Asylum

18+ | 24 | 𝔰𝔥𝔢/𝔥𝔢𝔯 | 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔬𝔯𝔰 𝔡𝔬 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱

[itsvici0usbaby]

🥀Where it burns🥀

𓆩 idol!Dojoon × tour-staff!fem!reader 𓆪

⤷ angst · hurt/comfort · slow-burn → smut

⤷ one-shot · ~16k words · rated 18+ (mdni)

content warnings: self-harm (burns via lighter), suicidal ideation, panic attack, dissociation, trauma flashbacks, emotionally neglectful / abusive parent(s), past implied childhood SA (non-graphic, off-page), alcohol use, swearing, heavy emotional themes, comfort through music

explicit sexual content: phone sex, masturbation, dirty talk, oral (female implied), praise kink, desperation kink, clothed grinding / thigh riding, soft dom!Dojoon, aftercare (emotional ), power imbalance (idol × staff)– handled with care, mutual yearning

Summary : You don’t mean to catch his eye. But he sees you anyway– the burns, the silence, the way you flinch like you’re used to being forgotten. And when your phone rings at 2AM, his voice breaks through the static like he’s been waiting all night just to say your name.

There was a rhythm to tour life. Soundchecks in half-lit venues. Cardboard coffee trays sweating through your fingers. Long stretches of motion and white noise and waiting, always waiting for the next thing to start.

You didn’t belong here, not really. Not officially. And maybe that’s why no one paid too much attention to you at first.

You were just her, the quiet girl in the corner. The one with the duct tape always hanging off her wrist, or a clipboard tucked under one arm, or someone’s merch spreadsheet pulled up on her phone. The one who said please and thank you, who blended in at catering tables, who carried more than she had to.

You weren’t quiet because you were shy. You were quiet because silence felt safer than being noticed.

Your father, the tour manager, had built his entire life on logistics, precision, perfection. And somewhere along the way, he’d decided you had to reflect that, too. That you should always be composed, helpful, competent. That you should always be good.

You were the one who never caused trouble. Who never snapped. Who got straight A’s no matter how difficult it was to concentrate, the one who shut up when it was not the place to talk. The one who made his job easier, not harder.

He didn’t see the girl who cried in greenrooms when no one was looking. He didn’t hear the way your heart cracked when he introduced you as ‘One of my employees’ instead of ‘my daughter’.

He didn’t notice that you were slowly folding in on yourself.

Some nights, you weren’t even sure you had a self left. Just layers of function. Of forced calm. Of keeping it together because someone had to. You felt hollow a lot. Full of obnoxious noise but still somehow without sound. And you told yourself it was fine.Because breaking down would only make things harder.

But there was someone that noticed you.

Your name wasn’t on the official crew list. That had raised some eyebrows early on, especially with how strict your father could be about credentials. But no one questioned him for long, not once they realized how organized you were. You knew the setlist by heart before day six. You knew who liked their in-ears color-coded and which venues served soggy catering so you could warn the band in advance.

You worked like someone with something to prove, but were never loud about it. You were always just… there. Not shy, exactly. Just a little reserved. A little measured. Like you were watching everything. Deciding who was safe to let in. Like someone who’d learned not to take up too much space. Like someone who’d been punished for doing so before.

Dojoon wasn’t used to people like you. He was used to the kind of attention that flickered too bright. The type that burned fast and said too much too soon. But you didn’t interact. You didn’t linger. You held back. You tried to do your job as well as you could with all the chaos around, trying to stay invisible.

And perhaps that’s what caught him.

It had started slow. Almost nothing. A glance here. A comment there. But over weeks on tour, it had begun to accumulate, quietly, insistently.

The first time he spoke to you, it was because of a mic stand. You’d been hauling a broken one across a cluttered hallway, the kind of backstage space built with zero regard for personal space or common sense, and nearly knocked over a stack of road cases in the process.

He looked up from his phone, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said, tilting his head, “that thing’s supposed to hold you up, not the other way around.”

You stopped, mid-struggle, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “That’s funny. You wanna carry it?”

“If I help, do I get upgraded from mystery soup to the emergency snack stash I know you’re hiding in that clipboard case?”

You smirked. “That stash is sacred. Only those deemed worthy may partake.”

“Worthy, huh?” he grinned, already lifting the mic stand from your hands. “Guess I better start campaigning.”

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

He winked. “Damn. I am good.”

You didn’t realize then that he was already filing that moment away. That tiny glimpse of dry humor, the faint challenge in your tone… he clocked it instantly. Because Dojoon paid attention to people, even when they didn’t think he was looking.

After that, things shifted. Not dramatically. Not publicly. But subtly. You started catching him looking. During rehearsals, while you were perched on a side case scribbling into a setlist log. One night at load-in, you passed by just in time to catch him beatboxing into a test mic while Hajoon played along with dramatic air drums. Two stagehands cracked up. One of the lighting techs nearly dropped his clipboard from laughing. Dojoon wasn’t trying to be charming. He just was. And when he glanced your way mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, dimples sharp, you looked away too fast.

He never made it weird. Never crossed a line. But he always found a reason to speak to you.

“Didn’t peg you for the organized type,” he said once, catching sight of your neat, color-coded notes.

You looked up. “Why not?”

“Dunno. You give off chaos energy.”

You raised a brow. “I think that’s projection.”

He grinned. “Fair.”

Another time, he found you backstage with your hair tied up, paint pen in one hand, labeling cables.

He crouched next to you, watching. “So this is what a quiet genius looks like.”

“Genius is a stretch.”

“I’m serious. Most people label these things like psychopaths.”

“And you’ve met a lot of cable-labeling psychopaths?”

He smiled. “I’ve met enough to know you’re rare.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said nothing. But the heat that bloomed under your skin stayed with you for hours.

And then there were the moments he wasn’t supposed to see.

Like the night you sat alone in the storage closet, knees drawn up, breathing too fast and too shallow. You’d told them you were looking for fresh gaffer tape. Really, you were trying to hold yourself together, your throat tight, your eyes rimmed red. You didn’t cry. You just folded, quietly, until your ribs stopped aching.

And when you stepped out, hoping no one had noticed, there he was. Park Dojoon. Leaning against the hallway wall, sipping a water bottle like he’d been there for hours. He didn’t ask what was wrong right away. Didn’t say anything at all. Just met your gaze. Quiet. Steady. Unshaken.

“You good?” he asked softly after a few seconds passed.

You didn’t answer him. Just nodded like you meant it and slipped past, heading toward the stage, not because you had a job to do, but because you needed something solid to hold. A tool. A case. A riser bolt. Anything with edges.

The riser was half-assembled when you got there. Stage left. One bracket loose. Nobody around. Good. You crouched next to it, hands already moving.

Somewhere out past the monitors, a chord rang out, low, lazy, familiar. Dojoon. Of course. You didn’t turn, but your pulse acknowledged him.

Another chord floated out, this one lower, throatier, more deliberate.

“Bracket giving you trouble?” His voice was light, that low-timbre ease he defaulted to when he wasn’t performing.

“It’s misaligned,” you said, not looking up. “Gravity’s a bitch.”

You heard his footsteps cross the plywood, soft, measured. Then a pause beside you. You still didn’t look.

“You good?” he asked quietly. The same words he’d asked in the hallway.

You nodded without thinking. “Fine.”

He didn’t press.

Instead: “Wanna trade? You take the guitar, I’ll fight the bracket.”

You turned to find him already unslinging his Strat-style electric from over one shoulder, the sunburst one with the maple fretboard worn to a shine. He held it out, neck-first, like an offering.

“I’m not a guitarist,” you said, brow raised.

“I’m not asking you to play a solo. Just tune it.”

You stared.

“Come on,” he added, voice coaxing now. “I’ll teach you.”

The riser finally locked into place with a thunk, and you followed him to the center stage floor where a pair of stools sat just outside the main light rig. The spotlights were off, but spill from the overheads painted him in soft, amber shadows.

He sat first, guitar resting across his lap. Then patted the seat next to him. “Come on,” he said.

You sat. Careful. The guitar looked heavier up close, and more alive. Heat clung to the strings where his hands had just been.

“She’s moody,” he said, adjusting the knobs. “You have to be patient. And a little persuasive.”

“I’m persuasive,” you murmured.

Dojoon grinned. “You’re terrifying. But yeah, same thing.”

He held the neck out toward you. You hesitated, then took it, angling the body into your lap.

“Like this,” he said. His palm pressed against your elbow, gently guiding it. “Let the body rest higher on your thigh. You’ll have better control of the tuning keys.”

You shifted. His fingers adjusted yours again, not in a grabby way, not even lingering. Just intentional. Warm.

He nodded at the headstock. “Start with low E.”

You plucked the string. It buzzed. Off.

“Too loose,” he said. “Turn the peg toward you. Slowly.”

You twisted, but not enough.

“Here.” He reached over, his hand covering yours. Fingers over fingers. Palm brushing your knuckles. The contact was simple. Not charged. But it sent something low and warm through you anyway. You adjusted again. The string rang cleaner this time.

Dojoon tilted his head, listening. “Almost. One micro-turn.”

You smirked. “Micro-turn?”

“It’s a technical term,” he said. “Used by professionals and people with trust issues.”

You breathed a quiet laugh and twisted again. The pitch landed, not perfect, but close enough to feel satisfying.

“Nice,” he said. “Now A.”

One by one, you moved up the strings. He didn’t correct much. Just offered the occasional pointer, his voice calm, low, close. Each time you hesitated, he was there, guiding, not taking over. His forearm brushed yours. His fingers steadied your wrist. Not in a flirtatious way. In a steadying way. The kind of way that made you feel… held, without being held.

When you reached the G string, you turned the peg too far. The note jumped sharp. You winced.

Dojoon didn’t tease.

“Easy fix,” he murmured, reaching in again. This time his fingers wrapped gently over yours, slowing the turn. His thumb dragged lightly across your inner wrist, not on purpose. Just part of the motion. But it stayed with you.

“There,” he said.

You strummed again. Perfect.

“That’s it.”

His tone had changed, not performance-proud, but something softer. Like he meant it. You glanced at him. He was already watching you. Not in a loaded way. Just… in that Dojoon way. Focused. Quiet. Real.

“Most people don’t care about this stuff,” he said, leaning back slightly. “Not the tuning. Not the tone. Just… plug in, play loud.”

“I like knowing how things work,” you said, voice quiet.

He nodded. “I know.”

You hesitated. “You pay attention.” It came out softer than you meant it to. But it was true. You’ve seen him pay attention to little things no one else pays attention to.

Dojoon looked at you like he heard it for what it was.

“You make it hard not to,” he said.

Your mouth went dry. He didn’t press. Didn’t lean in. Just let the silence stretch, like he trusted you to meet him there or not. Like either option was fine.

