in his brown hair. his hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his figure relaxed but somehow still commanding, the sharp angles of his jawline softened by the glow of the city. he nudges you lightly with his shoulder, an action so casual you almost don’t register it until he speaks.

“tell me, how did you get into playing guitar?,” he asks, voice smooth, tinged with genuine curiosity. his eyes flick toward you, searching, like he actually cares to hear the answer.

you hesitate, caught between the comfort of the conversation and the weight of an audience you don’t quite trust yourself to forget. 

“it's a long story,” you deflect, but there’s no real reluctance behind your words.

beomgyu hums, tilting his head. “i’ve got time.”

you exhale, glancing ahead at the others. yunjin is caught up in an animated conversation with hongjoong, hands gesturing wildly as she argues about something that makes gunil bark out a laugh. but Wonbin—he’s quieter, walking slightly ahead, shoulders taut, his gaze flicking back every so often, lingering in a way that’s almost imperceptible. almost.

still, you return your focus to beomgyu, offering him a small smirk. 

“my uncle used to play. when i was little, i’d sit in the corner of the living room just watching him. he’d never let me touch his guitar, said i had to earn it first.” 

you glance down at your fingers, trailing them absently along the strap of your bag. “so I taught myself on a cheap secondhand one. it was awful—buzzing strings, action so high i thought my fingers were gonna bleed.”

beomgyu grins, clearly entertained. “let me guess—bar chords were your mortal enemy?”

“they still are,” you admit with a laugh, the sound light, almost foreign coming from you lately. it feels easy, talking like this, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your chest isn’t weighed down by something you can’t quite name.

“you got there, though,” beomgyu points out, nudging your elbow. “and now you’re playing in one of the best bands i’ve ever heard.”

“are you two planning on getting lost back there?”

wonbin.

his voice isn’t harsh, but there’s an edge to it, something controlled, clipped. you glance up, catching the way his eyes dart from you to beomgyu and back again, his features unreadable. his phone—his ever-present distraction—is nowhere in sight now, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders drawn just a little too tight.

you blink, thrown off by the sudden intrusion. “relax, we’re right behind you.”

he doesn’t respond, just lets out a breath, turning away as if the conversation already isn’t worth his time. but the tension lingers, curling like smoke in the air, and when you step forward to match pace with the rest of the group, you swear you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

beomgyu doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his lips twitch, amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s just found something interesting—something he intends to figure out.

wonbin stays near the front, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, just as he’s been since beomgyu arrived. he doesn’t joke with the others as much as usual, but no one seems to notice except you. you tell yourself you’re imagining things, that the momentary glance he cast your way was nothing, that the way he cut into your conversation with beomgyu was merely coincidence.

beomgyu, however, is as relaxed as ever, unfazed by anything, his presence effortless as he continues walking beside you. as you near the restaurant, he leans in slightly, voice pitched just for you. 

“that neon sign’s about to give up on life,” he muses, nodding toward the flickering glow above the entrance, a smirk tugging at his lips.

you snort, shaking your head. “looks like it’s been dying for a while.”

his laugh is easy, rich, and as the two of you step forward, you don’t notice Wonbin’s fingers twitch subtly at the hem of his sleeve, his gaze flicking—just for a second—toward where Beomgyu stands at your side.

the restaurant glows with a warm, golden ambiance, the soft hum of conversation and clinking silverware filling the space as you all approach the entrance. just before any of you can reach for the handle, beomgyu jogs ahead, his long legs covering the distance effortlessly. he pulls the door open with a small flourish, grinning as he gestures for everyone to step inside first. 

“after you,” he says smoothly, his voice rich with easy charm.

gunil claps him on the back as he passes. “oh, he’s one of those guys. i see how it is, trying to win over our girls”

beomgyu only smirks, but when you step up, his expression softens just a fraction, the warmth in his eyes lingering just a second longer. 

“for you, especially,” he murmurs, and there’s something playful, almost teasing in the way he says it, but it still manages to send a ripple of awareness through you.

you barely notice the figure at the back of the group, the one who’s watching in silence. wonbin, arms still tucked into his hoodie, remains near the entrance, his lips pressing into a faint frown before he steps inside last, the shadows of the doorway trailing behind him.

once inside, the group weaves through the crowded restaurant, past candle-lit tables and the scent of sizzling food drifting from the kitchen. hongjoong leads you toward a long table near the window, and before anyone can claim a seat, gunil claps his hands together, loud enough to make a few nearby patrons glance over.

“alright, new guy,” he declares, rubbing his hands together like he’s about to orchestrate something truly chaotic. 

“since it’s your first official meal with us, you get the honor of choosing who you want to sit next to.”

beomgyu barely hesitates. with an easy grin, he pulls out the chair right beside him—your chair. he tilts his head toward you in invitation, fingers curled lightly around the back of the seat. 

“do me the honours,” he says easily.

the reaction is immediate.

minjeong lets out a dramatic gasp, yunjin waggles her eyebrows with zero subtlety, and gunil downright howls, throwing his head back as he clutches his chest. “ohhh, smooth,” he groans, while hongjoong shakes his head in amused disbelief.

“jesus,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you slide into the chair, ignoring the exaggerated reactions happening around you. “you guys act like i’ve never sat next to a guy before.”

beomgyu only laughs, dropping into the seat beside you with a smug ease. “i don’t know,” he muses, resting his chin in his palm. “you do seem pretty flustered.”

you whip your head toward him, narrowing your eyes. “i—what? i am not—”

but it’s already too late. the table erupts in laughter, gunil banging a fist against the wood while yunjin throws a knowing glance toward minjeong, who looks downright delighted by your reaction.

and somewhere, in the middle of it all, you fail to notice the way wonbin sits stiffly across from you, gaze dark and unwavering as he observes the entire exchange without a single word.

the restaurant hums with a comfortable buzz, a blend of distant chatter and soft instrumental music filtering through the warm air. the scent of grilled meat and spices lingers, curling around you as menus are passed around and drinks are ordered. but despite the distractions, it doesn’t take long for the teasing to start again, because gunil—predictably—has no self-control.

“so,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows, eyes flickering between you and beomgyu with unmistakable amusement. 

“do we think the new guy’s a natural flirt, or is he just awfully smitten with—”

you shoot him a warning look, already bracing for impact. “gunil.”

he grins, unfazed. “what? it’s a valid question! beomgyu, be honest—was this a strategic choice? or are you just naturally drawn to our very own resident rockstar?”

minjeong chokes on her drink. yunjin smacks a hand against the table dramatically. “oh, he definitely planned this,” she declares, and gunil nods enthusiastically in agreement.

beomgyu—who thus far has taken everything in stride—simply exhales, shaking his head as if in deep contemplation. then he turns to you, expression far too pleased. 

“you know,” he muses, tilting his head, “i could say it was coincidence, but i don’t think you’d believe me. not with the way she’s looking at me.”

you narrow your eyes at him, fighting the heat threatening to creep up your neck. “wherever he came from,” you mutter, flipping through the menu with unnecessary force, “we need to send him back. i can’t deal with a gunil 2.0.”

gunil gasps, pressing a hand to his chest as if you’ve physically wounded him. “i am deeply offended,” he proclaims, but then immediately beams at beomgyu, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“but also, what an honor! welcome to the club brother.”

beomgyu leans into it, smirking. “happy to be here.”

“oh my god,” you groan, slumping back in your chair while the rest of the table bursts into laughter. even hongjoong—who usually tries to be the responsible one—shakes his head with an exasperated chuckle, muttering something under his breath about how he already regrets bringing everyone out.

meanwhile, across from you, wonbin remains quiet, idly stirring the ice in his drink. his posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his eyes flicker toward you and beomgyu every so often—quick, barely perceptible glances. 

if anyone else notices, they don’t comment on it. 

the night continues, the teasing persists, and beomgyu continues basking in every bit of attention thrown his way, playing along like he was always meant to be here. you exhale, setting down your menu with a finality that makes yunjin smirk at you. 

this is going to be a long night.

the arrival of the food brings a brief but welcome pause to the relentless teasing, the scent of sizzling beef and rich spices stealing everyone’s focus. plates are set down with soft clinks, and for a while, the only sounds that fill the table are the clatter of utensils and the occasional satisfied hum from someone enjoying their meal. the conversation quiets, replaced by the rhythmic lull of eating, the warm air thick with the comforting aroma of grilled meat and simmering broth.

you shift in your seat, concentrating on your plate, but the beef in front of you proves to be more of a challenge than expected. the cut is thick, the texture a little tougher than you’d anticipated, and you find yourself struggling against the resistance of the meat as your knife barely makes a dent. 

you huff, gripping the handle a little tighter, trying not to draw attention to your struggle, but before you can wrestle with it any further, a hand reaches into your space.

beomgyu, wordless and unbothered, plucks the knife and fork from your grasp with effortless ease. he doesn’t say anything—doesn’t even glance at you—just presses the edge of the blade into the meat and slices through it with a few smooth, practiced movements. the precision is almost irritating, as if the food is bending to his will out of sheer respect. you blink, stunned into silence as he casually transfers the perfectly cut pieces back onto your plate like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

gunil sees—because of course, he does—but, mercifully, the food in his mouth saves you from whatever wild remark was undoubtedly forming behind it. you watch as he raises an eyebrow, as if making a mental note to circle back to this later, but he’s too occupied stuffing another bite past his grin to comment right away.

however, what you don’t anticipate is yunjin, who swallows a sip of her drink, tilts her head toward beomgyu, and asks, far too casually, “do you have a girlfriend?”

the question lands like a drumbeat in the middle of the table, and suddenly, all attention shifts back to him. minjeong pauses mid-chew, hongjoong’s chopsticks hover in the air for half a second longer than necessary, and gunil, despite still chewing, makes a muffled noise of interest.

beomgyu, unfazed as ever, finally looks up from his plate, lips curling in amusement. 

“that’s kind of a loaded question,” he muses, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin.

yunjin doesn’t blink. “it’s really not.”

he laughs at that, shaking his head. “no, i don’t,” he admits, resting his elbow against the table as he leans in slightly. “but if i did, would that change the way you’re all looking at me right now?”

gunil swallows dramatically. “i’d be devastated, personally.”

the table bursts into laughter, even hongjoong chuckling as he shakes his head.

the table is still buzzing with laughter from beomgyu’s response when gunil, in his never-ending quest for chaos, suddenly shifts his attention across the table. his eyes narrow slightly, as if just now noticing something off in the atmosphere. 

he leans forward, elbow propped on the edge of the table, and calls out, “hold on a second. why is wonbin so quiet tonight?”

at that, the laughter trickles off slightly. a few pairs of eyes flick toward wonbin, who has barely spoken since you all sat down. he had been eating at an even pace, head down, shoulders relaxed—but now that the attention is on him, he moves with deliberate ease, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it back down, as if completely unfazed.

hongjoong shoots gunil a sharp look across the table, the warning subtle but clear: drop it. but gunil, ever the instigator, is oblivious as usual.

“seriously, man,” gunil continues, grinning. “you usually have something to say. what’s up?”

wonbin exhales through his nose, casual as ever, and shrugs, leaning back in his seat. “didn’t get much sleep,” he mutters, the words smooth, effortless. 

his face gives away nothing, his expression a mask of nonchalance as he stirs the ice in his glass with his straw.

gunil’s eyes immediately light up with mischief, his mind already running wild with the implications of that statement. “ahh,” he hums knowingly, leaning in like he’s just uncovered some great secret. 

“not enough sleep, huh?”

you groan, already knowing where this is going.

“bet i know why,” gunil continues, undeterred. “some girl kept you up last night, didn’t she?” he wiggles his eyebrows exaggeratedly before turning to beomgyu, throwing an arm around his shoulder like they’ve been best friends for years. 

“since you’re new here, let me introduce you properly. this—” he gestures dramatically toward wonbin, who merely watches him with an unreadable expression, “—is the real casanova of the group. he’s the original heartbreaker, the pretty boy, the one the girls are always lining up for.”

beomgyu, playing along effortlessly, raises an intrigued brow. “oh? the original?” he flicks a glance toward wonbin, his smirk teasing but unreadable. “so, you’re my competition?”

wonbin scoffs, shaking his head as he finally lifts his gaze from his drink, but there’s something else in his expression now—something too subtle for anyone to name, but just sharp enough for the energy at the table to shift. 

he meets beomgyu’s eyes, dark and unreadable, and for a split second, something flickers beneath his usual apathy.

then, with a lazy shrug, he mutters, “i’m not competing with anyone.”

gunil howls at that, clapping his hands together like this is the funniest thing he’s heard all night. 

“classic wonbin,” he cackles. “always pretending he doesn’t care.”

the others chuckle along, and just like that, the tension dissolves into playful laughter again. as the teasing finally dies down, the conversation shifts naturally toward the one thing that binds you all together—music. 

hongjoong, ever the responsible leader, leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “alright,” he says, voice steady, cutting through the last remnants of laughter. “before we all get too full and lazy, let’s go over practice schedules again. we’ve got a lot to fine-tune before the showcase next month, and we can’t afford to slack.”

there’s a collective groan from gunil and yunjin, but it’s half-hearted at best—they all know hongjoong is right. minjeong nods in agreement, already mentally calculating her schedule. 

“we’re still aiming to finalize the album recordings by the end of next month too, right?” she asks.

“yeah,” hongjoong confirms. “and i want everyone at the studio early on friday. we’ll do a full run-through of the setlist with beomgyu this time and some recording too.”

at the mention of his name, beomgyu straightens, and for the first time since he walked through the doors of the studio earlier today, that playful glint in his eyes fades into something else—something sharper, more focused. his posture shifts ever so slightly, no longer that of the carefree flirt basking in the attention of his new bandmates, but of a musician, a professional. the change is subtle but striking, and when he speaks, his voice is filled with something undeniably passionate.

“i’ll be ready,” he says, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “i’ve already gone through most of the recent setlists. i’ll put in extra hours to catch up on anything new, just send me whatever tracks you want polished by friday, and i’ll make sure i’m up to speed.”

the sheer determination in his voice catches you off guard. you weren’t expecting him to take things lightly, of course—no one makes it to this level without hard work—but seeing the shift happen in real time, watching the flicker of ambition light up behind his eyes, is something else entirely. admirable. maybe even a little intoxicating.

you don’t realize you’re staring.

it’s a bad habit, one that hongjoong recently pointed out with an exasperated sigh and an amused, “you really need to work on not getting lost in thought while making direct eye contact. it gives people the wrong idea.” 

and yet, you do it again, caught in the quiet force of beomgyu’s intensity, the way his expression softens just slightly when he notices your gaze lingering.

but he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t smirk or make a snarky comment. he just smiles, warm and knowing, and then—without hesitation—reaches over and gives you a light pat on the head.

the gesture is brief but firm, enough to jolt you out of your daze. it’s also enough to send the entire table into another round of chaos.

“i love this guy,” gunil cackles, wiping at his eyes as if the moment was too much for him to handle.

yunjin leans into hongjoong, gripping his arm as if she’s about to faint. “hongjoong, do something, i can’t—”

you, meanwhile, are left gaping at beomgyu, blinking in disbelief. “what—what was that?”

beomgyu shrugs, entirely unbothered. “you were staring.”

your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “i—”

“anyway,” hongjoong interjects loudly, fighting a losing battle against the chaos unfolding at the table. He lifts his glass, signaling for everyone to settle down. 

“before we all spiral into madness, let’s wrap this up properly.” he turns to beomgyu, giving him a nod of approval. “welcome to the band.”

everyone follows suit, raising their glasses, the clinking sound ringing warm and bright between you all.

“welcome to the band,” they echo, voices overlapping, some dramatic, some genuine, but all filled with the same shared sentiment as beomgyu grins and lifts his own glass.

you watch as the drinks are tipped back, laughter spilling into the dim-lit restaurant, the camaraderie between you all settling into something real, something permanent. as beomgyu meets your gaze one last time over the rim of his glass, you feel it—the shift.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the studio hums with quiet energy, the soft buzz of amplifiers and the faint clicking of drumsticks against the rim of gunil’s snare drum filling the space as everyone settles into another late-night session. 

three weeks have passed since beomgyu joined the band, and in that time, he’s more than proven himself. what started as a cautious integration has transformed into something seamless—effortless, even. he’s blended in like he’s always belonged, picking up the intricacies of your sound with a sharp ear and an undeniable talent that keeps surprising even hongjoong.

even minjeong, typically reserved and hard to impress, has warmed to him. there’s a lightness to her now, a softer curve to her lips whenever beomgyu cracks a joke or nudges her playfully during rehearsals. he has that effect on people—making them feel like they’ve known him forever, like it’s impossible to imagine the band without him now.

and you? you’ve grown closer to him in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

music, as it turns out, is more than just a shared passion between you—it’s a language you both speak fluently, an unspoken connection that keeps pulling you into late-night jam sessions long after everyone else has gone home. he challenges you in ways no one else has, pushing you to refine your riffs, encouraging you to experiment, to play outside the lines you’ve drawn for yourself. his presence is magnetic, not just because of his charm, but because he understands—really understands—what it means to live and breathe music.

“alright, let’s run it again from the top,” hongjoong calls out, adjusting the levels on the mixing board.

beomgyu, leaning against his guitar, glances at you with an easy smirk. “ready to show me up again?”

you roll your eyes, adjusting the strap over your shoulder. “oh, please. you’ve been trying to outplay me since day one.”

he grins, fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the body of his guitar. “maybe i just like the challenge.”

the words are lighthearted, teasing, but there’s something about the way he says them that makes your fingers tighten around the fretboard, a heat creeping up the back of your neck. before you can respond, gunil counts off, and the studio is filled with sound, drowning out everything else—except for the sharp awareness of the man sitting across the room.

wonbin is leaning back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand idly toying with the condensation on his water bottle. he hasn’t said much all night, but now, as beomgyu leans in just a little closer to show you something on the fretboard, his voice cuts through the space between songs.

“you two lovebirds done flirting?” he quips, his tone smooth, offhanded—meant to be just another easy joke, like the ones he used to make with you before everything started feeling like this.

but the reaction isn’t what he expects.

you don’t laugh, don’t even roll your eyes the way you once might have. instead, you barely acknowledge the comment at all, offering only a fleeting glance in his direction before refocusing on your guitar. 

“let’s just run it again,” you murmur, adjusting the strap on your shoulder, your voice steady but distant.

something sharp tugs at the edges of wonbin’s composure.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that you’re just focused. that you didn’t mean to brush him off like that. that whatever this weird distance is—it’s temporary, just a passing thing. he leans back further, plastering on an easy grin, masking the nagging weight in his chest with the same lightness he always does.

“damn,” he muses, swirling his water bottle absently between his fingers. “didn’t realize i’d be a third wheel in my own band.”

gunil snorts, beomgyu just smirks, and you don’t react at all.

wonbin exhales through his nose, forcing himself to keep his posture relaxed, to wear his usual air of indifference. but something feels off—has felt off for weeks now, but he’s only just starting to acknowledge it.

it’s the distance. the subtle, creeping realization that things aren’t the same between you.

you don’t linger near him in the studio anymore. you don’t joke around with him between takes like you used to. the moments you once stole in passing—trading lazy comments, nudging each other in between sets, sharing quick smirks over inside jokes no one else caught—those moments are gone. 

and, if they still exist at all, they don’t belong to him anymore. they belong to beomgyu.

wonbin isn’t stupid—he’s watched it unfold with his own eyes. beomgyu is the one you walk into practice with now, your conversations bleeding into the room long before the rest of them arrive. he’s the one you stay late with, bent over notebooks, strumming through ideas until the rest of the world disappears. the one standing next to you when hongjoong gives new instructions, the one laughing beside you when gunil cracks some dumb joke, the one moving into the space where wonbin used to be.

it’s a shift he didn’t notice at first. or maybe, if he’s honest with himself, it’s one he refused to notice. but it’s impossible to ignore now, the proof laid out in front of him in every lingering glance, every shared smirk, every small touch that passes between you and beomgyu like second nature.

the closeness unsettles him. it shouldn’t—he knows that. he has no reason to care, no claim to stake, no right to question it. but it does bother him, even if he doesn’t understand why.

so he does what he’s always done—masks it in ease, drowns it in something weightless, pushing his emotions down.

the moment rehearsal starts, the studio transforms. the lingering weight of conversation, the undercurrents of tension—all of it is swallowed by the sheer force of sound.

beomgyu settles into the music effortlessly, his rhythm weaving seamlessly alongside the steady thrum of minjeong’s bass and the deep, pounding heartbeat of gunil’s drums. it’s uncanny, the way he fits into the structure of the songs like he’s been here all along, like his presence was always meant to fill the spaces between each note. every chord he plays is precise but never mechanical, carrying the weight of a musician who doesn’t just play music—he feels it, breathes it, lets it seep into his bones.

wonbin watches from the corner of his eye, keeping his voice steady as he sings, but the tightness in his chest remains. he can’t deny it—beomgyu is good. frustratingly good.

his timing is impeccable, his execution flawless, but it’s more than that. it’s the way he connects—how he doesn’t just play the right notes but moves with the song, like he understands every nuance without needing to be told.

then comes the second song, your song.

the one where your guitar takes center stage, where your fingers move effortlessly over the fretboard, pulling sharp, electric notes from the amp with practiced ease. the kind of solo that demands attention, commands the room with its precision and fire. you lean into it naturally, your body moving with the pulse of the song, feeling the music instead of just playing it.

but this time, you’re not alone.

beomgyu catches your movement, a flicker of something playful crossing his face. he shifts slightly toward you, fingers skimming his own fretboard with the same effortless confidence, matching your energy beat for beat. he mirrors you—not just technically, but in spirit, taking up the unspoken challenge like it’s second nature.

the air crackles between you, charged with something unspoken, something electric. the sound of your guitars twists together, harmonizing and clashing all at once, the melodies dancing between your fingers like lightning against a dark sky. your bodies move in tandem, drawn into the same rhythm, the same pulse of sound that vibrates beneath your skin.

gunil, catching onto the moment, grins behind his drum kit and drives the beat even harder, pushing the tempo just slightly, challenging the two of you to keep up. minjeong watches with an amused smirk, barely needing to adjust as she follows your lead, letting the bassline ground the wild energy sparking between you and beomgyu.

when the song finally crashes to a close, leaving the studio buzzing in the aftermath of reverberating notes, there’s a pause—a beat of silence where everything settles, leaving only the faint hum of amplifiers in its wake. The air is thick with something electric, something raw, the kind of energy that lingers even after the music has stopped.

beomgyu exhales, flashing you a grin. 

“not bad.”

you scoff, shaking your head as you adjust the strap on your shoulder. “you’re getting cocky.”

he tilts his head, considering. “or maybe i just think we bring out the best in each other..”

before you can respond, a loud, exaggerated sigh fills the room.

gunil, still seated behind his drum kit, leans back with his sticks resting against his thighs, shaking his head dramatically. 

“man,” he drawls, “i don’t know what kind of soulmate-level connection you two just tapped into, but i think i actually felt something. i was moved.”

minjeong chuckles, rolling her eyes. “gunil, shut up. you’re so dramatic.”

“no, seriously,” he insists, grinning. “it was like—bam, musical telepathy. the chemistry? undeniable. i think i might start believing in fate or some shit.”

beomgyu lets out a breathy laugh beside you, bumping his shoulder into yours in playful agreement. “guess we make a pretty good team, huh?”

you laugh softly, shaking your head at their antics—but it’s only when you hear them, really hear them, that something shifts in your chest.

it was the first time you had played that song—the one you wrote for wonbin—and your chest hadn’t tightened. no lump had risen in your throat, no invisible weight had pressed down on your ribs. it had been just another song, just music, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

but then, without thinking, your eyes flicker across the room—to him. wonbin..

the world doesn’t stop spinning, but it feels like it does. for just a moment. for just the stretch of a single breath.

his gaze isn’t piercing, isn’t burning with anything sharp or scathing. no, it’s something else entirely—something unreadable, something that tightens in your chest like a slow-building crescendo, pressing against ribs that have already known too much ache.

this is the moment where he should say something. where he’d usually saunter over, voice low and teasing, an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he murmured, “damn, you really are my favorite little rockstar.”

where he’d nudge you just enough to make you roll your eyes, to make you swat him away only for him to stay close anyway. where he’d remind you—without ever really saying it—that he sees you.

but he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. just stares. and it hurts.

it’s a quiet, gnawing pain, the kind that doesn’t strike all at once but settles deep, threading itself into old wounds that never fully healed. you’ve spent weeks trying to break free of the weight he left behind, trying to scrape the remnants of him out of your skin, out of your lungs, out of the spaces in your mind that still whisper his name when you’re alone.

and yet, with a single look, it all comes rushing back. you shouldn’t care, but you do.

you do, because for all the ways you’ve tried to let go, there’s still something in you that aches for him to notice. to say something. to remind you that he was once the one who knew you best, who stood by your side, who made you feel like you belonged before everything cracked and left you trying to piece yourself back together.

instead, silence stretches between you like an unplayed note—dangling in the air, unresolved. then, a hand on your shoulder.

beomgyu.

his touch is light, grounding, but it doesn’t break the tension—it only makes you more aware of it. “come on,” he murmurs, voice softer than before, as if he senses the shift, even if he doesn’t understand it. 

“water break.”

you don’t respond, just let him steer you toward the bottles laid out on the other side of the room. and still, wonbin doesn’t look away. he doesn’t stop watching. he doesn’t say a single word.

the laughter from the others continues behind you, filling the space you leave behind, but as you reach for the cold plastic of the water bottle, the chill sinking into your fingertips, you feel it—that quiet, aching twinge deep in your chest.

the cool water slips down your throat, but it does little to soothe the fire simmering beneath your ribs. It’s not the kind that burns bright and all-consuming—it’s slower, deeper, the kind of heat that lingers long after the flame has been snuffed out. the kind of ache that settles into your bones, into the spaces between your lungs, making it harder to breathe without feeling it pressing there, unshakable.

beomgyu settles beside you easily, his presence a stark contrast to the storm still curling in your chest. he exists in a way that doesn’t demand anything of you, that doesn’t make your wounds feel like open targets. you should be grateful for that. maybe you are. 

but when hongjoong speaks, your pulse stumbles over itself, because his words are about to crack open something you aren’t sure you’re ready to face.

“alright,” he starts, voice dipping into something serious, steady. “the showcase is in a week, and i’ve been thinking—we should introduce one of the new songs, my personal pick is flatline.”

“it would be good to get people excited about the album.”

the moment fractures.

a week. that’s all the time you have left before you’ll be standing on a stage again, before the weight of every chord, every lyric, every heartbeat you’ve ever poured into your music is laid bare under blinding lights. it wouldn’t be the first time. performing is second nature to you.

but this—this—feels different, because the song hongjoong is talking about isn’t just another track in your repertoire. it’s not something you wrote in passing, not a melody plucked from thin air.

it’s a song for him.

for the love you lost before you ever truly had it. for the nights you spent drowning in the silence he left behind. for every almost, every nearly, every whisper of something real that never quite reached the surface. it’s ink and blood, strings and scars, stitched together into something that still feels too raw to touch.

the air shifts and the hesitation is almost tangible. hongjoong notices it too, catching the flickers of unease from the others before his gaze finds you. he hesitates, as if suddenly realizing the weight of what he’s suggesting.

“i mean—we don’t have to,” he amends quickly. “i just thought—”

“no, it’s fine.”

the word leaves your lips before you can second-guess it. it rings louder than you expect, unwavering, slicing through the hesitation thickening the air like a blade.

for a second, you wonder if it’s a mistake. if you’ve said it too quickly, too forcefully. if it’s a lie. but it isn’t, because the truth is—if you don’t do this now, you never will.

if you keep avoiding the song, if you let the ghost of wonbin’s presence dictate the things you create, you’ll never really be free of him. you’ll always be running, letting his absence linger in the spaces meant for music, meant for you.

and you’re so, so tired of running.

“it’s a good idea,” you say, this time softer, but still sure. “we should play it.”

there’s a beat of silence, but before the silence can stretch too far, hongjoong nods. “alright. we’ll lock it in, if everyone else agrees”

a murmur of agreement ripples through the group, but you barely hear it over the sound of your own heartbeat hammering against your ribs. because now, for the first time, it’s real.

the song is no longer just a relic of your grief, buried within the pages of your notebook. it’s going to be sung and wonbin is going to hear it.

the studio is winding down, the charged energy of rehearsal unraveling into something looser, more relaxed. the clatter of cases being latched shut, the zip of backpacks slung over shoulders, the murmur of voices blending into the low hum of amplifiers still cooling from the heat of performance. it’s familiar, routine. but even in the comfort of familiarity, there’s something else simmering beneath the surface—something unspoken.

you’re winding your guitar cable with slow, practiced movements when you feel them before you see them—yunjin and minjeong, hovering just close enough to make their presence known. they’re watching you like they know something you don’t, eyes sharp, lips poised on the edge of mischief.

"what's the plan for tonight?" yunjin asks, arms crossed as she leans in slightly, the movement casual, but her expression anything but. 

"we were thinking of grabbing food—maybe that rooftop bar after. you in?"

minjeong tilts her head, studying you with that quiet, knowing gaze of hers, the kind that makes it impossible to lie. there’s something expectant in her stare, like she already knows the answer before you give it.

you shift your guitar case higher on your shoulder, wincing slightly. "i promised beomgyu i’d stay behind," you admit, not missing the way their eyes immediately flicker toward each other, like two sharks scenting blood in the water. 

"we wanted to go over a few things for the showcase."

"even better," minjeong hums, her smirk unfurling slowly, curling at the edges of her lips like smoke.

yunjin grins in agreement, rocking back on her heels as if she’s just won something. "if anything, this is a step in the right direction."

your stomach twists at the implication, but before you can argue, a burst of laughter echoes from across the room.

beomgyu.

his voice is warm, rich with amusement as he throws a casual arm around gunil’s shoulder, grinning at whatever conversation they’re tangled in. he fits into the space like he was meant to be here all along, moving between everyone with effortless ease. his presence is a stark contrast to the space left behind—the empty seat, the missing words, the silence that used to be filled with someone else.

yunjin follows your gaze, then nudges you with an exaggerated wiggle of her brows. "he's cute," she whispers, just loud enough for you to hear. "and not him."

you know exactly who him is and you don’t respond, but the absence of protest is answer enough.

minjeong steps closer, voice lower now, softer, like she’s trying to ease you into something you haven’t fully accepted yet. "look, we're just saying—he’s good for you. you guys seem to get along so well and he definitely isn’t bad on the eyes. and if he’s not, at least he’s something new. something that won’t keep you depressed and in your room for weeks on end"

there’s a weight to her words, something that makes your breath hitch for just a second too long. because new means moving forward. it means carving out a path that doesn’t end with the same heartbreak, the same regret.

it means leaving the past behind.

you exhale, shaking your head, feigning exasperation as you shove your coiled cable into your bag. "you guys are ridiculous."

"and right," yunjin corrects, her smirk widening.

but the teasing fades as she studies you, as if she’s peeling back the layers of your hesitation, reading the reluctance in your body language, the way your fingers still tense when wonbin’s name is even implied.

and the truth is—you don’t know what this is.

you don’t know if beomgyu is anything more than a distraction, if the comfort of his presence is anything more than a temporary bandage over something that still bleeds. 

the moment is barely yours before yunjin seizes it, ever the dramatist, ever the instigator.

“oh, leave the lovebirds alone,” she declares, voice cutting through the air like a cymbal crash, exaggerated enough that it echoes off the studio walls.

your shoulders stiffen, but beomgyu only snickers beside you, unbothered, used to their antics by now. the rest of them follow her lead, one by one filing toward the exit, slinging backpacks over their shoulders, chatting amongst themselves about late-night plans, about food, about anything but the weight lingering in this room, in the space that stretches between you and the man who hasn’t left yet.

wonbin stands near the doorway, slower to leave than the others, gaze flickering between you and beomgyu with something unreadable in the dim lighting. there’s nothing playful in his stance, nothing lighthearted in the way his fingers curl slightly at his sides.

then, casually—too casually—he speaks.

“do you guys need a singer?” his voice is smooth, but there’s an edge to it, something careful, like a hand hovering over a flame, unsure whether to pull back or press forward. 

“i wouldn’t mind staying back if so.”

beomgyu barely hesitates, his answer coming as easily as his smirks, effortless but firm. “wouldn’t want to keep you from your friday night plans,” he muses, adjusting the strap of his guitar, his tone playful but not entirely weightless. 

then, with a glance toward gunil, who had been the loudest voice at practice earlier, he adds, “he told me about the girl you’re supposed to be meeting.”

the words drop into the space between you like a stray note—just sharp enough to cut and you freeze.

everything in you locks up—your breath, your pulse, the way your fingers suddenly feel too heavy where they rest against your guitar.

friday night plans. a girl.

of course. of course, he’s meeting someone. of course, there’s another name, another voice waiting on the other side of his time. because that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? wonbin is charming, wonbin is untouchable, wonbin is everyone’s favorite—the guy who belongs to no one but still manages to leave his mark on everyone.

but the worst part isn’t that he has plans, it’s that it hurts.

because even after all the nights spent convincing yourself you’re done grieving him, done chasing something that was never yours to keep—your body betrays you. your stomach knots, your lungs squeeze too tight, your gaze drops to the floor because you can’t—can’t—risk looking at him right now, not when the ache is raw and too exposed.

there’s a beat of silence and then, movement.

wonbin steps forward, but not toward beomgyu. toward you.

your breath stutters, but you don’t lift your head, don’t meet his gaze, don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s close enough for you to smell the faint traces of whatever cologne he wears—the same scent you still associate with late-night drives and half-finished conversations, with laughter pressed against your temple, with the fleeting ghost of something that once felt like home.

he doesn’t speak right away, just reaches into his bag, the sound of the zipper barely registering past the static in your head. and then—gently, carefully—he presses something into your hands.

a bread snack, something from the vending machine down the hall.

“don’t forget to eat a proper meal after,” he murmurs, quiet, almost like a secret. his voice doesn’t hold its usual teasing lilt, doesn’t carry the arrogance of someone who knows he’s impossible to ignore. it’s just soft, like the wonbin you know behind all of the rockstar fame and string of girls. the one who stayed behind that night of tour to make sure you were eating well. the one who always seems to notice when you slip out of a room.

your fingers tighten around the wrapper, but you say nothing. you can’t say anything.

because your heart is pounding wildly, chaotically, like a song with no tempo, no rhythm, no way to steady itself. and then—just as quickly as he came—he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving only his words, his scent, his absence pressing heavy against your ribs.

the door clicks shut, and the weight of wonbin’s absence presses into the room like an echo, something unseen but impossible to ignore. the silence stretches, stretching over your skin, curling in the spaces between your ribs. your heart refuses to still, still beating in a frantic, uneven rhythm, as if trying to process what just happened, as if trying to make sense of the way his voice still lingers in the air, soft and careful, like a melody that refuses to fade.

you stare at the bread in your hands, the crinkled plastic now warm from your grasp. your fingers curl around it too tightly, knuckles stiff, as if the pressure might somehow ground you, might steady the way your stomach churns, the way your mind spins in too many directions at once.

across from you, beomgyu watches.

he doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t press, doesn’t even shift where he’s standing. he just observes.

then—carefully, lightly, like he’s testing the weight of his words before letting them fall—he asks, “hey. is everything alright?”

his voice is gentle, void of teasing, void of the easy smugness he usually carries. it’s a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should, like it’s laced with something more, something close to understanding.

your grip tightens, fingers stiff against the plastic and you don’t want to answer. because no, you’re not alright. you haven’t been alright for a long time. not when it comes to him.

but that’s not something you can say, not now. not when beomgyu is looking at you like he’s waiting for something you’re not ready to give.

so you force a small, stiff shrug, lowering your gaze as you tear open the packaging, letting the sound of crinkling plastic fill the air instead of the things you should say. 

“i’m fine,” you murmur, the words flat, hollow. “probably just the lack of food.”

the silence returns, thick and unmoving, stretching between you like an unresolved chord, something waiting to be resolved but never quite landing. beomgyu doesn’t fill it with another joke, doesn’t move to distract or shift the subject. he just stands there, quiet, watching.

the weight of his gaze isn’t suffocating—not like wonbin’s. it doesn’t wrap around you like a vice, doesn’t make your throat close up or your heart trip over itself in confusion. it’s patient. steady. like he’s waiting for the right moment, for the right words to come to him.

and when he speaks, his voice is softer than before, careful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"is there something going on between you and wonbin?"

your fingers freeze mid-motion, bread half-raised to your mouth. the question hangs there, heavy and unrelenting, pressing into the walls, into the air between you, into the rapid pulse thrumming just beneath your skin.

for a moment, you don’t breathe.

he says it like he already knows the answer. like he’s just confirming something he’s already pieced together in the quiet moments, in the glances he’s caught when he thought you weren’t looking, in the way your name sounds different when it falls from wonbin’s lips.

you should deny it, should laugh, should scoff, should say no, of course not, don’t be ridiculous.

but you don’t because the words don’t come. because you don’t know what to say.

the silence stretches, long enough that it should be uncomfortable, but again he doesn’t fill it. he just watches, the question still hanging in the air between you, waiting, waiting, waiting—like he already knows you won’t answer.

and when you don’t—when the words sit frozen on your tongue, too tangled to unravel—he exhales softly, tilting his head slightly, his gaze never once leaving yours.

“and those songs,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, but no less sure. “the ones you showed me?”

his fingers drum absentmindedly against the body of his guitar, slow, deliberate. he doesn’t sound accusatory, doesn’t sound like he’s trying to pry something out of you that isn’t already there. if anything, his voice holds something closer to realization, like he’s only now putting the last pieces of the puzzle together.

“they’re about him, aren’t they?”

your breath catches because it’s not a question. not really. it’s a statement.

a truth, laid out plainly in the dim light of the studio, in the spaces between your hesitation and the way you keep gripping that damn bread like it’s an anchor keeping you tethered.

and still, you say nothing, because what would be the point in denying it?

he’s seen the way your hands shake when you play certain chords, heard the way your voice wavers when you sing the words you wrote with him in mind. he’s watched you shift, hesitate, look away when wonbin enters a room, has caught the way you try too hard to seem indifferent when his presence pulls at you like gravity.

beomgyu isn’t stupid, he’s known, even before this moment.

but now, he’s asking you to say it, to admit it

the room feels smaller now, the air heavier, pressing against your lungs like a weight you can’t shake. the bread sits in your mouth, tasteless and dry, lodged in your throat like the emotions you’ve spent weeks—months—trying to swallow down.

you don’t speak you can’t. instead, you nod. slowly. it’s a small movement, barely there, but it’s enough, enough for beomgyu to see what you can’t bring yourself to say aloud. enough for him to understand that every lyric, every melody, every carefully placed chord in those songs wasn’t just music—it was him. it was all him.

wonbin is the grief in your harmonies, the ache in every verse, the echo of something unfinished ringing between the notes, the weight of him still stuck in your chest, clinging to your ribs like an old melody you can’t unlearn.

you swallow thickly, forcing the bread down, but it doesn’t go down easy.

beomgyu doesn’t react right away. he just watches you, his eyes tracing the tension in your shoulders, the way your fingers curl tightly around the plastic wrapper, the way your breath comes a little too shallow, like you’re fighting to keep something buried.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, measured, as if he’s choosing each word carefully before letting it slip into the space between you.

“i won’t press,” he murmurs, his tone gentle but steady. “i won’t ask for details. i can already tell how hard it is for you to talk about this.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the floor, forcing your breath to even out, forcing yourself to swallow past the lump forming in your throat.

beomgyu exhales, a slow, thoughtful breath, and then, almost as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, “unrequited love sure is a killer.”

there’s something in the way he says it, something weighty and familiar, that makes your fingers tighten reflexively around the bread in your lap.

it’s not just an observation, it’s an admission. a confession without a name, without a past attached, but you hear it for what it is.

you finally lift your head, just a fraction, just enough to meet his gaze, and for a moment, there is nothing but shared understanding—a quiet recognition of two people who have suffered the same ache, carried the same weight, swallowed down the same grief in silence.

he doesn’t pity you and you don’t pity him.

because you both know that nothing about this kind of pain warrants pity, only endurance.

“he’s a lucky guy,” beomgyu says after a long pause, voice barely above a whisper. 