Eventually, he stood. You handed the guitar back, fingers grazing over his for a second too long. He didn’t comment on it. Just tucked the guitar under one arm and gave you a smile, lopsided and warm.

“You did good.”

“You did better,” you replied, internaly cringing. Because duh- that’s what he does for a living. You truly could’ve slapped yourself right then and there.

“Yeah, well.” He adjusted the strap over his shoulder. “I’ve had more practice.”

He turned to leave, then paused. Looked back.

“Next time,” he said, “we’ll try chords.”

You smiled, even though he wasn’t looking anymore. And somewhere in your chest, the tension he left behind still hummed.

The guitar stayed in your hands for maybe five minutes. But the memory of it — of him — lingered for hours. You still felt it on the bus later that night, fingers twitching like they needed something to hold. Or perhaps someone.

The following days had felt… heavier. Like the air was thicker. Like your brain was moving through fog. You kept missing things, minor things, unimportant on paper, but enough to make you feel like a glitch in your own body.

You weren’t sleeping. Not really. You weren’t eating much either.

And then that night happened.

You’d meant to take a second alone, just one second to breathe, so you’d slipped away from load-out and ducked into the lower back lounge of the new venue. It was empty, dark except for the faint overheads and the blue glow from the hallway exit sign.

You sat on the carpet. Cross-legged. Staring at nothing. The lighter was already in your pocket.You didn’t remember putting it there.

But your hands found it. Your thumb flicked it. Once. Then again. Then again. The flame flared, then disappeared. Then flared again. Like a heartbeat. Like control.

You weren’t doing anything. Not really. Just holding it a little too close to the balm of your hand. Just long enough that the heat started to bite. Just enough to feel something.You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal, it never was. You weren’t hurting yourself. You were just… tired.

So tired.

Flick.

Flick.

Flick.

You didn’t hear the door. But you felt it when he saw you.

“Hey.”

Dojoon’s voice. Quiet. Gentle. Not shocked, but not casual, either.

You froze. Flame gone. Fingers curling quickly around the lighter, slipping it back into your pocket like muscle memory. Like shame. He didn’t say anything for a second. Just stood there in the doorway, one hand still on the frame, like he wasn’t sure whether to come closer or leave you alone.

“Sorry,” he said finally. “Didn’t mean to… interrupt.”

Your throat felt tight. “It’s fine.”

He looked at you. Really looked. His expression softened, but it didn’t pity. Didn’t flinch.

“You okay?” The words sounded like a broken record at this point, having been asked too many times.

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Another pause. Then he crossed the room slowly and sat on the floor next to you. Close, but not touching. Elbows on his knees. Eyes forward. Like if he looked at you too long, you’d disappear.He didn’t ask about the lighter. He didn’t need to. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. Held it out without turning his head.

“You look like someone who could use a reset.”

You stared at it.

“You’re bribing me with chocolate?”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I’ll have you know, I was voted ‘Best Emotional Support Snack Distributor’ two tours in a row.”

You snorted. “Was that a real vote?”

“Of course not. But it was close.”

Your mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile, but it wanted to be.

He nudged your shoulder with his. Lightly. “Also I just wanted to sit next to you and this was the least awkward way I could think of.”

You let out a sound. Half-sigh, half-laugh. And you took the bar. You didn’t eat it. You just held it. The wrapper crinkled softly in your hands. You stared at it , at the faded red and brown lettering, the way the edges had already started to melt from your fingers. You weren’t hungry. You hadn’t been in days. But it felt good to hold something solid. Something real.

“Also,” he said, like it was nothing, “you’re easy to talk to.”

Dojoon hadn’t said anything else after that. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to fix it. Just sat with you. Elbows on his knees, fingers laced loosely, his head tilted forward, gaze fixed on the carpet in front of him like it held answers.

The back lounge was dim, lit only by the emergency light near the exit and a faint blue glow from the hallway. Shadows pooled in the corners. Your reflection stared back from the black TV screen across the room, small, slumped, tired. You looked like a ghost of yourself. And still, he didn’t leave.

You broke first.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that,” you said. Quiet. Rough. Like the words were being dragged out of you. But you had to address it.

Dojoon didn’t look over right away. When he did, his face was calm. Unfazed. But his eyes… his eyes held something else. Not pity. Not concern. Just recognition.

“I know.”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not— I wasn’t going to hurt myself.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

You hesitated. “You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” he said. No hesitation. “I just think you’re carrying more than you want anyone to notice.”

You stared down at your lap. Your hands were trembling slightly, even now. He leaned back slowly, head resting against the cushioned wall behind him, eyes on the ceiling.

“Sometimes I… forget to breathe before a show,” he said.

You looked over.

His voice stayed soft, steady. “I’ll be backstage, everything’s loud, everyone’s moving and I’ll just stop. Like, my chest tightens up. Not panic exactly. Just this feeling like… what if my voice doesn’t come tonight? What if they look at me and I’m just empty?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

He glanced at you. “You ever feel like you’re only allowed to exist if you’re doing something useful?”

The breath caught in your throat. You blinked fast.

“All the time,” you whispered.

He gave a half-laugh — quiet, but real. “Okay good, because if you’d said no, I was ready to accuse you of being a very convincing android.”

It always baffled you how easily Dojoon could lighten the mood. He never had to try too hard, just a word, a look, and somehow everything felt softer, easier within seconds. Like sunlight slipping through a crack in the clouds.

You let out a shaky breath. Almost a laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“And yet,” he said, nudging your elbow with his, “you’re still here.”

You shifted, curling your legs tighter underneath you.

Silence stretched. You reached into your pocket and pulled the lighter out again. Your thumb hovered over it. You didn’t flick it this time. Just held it, letting the weight settle in your palm like a confession.

“I hate this ,” you said. “I’m not like that. I just… sometimes it’s too loud in my head. And I need something to make it stop.” You turned the lighter in your fingers. The metal glinted faintly in the low light.

“I just need to feel something real. Even if it’s stupid.”

Dojoon was quiet for a beat.

Then, gently: “It’s not stupid.”

You looked up. His eyes were on you. Clear. Unflinching.

“I’m not judging you,” he said. “I’m just glad you’re still here.”

Something inside you buckled. And for a split second, just a second, you wanted to reach for him. To lean into the heat of his body, to bury yourself in the hoodie he wore, to press your cheek to the space just below his collarbone and forget everything else existed.

And that feeling scared you.

You saw him the next day.

Of course you did. The venue was small, the hallways narrow, and you were still his shadow. On paper.

He didn’t say anything about the other night. Didn’t press. But his eyes lingered a little too long when he passed you cables. His hand brushed yours when he didn’t need to. And once, when he cracked a joke at soundcheck and you actually laughed, he looked at you like he’d won something.

You pretended not to notice. Pretended nothing had shifted. Pretended you weren’t still carrying the weight of his hand on your wrist like a bruise you didn’t want to heal.

But you felt it. And so did he.

Two days later, he finally caught you alone.

“You skipping my lessons?”

You flinched. Not visibly. But internally, your stomach flipped, heart stumbling in your chest before you turned.

Dojoon was leaned against the wall like he belonged there, like gravity didn’t apply to him. sleeves of his long sleeve shirt rolled to his elbows, hands in his pockets, his hair a little messy in that deliberate, effortless way. The neck of his guitar peeked over one shoulder like a shadow.

“I’ve been busy,” you said. It wasn’t a lie.

He tilted his head. “With what, exactly?”

“Working.”

“That’s vague.”

“You’re annoying.”

He smiled, slow, quiet, warm. “There’s the girl I remember.”

You hated how that pulled at you. How your spine straightened. How you suddenly couldn’t remember a single item on that tech sheet.

He took a step closer. “C’mon. You owe me a follow-up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Follow-up?”

“You already know how to tune her,” he said, nodding toward the guitar. “Now you learn to speak her language.”

It wasn’t on the stage this time. It was backstage, near a worn-out roadie bench and a flickering floor lamp someone had dragged in for mood lighting. A weirdly intimate little bubble of space.

You sat first. He followed.

He unslung the guitar and passed it to you, then dragged a stool close — too close — and sat directly in front of you, knees brushing yours. The air changed. Not dramatically. Just enough to make your skin aware of itself.

“Today’s chord is A minor,” he said. “Three fingers. Like this.”

He leaned forward and played it, slow, deliberate. The sound poured from the body of the guitar like something lived inside it. You watched his fingers move. Long. Sure. Steady. Then he nodded toward you.

“Your turn.”

You adjusted the guitar across your thigh, hands clumsy, posture stiff. Already too aware of how close he was. Already thinking too hard. Dojoon watched for a beat. Then he rose and stepped behind you. You froze.

“Ready?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

You nodded. Didn’t speak.

His hands came to rest on yours, not heavy, not invasive. Just there. Solid and certain, like anchors.

“Relax your wrist,” he murmured. “You’re trying to brute-force it.”

You exhaled shakily. His fingers adjusted yours, a slight correction to your index, a shift of your thumb. His palm brushed the inside of your wrist and you nearly forgot how to breathe.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said softly.

“I always do.”

“I know.”

He didn’t say it with judgment. Just fact.

Then, quieter: “Let me help.”

He guided your hand again. Carefully. He never touched more than necessary, but somehow, every point of contact felt loaded. Like he was speaking a language your body had never heard out loud.

You pressed into the chord. It buzzed. You winced.

Dojoon’s mouth was close to your ear when he said, “Try again. But don’t force it.”

You did. Still wrong.

He made a soft noise, not impatient, not amused. Just thoughtful. Then, slowly, he stepped around to the front again. Sat back down. But closer now. Knees against yours. His hand found yours again, not behind this time, but in front. He touched only your fingers. Only what was necessary.

But you felt everything. Every scrape of his skin. Every breath between adjustments. Every impossible inch of space between where his hand ended and yours began.

“You’re tightening too much on the third string,” he murmured, not looking up. “Ease off. Just a little.”

You did. The chord rang closer to how it’s supposed to sound like. He glanced up, his eyes catching yours like he knew what you were thinking. Like he was thinking it too.

“You hear that?” he asked.

You nodded. Your heart was too loud.

“Next chord,” he said, and you were grateful for the break in tension, until he added, “D minor.”

You groaned.

He smirked. “You know her?”

“She hates me.”

“She hates everyone at first.”

You tried it. It was awful. He laughed, real and soft.

“Okay, yeah, that was bad.”

You set the guitar down between your knees. Leaned forward, bracing your elbows on your thighs.

“I’m never gonna get this.”

He reached out and tucked your hair behind your ear. The motion was slow. Thoughtful. The back of his fingers grazed your cheek on the way down.

You blinked. He didn’t move away.

“You’ll get it,” he said, voice lower now. “You’re already halfway there.”

You looked up, and he was watching you again with that quiet intensity that made your lungs forget their job.