“to have songs written about him like that. to have someone feel so much for him that they carved it into melody, into words, into something permanent.”

you look away again, because the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you.

but then he exhales softly and adds, “but from what i’ve read… he’s a fool too. the kind that only realizes what he had once it’s already gone.”

a breath leaves you, sharp and unsteady, something between a laugh and a sob, something too raw to be controlled.

beomgyu doesn’t push any further. he doesn’t try to make you talk, doesn’t try to unravel what’s left of you tonight.

instead, he just reaches out, gives your shoulder a small, firm pat—not comfort, not reassurance, just a silent promise that he understands.

and then, as if sensing that the air between you is far too heavy, far too fragile, he leans back, shifting the conversation towards something lighter, something safer.

you don’t thank him, but when you finally lift the bread to your lips, taking a small, hesitant bite, you think maybe he already knows.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

the air hums, thick with the promise of something electric, something on the verge of breaking open. the crowd is restless, shifting in waves, anticipation crackling through them like static before a storm. the scent of sweat, liquor, and faint traces of cigarette smoke curls through the space, mixing with the neon glow that flickers against the walls, casting everyone in ephemeral reds and blues—colors of heat and longing, of something fleeting yet unforgettable.

this is the moment before the plunge.

the moment where everything still belongs to you, before the first note rings out, before the music swallows you whole. it’s a delicate thing, this stillness before the sound—like standing at the edge of a cliff, toes curling over the drop, the wind whispering at your back, coaxing you forward.

your fingers tighten around the neck of your guitar, the weight of it an anchor, grounding you when the chaos threatens to pull you under. it should feel the same as it always does—should soothe the nerves that tangle in your stomach, should remind you that once you start playing, once the music floods your veins, there will be nothing else.

but tonight is different, because tonight, beomgyu is beside you.

he steps into place, his presence settling next to yours like it’s always been there, like the space he’s filling was never empty to begin with. where there used to be a breath of distance, now there is only proximity—his shoulder brushing against yours, a warmth that seeps in despite the cool bite of adrenaline in your veins. he leans in, just slightly, voice dipping low beneath the crowd’s rising roar.

"you ready?” 

the words should be reassuring, should be nothing more than habit—because this is what he used to do. this is where he used to stand, where he used to murmur a lazy, knowing "don't mess up, little rockstar," just to see you roll your eyes, just to hear you scoff before the first note.

but now, it’s beomgyu.

before you can answer, before you can swallow down the tangled feeling rising in your throat—his hand finds yours. it’s brief, fleeting, barely a squeeze, but it roots you. a silent promise. a reassurance that you’re not stepping into the unknown alone.

and from across the stage, wonbin sees it.

he’s standing just a few feet away, yet it feels like a world apart. the mic stand is loose in his grip, his posture relaxed, unreadable—but his eyes linger, fixed on the space where beomgyu’s fingers curled over yours.

where he used to be, where he used to stand.

the moment stretches, tension weaving itself into the dim-lit space between you, thick and suffocating. but then, the house lights drop, and the crowd erupts, and there’s no more room for hesitation.

a sharp pulse of bass rolls through the speakers, reverberating against the walls, sinking into the marrow of your bones. the stage floods with light, neon blues and deep purples casting long shadows, slicing through the dark like lightning fracturing the sky. the crowd erupts, a wild, breathless wave of noise—screams, cheers, the unmistakable pulse of a hundred bodies moving as one.

hongjoong steps forward, claiming the moment with the ease of a frontman who knows exactly how to wield the weight of anticipation. he lifts the mic to his lips, and even before he speaks, the response is deafening.

"we missed you, you crazy motherfuckers!"

the crowd roars, fists pumping in the air, voices crashing against each other in a feverish symphony. the venue is alive, pulsing, breathing—fueled by adrenaline, by the promise of the music about to tear through the room.

then, hongjoong grins, his voice dipping lower, laced with something playful, something teasing.

"now, before we blow your minds, we’ve got a new face on stage tonight."

the screams rise in pitch, high and electric.

beomgyu, beside you, shifts slightly, rolling out his shoulders, the dim stage lights catching the glint of his silver piercing, the streak of sweat-darkened strands falling into his eyes. if he’s nervous, he doesn’t show it. there’s an ease to the way he stands, the way his hand rests on the curve of his guitar, the way his lips quirk into a smirk just before hongjoong makes it official—

"give it up for our new rhythm guitarist—choi beomgyu!"

and the response is instantaneous, the moment beomgyu’s name leaves hongjoong’s lips, the venue erupts.

the sound is deafening—high-pitched screams rolling through the space like a wave, wild and relentless. his presence is magnetic, his confidence effortless, the energy around him swelling with every second that passes. he stands beneath the stage lights like he was built for this, basking in the feverish adoration pouring from the crowd, a smirk tugging at his lips as if he already knew this was coming.

and for the first time, someone else is rivaling the presence that once belonged to wonbin alone.

because wonbin—on stage, wonbin commands the space like a golden god, every movement deliberate, every note he plays dripping with an effortless cool that sends shivers down your spine. he has always been larger than life under the lights, a force that burns and soothes all at once, the weight of him undeniable. the lights catch the sheen of sweat on his brow, illuminating him in a way that makes him look untouchable, like he’s been kissed by the gods themselves, his existence a thing of myth and legend.

but now—now, the stage has another presence.

beomgyu doesn’t just hold himself well—he owns the moment. he stands tall beneath the golden wash of the overhead lights, his long hair catching the soft glow, his silver piercing glinting with every tilt of his head. he moves with ease, with certainty, like he already knows the crowd will adore him.

and they do. they devour him, the way they used to devour wonbin.

the shift is undeniable, like the stage itself is recalibrating, realigning the way it breathes, the way it pulses beneath your feet. and for the first time, wonbin isn’t the one standing in the brightest light.

you don’t have to look to know he’s aware of it.

before the weight of it can settle, before the tension can coil any tighter, hongjoong throws his fist in the air, signaling the start of the set.

the moment the first chord rips through the air, the venue explodes.

the drumline is relentless, a pounding heartbeat that syncs with the wild energy of the crowd, fueling their movements, their screams, their desperate need to be consumed by the music. the bass thrums low and deep, shaking the floor beneath your feet, while the wail of guitars cuts through the chaos, sharp and electric.

and at the center of it all—you and beomgyu move like a force of nature.

the shift is subtle at first, effortless in the way that only comes with instinct. it’s in the way you lean toward him during the opening riff, in the way he mirrors the movement without hesitation, playing off your energy as if the two of you have been doing this forever. the chemistry is instantaneous—a back-and-forth exchange of sound and motion, a conversation spoken through fingers against strings, through the way your bodies pull toward each other in perfect rhythm.

the crowd notices. they feel it.

the pitch of their screams rises, sharp and frenzied, a reaction to the unspoken electricity crackling between you and beomgyu on stage. when you step forward, he meets you halfway. when you tilt your guitar upward, he angles his in the same way, the two of you lost in the moment, lost in the music. it’s intoxicating, the way it flows so naturally, the way it just works.

a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, just barely visible in the shifting lights, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he takes it further, crowding into your space just enough to drive the audience into a frenzy. he’s teasing them, teasing you, pushing the dynamic to its edge. he plays with a kind of confidence that borders on reckless, grinning as the crowd screams louder, as they feed off the connection you’re giving them.

your eyes meet beomgyu’s, and it’s like striking a match—instantaneous, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

his gaze is wild, untamed, burning with something reckless as his fingers dance effortlessly up and down the strings of his guitar. the glint of the stage lights catches on the silver of his noise piercing, on the damp strands of his hair sticking to his forehead, on the raw, exhilarated grin tugging at his lips. he’s thriving in this moment, in the way the music swallows everything whole, in the way the energy between you pulls tighter, tighter, a thread stretched to its limit.

then, the silent challenge begins.

you push yourself further, fingers sliding over the fretboard, pressing harder, moving faster, your guitar wailing in response. beomgyu doesn’t hesitate—he matches you, keeping pace with ease, teasing the melody just enough to goad you, just enough to dare you into pushing beyond the edge.

the music drives you together, bodies drawn into the rhythm like magnets, until there’s barely any space left between you. the heat of the lights, the fevered pulse of the crowd, the sheer intensity of the moment—it’s intoxicating, drowning out everything else, everything that isn’t this.

the rest of the band? they feel it too.

gunil pounds the drums harder, the beat slamming through the venue like thunder rolling across an open sky. minjeong’s bass vibrates low and heavy, a pulse that thrums deep in your chest, anchoring the chaos, keeping the storm contained. hongjoong and yunjin’s voices rise above it all, their harmonies growing rougher, more unruly, feeding into the wild, raw energy tearing through the set.

it’s a performance unlike any before—untamed, unhinged, an awakening of something new, something raw, something the crowd can’t get enough of.

but just beyond the heat of the lights, just past the charged space between you and beomgyu—wonbin is still watching,

wonbin has never been just another piece of the stage.

he’s always been the moment, the gravitational force pulling every gaze, the golden focal point of the band’s energy, the one who commands attention without even trying. his presence alone has always been enough—his voice, his movement, the way he bends the music to his will. he has never had to chase the spotlight, it’s always belonged to him.

but tonight, he is not the one they are watching. for the first time, wonbin fades into the background and he hates it.

his grip tightens around the mic stand, knuckles whitening, his jaw locked so tight it aches. he tells himself it’s just the music, just the adrenaline—that’s why his pulse is hammering in his throat, why his body feels wired, off-kilter, out of sync. but the more he watches, the more he realizes it’s not the music that’s throwing him off.

it’s you. it’s beomgyu.

it’s the way you two move—effortless, in sync, pulling toward each other like magnets caught in the same orbit. it’s the way your bodies lean into the rhythm, the way your eyes meet with something charged, something unspoken, something new.

it’s the way he matches your energy, challenges you, dares you to push harder, play faster, lean in closer. the way the crowd sees it, feels it, screams louder because of it.

it’s the way he—wonbin—isn’t part of it. the realization unsettles him more than it should.

he shifts his weight, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into the moment, back into the role he’s always played with such ease. but it’s not the same. the energy of the stage is shifting, the music bending in a way that doesn’t center around him anymore. and it’s not because of the crowd. 

it’s not even because of the music. it’s you.

you, who used to seek him out during performances without even thinking. you, who used to turn to him during the high points of a song, locking eyes in the way that made it feel like the stage belonged to just the two of you.

but tonight, you’re not looking at him, you haven’t looked at him once.

wonbin swallows, throat dry, frustration curling hot and tight in his chest. he doesn’t even realize how stiff he’s become, how his grip on the mic stand has turned iron-clad, how his body is thrumming with something he doesn’t want to name.

for the first time, he’s losing something on stage and the fact that he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—why this is different—only makes it worse.

the music swells, rising toward the inevitable climax, and the stage becomes something untamed—alive, unhinged, drenched in heat and motion.

your fingers blaze over the fretboard, coaxing a wail from your guitar that rips through the heavy, pulsating air like a jagged streak of lightning cracking open the night. the solo is yours—no, the stage is yours—and beomgyu knows it. he steps back, hands lifting from his own instrument, offering the spotlight like a silent tribute to a god. but 

he doesn’t leave, he doesn’t retreat.

instead, he leans in.

close. too close.

the breath between you is shallow, trembling, and the space that separates you shrinks until it feels like the entire universe has narrowed down to just this moment, just him. his presence is a force, a magnetic pull that wraps around you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the weight of his gaze locked onto you—onto your fingers dancing across the strings, onto your lips parted in focus, onto the way your body twists and moves, reckless and raw, with the music that’s tearing through you.

his eyes burn, and he’s drinking you in like he’s starved for something only you can give.

and when you think he’ll relent—when you think he’ll step back, give you the air you so desperately need—he does the opposite.

he dips his head, his breath grazing your ear, his voice cutting through the chaos like velvet sharpened into a blade. “let it out.”

it’s not a suggestion. it’s not a plea. it’s a command wrapped in a dare, spoken like he knows you’re capable of unraveling the world if you just tried.

something ignites deep inside you—something volatile, something electric, something that feels like it could burn you alive if you let it. his eyes are still on you, dark and devouring, watching you like you’re the only thing in existence, and it’s too much. it’s suffocating. it’s intoxicating.

and then you snap.

your fingers fly over the fretboard with a fury you didn’t know you had, each note searing through the air, leaving fire in its wake. the sound is untamed, filthy, and the tension between you and beomgyu swells, thick and almost unbearable, like a storm gathering strength. he doesn’t back away; instead, his body moves with yours, mirroring your rhythm, matching your energy, as if you’re tethered by something invisible but unbreakable.

the crowd loses themselves, their screams fusing with the music, but they’re background noise now. nothing exists except for the heat spiraling between you and the boy standing so close it hurts, so close it feels like he’s burning into you, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists.

the solo crescendos, wild and relentless, and for a moment, it feels like the whole world might come undone under the weight of it—the sound, the crowd, the suffocating gravity of his presence..

the energy of the concert shifts as the final notes of the previous song fade into the air, the crowd still riding the high of the relentless tempo, their cheers echoing through the venue like a roaring tide. the stage lights dim, washing everything in a softer glow, cooling the fever pitch just enough for something more intimate, more vulnerable to slip in.

this is the moment you knew was coming.

and then the first notes ring out, soft, aching, unmistakable.

"flatline"

your song.

the one you wrote in the dead of night, with fingers trembling over the strings, with your heart cracking open beneath the weight of every lyric. the one that poured from your chest like a confession, like an unraveling, like something too raw to touch but too important to keep buried.

the opening chords of the song hum softly, a melancholic thread weaving through the noise, pulling everything into focus. the crowd’s energy doesn’t drop—it changes. they sway now, their voices quieter but still present, singing along to the melody that holds the weight of something fragile, something broken.

your fingers tremble slightly as you play, but you hide it well, forcing yourself into the rhythm, letting the music guide you. this song—it’s yours in every sense of the word. the lyrics, the melody, the ache woven into every note—it’s the confession you could never say out loud.

the confession that still lingers between you and him.

and though you try to focus on the crowd, on the stage, on the way the music feels beneath your fingertips, you can’t ignore the weight of wonbin’s presence just a few feet away.

it’s in the way his voice curls around the first verse, warm and honeyed, just rough enough to carry the ache. the words sound different when he sings them—like they mean something else, something entirely his own. but you know the truth.

he doesn’t know.

to him, this song is just another piece of the setlist, another melody to pull the crowd deeper into the performance. he doesn’t hear the confessions stitched into the lyrics, doesn’t see the raw edges of your heart still bleeding beneath the surface.

“you call my name like a bad habit, like a cigarette at dawn light me up, breathe me in, then forget that i was ever gone…”

the words slip from your lips, barely above a whisper, but they are heavy—drenched in something raw, something unspoken. the weight of them pulls you back to that night, the one you’ve tried to erase from memory, the one that still clings to you like an old bruise refusing to fade.

curled up in your bed, sheets tangled around your limbs, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. the ceiling above you had blurred, your vision swimming, hot tears slipping into your hair as you begged—to what? to god? to the universe? to something unseen that could wrench the ache from your chest and leave you hollow enough to move on?

"morning will come and i'll do what's right just give me till then to give up this fight..."

wonbin’s voice threads into the song, seamlessly slipping into harmony with yours. it should be beautiful. it should be effortless, like all the other times before.

but it’s different now, because he’s still singing a song he doesn’t know is about him.

"there's a million things there's a million things i could say..."

your hands tighten around the neck of your guitar, the callouses pressing deep against the steel strings, grounding you in something tangible, something that doesn’t slip through your fingers like he did.

there were so many words left unsaid. so many almosts, so many if onlys.

you should have told him. you should have let the words escape when they burned at the back of your throat, should have let them tumble out when his fingers brushed yours, when his gaze lingered too long, when he stood close enough for his breath to warm your skin. but you never did.

"but you never really knew that but you never really knew i felt this way..."

wonbin’s voice is steady, unaware, untouched by the meaning woven into every lyric. he doesn’t flinch as the words leave his mouth. he doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate the way you do.

because to him, this is just a song.

"wanna take it back wanna take it back to when we had it just like that, had it right on track..."

you blink, forcing yourself back into the present. beomgyu is beside you, fingers moving fluidly over his guitar, his presence a steady rhythm against the turmoil brewing beneath your skin.

the crowd is swaying, lost in the moment, unaware of the battlefield unfolding within you.

"and i keep falling in this darkness..."

the final note lingers in the air, fading into the roar of the crowd, a crashing wave of voices screaming their devotion, their exhilaration, their need for more. the stage is bathed in golden light, the remnants of something electric still crackling in the space between your fingers, between the breaths you haven't quite steadied yet.

hongjoong steps forward, lifting his mic one last time, his voice cutting through the haze of sound. "you guys were fucking insane tonight!" his words are met with another deafening wave of screams, bodies surging, hands reaching, voices raw with the aftermath of something unforgettable. "we’ll see you soon, west coast—until then, keep the music loud and the nights even louder!"

the lights dim, the energy of the stage shifting, pulling back, retreating into the shadows as you all step away from the edge, away from the blinding heat of the crowd.

and just like that, it’s over, your first showcase since the tour.

the second you’re backstage, the weight of it all comes crashing down—the adrenaline, the exhaustion, the sweat clinging to your skin in damp rivulets. your body hums from the performance, from the music that still thrums deep in your bones, but more than anything, you feel the ache of that song, the ghost of it still pressing against your ribs like it doesn’t want to let go.

your fingers move automatically, yanking out your earpiece, the sensation of it still ringing in your head even as you toss it onto the nearest surface. beomgyu is beside you, pulling at the collar of his shirt, letting out a breathless laugh as he runs a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.

"holy shit," he mutters, still buzzing, still alive with it. "that was insane."

before you can respond, gunil claps a hand on your shoulder, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment. "oh, and don’t think we didn’t see that—"

you blink, still half-lost in the haze of the performance. "see what?"

gunil’s smirk deepens, eyes flicking between you and beomgyu with something obnoxiously knowing. "that sexual tension. you two were all over each other."

heat rushes to your face faster than you can process, your pulse skipping in a way that has nothing to do with the performance.

beomgyu, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat—just leans in slightly, tilting his head toward you with a teasing lilt in his voice. "yeah?" he muses, a grin playing at his lips. "didn’t hear any complaints from her side."

you narrow your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but the laughter from the others—the way gunil howls, the way yunjin snorts into her water bottle—tells you the damage has already been done.

wonbin is standing a few feet away, half-turned toward minjeong’s open guitar case, his movements slow, deliberate. he’s not joining in on the teasing, not cracking a joke or rolling his eyes. he’s just watching.

and when your eyes finally meet—just for a second, just long enough for something unreadable to flicker across his features—he looks away.

but not before you see the way his fingers tighten against the edge of the case, the way his jaw tenses, the way his entire body reacts to something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

and suddenly, the heat from the stage isn’t the only thing making your head spin.

the room erupts into celebration, laughter spilling into the air as bottles are passed around, the sharp pop of champagne punctuating the moment like the final note of a song still lingering in the air. the energy is still electric, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the performance, the adrenaline not yet burned out from your veins.

but something is off.

it happens so fast you almost miss it—wonbin, who should be here, at the center of it all, basking in the aftermath of the stage, is slipping away.

no words, no offhand remark, no teasing jab at gunil’s terrible attempt at pouring champagne without spilling it. just quiet. a subtle shift, a retreat into the shadows when no one is looking.

but you see it.

the way his fingers curl into fists at his sides. the way his shoulders are drawn tight, like he’s bracing against something unseen. the way he doesn’t belong in this moment anymore, like it’s slipping through his fingers, like you’re slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

and against your better judgment, against the logic that tells you to stay, to let him walk away, to not follow him down whatever road this is leading to—you go after him.

it feels too familiar, too much like déjà vu, like history folding over itself and replaying the same scene with different colors, different wounds.

the last time, it had been you slipping away first, heart aching, lungs squeezing too tight as you had left the waiting room, the celebration ringing hollow in your ears. the weight of your feelings had been too much, had pressed too heavily against the raw edges of your heart, and you had run before it could suffocate you.

and now—now, wonbin is the one leaving. and you don’t know why, but you need to.

the hallway is dim, the only light spilling in from the gaps beneath the dressing room doors, casting long, stretched-out shadows against the walls. the air is cooler here, untouched by the feverish heat of the performance, but it does nothing to ease the fire simmering beneath your skin, the one still burning from the way he had looked at you on stage, from the weight of his absence in that room.

wonbin stands at the far end of the corridor, half-leaning, half-bracing against the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest. his knuckles press against his ribs, white from the force of it, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. but his breathing is shallow, uneven, like it’s taking effort to keep standing, to not collapse under the weight of whatever storm is raging inside him.

you’ve never seen him like this before.

wonbin, who walks through life with the kind of effortless ease that makes the world bend to his rhythm, who commands attention without ever demanding it, who never lets anyone see past the façade—now looks like he’s barely keeping it together.

and it terrifies you.

the cold wall against his back should be grounding, should anchor him, but the tremble has already started—deep, uncontrollable, unraveling him thread by thread. he swallows hard, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow movements, like he can’t quite get enough air.

and when he finally lifts his gaze, when his eyes meet yours—it’s not the wonbin you know. it’s not the golden boy of the stage, not the effortless flirt, not the boy who grins like the world belongs to him.

it’s someone else, someone breaking.

"what are you doing out here?" his voice is quieter than you expect, rough at the edges, like the words are scraped from the back of his throat.

you take a step closer, pulse pounding. "i could ask you the same thing."

his laugh is hollow, humorless. "go back inside. you should be celebrating. you and beomgyu killed it today."

“wonbin-”

your mouth opens, ready to argue, but then—you see it.

it started as a faint hum in wonbin’s chest, a restless vibration he couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore. it slithered up his spine, creeping beneath his skin, an insidious thing that whispered something is wrong before he even knew what was happening. the feeling spread like wildfire, setting every nerve alight, an unbearable tightness blooming in his ribcage until his heart began to race—erratic, frantic, thunderous—beating so fast it felt like it might tear itself apart.

his breath hitched, coming in shallow, sharp bursts—too fast, too little, not enough. it was like trying to inhale through a pinhole, like no matter how hard he sucked in air, his lungs refused to expand.

then the room tilted. the walls warped and stretched, blurring into meaningless shapes, and his pulse spiked, his body betraying him in real time. his palms pressed against the cold surface of the wall, desperate for something solid, something real, but even that felt distant—his own fingers tingling, numb with static. the oxygen in his brain depleted too fast, turning everything hazy, unreal.

he clutched his chest, sure his heart was breaking apart.

he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears, his knees trembling beneath him, his muscles locking up. sweat slicked his temples, dripping cold down the back of his neck despite the heat burning inside his body. the panic was swallowing him whole, dragging him under with clawed fingers, whispering the kind of terror he couldn’t fight off—you’re dying. you’re dying. this is it.

"make it stop," he whispered hoarsely to no one, his voice breaking, barely audible. but the panic didn’t listen.

it never did. and then—hands. soft, warm, real.

they landed on his arms, firm but careful, grounding. a voice, steady and low, cut through the storm, slicing through the chaos like a lifeline tossed into the dark.

"wonbin—look at me."

he tries, but his vision swims, colors bleeding into one another.

“i-i think i- i’m d-dying.”

"you need to slow down. just focus on me, okay? you’re not dying. it’s a panic attack."

he let out a strangled breath, shaking his head, because it felt like dying, because his chest hurt like something was caving in, but then, fingers curled around his wrists, gentle yet insistent. anchoring.

"breathe with me. follow my rhythm."

he felt it before he could see it—the steady rise and fall of your chest, the deliberate slowness of your breathing, the warmth radiating from your hands, grounding him in something outside of his own unraveling mind.

slowly, painfully slowly, he tried to match it.

in—one, two, three.

out—one, two, three.

"that’s it," you whispered, your voice softer now, steady as a heartbeat. "just keep going. i’ve got you. i’m right here."

the words nearly undo him.

his back slid further down the wall, his muscles giving up under the sheer exhaustion, his trembling hands gripping at the edge of the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. the storm was ebbing, the jagged edges smoothing just enough for him to take in a breath that didn’t feel like a knife to the lungs.

but the aftermath was just as heavy. his limbs felt useless, his body aching like he had run miles just to end up in the same place.

and through it all, you never let go.

you stayed, your presence unmoving, unwavering, your hands still curled around his wrists, your breaths still slow, even, guiding him back to something solid.

"you’re okay," you murmured again, quieter now, a reassurance just for him.

wonbin exhales, slow and uneven, his body slumping forward as if the last bit of fight has drained out of him. the tension that had held him together, that had kept him upright despite the weight of his own unraveling, finally snaps.

and he leans into you.

at first, it’s hesitant—like he’s not sure he’s allowed to, not sure if you’ll pull away, not sure if it’s okay to need someone like this. but when you don’t move, don’t stiffen or break the moment, he gives in completely.

his head presses against your chest, his breath warm and damp against the fabric of your shirt. his arms, shaky but firm, slide around your waist, pulling you closer—like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, like if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the vast, terrifying nothingness that had swallowed him moments ago.

your arms wrap around him, one hand slipping into his hair, fingers threading gently through the damp strands, the other resting lightly against the curve of his back, feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breaths. his heartbeat is still too fast, thudding erratically against your ribcage, but it’s slowing. steadying.

the silence between you is thick, weighted with all the things neither of you are ready to say, all the things that are being said without words. it’s intimate in a way that steals the breath from your lungs.

not in the way you once imagined it would be—not in the way your heart once ached for. this is something different, something raw, something fragile.

it’s in the way his body softens against yours, like he’s giving himself permission to let go. it’s in the way he buries himself deeper, his nose brushing against your collarbone, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. it’s in the way neither of you move, just existing in the moment, letting the quiet hold you together.

his voice is quiet when it comes, so soft you almost think you imagined it, muffled by the rise and fall of your chest against his cheek.

"you don’t speak to me anymore."

the words settle between you, fragile yet heavy, like glass balanced on the edge of a table, waiting to shatter. your fingers still in his hair, your breath catching for just a second too long.

because of course he noticed.

you don’t know why that surprises you. maybe you thought he never would, that he’d be too wrapped up in his own world to feel the growing space between you, the widening gap that you’ve so carefully constructed.

you hesitate, lips parting, but you don’t know what to say because he’s right. you have been pulling away, you have been distancing yourself. and now, here he is, raw and vulnerable in your arms, forcing you to acknowledge it in a way you weren’t ready for.

"it’s like you want there to be distance, like you don’t like being around me anymore" he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, his arms still wrapped around you, his body still pressed against yours like he doesn’t want that space to exist at all.

there’s something almost broken in his voice, something hesitant, like he doesn’t quite understand it himself. like he’s trying to piece it together, to make sense of the space he swears wasn’t always there.

your throat tightens because you could tell him the truth.

that you do want distance, that you have been pulling away, because what other choice did you have? because your heart couldn’t take the way it felt to be close to him, to want him and never have him, to always be caught in his gravity but never in his arms. because the alternative was unbearable, because staying meant hurting and leaving meant surviving.

but instead, you say nothing.

"talk to me, please angel. help me make things right." his voice cracks, just slightly, but it’s enough.

enough to make your chest tighten, enough to make your fingers twitch where they rest against his back, enough to make something deep inside you waver, just for a moment.

he whines it, breathy and desperate, like he’s starving for something—like your silence is the thing unraveling him now, not the panic attack, not the weight of the night, but you.

you want to speak, you do.

but how are you supposed to, when your thoughts are a tangled mess, when every word that tries to rise to the surface gets caught somewhere in your throat, refusing to take shape?

wonbin doesn’t let go, doesn’t move, just holds on, his grip tightening like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens even a little. he’s never been like this before—never been anything other than confident, than effortless, than so sure of himself.

but right now, with his head against your chest, his body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks of his panic, his words spilling out with no filter—

he’s just wonbin. not the golden boy, not the untouchable performer, not the center of every room. just him. and he’s begging for something from you but you don’t know what to give him.

your lips part, but nothing comes out, the words still tangled somewhere between your mind and your mouth, unspoken, unformed.

you don’t know how to speak to him.

wonbin sighs, the sound barely more than a breath, but you feel it—the weight of it, the way it presses against your skin, the way it settles between you like something unfinished, something breaking.

he knows you won’t reply.

he lifts his head slowly, his arms loosening around you just enough to put space between your bodies, but not enough to let go. and when his gaze finally meets yours, the sight knocks the air from your lungs.

his eyes glimmer, the soft promise of tears lining his lashes, though none have fallen. there’s something unbearably fragile about him in this moment—his breath uneven, his chest still rising and falling just a bit too fast, his lips slightly parted like he wants to say something, like the words are right there, just waiting to spill.

then, the pout forms—small and barely noticeable, but there, pressing against his lips in frustration, in hesitation, in the quiet kind of sadness that lingers long after the moment has passed.

he opens his mouth—stops. shakes his head.

then, in the way only wonbin can, he forces a smile. it doesn’t reach his eyes, doesn’t hold the usual cocky lilt, doesn’t brim with mischief or charm. it’s small, weak at the edges, faltering even as he tries to hold it in place.

"go back in, before gunil wastes all of the champagne" he murmurs, voice softer now, the weight behind it making your stomach drop. "i’ll be fine."

"but wonbin—"

you don’t even know what you’re protesting, not really. maybe it’s the way his voice sounds when he says it, too light, too hollow, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. maybe it’s the way he’s already slipping away, like this moment never happened, like the way he held onto you for dear life was just a fleeting mistake.

but before you can say anything else, he’s already moving, already peeling himself away, already putting that distance back between you.

the warmth of his body disappears as he pushes off of you, straightening his posture, rolling his shoulders back like he’s shaking the vulnerability off. His hands drag down his face once, quick and sharp, as if trying to erase the evidence of whatever just unraveled between you.

 just like that—he’s fine again. or at least, that’s what he wants you to believe.

"i’’m fine now," he says, flashing you a small, easy grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his voice is steadier now, smoother, slipping back into the effortless cool that he wears like armor. 

"seriously. just needed a second to breathe."

you don’t buy it. not when his hands are still stuffed into his pockets a little too tightly. not when the faintest trace of unsteadiness still lingers in his breath. not when his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back.

"i’ll join you in a minute, i promise" he says, voice so casual it almost sounds convincing.

before you can argue, before you can make him talk to you, make him admit that he’s not okay, he turns his head slightly, avoiding your gaze, as if that alone will make you drop it.

and maybe that’s the worst part of all—that even after everything, after the way he had clung to you just moments ago, after the way his breath had stuttered against your skin, after the way he had begged you to talk to him—

he’s still choosing to lock you out.

every instinct in you screams to stay, to push, to demand more—more honesty, more answers, more anything that isn’t this half-hearted deflection, this quiet retreat back into the version of himself that he wants you to see.

but you don’t. because you know wonbin. and you know that once he’s decided to put his walls back up, there’s no breaking through them.

so, against every aching part of you that wants to reach for him again, you force yourself to step back, to respect the distance he’s asking for—even if it feels like a knife between your ribs.

the hallway feels colder now, emptier, like whatever fragile thing had bloomed between you just moments ago has already been erased, buried beneath the weight of his carefully composed indifference.

you swallow hard, turning toward the door, toward the muffled laughter and clinking of champagne glasses waiting for you inside. your hand lingers on the handle for just a second too long, fingers pressing into the metal like you can ground yourself with it, like you can hold onto something solid when everything inside you feels like it’s slipping through your fingers.

wonbin is still standing there, still leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly downward. he’s staring at the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his shoulders drawn tight, like he’s holding something in—like he’s holding everything in.

for all the distance he’s putting between you, for all the words left unsaid—

he looks so incredibly alone.

your chest tightens, but you say nothing. you just watch him for one last moment, letting the silence between you settle, heavy and final.

then, with a deep breath, you turn away, stepping back into the waiting room, back into the noise, back into a world that hasn’t shattered the way yours just has.

𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

a week has passed, but the shift in him lingers like an open wound, raw and impossible to ignore.

the unraveling starts slow, so slow that even wonbin himself doesn’t notice at first. it’s just a shift, a minor dissonance in the otherwise effortless rhythm of his life, an unspoken imbalance he convinces himself is temporary. but temporary things are supposed to fade, and this—this only festers.

at first, it’s just the sleepless nights. the ones where he lies awake, staring at the ceiling, mind running in loops he can’t escape. he tells himself it’s fine, that exhaustion is nothing new, that it’s just a phase, a passing restlessness. but then the days start to blur, a slow erosion of time slipping through his fingers. the world moves around him, conversations flow, laughter spills from the mouths of his bandmates, but it all feels distant, like watching through glass.

and then there’s the drinking.

it starts with one, just something to take the edge off, something to quiet the relentless thoughts, something to dull the sharp ache that settles too deep in his chest to shake off. but one turns into two, then three, and suddenly the bottom of a glass becomes familiar, the burn of whiskey a comfort he never thought he’d need. he drinks to forget, but it only makes everything more vivid—the way you used to look at him, the way you don’t anymore, the way beomgyu is always there, always close, always in the space that once belonged to him.

the more he drinks, the less control he has, and control has always been wonbin’s lifeline. he’s spent his whole life making sure no one gets too close, keeping the world at arm’s length, making sure that nothing touches him deep enough to matter. but it does matter. you matter. and the realization is suffocating.

it spills over into rehearsals, where his focus wavers, where his voice catches at the wrong moments, where his fingers press too hard against the mic stand like he’s trying to ground himself in something tangible. the others notice, their glances stretching longer, their murmurs more frequent. hongjoong watches him like he’s waiting for him to break. gunil isn’t subtle with his frustration. yunjin, despite her usual teasing, has started to hold back, as if sensing that whatever this is, it’s beyond a joke now.

beomgyu doesn’t say much, but wonbin catches the looks, the way his gaze lingers in quiet assessment, the way his mouth twitches like he wants to say something but doesn’t. and maybe that pisses him off the most—how composed he is, how unshaken, how he doesn’t seem to feel the same weight crushing him from the inside out. it makes wonbin reckless, makes his fingers tighten into fists when no one is looking, makes him crave the rush of something that will make him forget, even if only for a moment.

the parties get longer. the nights stretch into early mornings, bodies pressed too close, lips that aren’t yours brushing against his skin, hands that don’t mean anything pulling him in, and yet none of it sticks. none of it fills the empty space inside him. he surrounds himself with people, with music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, with drinks strong enough to blur the sharp edges of reality, but nothing—nothing—feels right.

and then there’s the substances.

wonbin has always known where his limits are, has always been the one with a handle on things, but now? now he’s not sure he cares. there’s something about the haze, about the way his mind drifts just far enough away that he doesn’t have to feel anything at all. 

it’s reckless, dangerous, and somewhere deep down, a part of him knows this isn’t sustainable, that he’s unraveling faster than he can hold himself together. but he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t want to stop. because stopping means thinking, and thinking means remembering, and remembering means facing the one thing he can’t afford to admit.

he’s losing you.

not in the way he lost the others, not in the way he’s used to, not in the way that’s easy to brush off with a laugh and a careless shrug. this loss is different. this loss is slow and painful, a knife twisting in real time, an ache that doesn’t dull no matter how much he tries to drown it. because it’s not just your warmth that’s gone—it’s the way you used to wait for him, the way you used to look at him with something close to devotion, the way your presence had always felt like something certain, something his.

and now, beomgyu is in the space he didn’t even realize he had taken for granted.

now, when you walk into a room, you aren't looking for wonbin first. now, when you laugh, it’s beomgyu who leans in closer. now, when you smile, it’s not for him.

he’s a mess.

the tabloids have started whispering, the grainy photos of him spilling out of clubs at ungodly hours surfacing too frequently now. the stories are always the same—drunk beyond recognition, slurring words against the lips of another girl, another distraction, another body to fill the space that’s eating him alive.

wonbin, who never drank beyond control, is drinking himself to death.

wonbin, who was always the last to leave the studio, is stumbling in late, sunglasses perched on his nose, wincing at the sharp clang of drumsticks hitting metal, flinching at the sound of his own name. 

today is no different.

he enters practice almost an hour late, sunglasses shielding whatever wreckage lies beneath, the collar of his hoodie pulled high enough to hide the bruising exhaustion carved into his skin. there’s a heaviness in the way he moves, like even his limbs are weighed down by something unbearable, like gravity has its claws in him and won’t let go. he doesn’t greet anyone, doesn’t acknowledge the way every conversation halts the second he steps in, doesn’t even pretend to care that the air is suffocating with tension.

gunil is the first to break the silence, clearing his throat, but his voice lacks its usual playfulness. "rough night?"

wonbin barely reacts, just drops into his seat like he’s been holding himself up for too long, like he doesn’t trust his own legs to keep him standing. "you could say that."

the words are lazy, slow, like they barely belong to him. his voice is rough, scratchy at the edges, like he’s swallowed a pack of cigarettes and washed it down with something stronger. there’s something eerie about it—how detached he sounds, how far away he feels even though he’s sitting right in front of them.

no one laughs. no one even smiles. because it’s not funny.

and then—his sunglasses slip slightly down his nose, revealing eyes so bloodshot they look like they hurt. not just from the lack of sleep, not just from whatever he drowned himself in the night before, but from something deeper, something hollow, something broken.

he doesn’t push them back up, just exhales heavily, dragging a hand through his disheveled hair, fingers trembling just slightly, a ghost of the damage trailing behind him like a shadow. the moment gunil’s drumsticks tap against the rim of the snare, he visibly winces, his entire body flinching like the sound physically hurts.

"can we not?" wonbin mutters, squeezing his temples between his fingers, his voice quieter now, frayed at the edges.

the silence stretches too long, thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything wonbin refuses to acknowledge, with the worry and anger that has been festering in the room for weeks. everyone is waiting for him to snap out of it, waiting for him to explain himself, waiting for the version of wonbin they all know to reappear, to shake this off like he always does, like nothing ever touches him too deeply.

but this time, he doesn’t. this time, it lingers.

"jesus christ, wonbin."

minjeong, always the first to say what everyone else is thinking, leans against her bass with arms crossed, her expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, but there’s worry there too, buried beneath the sharpness. "you look like hell."

wonbin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even lift his head. just smirks lazily, a half-hearted, empty thing, the kind of smirk that’s more armor than amusement. "good to know. minjeong, forever the oracle of truth."

hongjoong exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration barely restrained beneath the forced composure of someone who’s been holding himself back for too long. "this isn’t sustainable, wonbin. we can’t keep pretending like you’re fine when you show up like this."

wonbin finally lifts his head, but the movement is sluggish, like every second is costing him more than it should. "you worried about me, hongjoong?" his voice drips with sarcasm, but it falls flat, cracks at the edges like brittle glass.

the response is immediate, sharp, like a blade cutting through air. "yeah, actually. we all are. but i don’t think you care enough to do anything about it."

that, at least, earns a reaction. wonbin’s smirk falters for a fraction of a second before he scoffs, shaking his head, tapping his fingers against the table beside him as if the conversation bores him. but his hands are still shaking.

"you don’t get it," he mutters, almost to himself, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words are slipping out before he can stop them. "none of you do."

but yunjin has had enough.

"then help us understand, wonbin." her voice isn’t loud, but it’s steady, firm, laced with something raw, something real, something that cuts through the haze clinging to him. "because all we see is you destroying yourself. and we’re supposed to just sit back and watch?"

wonbin doesn’t answer.

he doesn’t have one.

yunjin exhales sharply through her nose, not as blunt as minjeong, but her frustration simmers just beneath the surface, restrained only by the sheer weight of her concern. "you’ve been doing this every night, huh?" she mutters, shaking her head, like she already knows the answer. "how long are you gonna keep this up?"

wonbin shrugs, slow and indifferent, like it’s not even a question worth considering. "until it stops working, i guess."

"working?" hongjoong’s voice is quieter now, but there’s something sharp beneath it, something like disappointment, like exhaustion. "you call this working?"

wonbin finally reacts to that, tilting his head just slightly, pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose to reveal the tired, bloodshot eyes beneath. for a second, he just looks at hongjoong, gaze unfocused, pupils blown too wide, as if he’s trying to process the weight of the words but can’t quite grasp them.

"what’s your point?" his voice is almost teasing, almost playful, but it rings hollow, stretched too thin to hold any real weight.

"my point is that you’re barely here, wonbin," hongjoong says, exasperation bleeding into his tone, his fingers drumming against the edge of the piano. "you show up late, you don’t focus, you can’t even keep your head up half the time. we have a showcase coming up. our album is basically done. this isn’t just about you."

the words should cut, should get through to him, should force him to care.

but wonbin just scoffs, leaning back against the couch, arms spreading out like he’s weightless, like he’s untouchable, feigning a nonchalance so flimsy it barely holds together. "relax. i’ll be fine when it matters."

gunil, who had been mostly quiet, finally exhales and tosses his drumsticks onto his snare with a sharp clack. "do you even hear yourself?" his voice is laced with frustration, but underneath it, there’s something softer—something dangerously close to fear. "you’re not fine, wonbin. and you know it."

wonbin stills for half a second.

it’s barely noticeable, but they all see it.

the way his fingers twitch against his thigh, the way his jaw locks just a little tighter, the way his breath comes in just a fraction too shallow before he forces a slow exhale through his nose.

but then, just like that, he shakes it off, slipping back into the role of someone who doesn’t care, who can laugh this off, who can pretend he isn’t unraveling thread by thread.

"look, can we just get through practice?" his voice is lighter now, like the conversation is nothing more than an inconvenience. he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, looking straight at hongjoong. "i know i’ve been off, but i’ll clean it up in time. just drop it, yeah?"

nobody looks convinced. and neither does he.

but hongjoong doesn’t press further. he just sighs, rubbing at his temples, nodding once before adjusting the height of his piano bench.