“Wanna know a secret?” he asked, studying your face. You nodded. He leaned in. Close enough that you smelled his cologne, faint cedar and something warm and familiar.

“I only asked you to learn chords,” he whispered, “because it’s an excuse to touch your hands.”

You forgot to breathe. Your stomach dropped, your skin flushed, and for a second all you could do was stare.

He pulled back an inch, smirking slightly. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered.

“Good.”

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you, eyes still warm, but quieter now. Like whatever he wanted to say next wasn’t meant for this moment. Then he stood, slow and easy, and reached for the guitar.

You let him take it.

Your fingers stayed curled in the shape of a chord long after the weight was gone. He slung the strap over his shoulder without looking at you again, then paused, just before stepping past the curtain.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said, voice lighter now. “Your hands already know what they want.”

And then he was gone.

Leaving you alone in a too-quiet room, heart pounding, skin flushed, and absolutely useless for the rest of the day.

D-Minor? Never heard of her.

The crowd had been loud. Louder than usual, so loud the roar still rattled inside your ribs long after the house lights bled out. It left you splintered, jumpy, skin humming like a struck wire. Your clipboard lay somewhere under a heap of damp towels and half-crushed water bottles, you hadn’t even bothered to look for it.

You just needed the sanctuary of your hotel room where nobody expected you to smile. Time to yourself where the hollowness in your chest could be quiet. The elevator looked like escape: brushed-steel walls, soft yellow lights, a place to breathe without having to be useful.

You stepped in, thumbed your floor, let the doors whisper shut and finally exhaled, shoulders sagging against the cool paneling.

A heartbeat later, a hand slid between the closing doors.

Dojoon.

Post-show sweat still cooling on his black tee, hair damp at the temples, eyes shadowed but bright. The kind of tired that says alive, not depleted.

“Thought you’d already crashed,” he said as he slipped inside.

You tried for neutral, but your pulse was tap-dancing.He filled the small space, and just like that, you were hyper-aware of every part of you that felt a little too worn down. Just seven floors, you told yourself. You could hold it together for seven floors.

“You’re usually the last one out,” he murmured once the lift began its quiet climb.

You shrugged, gaze fixed on the numbers blinking overhead. “Someone has to sweep up the mess.”

His laugh was soft. “You say that like the mess isn’t sweeping you up, too.”

That scraped. Because it was too close to the truth you kept duct-taped shut: the exhaustion, the lighter tucked in your pocket, the way you sometimes pressed the hot metal to your thumb just to feel something sharper than the noise.

The elevator gave a little jolt as it passed the third floor, just enough to tip you sideways and brush his arm. It sent a flicker of static racing up your skin.

Silence stretched, thick as stage fog.

He shifted his weight slightly, eyes still on the numbers. “I’ve been meaning to say something. I just… haven’t known how.”

You looked at him, wary. “About what?”

“You,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “The way I think about you more than I probably should.”

Your breath caught, but you didn’t look away.

“I replay our conversations,” he admitted. “Try to remember if I made you laugh. Or if I said something stupid.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You didn’t.”

“Good,” he said, with a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I think I’d be okay sounding like an idiot. As long as you remembered it.”

You wanted to believe he meant it. That it wasn’t just adrenaline or post-show static or some heat-of-the-moment fluke. But this, whatever this was, hadn’t started here. It had been creeping in for weeks, quiet moments, half-glances, the way he always stood a little closer than necessary. The way he remembered things you didn’t think anyone noticed. You’d spent the weeks trying to convince yourself it was nothing. That he was just kind. That you were just imagining it. Because it was safer to pretend than to hope.

A crack splintered inside you, equal parts thrill and panic. People didn’t see you; they saw the job you did, the calm you faked. And you knew, if he looked too close, he’d find the girl who shook in storage closets, who measured safety in flicks of a lighter flame. A child again, seven years old, small and silent, flinching from the world, dreaming of turning invisible just to feel safe.

“Dojoon– ”

“No one else makes me nervous like this,” he pressed on, stepping close enough that the warmth of him seeped through the static. “Like if I touch you, I won’t want to stop.”

Your back found cold metal. His hand braced beside your head, but he waited, eyes searching, as if asking permission to see the fractures you kept hidden.

The fear that he wouldn’t look was suddenly louder than the fear that he would.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead your fingers, still tingling from tonight’s applause, from every secret you’d smothered, curled into the front of his shirt and pulled.

Heat roared between you, fierce and dizzying. His mouth caught yours like oxygen after drowning: urgent, greedy, tasting the storm you’d tried to bury. You answered with equal desperation, nails scraping skin, hips tilting into the pressure of his knee. For one impossible moment, the emptiness inside you felt full.

The elevator chimed–six–but he didn’t break away. His breath stuttered against your lips when your thumb brushed the soft waistband of his jeans, and the sound went straight to the hollow places you hated.

Another chime–seven. You tore your mouth free, foreheads pressed together, lungs dragging ragged air.

“I should go,” you managed, though your hands would not unclench.

“I know,” he said, rough, but his thumb traced circles at your waist like he couldn’t let you drift.

A final, tender kiss: question, promise, warning.

“See you,” he rasped.

You stepped out on trembling legs, pulse still thrumming with the echo of him. The doors slid shut behind you. A mirror in the hallway caught your reflection, lips kiss-swollen, eyes bright with something dangerously like hope.

And beneath the rush, a familiar whisper curled up from the dark: He wouldn’t want you if he knew how broken you really are.

Maybe. Maybe not.

But that night, in the hush of a hotel corridor, the memory of his mouth felt louder than the fear. Your hand brushed the lighter in your pocket, but you didn’t take it out. Didn’t flick it once. Not because the urge was gone, but because for the first time in days, something else was louder.

You hadn’t spoken much to Dojoon since the kiss. Not because you didn’t want to. Because you weren’t sure how to exist around him now, not when your skin still buzzed with the echo of his mouth, not when your mind kept wandering back to the way he had said “I think about you, more than I probably should.” like it wasn’t a confession, but a fact.

It had been three days.

Three days of short nods and small acknowledgments. Three days of brushing past each other at catering or during load-in, pretending nothing had shifted when everything had. Three days of trying to function under the weight of something so tender, so startlingly real that it made your chest feel like a bruise.

You weren’t distant because you were unsure. You were distant because you couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Because even when someone saw you, really saw you, it didn’t undo the years spent pretending to be someone easier to manage. So instead, you worked. You stacked gear. You double-checked manifests. You triple-counted water bottles like hydration logistics were the only thing anchoring you to earth.

But the distractions didn’t stick the way they used to. Your body was tired, but your thoughts were loud, louder than the music, louder than your father’s clipped commands, louder even than the humming tension you tried not to read into every time Dojoon looked at you across the room.

By now, it was practically shouting.

The venue had been too hot. The power had glitched. Two cables went missing, and one tech nearly walked out mid-setup. And through it all, you kept your head down, your clipboard clutched to your chest like armor.

The truth was: you were slipping. Not in the big ways. Not in ways anyone else might’ve noticed.

But your dad noticed. He always did.

The door to the greenroom creaked open behind you, slicing through the quiet with a hollow finality. You barely had time to breathe before you heard him:

“You’ve been sloppy lately.”

You didn’t turn around. Just dropped your clipboard onto the counter and peeled off the lanyard from around your neck.

“Cable counts were off by three this morning,” he added. “And merch inventory didn’t match venue sheets last night. You didn’t even catch it.”

You ran a hand through your hair, jaw clenched. “It was fixed.”

He scoffed. “You’re missing the point.”

Finally, you looked at him. “What is the point exactly, then?”

“That you’re distracted,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You think I haven’t noticed? You’re slower. Distant. Unfocused.”

You looked at him, clipboard in one hand, tour schedule tucked neatly away, still mistaking control for care.

“I’ve been handling everything,” you said quietly.

“Barely.”

The silence that followed didn’t crackle, it pressed. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then he added, almost offhand: “Maybe I was wrong to bring you out here. You’re clearly not ready for the responsibility.”

That stung more than you’d admit.Not because you wanted his approval, that ship had sailed years ago. But because you’d earned your place here. Every task, every setlist, every sleepless night. You turned away, started packing granola bars into the supply bag.

He watched you, arms crossed. And kept pushing.

“You’ve been a liability this week,” he said. “Not an asset.”

You froze mid-reach. Something inside you clicked. Not loudly, just enough. Like a door unlocking after being shut for too long. You turned slowly. And when you spoke, your voice was… even. Measured. Dead calm.

“You only like me when I make your life easier.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smiled, not kindly. “That’s always been the deal, right? I stay quiet. I stay useful. I don’t take up space.”

His expression tightened. “You’re being dramatic.”

You shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just finally saying what’s true.”

He stepped forward. “What’s gotten into you?”

You tilted your head. “Nothing new. Just… less of the pretending.”

He scoffed. “You think this, this attitude, makes you look strong?”

“No,” you said, voice soft but sharp. “But it makes me feel real. Which is more than I can say about most of my life.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him. And maybe he didn’t. Because this version of you wasn’t smiling to appease. Wasn’t bowing her head. Wasn’t sanding herself down to something manageable. This version stood tall. Still. Hollowed out, but finally visible.

He tried again. “You have no idea what I’ve sacrificed to give you this opportunity.”

Your laugh came out low. Bitter. “You mean after you left me with her?”

He stilled.

“I was seven,” you said. Still calm. Still cold. “She couldn’t keep herself upright half the time. And you left me there with her. With him.”

You don’t slow.

“Remember how Mom used to forget the stove on when she was out of it? I’d come home to smoke rolling out of the kitchen. Had to dump flour on the pan before the curtains caught. She’d wake up high, laugh about ‘indoor campfires.’ I was ten, learning panic-mode problem solving so the neighbors wouldn’t call CPS.”

Your father’s face blanched.

You went on, still calm. Eerily calm.

“Made my own dinners,ramen, stale bread. Ran laundry so Mom wouldn’t leave bleach in the drum again. Hauled her to the couch when she passed out on the stairs. Set alarms every hour to check her breathing.”

“Did you know that right before death, a person’s lips turn blue, their fingertips go gray, and their breathing drops below eight breaths a minute, if it doesn’t stop altogether? That the skin cools, the eyes glaze over, and sometimes they lose control of their bladder? I do. I learned all of that when I was eleven.”

He stared, words jammed behind his teeth.

“And I kept waiting for you to show up,” you added, voice almost conversational. “Every rumble in the driveway, I’d think, He’s back, he saw, he knows. Eventually I figured you were busy saving the tour from mislabeled mic packs.”

Your father stayed silent.

“And him.” You kept your tone almost light, like quoting trivia. “He’d knock at midnight and ask if I’d ‘checked the locks.’ Funny mistake, since the locks were for him. I started sleeping under the bed, tucked between frame and wall.”

“Stop.”