"fine. let’s get to work."

but the conversation doesn’t die there—not really. the tension lingers, stretching into every note played, into every pause between songs.

the final note after practice lingers in the air, fading into the steady hum of amplifiers, the only sound breaking the silence that stretches too long, thick with unspoken words and the heavy weight of exhaustion that isn't just physical. 

normally, rehearsals end with laughter, with the band still buzzing from the energy of the music, with gunil flipping his drumsticks between his fingers and minjeong muttering about how he’s bound to break another one, with yunjin slinging an arm around you and making some offhanded comment about how you went too hard on that last riff, with wonbin—wonbin—somewhere in the middle of it all, that lazy smirk on his face, his presence as natural as breathing.

but tonight, the moment the last note fades, he moves like he can’t get out fast enough, his hands working quickly to unplug his mic, winding the cable in tight, controlled circles, shoving it into his bag with a sharp efficiency that makes something curl uneasily in your stomach. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t make a single sarcastic remark, doesn’t offer even the barest acknowledgment of the tension that has taken residence in every corner of the room. 

he simply pulls his hoodie over his head, sunglasses still perched on his nose despite the fact that there’s nothing but dim studio lights casting a soft glow over the space, and slings his bag over his shoulder before walking out.

the door clicks shut behind him, quieter than you expected, and the silence he leaves in his wake is suffocating.

minjeong exhales first, the sharp sound cutting through the air like a blade. “okay, that was fucking depressing.”

yunjin mutters, running a hand through her hair before shaking her head, arms crossed over her chest in frustration. 

“no shit. he barely made it through practice. it’s like he doesn’t even want to be here.”

gunil runs a hand through his hair, stretching his arms out in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders, though it does nothing to dull the lingering frustration in his voice. “this is bad. he’s never been like this before.”

hongjoong doesn’t say anything right away, his fingers resting idly against the cord of his microphone, the look in his eyes far away, lost in thought. when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, but there’s a weight to it that makes the words settle heavily between all of you. 

“he’s spiraling.”.

beomgyu, who has been unusually quiet, finally shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping against the wood of his guitar before he finally speaks. “has something happened to him recently?”

gunil sighs, shaking his head. “not that we know of. but it’s not like wonbin to act like this.”

not this self-destructive, not this reckless, not this distant. wonbin has always been larger than life, the kind of person who could light up a room without even trying, but now, it’s like he’s actively trying to dim himself, trying to disappear into the chaos he creates, trying to outrun something none of you can see.

yunjin leans forward, her brows furrowed in frustration, but her voice is lined with concern. “he’s out every night. have you seen the pictures? he’s drinking like he’s trying to drown himself.”

you’ve seen every blurry paparazzi photo, every tabloid headline detailing his reckless nights, every video that captures the way he stumbles out of clubs in the early hours of the morning, draped over another stranger, another distraction, another temporary fix that will never actually heal anything.

you’ve seen the hollow look in his eyes, the way he smiles without meaning it, the way he carries himself like he’s untouchable, like nothing matters, but it’s obvious to anyone who’s paying attention that it’s all just an illusion, that beneath the surface, he’s barely holding himself together.

whatever wonbin is trying to drown, whatever weight is sitting on his chest, whatever demons are clawing at his ribs—none of it is going away. it’s festering, sinking deeper, poisoning him from the inside out.

hongjoong sighs, standing up, stretching his arms over his head, but it does nothing to shake the exhaustion weighing on him. when he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual, heavy with something resigned. “he’ll be at the party tomorrow night. looking just as wrecked, if not worse. at least if we’re there, we can stop him from doing something too stupid.”

gunil drums his fingers against his knee, the rhythm sharp, restless. “at least it’ll be contained,” he mutters, but the words don’t hold any conviction.

the room is still. no one speaks. but the weight of it all lingers—thick, suffocating, inescapable.

wonbin has always been the center of this band. the gravitational pull that keeps everything steady, the force that holds it all together, the one who lights up every room without even trying.

but now, that pull is weakening, slipping away, unraveling thread by thread.

and you can feel the distance widening between you, feel him slipping through your fingers like something intangible, something fleeting, something you don’t know how to hold onto anymore—no matter how much you want to.

later, the air in the venue is thick with celebration, laughter spilling from every corner, the scent of champagne clinging to the walls, and the low pulse of bass-heavy music reverberating through the floor, but none of it reaches you—not really, not in the way it should, not in the way it does for everyone else who is lost in the high of the night, in the thrill of the album finally being finished. 

the weight in your chest presses heavier the moment your gaze lands on him. he’s slouched against the bar, a glass dangling loosely from his fingers, the remnants of something dark clinging to the ice at the bottom.

but it’s not just the alcohol that makes your breath catch—it’s the mess of him, the disheveled, undone way he exists in this space, like he doesn’t belong here, like he’s something misplaced, a fallen idol with a cracked crown, still beautiful, still magnetic, but in a way that feels almost tragic. 

his hair, always so carefully styled, is an unruly mess, strands falling into his eyes as if he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times out of frustration or exhaustion or something you don’t want to name, and his shirt, unbuttoned just a little too much, clings to his frame in a way that suggests he couldn’t be bothered to dress with the usual effortless precision he’s known for.

but it’s his eyes that undo you the most.

wonbin has always carried himself with an ease that made him untouchable, with a gaze that always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. every glance carefully measured, every smirk deliberate, every movement drenched in an effortless confidence that made the world bend to him, but this—this is different. 

this isn’t control. this isn’t the golden boy who commands attention without trying, who holds the stage like it belongs to him, who lives like he is incapable of faltering.

this is someone lost.

his eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused, drifting from the rim of his glass to the woman pressed against his side, her fingers ghosting along his forearm, her laughter loud and empty, ringing false in the way that makes your stomach churn.

because he isn’t listening, he isn’t present, he isn’t there. he’s detached, watching everything unfold around him as if he’s separate from it all, like he’s floating somewhere above his own body, too far gone to care, too far gone to stop whatever self-destruction he’s spiraling into. 

and yet, despite the dull glaze in his gaze, despite the way his body sways slightly as he lifts the glass to his lips, there is a sharpness that returns the moment he sees you, a slow shift in his posture, an almost imperceptible tightening in his grip as his gaze latches onto yours.

he doesn’t look away. for the first time in a week, he doesn’t run.

he just stares, long and unblinking, his expression unreadable, something tangled and raw sitting just beneath the surface, something that makes your chest tighten, something that makes it impossible to move, impossible to breathe, impossible to pretend that you don’t feel it too.

the room is still loud, the celebration still pulsing all around you, but in that moment, in the space that exists between you and him, there is only silence, thick and suffocating, the unspoken words of an entire lifetime pressing into the air like a storm waiting to break.

beside you, beomgyu shifts, passing you a drink you barely register, his voice low and careful, laced with something knowing.

"well, that’s a disaster waiting to happen."

you don’t answer, can’t answer, fingers tightening around the glass, your throat suddenly dry despite the drink in your hand, because you know he’s right, know that this is something fragile and dangerous. something sharp-edged and ruinous, something that has been teetering on the edge for too long, waiting for the moment it finally crashes down.

as wonbin lifts his glass to his lips, his gaze still locked onto yours, dark and heavy and utterly unreadable, you know—you know—that tonight, it’s going to happen.

the party moves around you in waves, a blur of champagne flutes clinking, voices rising in laughter, the steady thrum of bass-heavy music vibrating through the air, but none of it registers—not fully. not when every nerve in your body is tuned to the presence of the man across the room, the one you should be ignoring, the one who hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the moment you walked in.

wonbin is drinking. hard.

it starts as a slow build, the kind of indulgence that could be mistaken for celebration, for letting loose after months of work. but you see the way hongjoong watches him warily, the way yunjin subtly switches his drinks for water when he isn’t looking, the way gunil mutters something under his breath when wonbin stumbles slightly while leaning in to say something to a passing label executive. 

they all see it, the way his fingers tighten around the bottle he’s holding, the way his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the way he tips his head back too easily, swallowing down the burn of alcohol like he’s chasing something, like he’s running.

maybe he is. maybe he’s been running for weeks now, drowning himself in anything that makes him forget, in anything that makes him numb.

but it’s not working.

not when he keeps looking at you like that, not when every sip of liquor only seems to make the tension in his shoulders grow heavier, the weight behind his gaze more volatile.

and you—god, you—you can feel it sinking into your skin, into your lungs, into every breath you try to take, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too constricting, pressing down on you like an invisible force. you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists, attempt to focus on anything other than the way wonbin’s attention burns into the side of your face, but beomgyu, ever perceptive, ever attuned to your unease, notices.

you feel him shift beside you, the warmth of his presence suddenly closer, the scent of cologne and something inherently him enveloping you as he dips his head just enough for his breath to fan against your temple.

“you seem off. what’s going on?” he murmurs, his voice smooth, laced with something gentle but firm. his lips barely move, his tone low enough that no one else hears, a quiet offering just for you. 

“come outside with me. let’s get some fresh air,” he says, before you can even give him a half hearted response that he knows will be a lie.

the suggestion is simple, harmless, but the proximity—the sheer closeness of him—makes something in your chest stutter. his gaze flickers down to yours, warm and steady, his face only inches away, his posture relaxed yet entirely present, entirely aware of the tension coiling in your muscles.

maybe it’s the exhaustion catching up to you, maybe it’s the weeks of unraveling, of pretending, of biting your tongue until it bled, but you find yourself nodding before you can think twice, letting out a breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding.

"yeah," you murmur, already turning towards the doors that lead to the balcony. "that sounds—"

you don’t get to finish as a hand wraps around your wrist. firm. unrelenting.

it’s not forceful, not bruising, but the grip is strong enough to halt your movement entirely, strong enough to send a sharp jolt of something electric straight to your spine. the contact stills you, freezes you mid-step, and when you turn—when you look up—your breath snags in your throat.

wonbin.

he’s closer than you expected, closer than he’s been in a week, and though the scent of alcohol lingers on his breath, on his skin, it’s his eyes that hold you captive—the way they burn with something untamed, something raw, something dangerously close to breaking. for the first time in so long, he looks fully present, fully here, though you almost wish he wasn’t.

because his expression—god, his expression—it’s unreadable, but charged. dark and burning, something untamed flickering behind them, something raw, something fraying at the edges, barely contained. his lips are parted slightly, his jaw tight, the muscle feathering beneath his skin as if he’s grinding his teeth, as if he’s forcing himself to stay still.

"where are you two going?" his voice is low, rough at the edges, words slurring just slightly, but the grip on your wrist doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen, doesn’t let you go.

you hesitate, pulse kicking against your ribs, the weight of his fingers searing into your skin, and for a moment, you can’t find the words, can’t force them past the sudden tightness in your throat.

but then beomgyu steps forward, voice steady but cautious. “she just needs some air, man.”

wonbin’s jaw tics, his fingers flexing around your wrist before his grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make a statement, enough to say not with him.

"you don’t need air," he murmurs, and it’s not just the words that shake you, but the way he says them—quiet and strained, like he’s pleading, like he’s not talking about fresh air at all.

like he’s talking about you leaving. like he’s talking about you leaving him.

suddenly, the party around you fades, the music, the laughter, the chatter—it all melts away, leaving only the sound of your heartbeat pounding against your ribs, only the weight of his touch, only the look in his eyes that says don’t go.

the air around you feels thinner, suffocating, pressing in from all sides. not from the crowd, not from the thick perfume and alcohol in the air, but from him—from the way his fingers are still wrapped around your wrist, from the way his grip tightens the more you hesitate, from the way his gaze burns into yours, dark and unreadable, something tangled and frantic flickering behind the whiskey-stained haze in his eyes.

you swallow, chest rising and falling too quickly, something heavy pressing against your ribs, an unbearable pressure you can’t escape, and suddenly, the words slip past your lips before you can stop them, barely more than a whisper, but they cut through the space between you like a blade.

"wonbin, i can’t do this. i can’t breathe."

his expression doesn’t shift right away, his fingers still clutching onto you like he needs to, like letting go isn’t an option, like he’s holding onto something more than just your wrist, like if he loosens his grip even a fraction, you’ll disappear into the night, into him, into someone else, and he won’t be able to stop it.

"no." his voice is hoarse, barely above a murmur, but there’s a desperation threaded through the single syllable, a quiet plea disguised as refusal.

then, as if something inside him snaps, his jaw clenches, his chest rising and falling unevenly as his grip hardens, not painful, but possessive, his knuckles white where his fingers press against your skin. 

his gaze flickers past you, to the figure still standing at your side, and suddenly, his expression twists—the rawness, the vulnerability, the broken look in his eyes morphing into something sharper, something furious.

"you’re leaving me again." his voice drops, rough and bitter, the words tasting like poison on his tongue.

then, his glare locks onto beomgyu, and his lips curl, resentment dripping from every syllable, from every jagged edge of his words as they fall from his mouth like something venomous.

"for him."

the way he spits it out, like it’s an accusation, like it’s a crime, like beomgyu is his mortal enemy and not his bandmate, not your friend, not someone who has simply been there in all the ways wonbin refuses to be—it makes something in your stomach churn, makes your heart lurch painfully against your ribs, makes your pulse thunder in your ears.

because it’s not true, it’s not fair, and yet, with the way he looks at you, with the way his body vibrates with something close to anger, close to desperation, close to grief, you know that he believes it.

he believes that you’re the one slipping away from him.

and worst of all, he thinks you’re doing it for someone else. as if you didn’t spend months, years, breaking yourself apart trying to stay close to him, trying to matter to him. as if you weren’t the one left behind, always the one left behind.

and suddenly, your chest tightens again, but this time, it’s not from the weight of his touch.

beomgyu shifts beside you, the tension rolling off of wonbin thick enough to suffocate, crackling like static in the air, sharp and unpredictable. he moves cautiously, hands lifting in a gesture of calm, his voice measured but firm, his tone laced with the same quiet patience he always carries, but this time, there's something beneath it, something warning, something protective.

"wonbin, let her go. you’re drunk," he says, careful but unwavering, his eyes flicking to where wonbin’s fingers are still wrapped around your wrist.

wonbin doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. doesn’t acknowledge anything but the storm raging inside him, the one that has taken over completely. the one that makes his grip tighten even as his breathing grows more erratic, his shoulders rising and falling like he’s trying to contain something uncontainable, like he’s one wrong word away from shattering completely.

he laughs.

but it’s not real, not amused, not even close.

it’s hollow, sharp at the edges, bitter enough to leave an aftertaste, his lips curling into something resembling a smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. his head tilts slightly, gaze flickering up and down beomgyu with something cold, something calculating, something that makes your stomach twist with unease.

"look at you," wonbin murmurs, voice low, almost mocking. "so fucking noble."

beomgyu stiffens, his jaw clenching, but he doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t react the way wonbin wants him to. instead, he takes another step forward, slow and deliberate, his movements careful, his expression unreadable.

"you’re drunk, man." beomgyu’s voice is steady, too steady, the kind of forced composure that only someone fully aware of how bad this could get would use. "let go of her."

that’s what sets wonbin off.

maybe it’s the implication that he isn’t himself, that he’s lost control, that someone else—someone like beomgyu—has the audacity to stand in front of him like he knows better, like he understands something about you that wonbin doesn’t.

or maybe it’s the simple fact that beomgyu is right.

either way, it happens too fast.

the moment wonbin’s fist collides with beomgyu’s jaw, the world around you fractures, the once-muted pulse of the party fading into nothing but the sickening sound of impact, of flesh meeting flesh, of a mistake that can never be undone. 

everything feels slower, heavier, the weight of the moment settling in your bones even as the force of the hit sends beomgyu stumbling back, his head snapping to the side, his balance shifting for just a fraction of a second before he rights himself, rolling his jaw as if to test for damage.

before anything else can happen, before wonbin can even take another breath, before he can react to what he’s just done, before his own mind can catch up to the reckless destruction his body has already enacted, strong hands are already gripping him from both sides, pulling him back with force, holding him steady before he can spiral any further.

"what the fuck, wonbin?" hongjoong’s voice cuts through the thick silence like a blade, his hands digging into wonbin’s shoulders as he shoves him backward, the sheer force enough to send him reeling, barely staying upright as gunil moves in, gripping his other arm, his hold just as firm, just as unrelenting.

gunil’s expression is unreadable, but his grip tells you everything—this is enough, this is over, this cannot go any further. his fingers dig into wonbin’s bicep, the tension in his jaw visible even beneath the dim lighting of the venue, his brows furrowed deep, his frustration palpable, but there’s something else beneath it, something like shock, something like disbelief.

wonbin doesn’t fight them, doesn’t struggle, but his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic movements, his fingers twitching at his sides as if they don’t know what to do, as if they’re still trying to hold onto something—onto you. 

his eyes are wild, unfocused, flickering between beomgyu and you, his lips parting like he wants to say something, like he wants to justify the unjustifiable, like he wants to pull himself out of the wreckage he’s just created, but no words come, nothing but the sound of his unsteady breath and the quiet tremor in his shoulders that not even the alcohol can mask.

but you don’t have time to think about him.

because beomgyu is still standing there, his hand pressed against his jaw, fingers tracing the bruising skin, his expression unreadable as he exhales slowly, deliberately, as if trying to contain something sharp, something dangerous, something that, if let loose, would burn through this entire moment like wildfire.

you don’t hesitate, don’t think twice before stepping closer, your hands moving on instinct, reaching for him with careful, urgent movements, the touch gentle but intentional, checking for injury, for anything deeper than the surface-level damage that already begins to bloom in shades of red and purple beneath his skin.

"shit beomgyu. let me see—does it hurt?" the words slip out before you can stop them, before you can even register them, but they are real, they are raw, laced with concern that you don’t have the energy to hide, because right now, none of the tension, none of the complicated emotions you’ve spent weeks suppressing, none of the chaos swirling around you matters more than the fact that beomgyu is standing here, having taken a hit he never should have had to take.

he exhales through his nose, his hand dropping from his jaw as he meets your gaze, and for a second, just a second, something softens—his eyes still dark, still laced with something unreadable, but no longer sharp, no longer challenging, just tired.

"it’s cool," he murmurs, though his voice is lower than usual, quieter, like he doesn’t fully believe it himself, like maybe he’s saying it more for your sake than his own.

you don’t believe him.

not when you can see the way he’s rolling his shoulders, the way his fingers are still flexing at his sides, the way his jaw tightens again when he swallows. but you don’t push, don’t press, don’t say anything else, because the moment between you is already too fragile, too delicate, and the weight of wonbin’s gaze, despite everything, despite everyone, is still burning into the side of your face.

the air is still charged, thick with tension that clings to your skin like humidity, making it harder to breathe, harder to think, harder to stay. the weight of everything—the punch, the way wonbin had looked at you with something closer to devastation than anger, the fact that you had to choose in a moment that should have never happened—settles heavy in your chest, but right now, all you can focus on is getting beomgyu away from it, away from the mess that was left in the wake of wonbin’s unraveling.

you don’t say anything as you grab beomgyu’s wrist, your grip firm but not forceful, guiding him through the crowd that is already whispering, already buzzing with speculation, their eyes darting between the scene that had just unfolded and the three of you—like they are watching a tragedy play out in real time, desperate for the next act.

he doesn’t resist, doesn’t protest, just follows, his steps easy but measured, his other hand still pressing lightly to his jaw, his expression unreadable beneath the dim lights of the hallway as you pull him into one of the private backrooms, the door clicking shut behind you, sealing you away from the noise, from the weight of all the eyes still watching.

you exhale slowly, pressing your palms against the cool marble counter for a brief second before turning back to him, taking in the way he leans back against the counter, his legs slightly spread for balance, his hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing himself. 

the luxurious space around you is a stark contrast to the scene outside—low lighting, sleek fixtures, the kind of expensive décor that belongs to people who don’t flinch at the sight of chaos, but none of it matters, none of it registers, because all you can see is him, the way the bruise is already beginning to bloom along his cheekbone, darkening against his sun-kissed skin.

"sit up here," you murmur, motioning toward the counter beside you, and beomgyu lifts a brow but obeys, gripping the edge as he hoists himself up, the movement easy despite the soreness that must be settling into his jaw.

you step closer, pressing an ice pack—found in the minibar—to his cheek with careful fingers, watching the way his lips part slightly at the initial shock of cold before his expression evens out, his lashes fluttering briefly as he adjusts to the sensation.

"you didn’t have to do that, you know," you say after a beat, your voice softer now, lower, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins but dulling into something more manageable, something tired.

he lets out a quiet chuckle, though it comes out a little rough, a little worn, a little strained from the tension still lingering between you. "what, take a punch for you?" his lips twitch slightly, his usual playful glint returning just enough to remind you that he’s okay, that despite everything, he’s still him.

you shake your head, pressing the ice pack a little more firmly against his cheek, watching the way his brows furrow slightly at the sensation before continuing. "step in. try to talk him down."

beomgyu exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly into the ice, his voice dropping into something more contemplative. 

"he was hurting you."

the words settle between you, weighted, laced with something unspoken, something that neither of you are willing to unpack right now.

outside the room, standing in the dim, sterile glow of the hallway, wonbin watches you leave.

his chest still heaves from exertion, from the anger that has nowhere left to go, from the alcohol burning through his veins, making everything feel too sharp, too blurred, too much. his hands curl into fists at his sides, not out of rage, but out of something else entirely—something hollow, something aching, something that claws up his throat and sits heavy on his tongue, suffocating him with the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t done, hadn’t been fast enough to fix.

wonbin barely registers the hands gripping his arms, barely hears hongjoong’s voice telling him to breathe, barely notices the way gunil steps in front of him like a barricade, trying to ground him, to stop him, to keep him from unraveling further. but it’s already too late—his head is spinning, his breath is shallow, the walls of the room shrinking around him, and every desperate inhale burns like he’s choking on the weight of something he doesn’t know how to hold.

because this is what drowning feels like.

not the kind where water fills your lungs, but the kind where something inside you is collapsing, pulling you under, dragging you deeper into something dark, something inescapable, something you can’t fucking fight because you don’t even understand when it started.

don’t even understand when it started.

but now—now he understands.

now, as he stands there with the ghost of your wrist still burning against his palm, with the dull ache of his own reckless violence pulsing in his knuckles, with the image of you tending to beomgyu playing like a cruel loop behind his eyes, he knows.

it was you. it had always been you.

you were the reason for the unease, the sleepless nights, the sudden hollow ache where something unnamed used to be. you were the reason why every breath felt heavier, why his chest tightened when he saw you laughing with someone else, why his stomach twisted when you stopped looking at him the way you used to. you were the reason why nothing felt right anymore, why he felt like he was chasing something he’d already lost, why the space beside him—where you should be, where you had always been—felt empty.

and now, with the taste of whiskey thick on his tongue and the weight of realization slamming into him like a freight train, wonbin finally, finally understands the one thing he had been too blind—too stupid—to see.

park wonbin, golden boy, untouchable, adored, reckless with hearts that were never his to keep—had finally fallen in love, after years of  convincing himself that love—real love—was something fleeting, something temporary, something meant for other people, but never for him. he had made a habit of keeping people at arm’s length, of moving from one touch to the next, never lingering, never holding on, because holding on meant attachment, and attachment meant vulnerability, and vulnerability—god, vulnerability meant giving someone the power to leave.

the thought makes his pulse stutter, makes his knees threaten to buckle, makes his vision blur at the edges, and suddenly, the room isn’t big enough, the air isn’t enough, the walls are closing in too fast, too violently, suffocating him, crushing him, forcing him to face the one truth he cannot outrun.

he stumbles back, hongjoong calling his name, gunil reaching for him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t turn, doesn’t breathe—because if he stays here, if he sees you touch him again, if he sees you smile at him, if he has to watch beomgyu be the one standing beside you, with you, while he stands here alone—

he might break apart completely.

[scary-grace]

Idk about the whole set but that scene with T1000’s hand turns into a knife, he had that 😳 omg .. share your thoughts

I didn't have thoughts so much as a little ficlet, based on the idea of the T-1000 having to "sample" people in order to transform into them! Terminator 2 AU, Shigaraki x reader, T-1000!Shigaraki, heavy warnings for this for blood, murder, implied dubcon, etc.

Blood splashes.

Nobody ever told you that, and you never read it in a book or saw it on TV. Blood trickles, streams, pools, spreads. Gentle words, smooth words. The wrong words, written by someone who’s never seen what you’re seeing now. The man in your kitchen isn’t a man. He’s a monster, with a knife for a hand, and that knife is jammed into your boyfriend’s open mouth, exiting out the back of his head and skewering him to the wall. Your boyfriend is still twitching weakly, every jerk of his body sending spurts of blood from his mouth. His blood falls to the kitchen floor, where it splashes. The sound is almost obscene.

It’s not as obscene as the sound the blade of the knife makes as the monster withdraws it from your boyfriend’s mouth, or the sound his body makes as it thuds limply to the floor. You should be running. You should have run when you saw the knife, but instead, you’re rooted to the spot, your breath coming in short, anguished gasps. Your mind is still hung up on the blood splashing on the floor as the monster’s knife changes shape, melting back into a hand, fingers, fingernails. The monster rolls his shoulders, shifting the strands of his white hair. And then he turns towards you.

Your legs ache with the urge to run, but if you take a single step, you’re certain you’ll fall flat. It’ll be bad enough to die here, killed by something that shouldn’t exist, without dying on the floor as you’re trying to run away. You look into the monster’s red eyes as he approaches, so you’ll have somewhere to look other than his jagged, lopsided smile. But his eyes are even worse, blank yet calculating, completely unfamiliar. He looks human. He isn’t, and you squeeze your eyes shut rather than look a second longer. Tears drip down your face as you wait for the end.

Something sharp jabs against your cheek, and you picture the tip of the knife, only for it to soften moments later. You open your eyes and see the monster’s hand pulling back from your face, your tears pooling on his fingertip. He studies it for a moment, head tilted sideways, then raises it to his lips, sucking it clean. His body ripples at that, like a glitch on a computer screen, before settling again. “Hmm,” he remarks, his voice raspy. “He said you wouldn’t be home for an hour.”

“Maybe he was hoping you’d leave before I got here.” You swallow hard. “What are you?”

“Do you need to know?” The monster scoffs and reaches out back towards you, his hand swiping beneath your other eye this time. He speaks between sucks of his finger, as though there’s something appealing about your tears. “You saw what I can do.”

You nod. You can’t look at your boyfriend’s body without wanting to cry, and every time more tears leak from your eyes, the monster gathers them up and tastes them. “Are you going to do that to me?”

“I can do a lot of things,” the monster says, “but I can’t be two people at once. So, no – not yet.”

Before your eyes, he begins to change, his features shifting, his hair darkening. His red eyes lose their color, but not their malevolence, as he settles into an identical resemblance of your boyfriend. Or almost identical. The scars over his eye and lip don’t fade. His voice hasn’t lost its rasp, either, but it sounds enough like your boyfriend to have fooled you. If you hadn’t watched him die, you’d have no idea he’d been replaced by this – thing. “What do you think?” the monster asks, a mocking note in his voice. “Is this how you usually say hello to your boyfriend when you come home early?”

You shake your head, and the monster’s smile distorts. “Show me.”

It’s not him. The monster isn’t your boyfriend, but it looks like him, and some part of you is desperate to fool yourself. Desperate to believe it’s not happening, that it’s just a joke or a prank, and so you take a wobbly step forward, close enough to wrap your arms around the monster’s neck. “I – I missed you,” you say, your voice shaking. The illusion shatters a second later. “Please don’t kill me.”

“I said not yet.” The monster stands stiffly in your arms. “I need you with me if I’m going to fool that kid.”

That kid – your boyfriend’s nephew, who ran away from home, who the two of you were fostering until yesterday afternoon when he ran from you, too? “This isn’t how you fool people,” you say. Your hands are shaking so badly. “My boyfriend – he’d hug me back.”

The monster’s arms are cold and hard around your waist, like metal rather than flesh and blood. How are you supposed to fool yourself like this, let alone anyone else? “What else?” the monster asks. “The human. What else would he do?”

You shrug, and the monster’s grip tightens. “Nothing,” you gasp. “Nothing he’d let his nephew see.”

The monster takes a step back, caging you against the wall. His body aligns with yours, pinning you perfectly in place no matter how you squirm. Your tears start again, and this time, the monster’s tongue flicks out to collect them, cold as iron. “Show me,” he says, in that voice that sounds like your boyfriend’s but not, as his leg slides between yours the same as your boyfriend’s would have. “There’s time.”

drive ->

[lianadelune]

pairing: alastor x reader

author's notes: sorry for the long wait 😭 college hates me and i started a new internship and i don't even have time to think about writing... but i finished another chapter, i don't know if it's good but i hope you like it, hopefully the next one is longer but i can't make any promises ;)

part 1

“what’s wrong?” charlie asked with a worried tone.

“nothing you have to concern your little head about it” alastor forced a smile, he knew none of them would believe him but he needed a couple hours alone to think about the letter “now… if there’s nothing more to be said, i will be going”

and before any of them could ask more questions alastor blended into the shadows and transported himself to his room in the hotel.

letting his smile drop a little he sat on his bed and stared at the letter in his hands.

why were they doing this to him?

sure, he’s not exactly the best person out there but he at least tried to be somewhat civil, between helping charlie with this excuse of a hotel and trying to not infringe on the terms of the deal he made long ago.

but this… this put everything he spent the last decades building in jeopardy.

if alastor could he would simply tear this letter apart and burn it, never thinking about those words again.

the demon stepped in front of his fireplace with the letter in hands ready to ignore and completely forget about it, but the tight grip on his hands didn’t let the letter fall in the flames.

he couldn’t.

after staring at the letter for what felt like hours, alastor finally set it aside. he could see the angels’ game as clear as day: they were setting him up to fail, counting on his nature to make it impossible for anyone, much less a human, to see him as anything more than a monster

and with that he was setting the hotel to fail spectacularly and that certainly wasn’t his deal with lilith all those years before.

that’s why she sent him the letter.

threatening everything he had accomplished with her help, either alastor likes to admit it or not.

but alastor was nothing if not stubborn, he wouldn’t let this stupid joke from heaven and lilith destroy everything for him, and, as much as he hates to admit, for charlie as well, and he wasn’t about to play the angels’ little game without a twist of his own.

after alastor’s initial attempts to charm you—mostly involving unsettling gifts, eerie glances, and his “radio smile” lingering far too long—he began to realize that his usual tactics weren't working. he’d appear in mirrors, whisper eerie compliments from dark corners, and once even serenaded you with a distorted, old-timey song that left you rattled. and yet, instead of getting closer, you were pulling away, more suspicious than ever.

seeing his frustration, the crew decided to intervene.

“look, al,” angel dust said one afternoon as he watched alastor pace around the lobby. “you can’t just be creepy and expect a girl to swoon. romance isn’t about lurking around like some horror movie villain.”

alastor frowned, his smile flickering. “romance isn’t exactly my expertise,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “but I was certain that she’d appreciate a little…mystique.”

“maybe tone down the ‘i’m watching you from the shadows’ vibe,” charlie suggested gently. “why don’t you just…be there for her? show up, help her out, maybe smile a little less, um…serial-killer-y?”

husk snorted, shaking his head. “yeah, or just act like a normal person for once. no haunting, no creeping.”

alastor grimaced, but, reluctantly, he took their advice. the next time he appeared, it was during the day, while you were organizing books on the shelf. he simply knocked on the door—a sharp, polite rap that startled you. when you turned, he was standing there with an unreadable expression, his hands behind his back.

“good afternoon,” he said, his voice smooth, though still holding that eerie undertone. “i thought perhaps I could assist you…if you’d allow.”

you looked at him with a puzzled expression, was he joking? after almost scaring you to death all those days and making you actually consider moving out of the very nice house you didn’t actually pay rent to now being polite as if he’s a sort of roomate of yours wanting to make peace after an argument?

you scoffed but still allowed him to help, at least he could make himself useful after everything.

“so…” you said after a while, still side-eyeing him, expecting your ghostly intruder to do something suspicious “what are you exactly?”

alastor stopped on his tracks, still with a book on his hands halfway through to be put on the shelf.

“well, me dear” you noticed the static on voice had toned down significantly after your first encounters “i am a demon”

“a demon, huh” you squinted, why the hell didn’t your grandmother tell you she had a freaking demon living in her house? “do you have a name, demon?”

alastor’s smile faltered a little, back in hell he would never let anyone talk to him like this, but here he was swallowing the harsh words he wanted to say at the cost of his life... or even better not-life.

“no name?” you insisted, making him wake up from his daydream.

“the name’s alastor” the deer-man turned towards you, the pile of books on his hand gone and the room feeling less like a mess “and what is your name?”

“you are haunting me and don't even know my name?” you crossed your arms on your chest, laughing at the idea.

alastor opened his mouth to send a snarky remark in your direction but you were faster.

“my name is (y/n)... (y/n) (y/l/n)”

after you introduced yourself, alastor’s expression flickered briefly, he had heard your name before he was sure he had but why couldn’t he place it from where? it’s not usual for alastor to forget things like this, he made a mental note to talk to charlie about it, maybe she would know.

“well, (y/n), i must say,” alastor began “it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance properly.” he extended a hand in an oddly formal gesture, as if you were meeting at a tea party rather than dealing with an uninvited demon in your grandmother’s home.

despite yourself, you almost felt a pang of amusement at his attempt at chivalry, and with a smirk, you took his hand. his touch was cool, yet strangely grounding. but the moment you released his hand, that unnerving cheshire grin of his was back.

“now that we’re formally introduced,” he said, leaning in with an amused gleam in his eye, “perhaps you’ll stop looking at me like a poltergeist?”

“maybe if you stop acting like one,” you countered, rolling your eyes but finding yourself oddly charmed by his persistence.

taglist: @vxllys

[i-heart-slashers]

Unknown Caller

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: Billy x Female!Reader x Stu

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Alone on a quiet night, you receive a late-night call from you boyfriends, Billy and Stu, who playfully taunt you using the voice modulator. When the duo reveals they are closer than you think, you barely has time to react before they unlock the door with a stolen key and force their way inside.

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙: 1.3k

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Stalking/Home Invasion Themes. Suggested Violence/Menace. Suggestive Content. Psychological Tension. Manhandling. Biting. Polyarmory. Established Relationship.

The glow of the TV flickers across the dimly lit living room as you stretch out on the couch, absently flipping through channels. The quiet hum of late-night programming fills the space, lulling you into a comfortable daze—until your phone buzzes against the coffee table.

Unknown number.

With an exaggerated sigh, you pick up. "Hello?" you answer, voice dripping with false innocence just in case it's someone calling for your parents.

A familiar, distorted voice purrs, "What's your favorite scary mo—"

"Billy, I swear to God, if you call me with that voice modulator one more time—" You sigh, flicking through channels on the TV with nothing good to watch.

There's a beat of silence, then an audible exhale on the other end. "How do you always know?"

A second voice, more excitable, crackles through the speaker. "Maybe 'cause you're obsessed, dude."

"Says the guy who made me call her," Billy mutters, annoyed, and you can hear the exasperation in his voice for his best friend.

You roll your eyes at your boyfriends; this wasn't the first nor last time they'd try this. "What do you two idiots want?"

There's some shuffling on the line before Stu takes over. "Oh, not much. Just thought we'd check in." the tone of his voice wasn't nonchalant. It was lingering — they were up to something.

You frown, shifting upright as you place the remote on the coffee table, now on high alert and already having a feeling about where this is going. "Check in from where?"

Billy's voice drops, amusement and a hint of dark excitement laced through every word. "Outside." he purrs, and you can hear the subtle sounds of their breaths and footsteps over the phone.

Your stomach tightens at the simplicity of his answer. "Outside where?"

"Your house."

You lurch forward, pulling the curtain aside slightly as you look outside, checking the area. The yard is dark, the street silent, but that doesn't mean anything—not with them.

"You were gonna break in, weren't you?" you accuse, already knowing the answer. They knew you were alone tonight, your parents were at some get-together with their friends.

"Technically, it's not breaking in if we have a key," Stu sing-songs almost mockingly.

Your breath catches both confusion and disbelief. "You do not have a—"

The soft click of your front door unlocking echoes through the quiet house as your pulse stutters.

The door swings open slowly, revealing Stu's ever-present grin as he steps inside like he owns the place. Billy follows right behind, closing the door with a deliberate slowness. Their eyes gleam with mischief as they take in your reaction.

"Surprise!" Stu announces, arms spread wide as he rushes to you and you run much like the victim in every horror movie. Leaving the taller boy to chance and tackle you to the couch, pinning you under his weight.

"Are you two serious?" You groan as Stu's hands are tight around your wrists holding them above your head on the couch, leaving you squirming and glaring. "I could have called the cops!"

Billy tilts his head, smirk widening as he takes his time to get to the couch, leaving your 'capture' up to Stu. "What's wrong? Didn't expect company?"

"Not uninvited company who thinks home invasion is flirting!" you snap, annoyed at being manhandled, though the stirring in your stomach disagrees with that sentiment.

Stu lets an exaggerated sigh into your neck, biting the skin there. Stretching himself over your body like he belongs there. "Aw, c'mon, babe. You love us."

Billy leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dark and unreadable. "And you wouldn't call the cops on us."

You try to free your arms from Stu's bruising grip, meeting Billy's gaze with a challenge. "And why not?"

He doesn't blink as he smirks, his dark gaze roaming your body under Stu, his inner thoughts and desires clear. "Because then we'd have to teach you a lesson."

Stu grins, tossing a look at his best friend before they both glance back at you with matching grins of amusement. "A really fun lesson."

Your heart pounds—not entirely from fear.

The air in the room thickens a cocktail of tension and something dangerously enticing. Stu's weight presses you deeper into the couch, his teeth grazing your neck again—harder this time, just enough to make you gasp.

Billy pushes off the wall, his slow, deliberate steps closing the distance until he looms over you both, his shadow stretching across the flickering TV screen.

"Lesson, huh?" you manage, voice sharp despite how your body betrays you, squirming less out of resistance now and more out of instinct. "What's that gonna look like, Billy? You gonna bore me to death with another movie rant?"

Billy's smirk twists into something darker, his eyes glinting with that unhinged edge you've learned to both dread and crave. He crouches beside the couch, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face.

"Oh, I've got better ideas than that," he murmurs, voice low and syrupy with menace. "But you keep running that mouth, and I might let Stu gag you instead."

Stu snickers, shifting so his knee nudges between your thighs, his grip on your wrists tightening as he leans in to whisper against your ear. "I vote gag. Bet you'd look real pretty with something stuffed in there." His breath is hot, his tone teasing, but there's a gleam in his eyes that says he's only half-joking.

You roll your eyes huffing, fighting the flush creeping up your neck. "You two are psychopaths. You know that, right?"

"Only for you," Stu chirps, nipping at your earlobe before glancing at Billy for approval—like a kid showing off a new trick.

Billy's gaze doesn't waver, locked on yours as his fingers trail down your jaw, lingering at your throat. "Psychopaths who know exactly what you like," he says, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point, feeling it jump.

The words hang there, heavy and loaded, and for a moment, the room feels like it's holding its breath. The TV drones on in the background—some cheesy slasher flick, the kind they'd mock relentlessly, but it's drowned out by the thudding in your chest.

You could fight harder, scream, kick, call their bluff. But you don't. And they know you won't. "Fine," you say at last, voice steady despite the chaos they've sparked in you. "Now what?"

Stu's grin widens, victorious, and he releases your wrists only to slide his hands down your arms, settling them on your hips. "Now," he says, voice dripping with glee, "we have some fun. House is ours tonight, right?"

Billy straightens up, his expression unreadable but his intent clear as he tilts his head toward the stairs. "Upstairs," he commands, already moving like he owns the place. "Unless you'd rather we drag you."

You scoff, shoving Stu off you with a mix of annoyance and adrenaline-fueled excitement. "You wish," you mutter, brushing past them both as you head for the stairs, their eyes burning into your back.

Halfway up, you pause, glancing over your shoulder with a smirk of your own. "But don't think I'm making this easy for you."

Stu laughs, bounding up after you like an eager puppy. At the same time, Billy follows at a slower pace, his stare predatory and patient. "Oh, babe," Stu calls, voice laced with dark promise, "we wouldn't have it any other way."

The door to your room creaks open, and as the three of you step inside, the night stretches out before you—equal parts game, nightmare, and something neither of them will let you forget come morning.

The lock clicks shut behind Billy, and in the dim glow of your bedroom, their shadows loom larger than life. Just the way you like it.

[liquidglassblog]

I was going to post art but wrote a story instead 😭😭

❗️TW: JUNO INCIDENT

Heart took his place at the kitchen table, it had been set for three. Mind sat across from him, with Soul to his right.

Dinner had been cooked by Soul personally, some pasta with sauce. The colourful pointed hat on Mind's head crowned him the birthday boy, making it obvious who the meal was catered to.

Heart narrowed his eyes. Just the sight of his opposite half being happy irked him. After all Mind did to him, after all he didn't do for him. For Soul, for Whole, for himself...

In Heart's opinion, he was the worst thing to ever happen to this- this place they found themselves in. Yet Soul still sat around, and made him sit around, to celebrate him. This unfeeling monster.

He couldn't stand it anymore. He was tired of listening to Mind and Soul talk when they should be doing... something. Anything but this! They should be Whole! Not this! He was sick of pretending this was normal.

"Can we hurry this up?" Heart butted in mid conversation. Mind would've liked to just skip over it, act like Heart hadn't spoken, but Soul acknowledged Heart's words. "'Just a little conversation." He said soothingly. Mind watched as Soul ate his dinner, not resuming the the conversation they'd been mid way through.

"Thanks a lot, Heart." Mind said a bit bitterly, casting his gaze to Heart. "Way to ruin the mood." He felt like he was just saying the silent part out loud. It was just one day out 365, could he really not even give him that?