Your voice didn’t rise. “Oh, are you uncomfortable? Good.” You paused for half a second before you continued. “He used to come into my room at night. You know that, right?”

He looked away.

“I told you. A couple of times, even. You said I must’ve dreamed it. That I was overreacting. That I was just sensitive.”

“That’s not what I–”

“It’s exactly what you said.” You didn’t shout. You didn’t cry. That was the most terrifying part. You were just… done.

“I used to push furniture against the door,” you whispered. “And I learned how to fake being asleep before I learned long division.”

He went pale.

“But you want to talk to me about focus?” You took a step closer. “You want to tell me I’m a distraction because I’ve been tired or quiet or maybe, for once, not perfect enough for your clipboard-and-schedule fantasy?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I didn’t have parents,I had silence. I had survival.” Your voice dropped. “So don’t stand there and act like I don’t know what it takes to hold it together.”

A pin could’ve dropped.

He didn’t move.

You exhaled slowly. The ache in your chest didn’t vanish, but it felt less heavy. Like finally saying it out loud shifted something fundamental in the air. Then you turned toward the door. And paused. Because there, just past the threshold, half-shadowed in the dim hallway light stood Dojoon.

He must’ve heard. Maybe not all of it. But enough. His expression was unreadable, his hands tucked into his sleeves like he didn’t know what else to do with them.

Your eyes met. You didn’t say a word. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t break. You just walked past him. No explanation. No apology. Just silence. Not the kind that waits.

The kind that lingers. That says: You saw it, the wreck I keep hidden. And now it’s too late to pretend you didn’t.

The stairwell was dead quiet, the kind of quiet that made every breath feel too loud, like even your heartbeat might give you away.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been sitting there, on that cold concrete step, hoodie pulled over your hands, knees drawn tight to your chest like you were trying to make yourself disappear. The air smelled like rust and cleaner. The light overhead flickered once, then steadied again, like even the wiring couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

Your father’s voice was still in your head.

You’ve been a liability this week.

Not an asset.

It shouldn’t have hit the way it did. Not after everything you’d just said to him. Not after the years of tight-lipped tolerance and brittle-smile obedience. But it did. Because the worst part wasn’t that he was cruel. It was that he sounded disappointed. Like you’d failed at being convenient.

You let out a breath that trembled in your chest and pulled your sleeves tighter over your fists. But your fingers didn’t stay inside them. You reached for the lighter. It was already there. It always was. You’d stopped telling yourself it was for emergencies.

You rolled it between your fingers like a coin, felt the weight, the familiar edge of it. Your thumb hovered over the metal wheel. Your other hand rested in your lap, palm up, exposed.

The lighter clicked open like muscle memory. You didn’t even need to look. Just felt the heat bloom, soft, biting, against your skin like proof you still existed.

You brought the fire down to your skin, slower than you meant to. Deliberate. You pressed the heat just beneath the edge of your wrist, that delicate stretch where the skin was softer, thinner, where everything felt more real. The pain came fast. Clean. You held it anyway. One second. Two. Three. Your teeth gritted against the sting, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. Not until something inside you said enough.

And just as your hand started to twitch…

“Hey-”

The voice cracked into the stairwell like thunder.

You barely had time to look up before he crossed the space between you in three sharp steps.

“Don’t,” Dojoon breathed, and before you could react, he snatched the lighter from your hand.

It was fast, not cruel, not violent, but it startled you. Your body jolted back like you’d been caught mid-crime. His hand hovered near yours, but he didn’t touch the burn. He didn’t even look at it right away.

“Are you-?” He stopped. Rewound. “Shit, are you okay?”

You swallowed, hard. Your wrist throbbed, red, tender, marked. But you shook your head like it didn’t matter. “I wasn’t- I didn’t mean-“

He cut you off, voice low. “Don’t lie.”

You froze.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t yelling. But something about the way he said it, quiet, steady, absolutely certain, rooted you to the step like stone.

“I’m not gonna freak out,” he added. “But don’t tell me that wasn’t on purpose. I’m not stupid.”

You stared at the wall. Anywhere but him. This was a new type of low. Being caught burning twice…

“I didn’t want to feel numb,” you whispered.

Silence.

Then, barely above the hum of the lights:

“Okay.”

You turned, surprised. But his face was unreadable. Calm. His eyes didn’t flinch.

“I mean it,” he said. “Okay. I get it.”

You blinked fast. “You do?”

“I know what it’s like to need something sharper than whatever’s in your head.”

You looked at him, really looked this time.

Dojoon crouched down, slow, knees bending until he was level with you. The lighter was still in his hand, but he didn’t toss it. Didn’t pocket it. He just… held it. Like it wasn’t the enemy. Like he knew the fight wasn’t with the object. It was with what you didn’t say.

He glanced at your wrist. “Can I see?”

You hesitated. Then gave a small nod. He didn’t grab for it. Just waited. And when you lifted your hand, he reached out gently, turning it in his palm. His touch was warm. Careful. Two fingers on your wrist, like he was checking a pulse, not damage.

The mark was small, but already pink, the edge raw. His jaw tensed, just for a second, and then relaxed.

“You didn’t let it get bad,” he said softly. “But it still hurts.”

You blinked again. Harder. “I didn’t want to cry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Then why do I feel like I might fall apart if you say one more kind thing?”

He smiled . Not wide, not teasing. Just small. Gentle.

“Because it’s safer to feel pain than kindness when you don’t think you deserve either.”

And that.. that undid you. Your breath hitched. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… enough. You looked at him, eyes blurry, hands trembling, throat tight with years of silence suddenly screaming inside you.

“Dojoon-”

He didn’t wait. He pulled you in. Arms around your shoulders, your ribs, your back, solid and encompassing and present. You sank into him before you even realized. Chest to chest, breath to breath. You hadn’t realized how small you’d made yourself until he held you like you weren’t.

And you broke. Not loudly. But completely.

Your fingers fisted into the back of his hoodie, clutching the fabric like it might disappear. His hand cradled your head, thumb brushing the curve of your skull, slow and steady. His other arm was tight across your back, anchoring you like the stairwell didn’t exist, like the whole building could fall and you’d still be held.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, not as reassurance. As recognition.

You were here. Alive. Shaking in someone’s arms and still allowed to exist. You didn’t cry like a dam breaking. You cried like breath, soft, ragged, one exhale at a time. And he just held you. Not trying to stop it. Not filling the space with words. Just… being there.

His hoodie smelled like fabric softener and the faint trace of stage fog.You wanted to live in that smell. That moment. That grip. And after a while, when your breath evened, when your pulse slowed, when your body stopped gripping so tight, he leaned back just enough to look at you.

His hand stayed at your waist.

He tilted his head. “You mad?”

“No.”

“You sure? I was kinda rude.”

“I’m sure.”

Another pause. Then he said, quieter:

“I hate that you’re carrying this alone.”

He didn’t look away.

“I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m not. But if it ever gets that bad again…” His voice cracked. “Please don’t shut me out.”

And that– that was the moment your heart actually ached. Because he didn’t try to fix it. Or explain it away. He just stayed, in the mess, in the silence, in the truth of it. With you.

You let your forehead drop to his shoulder. Not because the weight was gone, but because, for a second, it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Still, you didn’t say a word. Because when it came down to it, you knew the truth: you’d carry the weight yourself. You always had. And no matter how much you wanted to hand it over, you couldn’t. Not again. Not if it meant risking him walking away.

The hallway was quiet when you returned.

Someone had turned off the stage lights. Only the greenroom’s glow leaked under the door, soft and warm and too bright for how heavy everything felt. You didn’t speak as you walked, one slow step behind him, sleeves tugged over your hands. He didn’t offer small talk. He just stayed close, glancing back every few seconds like he wasn’t sure you were still with him.

At the door, you paused.

“I’m gonna grab my charger,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Dojoon hesitated, hand on the door. “I’ll wait.”

You looked at him. Your eyes didn’t flinch. Just tired. Wide open. A small nod. Then you slipped past him, disappearing inside.

He stayed in the hallway, rocking once on his heels, rubbing a thumb over the edge of his jeans like he needed to ground himself. When you came back out, your phone cord looped in one hand, he straightened instinctively.

“I’m okay,” you said.

He didn’t answer. He just walked beside you, down the hall, past the darkened stage, back toward the loading zone.

No one else said a word when the both of you climbed into the Van that would drive you to the hotel. Woosung was half-asleep in the back row. Taegyeom had his earbuds in. Hajoon glanced up once but didn’t speak. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t.

But Dojoon didn’t sit in his usual spot.He slid in next to you instead, quiet, close, not touching. You rested your head against the window, face turned away. And he let you have that.

The drive to the hotel was uneventful. A blur of streetlights and radio static. The kind of silence that felt full, like no one knew what to say, and no one dared be the one to break it.

When you arrived, you were the first to move.

“I’ll head up,” you murmured.

Dojoon started to rise, but you gave him the faintest shake of your head. Not rejection. Just… space.

“Goodnight,” you said, before disappearing into the lobby. The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft ding. And only then did Dojoon exhale, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment he saw that flame kiss your skin.

After the greenroom, after your father’s voice slicing through you like piano wire, after everything that came out of your mouth without breaking, after the way Dojoon had just been there, you just went back to work.

There was no aftermath.

No heart-to-hearts. No confrontation. No follow-up text that said are you okay? in Dojoon's signature no-caps typing style.

But that was alright. That was the silent agreement. It made you feel normal.

Load-in was tight the next morning, weather humid enough to glue shirts to backs, and no one wanted to talk logistics. You walked through it like usual: headset on, clipboard balanced against your hip, gaffer tape stuck like a second wristband.

Dojoon cracked a joke about the busted fan in the greenroom being a “sad metal tulip.”

You snorted without looking up.

“Try standing in catering.”

He grinned. “Trying to sweat out my personality anyway.”

It felt normal. Or close enough.

Later that night, you found yourself crouched next to the merch table, inventory-checking lightsticks while the guys soundchecked. Dojoon passed by behind you, drumstick in hand for no reason at all. He didn’t say anything at first, just bumped your knee lightly with his foot like a secret hello.

You looked up. He was already walking away.

Things weren’t better. Not really. But they weren’t broken either.He didn’t push. You didn’t offer. And maybe that’s what made it bearable.

Until the silence got too loud again.

It was a few days later, just past 2AM.

The show had been loud. The venue chaotic. You hadn’t had a moment to breathe backstage, just faces, noise, adrenaline, and static. Your father barking commands at you non stop. It was all too much. You hadn’t spoken much since loading onto the bus. Now the others were asleep. You could feel it in the stillness. The bus hummed low, the lounge at the back dim with emergency light.

You hadn’t meant to bring the lighter. It just ended up in your hoodie pocket. Like always.