"I just want to go to bed." Heart didn't really, he just wanted to back out of this brewing argument. Regret flourished in the pit of his chest, maybe his previous comment and thinking had been rash-

"Then go to bed, if it stops you from being so irritable. We're certainly not stopping you."

"Mind." Soul extended a hand to rest on Mind's shoulder, to hopefully calm things down, but as usual the clash carried on.

"Look, I'm sorry for what I said, I'm just tired." Heart muttered, resting his forehead on his hand. His voice was quiet but firm.

"Oh, quit the bullshit. You're aren't really tired, are you? Just-... Just bitter, I suppose. Jealous, even." Mind accused. "God forbid I have one day for me-!"

Heart's patience wore thin, "But it never is just one day, is it? Every day is always the same with you! Me, me, me, me, me! 'We should do it my way, it's better this way, you're doing it wrong, you're why we split!'" He punctuated his sentence with a slam of his hand, rattling the dishes.

Soul watched on, sick to the back teeth already. Sick and tired. Exhausted. He could agree on Heart with one thing, every day was always the same, albeit with both of them. Fighting day in, day out. He'd hoped that today they'd at least keep it civil, but apparently even that was too much to hope for.

"Typical. Just typical. Always the helpless victim, aren't you?" Mind spat back, "Well fine! If that's how you see things, then fine. I am right. There, is that what you wanted to hear? Will that be the smoking gun to your argument? I AM right! I'm right about you doing everything wrong! I'm right about things being better my way! I'm right about you being the reason we're even here in the first place!"

There was a tense silence after Mind's tirade. Soul had long since mentally checked out from this argument, they all blended together after the 100th. Heart was silently seething, though.

Tears of anger gathered at the rims of his purple eyes. He rose from his seat abruptly. He pointed his right finger at Mind, his other hand braced against the table.

"I hate you!" He yelled.

"I hate you so, so much!" Electricity seemed to come to a stand still.

"I hate everything about you!" The space around his hand flickered and warped. Soul's eyes narrowed at the energy gathering. It was... familiar.

"I hate what you've done to Soul!" The distortion grew more shapely. A gun tearing itself into existence, into Heart's hand.

"I hate what you've done to Whole!" The gun was taking on colour now, sleek and purple, more purple than seemed possible.

"I hate what you've done to me!" The hammer drew back with a click, without Heart laying his thumb on it.

"I wish you never existed, Mind! I wish you'd die!" There was click, then a crack in the air. Mind's neck spurted more blood than Soul thought possible. The bullet had done more damage than Soul thought possible either, for something so tiny. It carried a concentrated hit of all Heart's sorrow, despair, and hate.

A deep blue spurted all over the table, dripping down the front of Mind's shirt. He garbled and wobbled on his seat the hit the floor with a resounding thud.

Soul was horrified, he felt his heart pound and mind race. He didn't know what to do, he could hardly believe this was real. Maybe he'd fallen asleep, maybe he'd catch hold of reality and bring himself back to present. But this was present.

"Oh my God- What is wrong with you!?" Soul screamed as soon as he found the words. With fumbling hands he got to floor beside Mind and tried to contain the bleeding. He'd worked so many crazy things before, was one more miracle too much to ask for?

Heart stood stiffly, watching Soul try fix the mess he'd caused. He felt sick to his stomach. He'd done that. He'd killed Mind. Heart tossed the gun away like it burned, he couldn't bear the weight of it in his hands any longer. He backed away from the table with wide eyes.

All he could see was the pain in Mind's dimming gaze. All he could hear was the gargling from Mind's wound.

The tears that had gathered in his eyes fell fast and hard, fat droplets rolling down his cheeks as he cried. "I didn't-"

Soul was too busy to listen to Heart's defence. His gloves grew thick and wet with blood within seconds of clasping at Mind's neck. More troubling still, the bleeding was ebbing. He hoped that it was a sign of success, and not what he thought it was...

———

Heart turned over in the deep, moist, earthy grave he found himself in. He couldn't tell if this was mercy or purgatory. Having to live with his actions.

It'd been just over three months now, he guessed. The guilt only worsened with time, growing heavier and heavier on his chest. Some nights it felt like he could hardly breath, sobbing until his retched.

In the beginning of it, Soul had brought him food twice a day, breakfast and dinner, but those meals were becoming scarce. He'd taken to eating the mushrooms that grew just within his reach. They were tough and chewy, bitter tasting, but provided more relief than one. Satisfying his appetite and temporarily freeing him from the Hell that was reality.

Heart's feathered ears perked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, one of Soul's rare visits.

He watched the shadow creep over the pit and already he could tell something was wrong. It had no horns. Then the face came into view.

It made Heart's whole world turn on his head, Mind.

It was enough to make Heart think he really was losing it. Maybe he'd taken a mushroom and didn't remember, maybe he was asleep. But no. Mind really was standing there. Living, breathing, and speaking.

Heart's conscience warred between joy and disappointment. He felt awful there was ever even a conflict in his mind to begin with. He should be overjoyed, really. But it made him feel as though he'd been down there for nothing. Forced him to confront what he'd done. He could see it right in Mind's neck, an odd implant or chocker letting him talk.

"I-" Heart felt choked up, tears swelling in his eyes, "I'm sorry, Mind. I'm so sorry..." He blubbered, staring up at his opposite.

Mind looked as disinterested as he could, but he'd come seeking... something. Closure? Revenge? An answer? He couldn't quite think of the words he'd revised on his walk to the grave. How could you, Heart? How could you do that? The words just felt lame, looking Heart in the eyes now.

"Why?" The word tumbled out of his mouth, finally.

Heart didn't know what to tell him aside from sorry.

[elliesspacewalker]

“Me and the devil walking side by side”

summary: you lived in a small town in Jackson, you went to a small high school with your best friend Ellie, Dina and Jesse… everything was normal, until it wasn’t.

cw: 18+, no smut but a lot of gore, mentions of substance use (weed and alcohol), usage of alcohol, mentions of schizophrenia and psychosis, mentions of drugging but no drugging, mentions of spiders for all you lil people who are scared of them (don’t worry i am too), mentions of murder, semi demon/vampire.

“y/n?”

…

“y/n?!”

…

y/n” Ellie says, putting her hand on your shoulder to make sure you’re okay “you okay? you look like you’ve just seen a ghost”

Technically, she isn’t wrong. although, it wasn’t a ghost you saw while you were zoned out. it was more of a…. vision? but you didn’t know what to think of it because it was blurry and oh shit you’re lost in thought again.

You shake your head fast and turn to Ellie “yeah. i’m good, you good??” a nervous chuckle left your lips, ellie’s piercing green eyes staring at you—they’re soft yet powerful eyes, it always made you smile.

She smiles back understanding your nervous chuckle, she laughs a bit and then confirms she is doing okay as well.

“you wanna go get something to eat?” Ellie asks in a soft voice, you nod and both go downstairs. Joel, ellie’s father was sitting at the table sipping on coffee (just how he always does) “watcha want?”

“uh, whatever you want” you reply back, her voice more unsteady now “oh i’ve already eaten. i’m full” that’s weird, you had been with ellie all day and hadn’t seen her eat once, maybe she snuck some food into the bathroom when you weren’t looking so you brush it off as nothing…

“I gotta get home, thanks for having me!” you smile and give her a hug, thanking joel for letting you come over—the walk home was how it always was, you lived up the road from ellie and although it was close, it was getting dark.

“hey ma! i’m home!” you shout out as you open the front door, yet another sight to come home to your dad sipping on a beer and watching the tv, it felt odd to see your mom watching the tv so you walk over to see the news…

“a young boy found dead, police have confirmed he was a 14-year-old boy from the high school here in Jackson, his name being James Reed, if there are any witness’s who may have seen something happen please contact the police immediately” the lady on the news explains, leaving you and your mother shocked, your dad just scoffs “probably got drunk and fell over himself”

“the bite marks found on him are not identified by scientists and we recommend everyone stays indoors at night time” the woman explains further, leaving your dad with wide eyes as he realises this is more serious than he thought.

“no more going out at night” your mother says, “but mom?”

“no buts, don’t want to find you dead, no more going to ellie’s late at night otherwise you’ll have to stay home or sleep over at hers” you let out a sigh… “fine”

—

Throughout the night you have trouble sleeping, a constant ringing and talking in your ear— you’ve always experienced these, especially after smoking weed for the first time, a constant assumption it was just psychosis… Eventually these distorted words got louder and louder and you couldn’t handle it anymore, pulling your hands up to your ear and sitting up in bed, back pressing against your headboard…

“t-ehy wabt ta gat you” the voices grew louder and louder, your body covered in sweat as you try to remain calm…

“you- cannot escape this” the one clear voice you’ve gotten, though it didn’t sound like someone you knew- that’s when it all stopped, as soon as the voice realised it had disoriented you and made you beyond paranoid… you could barely function, the fear that someone could be fucking with your head- maybe someone drugged you, maybe i’m insane, maybe something is wrong with you?

these ideas bouncing around your head left and right before you finally fell into a deep sleep, a coma like state, you couldn’t feel your body- it was numb to the world and your senses felt like they were gone, it started with an itch on your neck when you were in such a deep sleep, you scratch it and immediately it went away, but the burning sensation didn’t go away…

Waking up was difficult, getting almost no sleep you head to the bathroom to brush your teeth- you grabbed your toothbrush and started brushing your teeth, it’s when you looked in the mirror and saw two bite marks, they weren’t deep but looked like spider bites almost.

you shrugged and went downstairs to tell your dad there were spiders in your room again.

“brekky?” your mom asks, you nod. “how’d you sleep?” your mothers voice calm and relaxed, you just lie and say it was good.

“fantastic” she butters your toast and gives it to you, you sit down at the table and start eating-

that’s when everything around you looked distorted in a way, you could make out what was around you but it just didn’t feel right- the voices were back.

i

“you enjoying the food?” the voice asks, you look around you confused “no one can hear it” it adds on, you don’t know if you should talk or just talk via your mind, you pull a hair strand behind your ear as you start to sweat up a bit… your mom taking notice and asking if you’re okay, your pupils blown big and your actions erratic “school! now, bye!” your words didn’t make sense but you couldn’t control over what you said, almost like you were being controlled.

I know this is short but when i have more inspiration to write i will, promise. I just had this as a draft for wayyy too long.. should i make a part 2 tho? that’s the better question..

[nightlyrequiem]

Would you consider writing something about detective reader and Valeria? I think it would be so cool that reader is looking for her and she’s fascinated (maybe in a twisted way/maybe she isn’t a really good person) and Valeria is interested in her bc of how she matches Valerias energy. Idk!!

One unhinged woman? I'm in love. Two unhinged women? I died and went to heaven.

I purposefully left the ending a little open ended because I want to come back to this and write a part two someday

I <3 evil women

Tags/Warnings: WLW, Violence, Stalking, Valeria and Reader Fight, Reader Has Questionable Morals

Alikeness

 Observant. Persistent. Obsessive. All qualities that successful detectives should have. You've been doing this for ten years. Like a bloodhound with a scent, no case remains unfinished when assigned to you. A good detective revolves their life around their work. A good detective is her work. You know your preoccupation with your job isn't healthy. You've lost little pieces of yourself every case. Chipped away at yourself until something new and distorted crawled out from it's shell. the newest thing bouncing around inside your skull is El Sin Nombre. A notorious and influential Mexican drug cartel leader. No one has been able find his true identity. Allowing him to live up to his moniker. Your eyes burn as you stare at your computer screen. At three different headshots belonging to three different former special forces officers. He may not even be a he.

Truman Wenchow, Seth Veros, and Valeria Garza. All had gone awol after La Araña had been dethroned. You can feel it deep beneath your skin. An inkling that has never steered you wrong that one of these individuals is your person. Finding out that Seth has died sometime in twenty-twenty narrow things down. Corruption isn't uncommon. Not in Las Almas. the reigning Cartel has always had its claws sunk deep into the local authority systems. Everyone has a price after all. Local is usually where it ends though. El Sin Nombre is far too ambitious to stay in the confines of 'local'. El Sin Nombre has expanded their reach into the hearts of Puerto Rico, Ecuador, El Salvador, and the States. This bleeds deeper than you thought. The closer you get to the truth the more dangerous this becomes.

Only a few weeks ago, just a shy of a month, you began receiving threats. Warnings to stop. It had the opposite affect intended. Your mind glossed over the words spelled out for you and instead rearranged them into something else entirely. 'You're close. Come find me.'  this could very well kill you, you're aware. late nights spent in the darkest corners of the internet have shown you just exactly what cartels are capable of. You find yourself unafraid. You've done similar things in pursuit of answers, and you will do worse to obtain more.

Out of the three suspects on your list, only one still lives in Mexico. as elusive as she is. All you're able to find are traces. Breadcrumbs left behind. Credit card history, grainy camera footage. Government documents. Getting information on Valeria Garza was like pulling teeth. Only a few former brothers in arms were able to offer up meager footnotes about the woman of the past. headstrong, ambitious, violent, efficient. You were able to track down her home, though. An unassuming property located on the quieter side of town. It's not the home one would expect a wealthy drug lord to keep but you've found that exteriors rarely match their interiors.

The sky is clear and inky. A high half-moon and it's thousand glittering eyes watch over you as wait outside of Valeria's home. It's neat and taken care of. There's a single car parked in the driveway. A dark colored SUV. Not a light on inside the house. Valeria is inside. El Sin Nombre is inside. Asleep in one of the rooms. Such a human action for such a monolithic figure. You pull on your gloves and check to make sure your firearm is working before getting out of your car. Seek and destroy. You walk up to Valeria's home with confidence. Sticking close to the rough, stony wall as you head towards the back. The backdoor is naturally locked, and you know already that she doesn't keep a spare key. 

You always come prepared. You deftly pick the lock. Listening for that small click that has accompanied you for every final act. You slowly push open the door. Overly cautious of creaking and step inside. Her kitchen is tidy. Counters free of dishes and bags. A small bowl of fruit that's beginning to rot sits dead center on the kitchen island. You make it two steps inside when she speaks. Hidden away by shadows, glaring at you from the hallway.

"You don't have a warrant to be in here, detective."

 Of course you don't have a warrant. there are leaks in the police department and trying to obtain one is not only a lengthy hassle but could also alert her that you're closing in. You prefer to keep your cards close to your chest. You turn your head to face her. Barely making out her outline.

"No, I don't." You reply calmly. You don't have a warrant. Legally you can't step foot into her home. Not that it matters to you, you have to be above the law to enforce it and there are workarounds to everything. Your heart pounds with excitement and fear. You're finally face to face with El Sin Nombre.

She steps into the kitchen. A sliver of pale moonlight cuts across her face. You can see her better. In a wife beater and sweatpants. A gold chain glinting from around her throat.

"You must have-"

You don't let her finish speaking. You have only one goal in mind and that is to exterminate. You raise your arm with the intent to kill. Her reflexes are faster, and she lunges at you. Knocking your arm down fast enough that the bullet you fire shoots into the ground by her foot. You've been in physical altercations before. Have had to fight off people. However, you were prepared for a fight those times. Valeria is much stronger than you thought. The wind is knocked out of you as you slam into the ground. The gun slides away from you and bumps into the wall but you don't freeze and panic at the loss of your weapon. You're exhilarated. Mustering up the strength to shove her off of you.

You have but a few short seconds to get your bearings before she's coming at you again. A stray punch catches you in the gut. It's nauseatingly painful and you double over, narrowly missing a blow to the head. you shove down the pain and lash out. Slamming your fist into her neck. Valeria splutters but to your dismay she barely reacts. She grabs ahold of your neck and throws you to the ground. Your back smacks down on the hard black and white tiled floor. Pain blooms purple flowers throughout your shoulders as you struggle beneath her. You hear the click of a gun and stare down its barrel. The both of you breathing heavily and regarding each other with caution. Valeria sets a foot down on your chest to keep you still.

"I have you under surveillance." She says quietly. "I was tipped off about you leaving your house. I knew you were coming here."

 Valeria's strength impresses and aggravates you. "Good for you." You reply. There's not much hope that you'll regain the upper hand here, but you cling onto that small slice of it.

"Very good for me."

You silently understand that you haven't succeeded this time. The thought angers you. You're going to die in here on her floor. Your body thrown to the streets for the stray dogs to pick at.

"I suppose this is it for me then." You murmur. deceptively calm. You've done good, but you've also done bad. Maybe this is just your punishment for all the wrongs you've done.

Valeria lowers her arm, keeping her gaze tethered to yours. There's no anger in those dark pits of nothing.

"I couldn't stand you at first." She begins. "Coming into my town and snooping around. I was going to just kill you."

You furrow your brows. "So why didn't you?" You wheeze. You wish she'd take some pressure off of your chest.

"I did my own research." She hums. "You're just an evil little thing."

Your skin prickles at being referred to as evil. "I am not evil. I find it and rid this world of it. Of people like you."

Valeria cocks her head at you, dark brows raised. "You kill the people you uncover." She laughs. "Putting you on a case is like is like putting someone to death. And last I checked it's not up to you to decide of someone is worthy of death."

"I do what needs to be done. You can relate to that, I'm sure. You've had such an impressive career, from military ranks to commanding a cartel. I bet you're very proud." You hiss. Her success is envying.

"It sounds like you admire me." she remarks, adding more pressure to your chest. Pushing out the breath from your lungs.

"You have admirable traits." You admit begrudgingly. "Too bad you used them the wrong way." the pressure is suddenly lifted as she backs up from you. Giving you room to stand. there's a dull ache in your stomach as you do.

"I was going to kill you," She continues, waving the gun at you. "but you're deranged, really. So dedicated to your cause." She says. "And I respect that, I really do. I think you can really hone those skills of yours and become something great."

"I am great." You growl. Disgusted and elated at having her respect. she smiles and trails the gun down your jaw, the cool metal sending goosebumps over your skin. Valeria just scoffs and steps away from you.

"You're arrogant and delusional." She says. "You have potential, come back when you're ready to use it."

You pause, confused.

"You're not going to kill me?" You question. Leaving you alive is a fool's decision and Valeria didn't strike you as a fool. 

"You won't be able to kill me," She says. "and I know you won't go to the police because you like to take credit for finding and 'punishing' people yourself."

Those words make you uncomfortable. It makes you sound like you're only doing it to soothe some deranged urge inside of you. You are doing it for the greater good. Your hands stay dirty to keep the world clean.

"You and I are alike." Valeria remarks quietly. Not looking away from you.

You won't be able to do anything now. Valeria has a gun, and you don't. She's right. About you not going to the police. It's not because you want to the credit. It's not. It's because you don't believe they'll do what needs to be done. Only you can. Police can be bribed, you can't. You raise your chin with defiance and take a step back towards her door.

"Be restless, Valeria." You warn. That's all you say before you turn and leave the way you came. Expecting a bullet to the back of your head that never comes. This isn't the last time you and El Sin Nombre meet. The next time it happens, one of you will die and it won't be you.

[hiyokosha]

What is Wrong With Kuon Based Off 17 Episodes and My Delusions : A Brief Essay

I started writing this as a joke and it got out of hand, so if the tone of the first half is kind of weird that's why. Anyways, here's my unfiltered unedited rant.

First thing that one needs to establish is the difference between Hisamitsu and Kuon; usually ‘Hisamitsu is dead’ could be understood as a metaphor instead of being taken literally. However, in Gozyuger, someone being ‘dead’ is a very important thing and also has the vital importance to Tegajune and her experiments, so in my opinion it is a comment that should not be ignored. We have established in the show so far that one, Hisamitsu is the one that entered the No. 1 World with Hoeru; Two, Hoeru is very much similar to Hisamitsu; And three, Hisamitsu is dead, and Kuon likes it to stay that way. 

To understand the importance of the comment, perhaps we can start with the name. ‘Tono Hisamitsu’ means ‘Far Field Lasting Light’. Kuon is a play on that name, and while written in Katakana, in the context of the Kanji it represents it means ‘Far Lasting’’. There’s a distinct sense of Hisamitsu being contorted and abandoning the ‘light’, which is quite fitting. However, despite the insistence that Hisamitsu is dead, Kuon still seems to be obsessive over Hisamistu’s brother, and he still addresses Hisamitsu as himself, despite saying that everything about Hisamitsu irritates him. There’s several possibilities about why he made this name change. Popular theories includes that he’s an AI like the rest of the Bridans(So his name and feelings are distorted because an AI cannot understand Hisamitsu’s complicated emotions), that he is ‘half dead’(like the experiments the queen is conducting), and also just his experience in the No One World screwed him up enough to make him feel disgust or anger over the type of person Hisamitsu was(very likely!).