You sat cross-legged on the carpet, sleeves pushed up, the AC whispering over your bare arms. The crew jacket you’d had on earlier was folded beside you.

Your thumb clicked the lighter open. No hesitation this time, not when the urge was too present. The flame danced, small, hungry. You didn’t flinch. Not until the sting bloomed sharp under your skin, and even then, you welcomed it. Just a second. Just enough to feel it bite. Enough to override everything else clawing in your head. Again. This wasn’t a breakdown. It wasn’t a spiral.It was control.

The heat bloomed sharp against your wrist, the only thing lately that didn’t lie to you.

And then-

“You cannot be serious.”

You jolted. Too late to hide it.

Dojoon stood in the doorway. Sleep-rough hair, black t-shirt, no shoes, and absolutely fuming. Not the usual teasing squint. Not quiet concern. His eyes found the lighter. Found your wrist. And something in him snapped.

“Are you actually fucking serious right now?”

You froze. The lighter slipped from your hand, landing soft on the carpet. He didn’t move right away. Just stared. Like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, or maybe like he could, and that’s what made it worse.

Then he stepped in, fast. Two strides and he was towering over you.

“This has to stop.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came.

He crouched, not gentle, not slow. His movements were sharp, clipped, like he was trying to hold himself in place.

“You don’t get to keep doing this,” he said, voice low and tight. “You don’t get to hurt yourself like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t fucking ruin everyone who cares.”

You flinched. You’d never seen him like this.

He grabbed the lighter. Didn’t even look at it this time. Just stood, walked three paces, and hurled it at the trash bin. It missed. Hit the wall with a metallic clatter and skidded under the couch.

You stared.

“I didn’t -”

“No.” His voice cracked, not from volume, but from restraint. “Don’t.”

He turned back around. Hands on his hips. Breathing like he’d just sprinted. Jaw set. Shoulders tense.

“You know how many times I’ve almost said something?” he snapped. “About how you disappear. About the way you never let anyone close enough to notice when you’re bleeding.”

His eyes flashed, angry and tired. “And now you’re fucking doing this? Again?”

You looked down. The burn on your wrist was already darkening. His eyes tracked it like it physically hurt to look at it. It was the worst he’s seen so far.

“It wasn’t-” you started.

He took a step forward. “Don’t say it wasn’t what it looked like. Don’t do that.”

You looked up, startled. His voice had dropped lower, quieter, but somehow more dangerous.

“Because I was there the first time. And the second. And now here we are again, and I’m starting to think you don’t give a shit if anyone ever sees the aftermath.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t ask you to-”

“I don’t care if you asked,” he bit out. “I’m here. I saw. I told you to tell me when it gets this bad!”

Silence. Then his hand scrubbed over his face, and for the first time you noticed the shake in his fingers. Not from anger. From something closer to fear.

“Do you know what it’s like to see someone go still like that?” he asked, voice rasping. “To see them vanish behind their eyes and not know how to pull them back out?”

You said nothing. Because you knew. You’ve seen it with your mother. So many times.

“Because that’s what it feels like. When you do this.” He gestured to your wrist, to the room, to all of it. “Like I’m watching you disappear again and again and I can’t fucking reach you.”

Your voice finally scraped out: “I didn’t mean for you to see.”

He laughed. Bitter. Exhausted.

“Jesus. That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said. “You don’t want anyone to see. You want to hide the mess. Pretend the burn is cleaner than the bruise.”

The words hit harder than the burn ever could. You bit the inside of your cheek. His chest rose. Fell. His voice dropped again, not softer, just… stripped down.

“You don’t have to be okay for me,” he said. “You don’t have to fix it. But you can’t lie like this isn’t killing you. Like it isn’t killing me to watch.”

You looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. His expression raw. And for once, he wasn’t trying to keep it together. Not for you. Not for himself. Something cracked inside your ribs. He dropped back down to his knees, slower this time, arms loose at his sides. Just looking at you. Like if he moved wrong, you’d vanish again.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Except sit here. And be here. Until you want me gone or want me closer. Or both.”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached for him, hand landing somewhere between his shoulder and his collarbone, and folded into him with a quiet, shaking breath.

He held you tight. Tight like anger didn’t cancel care. Tight like your pulse might stop if he didn’t.

You didn’t mean to kiss him. Not really. But once your body remembered what it meant to be held like that, not restrained or managed or dismissed, but held, something inside you shifted.

You were shaking. Still. And he felt it. All of it. The tremble in your ribs. The way you tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder like you were hiding from the world that just saw too much.

And then you moved.Slow at first. A tilt of your head. A brush of your mouth along his jaw. Testing. He stilled, hands locked around your back, breath caught somewhere in his chest, but he didn’t pull away.

So you kissed him. Not soft. Not sweet.

Just real.

It was the kind of kiss born from salt and smoke and survival, the kind that doesn’t ask for permission because it’s not trying to seduce, it’s trying to just fucking feel something true.

His lips met yours like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. Maybe longer. But this time, he didn’t fall into it. Not right away. His hands tensed at your sides. Like he didn’t trust himself not to ruin it. Like he still hadn’t decided if this was what either of you needed.

You weren’t sure either. But you gave neither of you any room to second guess. You climbed into his lap, thighs bracketing his hips, breath ragged, and kissed him harder. Desperately. Like you were making a demand without words: Don’t leave me in this. Don’t look away now that you’ve seen all of it.

He responded in kind. His hands found your waist. Gripped. Not to push you away, to ground you. To keep you tethered. To make sure this wasn’t just in his head.

Your hips shifted without meaning to. Slow, experimental pressure. Cotton dragged over cotton, unhurried and deliberate, and your breath hitched as heat bloomed beneath the fabric. His did too, quiet, shaky, wanting. He groaned into your mouth.

“Don’t do this unless you mean it,” he rasped.

You looked him dead in the eye. “I fucking mean it.”

Something broke behind his eyes. He kissed you like you were oxygen. Like he’d been gasping for days. Like this was the only language either of you could speak anymore. That’s what it felt like.

Your hands slid under his shirt, palms splayed across his chest, hot skin, pounding heart. He hissed through his teeth.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You rocked down again, not to tease. Just to feel. To remind yourself that your body could experience more than pain. His hands shot to your hips. Not stopping you. Holding you steady. Reverent and rough at the same time. You bit down on his lip. He groaned again, deeper this time.

“You don’t get to kiss me like that,” he growled, voice cracking. “Not after tonight.”

You froze for a second, throat tight.

“Why not?” you whispered.

His eyes scanned your face. Wild. Burning.

“Because I want you so bad it hurts,” he said. “And because I’ve never wanted something that scared me this much.”

You didn’t speak. Just kissed him again, slower this time. Tongue brushing his, hands sliding to the back of his neck. He let it happen. Let you push him closer to the edge. Let you rock against him, heat pooling between you, breaths catching in tandem.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispered.

“So are you,” you murmured back.

He exhaled like the truth of it gutted him.

“I’m not gonna fuck you on a bus floor while your brain’s still bleeding,” he said, forehead to yours, voice broken open. “I want to. You have no idea how bad. But I’m not.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“But I need to touch you.”

You nodded again. “Okay.”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow, reverent — and settled just below your ribs. His thumbs grazed your skin, not to provoke, but to anchor. To say: You’re here. I see you. I’ve got you. You stayed like that, chests heaving, mouths close but not kissing, foreheads touching.

His hands held you like a promise to not leave. And for the first time in a long time, you felt warm without burning.

You stayed there like that, bodies wrapped together on the floor, breath evening out, heat still humming between you. His hands never left your waist. Your fingers didn’t stop tracing the ridge of his collarbone. Absent. Steady. Like maybe you were learning each other’s outlines in the dark.

Eventually, his head tipped forward, his lips brushing yours lightly, and he exhaled, soft and bitter.

“I should get up before I fuse with this floor.”

You smirked without opening your eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about? Fusion?”

“I’m thirty-two,” he deadpanned. “My knees were not built for carpet-based emotional trauma.”

You snorted. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Says the girl who just made out with me like it was CPR.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“Well,” you said slowly, “You were kind of dying. And I’m an expert in CPR.”

He gave you a look, that signature Dojoon squint, dry and dangerous.

“You gonna take credit for saving me now?”

“I am very generous.”

“Yeah?” His hands shifted, palms sliding up your back, fingers brushing your shoulder blades. “You’re also a menace.”

You hummed. “Takes one to kiss one.”

He groaned. “God, shut up.”

You leaned in again, mouth brushing his ear. “Make me.”

The breath caught in his throat. Then his hands flexed, and for a second you thought he might snap again, crush you against him, kiss you like the floor could catch fire. But he didn’t. He let the silence stretch between your mouths, his eyes scanning yours like he was memorizing the new edges of you, the fire, the softness, the bite.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured. “You know that?”

You shrugged. “You’re the one who keeps showing up.”

He laughed, low and hoarse and real, and it shook something loose between you. He tilted his head. Smirk curling lazy at the corner of his mouth.

“So, just to clarify,” he said, dragging the words out, “you’re into pyromania, verbal abuse, and lap-based cardio?”

You blinked, mock-innocent. “When you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

“You are weird.”

“Says the man who growled at me like a feral dog.”

“You were grinding like you were trying to end my bloodline.”

You burst into laughter. And so did he, full-bodied, head-tipped-back, that real Dojoon laugh that made your chest loosen without the help of flame or friction.

The silence that followed wasn’t tense this time. Just warm. Easy.

Then he shifted beneath you and groaned. “Seriously. My ass is numb. Help me up before I die dramatic and beautiful.”

You rolled your eyes and stood, offering him a hand. “Come on, grandpa.”

He took it, groaning as he stood. “I’m gonna need to ice my everything.”

“Oh no,” you said flatly. “Not your fragile rockstar knees.”

He gave you a look. “Watch it. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and make you sleep in the merch bins.”

You lifted your chin. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I absolutely would.”

“Then do it.”

You didn’t mean for it to come out like that, challenge baked into every syllable,but it did. His eyes dropped to your mouth again. Dark. Curious. A beat passed.

Then he leaned in, voice low. “Careful.”

You swallowed.

He grinned, that slow, dimpled, you-make-me-crazy grin, and stepped back before either of you lost control again.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. Dojoon didn’t say anything after that, just looked at you for a second, eyes soft again, like whatever had cracked open in him hadn’t quite sealed yet. Then he jerked his chin toward the back of the bus.

“Come on. Bed, gremlin.”

You groaned. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Too bad. I’m tucking you in like a problematic child.”

“You’re so bossy after 2 a.m.”

“Only when I catch people setting themselves on fire,” he said flatly, starting toward the bunks. “And emotionally blackmailing me with their thighs.”

You snorted. “You liked it.”

“I’ll never admit that in court.”

You followed him, bumping his shoulder with yours once in the narrow hallway. His fingers brushed your hand in return, barely there, but it sent heat sparking through your ribs all over again. At your bunk, you paused. The curtain was open, blanket twisted from where you’d tried and failed to sleep earlier. Dojoon didn’t even hesitate. He crouched slightly, grabbed the edge of the blanket, and fluffed it out like it was some five-star hotel turn-down service.

You gave him a look. “What is happening right now.”

“I am being the nurturing mother bird you never knew you needed.”

“Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he whispered dramatically. “Time for the baby gremlin to rest.”

You shoved his shoulder, but he caught your wrist mid-air. Not hard, just enough to still you. Then, gently, he tugged your sleeve back down. Covered the raw spot on your wrist with his hand. Held it there for a second, gaze flicking up to yours.

His voice dropped. “Sleep, okay?”

You nodded. Something thick rose in your throat. But you swallowed it down.

He released your hand, reached up, and tapped your forehead with one finger. “That’s for being an idiot.”

Then he kissed the spot he’d just tapped. “That’s for not being alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.He saw it. Didn’t press. Just gave you a half-smile that held too much and said too little. You climbed into your bunk. He pulled the blanket over you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Then tucked it under your shoulder. Then paused.

“Goodnight.”

You didn’t answer out loud. Just let your eyes close, chest full and aching and finally still. And when you drifted off a few minutes later, body warm, wrist covered, blanket tucked tight, the last thing you heard was his footsteps fading down the corridor.

The European leg of the tour was over.

Too many cities, one shattered mic stand, and a dozen sleepless nights. Everyone had made it through with cracked knuckles and scratchy throats and an entire tour bus’s worth of inside jokes, but they made it.

And now, in a half-lit hotel bar with staff and crew half-drunk on wine and end-of-tour adrenaline, they were allowed to exhale.

Dojoon wasn’t drinking much, just nursing one of those whiskey sodas he only pretended to like. He was slouched back in a cracked leather chair, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, legs sprawled out like the entire floor was his. He looked relaxed.

He wasn’t.

He was waiting.

They all were, really. Even if they didn’t say it. Everyone had noticed you hadn’t arrived yet. Chloe from tech had asked. Mina from lighting, too. One of the staff even asked your dad, only to be waved off with a tight smile and some mutter about “probably still changing.”

And then the door opened. And silence followed you in. You didn’t just walk into the room, you took it. Black dress. Thigh-highs. Boots that sounded like intention. Your hair was curled, your lips were painted, and your eyes looked like they were daring someone to say something.

They didn’t. Not at first.

Then:

“Jesus,” Hajoon muttered, eyes wide. “She could kill a man in that dress.”

“Dojoon’s already halfway dead,” Woosung said with a smirk.

Taegyeom made a choked sound. “I don’t think he’s breathing.”

Dojoon didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just watched you. Not in the obvious way. Not with some jaw-dropped stare. He watched you like a song he already knew, one he hadn’t heard played quite like this before. The confidence. The way you walked like you knew how sharp you looked.

The way your eyes scanned the room and landed on him like it wasn’t even an accident. You smiled. It was small. But it hit like an elbow to the ribs. He blinked once and took a sip of his drink to keep his mouth from saying something stupid.

You were barely three steps into the room before your dad intercepted.

“Really?” he said, low, with that tone you knew too well. “You’re dressed like this for a work event?”

You tilted your head. “It’s a party.”

“It’s a professional celebration.”

You sipped your drink. “And I’m professionally celebrating.”

He sighed. “You don’t have to try so hard to be noticed.”

“I’m not trying.” You smiled sweetly. “This is just how I look.”

Then you turned, and walked straight past him, toward Chloe and Mina, who immediately whooped and wrapped you into a too-tight, too-loud hug like they’d been waiting all night to see you.

You didn’t look back. But someone else did. From across the room, Dojoon had seen everything. And while he didn’t say a word, his posture shifted just slightly. One hand flexed around the glass in his lap. His eyes didn’t move from you.

“Man,” Woosung said beside him, deadpan, “you’re making it too obvious.”

Dojoon didn’t respond.

“Seriously,” Hajoon added, flopping into the chair next to him, “you’re staring like she just invented knees.”

Dojoon leaned back, rested his elbow on the armrest, and muttered, “You think she dressed like that by accident?”

Woosung grinned. “I think she dressed like that knowing you’d look at her exactly like this.”

Dojoon’s mouth twitched. Because… yeah. She probably did. And the worst part? She didn’t have to try.

You were laughing now, not politely, not just crew-friendly giggles. Real laughter. Sparkling and raw. Flushed cheeks, smudged lipstick, a highball glass in hand. A little wild around the edges. A little like you belonged to the moment more than to the tour.

Dojoon couldn’t take his eyes off you. It wasn’t just the dress. It was the way you looked alive in it. Not quiet. Not careful. Not hidden in oversized sweatshirts and tightly gripped clipboards. But glowing. Smirking. Sharp.

And he'd watched you back every time your eyes drifted toward him. Not overtly. Never bold. But every time you threw your head back to laugh, you felt it. Every time your hand curled around a drink. Every time you shifted in your seat. He was there. Eyes like heat. Like want.

The party didn’t crash so much as fade.

One by one, people peeled off, stumbling out in pairs, slumping into hotel elevators, mumbling something about flights and hangovers and charging cables. Someone was still singing in the hallway two floors down. Chloe had cried over a spilled espresso martini. Hajoon and Taegyeom left arguing over what European food’s the best.

You stayed later than you meant to. Just barely. Not because you were drunk, you weren’t, not really. Just floaty. Skin humming. Every breath still tuned to the weight of his stare.

You’d expected him to follow. Or maybe you hoped he would.

But he didn’t.

Not when you slipped out. Not in the elevator ride up. Not when you kicked your boots off and peeled the stockings off your legs and stood in front of the mirror with your lipstick half-worn and your hair a little wild, glitter dusted across your collarbone like residue from something unspoken.

Now, in the room alone, everything felt tighter.

The mirror still held your reflection from earlier, flushed cheeks, dark eyes, a dress that clung. The towel you’d wrapped around yourself after the shower barely stayed in place, clinging damp to your skin. And your body buzzed. Not from alcohol. From him. From the look in his eyes when you walked away. From everything he didn’t say.

You lay back against the pillows, hair damp, towel barely staying put. The sheets under you felt cool, but your skin burned, that kind of heat that didn’t come from the hot water. The kind that pulsed low and slow behind your ribs.

You hadn’t meant to do anything. Not really.

It was just… lingering.

That tension. That need. You’d been carrying it for days and now, with the quiet stretching long and empty around you, it had nowhere to go. So you let your fingers drift. Just a little. Across your stomach. Down your thigh.

You tried to ignore the ache.

Tried to ignore the way your thoughts immediately conjured him, the roughness in his voice, the way his hand gripped your waist, the sound he made when you whimpered against his mouth.

And then, somehow, your fingers had slipped lower. You weren’t really doing anything. Just… pressing. Lightly. The smallest drag of touch. Like testing if the heat between your thighs was still there. It was. You shifted your legs slightly apart. Let your breath hitch. Closed your eyes and imagined his mouth.And just when your fingers started to move…

Your phone buzzed.

You jumped. Your heart lurched like you’d been caught. You snatched the phone off the bed, eyes wide.

Dojoon.

Your pulse was loud. Too loud. You wiped your hand quickly on the sheets and sat up halfway, tucking the towel tighter around your legs. Just to feel less exposed. Less… obvious. You stared at the screen a second longer.

Then answered.

“…Hi.”

There was silence at first. Then a soft, familiar chuckle.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough, like he hadn’t let himself breathe all night. “Still glowing from the party?” His voice was warm. Low. Familiar in a way that made you want to cry and moan at the same time.

“You good?” he asked after a second of you not answering, only breathing awkwardly into the line.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I’m- yeah. Just… tired.”

“You think I didn’t see you tonight?” he asked, voice low. “The way you looked in that dress? Like you were trying to kill me.”

“I- yeah, that was like the whole point.”

A soft breath from him. Not quite a laugh. “You sound flushed.” He didn’t say it teasingly this time. Just matter of factly.

“I just got out of the shower.”

Another beat. You could hear the smirk in his voice this time.

“Still in your towel?”

You groaned.

“Like the dress wasn’t enough?” he added, half-laughing. “I barely survived that. Now you’re naked and flushed and on the phone with me?”

You buried your face in your pillow. “Dojoon…”

“What? That’s a normal question.”

You snorted. “No, it’s not.”

A pause. Then: “So… yes?”

You let out the world’s quietest groan.

“God,” he said, voice tipping into something darker. “That’s not helping.”

You could practically hear him adjusting, like he’d leaned back, thrown an arm over his head, eyes closed, picturing you.

“I couldn’t stop looking at you tonight,” he said suddenly, voice softer. “Your legs. That lipstick. The way you kept teasing me with those small glances my way.”

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,”. A small pause. “Like actually distracted. I think Hajoon knows. He asked if I was dying.” You laughed into the pillow, nerves still buzzing in your skin.

“And now,” he continued, voice low and amused, “you’re on the phone, lying in bed, still warm from the shower, probably with your legs parted-”

Your breath caught. Audibly. He stopped. It was silent for a second and you could hear shuffling on the other end of the line.

“…Wait.”

Your heart slammed. Oh no.

“Sweetheart,” he said slowly. “Were you… touching yourself when I called?”

You made the tiniest noise in the back of your throat.

“Oh my god,” he said, almost laughing. “You were.”

“I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t- I wasn’t doing anything,” you stammered, horrified, feeling caught by him.

“You sound like you were doing something,” he teased. “All breathless and flustered.”

You could feel your whole body heating up. You couldn’t even look at the phone. Like he could see you somehow.

“So now I’m wondering…” he said softly, curiosity laced into his voice. “Are you still?”

You nearly fucking died. For a full thirty seconds, you couldn’t even breathe, let alone speak — just stared at the wall, pulse hammering, caught between telling him to fuck off and hanging up or… giving in. You should’ve ended the call. Should’ve shut it down before it got worse. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Something in you was already unraveling — and he knew it.

“…No,” you whispered.

He was quiet for a second. Then: “But you want to.”

You didn’t answer.

“Hey…,” he murmured, gentle now. “Don’t hide from me.” You bit your lip hard enough to sting.

“Do you want me to stay on the phone?” he asked, his voice soft but thick with hunger, every word coiled tight with need. The kind that settled deep in your stomach and wouldn’t let go.

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see it. “…Yes.”

“Good girl.”

You made a tiny sound.

“Can I help?” he asked, his voice like warm smoke, curling through the line and into your body, thick with promise.

“…How?” you managed, barely above a whisper.

“I’ll talk,” he said, simply. Calmly. Like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You listen. You touch. You come when I tell you to.”