Hisamitsu has not been shown a lot on screen, but we know that he was vastly different from Kuon. Coming from Kuon’s mouth about how Hoeru reminds him of Hisamitsu, it seems that Hisamitsu was genuinely a very kind-hearted person, much unlike Kuon. Hoeru stated that Hisamitsu would never berate him like Kuon had done, and grabbed Hoeru’s shoulder and shielded him when they were running from No Ones. Even just the fact that Hisamistu cared enough about Hoeru to be playing with him in the forest despite an 8 years age gap speaks a lot to how tight the brothers’ were. We know even though Hoeru’s kind of naive in some situations, he’s a good judge of character. Despite being affected by Kuon’s words in ep8, he didn’t join him in ep9, as he realised that Kuon is no longer the caring Hisamitsu. I think it’s also interesting that Hoeru thought Hisamitsu was dead because of something he had done. I feel like that incident, whatever it is, is probably the most deciding factor for Kuon’s obsession with Hoeru. 

There’s something fundamentally different about Kuon and Hisamitsu that the No One World distorted in a way it had not done to Hoeru. Personally, I think it might be that despite his speech in ep8 about no need for a dream, he clearly still wants something. From his obsession over Hoeru to whatever he’s plotting with saving Hoeru’s ring, he is perhaps the single character in the show who has shown the most ‘want’, just that the audience isn’t sure of what he wants. By contrast, Hoeru is someone who is truly dreamless. He survives and maybe experiences what he had lost in his childhood, but there’s nothing pushing him to truly live and ‘want’ like the others. So he survived the No One world with his sanity intact. On the other hand, Hisamitsu could not truly abandon his wish for whatever reason, so the No One World changed him. 

I also say that he clearly has a wish because of one of the most informationally dense lines from ep9 - “You will not escape this fight, Hoeru. I(ore) will destroy you, and then you will destroy me(boku)” (俺がお前を壊してやる！そしてお前が僕を壊す....) It is basically a confirmation that Kuon does ‘want’ something, even if that something seems to be mutual destruction of some sorts. But is it really mutual destruction? Despite the weight that line holds, the most interesting part is also the one most easily lost in translation. Kuon swapped his pronoun in this sentence, from ore to boku. Japanese pronouns are something that is quite complicated to get into, and a person often uses different pronouns in different situations. But stripping it of the social complexities, basically boku is something that is considered to be quite youthful and soft, while ore is the most most often used by adults and teens around friends and families. While it could be an adrenalin thing(and Kuon is said to lose control when he does get high on adrenaline), it should be noted that his emotions got more intense towards the end of the sentence, where he reverts to boku, even going so far as laughing maniacally. I feel like the line is written purposefully enough to be considered a plot hint. It should be noted that Kuon usually uses ‘boku’, and only ‘ore’ in some situations. 

Now we need to go back to Hisamitsu again. I feel like the key to this sentence is ‘what pronoun Hisamitsu uses’, and figure out what each pronoun represents in Kuon’s psyche. I could not track all the situations where he used ‘ore’, so I might have missed some that overturned my hypothesis completely. When it comes to the brothers’ line ‘You are my prey’, Hoeru uses ‘ore’ and Kuon uses ‘boku’, with one exception - when Hoeru was checking Kuon’s identity in ep8. Kuon, stating their childhood catchphrase, used ‘ore’. As the context clue implies that this line was actually Hisamitsu’s invention, it seems more likely than not that ‘ore’ is actually what Hisamitsu had used around Hoeru instead of ‘boku’, as Kuon now does. His other case of ‘ore’ that I can be sure of is ‘You have never beaten me in anything, Hoeru’, which seems to support that ‘ore’ is used when referring to his time as Hisamitsu. However, that assumption does make everything much more complicated. Why would Hisamitsu want to destroy Hoeru? Why would Kuon want Hoeru to destroy him? To be fully honest I do not have a good answer or even a guess to this question, and all I can offer on this topic is a surface level analysis of what he had said. It has been noted in an interview it was stated Kuon, and perhaps Hisamitsu, is someone who holds hatred for a lot of things, despite the appearance of love. So it is perfectly possible that Hisamitsu could have disliked Hoeru in his heart, but just never showed it. The truth of the pronoun switch could just be Hisamitsu/Kuon’s struggle between hate and love. His devotion to what seems to be numerous murder attempts against Hoeru and the strange action of protecting his ring Tegasword could serve as evidence to this theory. 

Speaking of love. In my opinion, the defining trait of Kuon’s character is the complete imbalance of love and control. I think it’s interesting how he is written as an extremely abusive, manipulative, and almost comically evil egomaniac, so much so that even his fellow generals call him out on multiple occasions, but his love for Hoeru feels just as real as his insanity. I think there’s no doubt that Kuon loves Hoeru, the true question here is how much of that is out of the wish for control. One of the most creepy things about Kuon is his seeming inability to realise that Hoeru is his own person. To some extent, he idolises Hoeru. “An angel that descended from heaven, my hope, my love, my doll’, is, in every way, an extremely strange comment to make about a grown 20 years old man. I think Kuon holds a view of Hoeru so detached from reality that he cannot see that his brother had grown up and into his own person. He sees Hoeru only as his baby brother that he had lost once. He sees young Hoeru, and even Hisamitsu, but he cannot see the current Hoeru in front of him. Because it doesn’t fit into his idea of Hoeru, so it is not real. Love, to Kuon, is control, and control is love. He loves Hoeru, and he wants to control every aspect of Hoeru, so that Hoeru is still the idol that he loves. Hoeru cannot have bad friends, so I will kill them to make sure he is not influenced by the wrong people. Hoeru should listen to me, because I know what’s best for him. 

I think ‘Let’s get married, Hoeru’ is a very intentionally written and good line because of this fact. It’s established in behind the scenes that this was a sentence said by Kuon when he was letting the rush of battle get to him, and something that Hoeru couldn’t hear. It isn’t a declaration of love said to anyone- but a deeply ingrained want for control mistaken as love. Tegajune and Kuon reflect each other in this battle. They both mistake control as love. There's a very distinct lack of love in the ‘wedding’ between Tegasword and Tegajune. Tegajune wants to marry Tegasword for her wish to remake the world, not because she truly loves him, and she mistakes that want for control as love. And while I believe that Kuon does love Hoeru to some extent, I feel that what this line truly wants to convey is the very opposite of what is said - that Kuon doesn’t understand what love is. It’s a twisted imitation of love. A wedding proposal should be romantic and loving - but the portrayal of that line is the exact opposite. His proposal was crazed, one-sided, and hurting Hoeru. Whether out of insanity or just a fundamentally twisted view on the world, to Kuon, love = control. I think in some ways, this is much more frightening than if Kuon just hates Hoeru or wants to hurt him, because he can’t even recognise that what he is doing is the worst for Hoeru.

I think that whatever is wrong with Kuon - it truly depends on what happened on ‘that day’ his promise to the Queen. There’s three clues as to what happened. One, the wound on his back. It clearly has something to do with Hoeru, as we were shown him taking off his shirt to check the state of that would while talking about Hoeru. It should be noted that this scar is clearly not from Hoeru’s attack, as he only landed once when there’s a x shaped cut, his clothing is not ripped, and that the scar is still growing and reaches the top of his shoulder by the end of the shot. There’s something corrupting him and actively causing him pain, and I theorise that this wound is in some ways, what caused the brothers to separate. Two, whatever happened on that day, the Queen saved him and gave him power, and in exchange he promised his life to the Queen. Which makes his comment about destroying each other even more confusing because that means he can’t let his life be taken by Hoeru out of his own will, which means that the ‘destroying’ probably means something other than killing, but that’s a mystery for another day. Three, Garyudo is something different from Gozyugers. He can use the Queen’s power to transform, but he is not Tegajune’s pilot in the way the Gozyugers are. Garyudo’s full title is Ring Hunter Garyudo - meaning that this is a form designed specifically to hunt rings instead of being Tegajune’s chosen one. In some sense he’s more like the universe warriors. The prerequisite for the wedding is all the rings and the Tegajune’s destined pilot - the best No One. Despite doing his job and defeating Tegasword, Kuon is not the pilot Tegajune is looking for. Which is curious because DarkWolfDecalibur50 is made for him and that Tegajune has a form called Bride Blade… But they could just not show her form in the show I guess. It’s an interesting dynamic, as Hoeru’s Tgeasword’s special little guy even out of the Gozyugers, but Kuon can’t even pilot Tgeajune… However, I feel like Tegajune does care about Kuon somewhat, saying that she knew he’d ask to be her pilot, and then even allowing him, despite knowing it could screw up the ceremony. Perhaps she also sees him as one of her children, despite being born human?

There’s also a few details that I wonder about, but couldn’t fit anywhere, so I will just throw them all into this paragraph. Having strangle coloured hair/eye colour is a clear indication that one is not human(see:The Bridans and Rikuo’s grey eye case). Kuon isn’t as extreme as his fellow generals, but there’s a clear streak of white in his hair. Maybe hinting at him being AI generated in some ways like the others? His eye also glows yellow when transforming while Gozyugers’ eyes stay the same but it’s probably a stylistic choice of some sort. The scar eroding his eye and showing up on Garyudo is creepy though. Likely also a stylistic choice but the implication that Garyudo is also a biological henshin inside the armour… 

Anyways, this rant of an essay is almost over. I am not quite sure what the takeaway is, but I have been having a lot of thoughts about this guy, and want to get it all out. I typed almost all of this in one sitting, so once again, while I tried to keep some notes, take everything I said with a grain of salt. Feel free to correct me on anything I got wrong and give your own opinion. I am very curious where Akiko is taking him. She is one of my favourite writers so I am quite intrigued. The Decade Novel she wrote was far from flawless, but still absolutely one of my favourite toku media. Thank you for reading, it was quite fun writing this.

[osc-brainrot]

OH BOY I HOPE EVERYONE IS EXCITED TO HEAR ME TALK ABOUT WHAT I THINK TNM SONG LYRICS MEAN

This is just me analyzing the lyrics in rewind replay

“The hatchet swings and what remains is JPEGS and video tapes” -HATCHET SWINGS LIKE HOW GPS KILLED SPEAKER

-I think this line is symbolism for the fact gps is literally KILLING the other ppl in the mansion leaving him with nothing more then his thoughts of the past

-Also the fact their using tech language because I think this song is ment to be though gps’s pov and that’s the stuff he relates to COOL DETAIL

“My bridges burnt like my CDs” -gps is literally burning his bridges with what he’s doing in the manor and more tech language

“Can’t stop delayed decay” -the fact the he can’t see what he’s doing delaying him seeing the impact of his actions

“Rewind, to a time, when I was on your mind” -this is literally just saying his going back in his memories of when him and top hat where together rewinding like a video player

“Replay, those days, of all just fun and games” -nothing to say here I didn’t in the last line

“My post modern Prometheus just won’t die” -THIS ONE IS FUN

-Prometheus was a guy is Greek mythology that stole fire from Zeus to give to the humans for this Zeus tied Prometheus to a bolder and made crows rip out his liver everyday over and over (because his liver grew back everyday)

-im Not entirely sure what post modern means but i think it means going against what we know now like someone saying “all apples are red” a post modern take on that would be “well not ALL apples are red” im probably wrong don’t take that as fact

-sooo what do we get when we smash those meaning together

-some one made to relive torcher over and over for something he did in the past and trying to deconstruct why their there and find reason to it

-AND WHO CAN WE DRAW A PARALLEL WITH THAT IN STORY

-GPS :D

-the post modern part giving us in sight as to what he’s thinking at the time and the Prometheus part letting use know how he see himself that was long

“Ripping zipped stitches, now rise!” -gps opening old wounds by going through his memory’s

“In my flies we’re still alive” -I feel like you know what this is referring to

-but it’s the fact that gps and top hat (and maybe folder) and still alive and happy in his memory’s and not like gps is killing everyone in the mansion and distorting him and top hat’s relationship ❤️

“Your the reason I play a game I’m doomed to lose” -gps is reliving his memories because he loves top hat and folder and it’s worth it to play this losing game just to see them again

“Polaroid graveyards, cached with echoes” -cached means to store something away referencing that gps literally stored these memories away to use later

-Polaroid graveyards meaning that the memories are now past and dead

-I like that they used the word Polaroid because the story takes place in the 2000s-2010s (hay when I was born :D) when they would be commonly used as you can see in the corner here

“I’m lost between these photos filled with ghosts” -same thing with gps walking through his old and dead memories with the last one

“I’ll recut the film for a happy ending” - more tech talk because gps is a robot (kinda) and the fact he’s literally cutting up and replaying his favorite memories

-some could say he DID get a happy ending because he spend it replaying his happiest moment with the love of his life THE PROM SCEAN

“But all these memories, thoughts and prayers” -thoughts and prayers is normally something you say to ppl who have just lost a loved one so this is foreshadowing (or post shadowing cuz he already died) that gps is dying :)

“Liger on inside a spiraling vortex” -gps sees the situation he’s in like a spiraling vortex, something he’s trying his best to but can’t get out of

AND IM DONE

Come back next episode when I go over glass half full (that song literally feels like being shot in the head when I listen to it)

Sorry if there’s typos or if I got OBESENLY WRONG in this

If u wanna add on to this in reblogs pls do!! I wanna talk about this to someone:>

[kakushino]

Haganezuka's apprentice - Fem!Reader

You'd heard about his temper, or rather, you heard his temper, long before you first saw him. The need for new swordsmiths went beyond personal wants and so, you found yourself as one of the would-be apprentices under masters of their trade. Your master though? Haganezuka Hotaru

Since you would be entering the Swordsmiths' village proper, as a citizen and not a visitor, you had received your own hyottoko mask, as ugly as the rest of them, yet crucial for its anonymity. You were grateful to it though, because it hid your scowl during your first few weeks under Master Haganezuka's dubious tutelage.

"Not like that, you stupid shithead!"

"This is shoddy as hell. Again."

"Useless brat."

"If Kamado got a sword like this, he'd be coming back for another in a day."

It was all you could do to not blow up on him. As it was, you just shut your mouth and tried to keep up. You weren't even sure if he knew you weren't a man; after all, the masks did distort even voices.

You understood though, really. He was forbidden from touching the forge until he healed up and just tried to focus his energy on you, but he went about it completely wrong. 

Every insult and snide comment fueled your wrath. It was time to show him what you were made of, what you learned and what you could do. 

With bandage-covered hands from the blisters and rawness of overworking, you did what you did best as of late - forge.

The day you presented your first 'passable' wakizashi (passable for him, very good for others) was the day his comment felt less offensive and more… like a compliment?

"Hmpf, guess you aren't that incompetent, brat."

With time, the heat of his words went out of the window, his vulgarity dwindling as you improved in leaps and bounds. Despite his harshness and unpolished way of teaching, you'd become a swordsmith who could stand on her own two feet. Your apprenticeship would last for years more though, giving you plenty of time to really get to know your master.

"You didn't buy yourself any dango? Idiot. Here, take one. Don't tell a soul or you're dead."

"Here… What do you think it is? I didn't know you were so stupid you couldn't recognize tea. You like this type, don't you? So shut up and take it."

"Tsk. Brat. As if you could distract me from my- is that Gyomaru's dango? Hand it over."

Haganezuka Hotaru was just abrasive on the outside, but a big softie on the inside. 

A big softie who couldn't take care of himself properly at times. 

"Master Haganezuka, you need to eat. You've been in here for over a day." You cautiously touched his shoulder, hoping beyond hope he would snap out of the Zone. You'd brought dango and tea, hoping to entice him with the smell at first. It wasn't working, obviously.

He said nothing, just continued to hammer away at his latest work. 

“Master Haganezuka?” you shook his shoulder a little, making him pause for a moment before he continued. Your patience wore thin. You scowled. You’d be surprised if the ugly expression wasn’t permanently fixed into your face with how often you wore it when dealing with him. 

Maybe taking off his mask would make him pay attention to me?

Spoiler alert: It did not.

But it did make your face feel hot when you saw how handsome he was under it. A few shiny scars from the not-so-recent village attack still stood out against his pale skin, making him even more attractive.

Sweat made his dark hair stick to his skin, and suddenly, you were curious about the whole picture; you untied his scarf - it wasn’t like he was going to un-Zone anytime soon, you reasoned. You were not ready for the dark wavy tresses spilling over his shoulders. It was not fair how much of a looker he was. Was this man really single?

You continued to study him, memorizing his features for long lonely nights in your accommodation. Soon enough, you realized you were being a creep and should stop at once; you needed to finish what you started after all.

“Master Haganezuka!” you reached for his other shoulder to shake it. What you didn’t account for was the fact it was his blind side. Instead of an insult or even a scathing remark, you were nearly slashed with a red-hot blade in the face. You took a quick step back and it thankfully only knocked off your hyottoko mask to the ground, the wood smoking a little where the iron made contact with it. You stared at it with wide eyes, your heart in your throat and terror pulsing in your veins. “...”

“...you’re a woman?” 

Your eyes met his, both of you staring at each other in disbelief. “You didn’t know?” 

A flush rose to his cheeks, before his expression turned to white ash. “The old man is gonna kill me.”

"How did you not know I was a woman? The Chief told you when he was introducing me."

"I wasn't listening," he huffed, looking away. 

"More importantly, you just tried to kill me!" 

"Not my fault you were being stupid, brat!"

"You were being stupid. You didn't get out of here for over a day! You have to eat! And sleep!"

"Sleep is for the weak! I need to finish this project-" Haganezuka turned back to his bench, reaching for his hammer.

You snatched the tool before he could touch it. "No, you don't-" You high-tailed it out of his forge, clutching his favorite hammer as if your life depended on it.

"Wait-! You useless wench!"

Your master swore up a storm, hurling insults, screaming at you and chasing you with his half-finished blade. 

Kanamori even ran out into the street in his pajamas, mask askew, a katana of his own in hand, thinking there was an attack again. Seeing Haganezuka, he huffed and went back to sleep, too tired to deal with this right now.

A few days later, the Chief came to officially scold your master. You had a kick out of it, thankful your mask hid your smirk.

[mortalscience]

Top 10 songs you've been listening to this year

oh gosh this is a good one!! I'm obsessed with music so I also put too much effort into assembling this list but here we go (links to youtube):

Silversun Pickups - Growing Old is Getting Old

maybe your own devices will keep you afraid and cold

Silversun Pickups are one of my favorite alltime bands and I listen to all of their songs a lot.. I decided to only put one SSPU song on this list and then it took me forever to pick which one because I listen to them all so much haha. There's something so magical about this song though and it's one of my fave SSPU songs of all time. And when the pace in the song kicks up around 3:30 and then ANOTHER notch around 4:15 with that distorted guitar.. ooo so good.

Paramore - This Is Why

this is why I don't leave the house you say the coast is clear, but you won't catch me out

A) we don't talk enough about the jazzy little snare drum intro this song has and B) catchiest earworm of the past few years, on regular rotash in my commuiting playlist so I can loudly sing along

Great Big Sea - When I'm Up (I Can't Get Down)

when I'm up I can't get down can't get down, can't get level

Catchy as hell song that I identify with because I will go through very high up periods and this is my anthem during those times, which happen a lot so I'm always listening to this song.

Carly Rae Jepsen - Right Words Wrong Time

I need to find a love to love me with no hesitation don't you tell me now you're ready for me

I'm a Carly Rae girlie through and through, I just feel like she is the epitome of modern girlpop, and all her songs are so fucking catchy. This song puts me on an ethereal plane however around 2:30 when the polyphonic verse kicks in.

Finger Eleven - Swallowtail

open mouth feels warm secrets swollen so sore

Every few years I go through a Finger Eleven nostalgia phase and I'm in one right now.

Emarosa - Cinnamon

if you wanna say the word, but you're too tongue tied then put your body on mine

OBSESSEDDDDDDD with this song always. Emarosa is so fucking good and this song makes me happy. :D I love love songs.

Band of Horses - The General Specific

in time I'd find a little way to your heart down to the general store for nothing specific

The twang itches my brain so gooooooood. That's all. Lol.

The Cars - Drive

you can't go on thinking nothing's wrong, but now who's gonna drive you home tonight?

So deliciously melancholy 80s. I redisovered/fell in love with this song earlier this year and I've been listening to it a LOT. I've been building a playlist around this song & vibe although I have only pieced together a few other songs that I feel are worthy. Such a great song and I love the lyrics.

SOHN - The Wheel

I died a week ago, there's nothing left it's caught on video, the very last breath

This song gives me an out of body experience. WHEN THE CLICKY CLACKYS HIT AT 0:55 IS WHEN YOU CAN SEE MY SOUL ASCENDING. Then the bridge at 2:00 with the deep thocky bass drum beat. Fuuuuuu.

Holy Ghost! - Okay

even though I know the blood is fake the third act starts and it gets hard to take

Another one always in the rotash because it's sooo catchy and the blips and bloops just itch the right parts of my brain.