Your thighs shifted involuntarily, the ache already blooming low and warm. His words wrapped around you like silk and pressure all at once — soft and commanding. Your breath stuttered.

“I don’t— I don’t know what to—”

“I’ll guide you,” he said, voice softer now, like velvet stretched tight.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“I want you to keep it light,” he murmured. “Just your clit. No fingers inside, not yet.”

Your breath caught.

“I need you on edge,” he said, almost like it hurt him to say it. “Worked up and throbbing and so desperate you forget your own name.”

You made a tiny, needy sound.

“And I want to hear you,” he added, voice warm. “Every sound you make, every breath- I want all of it.”

You hesitated, the heat crawling up your neck. “I’m not good at-”

“You are,” he said immediately, and the certainty in his voice made your stomach twist. “You‘re just not aware of it. You make the prettiest sounds when you stop thinking.”

The sound that escaped you wasn’t intentional, a helpless little whimper, raw and shaky. Your hand clenched the sheets. You hated how easily he could draw that out of you. He loved it.

“There it is,” he murmured, voice low and pleased, like he’d just unwrapped something delicate. “God, I love that.”

Then, lower, darker: “So,” he breathed, dragging the word out like a secret, “are your fingers already between your thighs?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

“…Yes.”

“Fuck,” he groaned.

You let your hand settle again. Hesitant. Embarrassed. But so desperately warm.

“Start slow,” he said. You did. Your breath stuttered. “Just… tease it a little. Like I would if I were there. I’d just lightly touch. Barely anything.”

You did what he said. Your hips shifted under the towel. Your breath came faster. He let the silence stretch, just enough.

“Are you wet?” There was the faintest hesitation in his voice, like he already knew the answer but needed to hear you say it.

“…Yes” The pause on the line told you everything.

“Were you thinking about me. Before I called?”

You nodded instinctively, even though he couldn’t see you, breath catching in your throat.

“Y-yeah.”

“You know, I’d take my time,” he whispered. “I’d move so slow you’d beg me to stop teasing. I’d want your thighs shaking.” Your hips bucked.

“I want to hear it.”

You swallowed. “Hear what?”

“What it feels like.”

Your entire body flushed hot. Cheeks, chest, the tips of your ears, all burning. You blinked up at the ceiling like it might save you, but it didn’t. Nothing could. Not from that voice. That tone. Warm, rough, low with want. And full of knowing.

You bit your lip. “What… what do you mean?”

But you knew exactly what he meant. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Not yet. Not like this, bare and trembling, hand between your thighs, heart thudding loud enough to fill the silence.

Dojoon was quiet for a beat. Then, softer now, coaxing: “Tell me what you feel.”

You whimpered.

“Tell me,” he said again, almost like he was pleading now. “Please. I want the words. I want to imagine exactly what you’re feeling, what I’d be feeling if I had you under me instead.”

Your throat bobbed. You licked your lips, desperate to find your voice.

“I- It’s warm,” you whispered, breath hitching. “It… it pulses. Feels so good. Every time I circle, it just- it gets tighter. Hotter.”

You heard it, the sharp breath he sucked in. The slight rustle of fabric on his end, like maybe he’d shifted in bed. Like maybe he was fisting the sheet.

“Fuck,” he groaned, low and hoarse. “I love hearing your voice like that.”

Your hips moved of their own accord, chasing that rhythm again. Slow, shaky, clumsy with how close you already were.

“I wish I was there,” he murmured, rough and reverent. “I wish I could see your face. Watch you struggle to say it. God, you sound so shy and so fucking desperate at the same time.”

You made a choked sound. “Dojoon-”

“Are you clenching around nothing?” he asked, voice ragged now. “So wet and aching it hurts?” You gasped, biting back a moan.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say what you need.”

You hesitated. But your body answered for you, grinding down against your fingers harder now, the need unbearable.

“I- I need you,” you whimpered. “Need your mouth. Your fingers, anything. Need you to make it worse before you make it better.”

He could hear it in your breath, the stutter, the rhythm of it. The way your moans curled at the edges now, tighter, higher, trembling. You were close. He knew it.

But that wasn’t in his plans.

“No,” he said, gentle but firm. “Don’t rush. Take your hand away.”

Your fingers stilled, and your chest heaved with a soft, panicked gasp. “Dojoon-”

“I want you desperate,” he said, voice dipped in low heat. “And I want you begging.”

God, he was a cruel bastard. A beautiful, wicked, perfect bastard.

But your hand moved, trembling, away from your center anyway. Your body screamed at the loss, the slick ache between your legs throbbing without relief. You buried your face in the pillow and whimpered again. This was torture.

“You wanna know what I’d do?” he asked, his voice soft now, sinful and dark. Teasing. Torturous.

“Yes,” you breathed, like it hurt to admit.

“I’d start with slow kisses,” he murmured. “Down your thighs. Over your hips. Just to feel you twitch. To make you squirm. And then I’d press your legs open and taste you - one long, slow lick. Just enough to make you cry.”

You did cry out then, softly, helplessly, biting the sheet beneath your cheek like it could ground you.

“But I wouldn’t let you finish,” he said, a little breathless himself. “Not at first.”

“Why?” Your voice broke around the word.

“Because I love how you sound when you’re frustrated. Like right now.” His voice was pure hunger now, the low groan in his throat sending sparks down your spine.

“Dojoon-” You could hardly breathe.

“I want you to ask for it,” he said, voice shaking with restraint. “Ask to keep going.”

“Please,” you whimpered, hips twitching against the air. “Please, let me- ”

“Touch yourself again,” he whispered. “Faster. Just a little. I want to hear what I’m missing.”

You obeyed instantly, your hand finding its way back, fingers slick and needy. The relief was so sharp you moaned, high and broken and shaking. You barely even needed to move. Just a few strokes and your body was unraveling, inch by desperate inch.

But it was his voice, god, his voice, that ruined you. It wrapped around every nerve, pulled every breath from your lungs like it was tethered to his.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he groaned- ragged, like every word scraped straight from his throat. “I’m hard as fuck just listening to you.”

Your hand moved faster, helpless against it now. Every nerve in your body screamed for release. You were heat and ache and nothing else.

“Do you want to come?” he asked, and this time there was no softness to his voice, just hunger. Raw, strained, barely held back.

“Y-yes-” The answer tore out of you. You were already there. Balancing on the knife-edge, breath catching in your throat.

“Don’t. Not yet.”

You sobbed, actually sobbed, your hips stuttering against your hand, muscles clenching tight with the effort to obey. The pressure was unbearable.

“Just a little more,” he whispered. “Let it build. I want you ruined for me. I want to hear how bad you need it.”

And so you held on, body trembling, thighs tensed. Even as your fingers slipped and your breathing went ragged. Even as everything in you screamed now. You didn’t let go- because he told you not to.

“Please-” Your voice broke. Your eyes burned, tears pricking from sheer desperation. “I can’t-I can’t anymore, just… please-“

“Louder.”

“Please, Dojoon,” you gasped, your voice ruined, wrecking you. “I need to come. I need it- ”

There was a sound on the other end — something between a sigh and a groan, like he’d thrown his head back and exhaled through clenched teeth.

“God,” he hissed. “Okay. Come for me.”

Your body didn’t wait. It snapped. Release ripped through you like lightning- violent, staggering. You arched with it, mouth falling open on a moan that was only his name, over and over, broken and breathless like a prayer. Your thighs shook. Your whole body seized and shattered around the pleasure, wave after wave pulling you under.

And on the other end of the line, his breathing. Harsh. Shaky. Intimate. Like he’d been right there with you, feeling every second of it.

You didn’t know how long you’d been lying there. The world had gone quiet in the best kind of way- like time had slowed down to let you breathe. Your body was still curled loosely on the bed, skin flushed, chest rising slowly as you drifted somewhere between weightlessness and the steady pulse of him still lingering in your bones.

Your hand was limp against your stomach, fingers slightly curled like they hadn’t yet remembered how to let go. The towel had slipped off you at some point, the bed sheets clung to your thighs, the fabric warm and damp, tangled from how you’d twisted atop them, chasing his voice. Being undone by it.

And he was still there. In your ear. Breathing. Not talking yet, not teasing. Just present. You could hear the way his breath moved through him: slower now, a little unsteady, like he was still coming down too. It filled the silence with something quiet and intimate, the kind of closeness that didn’t need to be seen or touched to be real.

Then, softly, his voice scraped into your ear:

“Are you okay?”

Three words. Simple. But the way he said them made your chest pull tight.

You swallowed, blinking up at the ceiling. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”

He let out a slow breath. Like he’d been waiting to hear that.

“You sounded so good,” he murmured. “I mean- fucking unreal.”

You smiled, weak and flushed. “I hate how smug you sound right now.”

“I’m not smug,” he said, and you could hear the way his lips twitched around it. “I’m proud. Of my work.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, and that made something shift in him, you could hear it in the way he shifted too.

“I’d kill to see you right now,” he said, more to himself than to you. “The way you look after.”

That made your breath catch again. Your eyes fluttered shut. “I wish you were here,” you whispered. Another pause. Not tense. Just full.

“I kind of am,” he said quietly. And in a way, he was right. You could feel him- the weight of his attention, the presence of him on the other end of the line like a hand resting low on your spine. Like he’d stretched himself through the static and settled right beside you.

“I kept thinking about your hands,” you said, voice low now, fragile with honesty. “What they felt like on my hips.“

He inhaled sharply.

You didn’t apologize. You didn’t explain. Neither did he. There was no shame in wanting. Not here.

“Are you still…” you trailed off, heat crawling back into your cheeks.

His voice was already there. Low. Rough. “Hard as hell.”

You groaned softly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it,” he murmured. “You like knowing what you do to me.”

“I do.”

“Mhm. There it is.”

Your lips curved. It was terrifying how easy it was to fall into him like this, not just the teasing, but the comfort underneath it. The way he felt like a place to land.

“Hey,” he said after a beat. “Did I… go too far?”

The question caught you off guard.

“No,” you said quickly. “God, no. You were perfect.”

He let out a breath that sounded like tension easing through his chest. “Good.”

Another pause. Then his voice gentled, softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Are you feeling okay? Like… really okay?”

You nodded instinctively, then answered. “Yeah. I feel safe.”

He didn’t say anything. Not for a few seconds. You could feel it settle into his body on the other end, the way those words landed. The way they mattered.

“That’s all I care about,” he said quietly. “That you feel held. Even like this.”

You blinked rapidly, trying to fight the sudden burn in your eyes. The feeling of being held, it was almost unreal. How had someone stayed, not walked away, not let go… even when they weren’t here?

“You do that,” you whispered.

“I’d be better in person.”

“I know.”

He didn’t offer to come over. You didn’t ask him to. The thing between you wasn’t about proving anything. It was about being here. Letting it unfold.

“I keep picturing it,” he said. “If I was there. What I’d be doing right now.”

You swallowed. “What would you be doing?”

He hesitated, just for a second.

“I’d be running my fingers down your spine,” he said softly. “Smoothing the hair off your face. Letting you tuck into me, your back against my chest. My arm across your waist, keeping you there. Kissing your neck. I’d stay.”

Your breath caught.

“I’d hold you until you fell asleep. And long after that,” he said. “Watching your body relax.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was too full to break, warm and heavy, like a blanket draped over both of you.

“You can sleep,” he said finally, voice so soft it barely touched your ear. “I’ll stay.”

“You sure? I snore.”

“Mhm I wanna hear that,” he murmured. “Bet you sound real sexy.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut, your tired limbs finally relaxing.

“Mhm. Goodnight,” you said.

“Night, sweetheart.” A pause. “Don’t think too hard. Just feel it.”

You breathed in slowly. Let the quiet take you. And somewhere on the same floor, in a different bed, under the same ceiling, he stayed. Breathing with you. Holding you, in the only way he could.

And it was enough. For now.

[itsvici0usbaby]

Echoes of comfort | Bangchan x Cj

A/N: I wrote this one for my best friend @funtimefloof It’s just a little blurb to show her that she’s not alone and hoping to spare a little comfort. Love you very much 🖤

Word count : 594

Warnings : none, maybe just a little anxiousness and feeling down and depressed

The evening sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the quiet park. Bangchan strolled along the winding paths, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair as he sought solace in the tranquil surroundings. As he rounded a corner, he spotted Cj sitting alone on a weathered bench, her gaze fixed on the ground, lost in thought.

Approaching her with cautious steps, he noticed the telltale signs of distress etched on her face—the furrowed brow, the trembling lips. Without a word, he settled beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them, yet close enough to offer comfort.

Cj glanced up, startled by his presence. For a moment, their eyes met, and in that fleeting exchange,  Bangchan saw the raw vulnerability lurking beneath her facade of strength. Without speaking, he offered a reassuring smile, a silent gesture of solidarity.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, yet strangely comforting. He waited patiently, allowing Cj the space to gather her thoughts, knowing that sometimes, the greatest solace came from simply being there.

"I'm sorry," She whispered finally, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting the turmoil swirling within her. Bangchan shook his head, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "There's no need to apologize. I'm here for you, whatever you're going through." Tears welled up in her eyes again, threatening to spill over. She leaned into his embrace, seeking refuge in his warmth, the weight of her burdens momentarily lifted by his presence. He held her close, offering silent support as she allowed her emotions to flow freely.

"I feel like everything is falling apart," she confessed, her voice tinged with desperation. "I don't know what to do anymore." Her words hung heavy in the air, echoing the pain that gripped her heart. He listened attentively, his gaze soft and understanding, as she poured out her fears and frustrations, each word a testament to the depth of her anguish.

"It's okay to feel lost sometimes," he reassured her, his voice a soothing balm to her wounded soul. "But remember, even in the darkest moments, there's always a glimmer of hope, however faint it may seem."

Cj nodded, her tear-streaked face illuminated by a flicker of hope. In that fleeting moment, she found solace in his words, a beacon of light cutting through the suffocating darkness that threatened to consume her.

"Thank you, Channie," she murmured, her gratitude evident in her eyes as she searched his face for reassurance.He smiled, a gentle curve of his lips that spoke volumes of his unwavering support. "Anytime, love. You're not alone in this journey. We'll get through it together, one step at a time."

The weight of his words hung in the air, a promise of steadfast companionship in the face of adversity. In that shared moment of vulnerability, Cj found comfort in the knowledge that she was not alone, that there was someone who understood her pain and stood by her side, ready to weather the storm together.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blanket of darkness over the world, she felt a glimmer of hope ignite within her soul, a beacon of light guiding her through the darkest of nights. And in the quiet serenity of the park, amidst the gentle rustle of leaves and the soothing melody of birdsong, she found the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that with Bangchan by her side, she was capable of overcoming anything that life threw her way.

[itsvici0usbaby]

Echoes of comfort | Bangchan x Cj

A/N: I wrote this for my best friend @funtimefloof It’s a little blurb to comfort her and show her that she’s not alone. Love you very much 🖤

Word count : 594

Warnings : none, maybe a little bit of anxiousness and feeling down but other than that just fluff

The evening sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the quiet park. Bangchan strolled along the winding paths, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair as he sought solace in the tranquil surroundings. As he rounded a corner, he spotted Cj sitting alone on a weathered bench, her gaze fixed on the ground, lost in thought.

Approaching her with cautious steps, he noticed the telltale signs of distress etched on her face—the furrowed brow, the trembling lips. Without a word, he settled beside her, leaving a respectful distance between them, yet close enough to offer comfort.

Cj glanced up, startled by his presence. For a moment, their eyes met, and in that fleeting exchange,  Bangchan saw the raw vulnerability lurking beneath her facade of strength. Without speaking, he offered a reassuring smile, a silent gesture of solidarity.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words, yet strangely comforting. He waited patiently, allowing Cj the space to gather her thoughts, knowing that sometimes, the greatest solace came from simply being there.

"I'm sorry," She whispered finally, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of traffic. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, reflecting the turmoil swirling within her. Bangchan shook his head, reaching out to gently squeeze her shoulder. "There's no need to apologize. I'm here for you, whatever you're going through." Tears welled up in her eyes again, threatening to spill over. She leaned into his embrace, seeking refuge in his warmth, the weight of her burdens momentarily lifted by his presence. He held her close, offering silent support as she allowed her emotions to flow freely.

"I feel like everything is falling apart," she confessed, her voice tinged with desperation. "I don't know what to do anymore." Her words hung heavy in the air, echoing the pain that gripped her heart. He listened attentively, his gaze soft and understanding, as she poured out her fears and frustrations, each word a testament to the depth of her anguish.

"It's okay to feel lost sometimes," he reassured her, his voice a soothing balm to her wounded soul. "But remember, even in the darkest moments, there's always a glimmer of hope, however faint it may seem."

Cj nodded, her tear-streaked face illuminated by a flicker of hope. In that fleeting moment, she found solace in his words, a beacon of light cutting through the suffocating darkness that threatened to consume her.

"Thank you, Channie," she murmured, her gratitude evident in her eyes as she searched his face for reassurance.He smiled, a gentle curve of his lips that spoke volumes of his unwavering support. "Anytime, love. You're not alone in this journey. We'll get through it together, one step at a time."

The weight of his words hung in the air, a promise of steadfast companionship in the face of adversity. In that shared moment of vulnerability, Cj found comfort in the knowledge that she was not alone, that there was someone who understood her pain and stood by her side, ready to weather the storm together.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a blanket of darkness over the world, she felt a glimmer of hope ignite within her soul, a beacon of light guiding her through the darkest of nights. And in the quiet serenity of the park, amidst the gentle rustle of leaves and the soothing melody of birdsong, she found the strength to face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that with Bangchan by her side, she was capable of overcoming anything that life threw her way.

[ad-wills]

[itsvici0usbaby]

Some of y’all really forget that Eddie Munson does indeed NOT smell like vanilla and roses lol. He’s literally wearing LAYERS of clothing (A LEATHER JACKET BY THE FUCKING WAY!!!!!!!) Like, as a goth/metalhead myself I can tell you that it smells horrible. Especially if you’re wearing it constantly.

I can tell you what he smells like. He smells like the smell of an armpit that hasn't touched a stick of deodorant since Guns N' Roses was really Guns N' Roses :) He smells like sweat, weed, cigarettes, beer and regrets. Thanks for coming to my ted talk!

[itsvici0usbaby]

Just to clarify !!! This post was directed at SOME writers or comments on here of people stating that they think Eddie smells like a flower garden. Sure, that post is exaggerated, not every single metalhead smells bad lol. I make sure to take care of myself, but sometimes it’s inevitable. Like when I’m at a festival or at a gig. And I also don’t exactly like washing my leather jacket.. so when I wear it and it gets hot, it just smells, I guess? Not disgustingly bad, but a tiny bit.

Eddie is on the run. He doesn’t have access to a bath or a shower. I don’t think anyone would smell good at that point 🤷‍♀️

Not saying that it’s disgusting to smell like sweat, either. It’s normal and can be hot, in a way. Lol

[itsvici0usbaby]

Some of y’all really forget that Eddie Munson does indeed NOT smell like vanilla and roses lol. He’s literally wearing LAYERS of clothing (A LEATHER JACKET BY THE FUCKING WAY!!!!!!!) Like, as a goth/metalhead myself I can tell you that it smells horrible. Especially if you’re wearing it constantly.

I can tell you what he smells like. He smells like the smell of an armpit that hasn't touched a stick of deodorant since Guns N' Roses was really Guns N' Roses :) He smells like sweat, weed, cigarettes, beer and regrets. Thanks for coming to my ted talk!

[itsvici0usbaby]

Sanctuary || Eddie Munson

Eddie Munson x fem! reader

A/N: I’ve been struggling with panic and anxiety attacks a lot again this month already, so I wrote a little fluffy comfort. Because, well… I can picture Eddie being so patient and cute and just ahhhh *screaming, crying…*

Word count : 1,7k

Warnings: anxiety attacks, nightmares, fluff/comfort, slight disassociation but it’s not that explicit

You jolt up in the middle of night, sweating and crying. Your heart beat increases and you start to breathe fast, shallow breaths. You clutch at your chest as it feels like it will burst with every tremor of fear that climbs up your insides and slides back down, giving you the butterfly effect.

It feels like the world is falling down and crushing you under its heavy weight. Your body's on fire as your fears are brought to life and panic streams through your body and mind. The walls around you are suddenly so close, you think they will crush you any second. Sobbing, you hold your head into your hands, trying to grasp your sanity. You feel as if your life is on a video reel but the sounds are distorted, and the film is held together by a shaky hand.You try to take deep breaths, but they escape your mouth as tiny gasps and you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping all this will end soon. You rock in the foetal position, trying to think of happy things, like music, the fall, and Eddie.

But nothing seems to help. Your thoughts are rushing at you so quickly that you can barely finish one before another has started. You lose control, losing your mind, losing all grasp of who you are. Out of control, no one to help, and no one to turn to. As time begins to speed up, your thought become less and less coherent, streams of blinding unrealities, cascading floods of ridiculousness and insanity. You feel just like a child again, shaking, terrified. The constricted feelings grow, as if you are strangled by just the air about you. Ribbons of red and yellow fly past your eyes, pink and orange assault your senses, overwhelming your mind with immeasurable amounts of unfiltered loudness. You tremble,wrapping your arms around yourself, waves of nausea adding to your misery.

What had brought this on? What would make it stop? What have you done? What in hell's name did you do to deserve this? These are the questions you ask yourself.

"Princess?" You hear a voice, distant, so incredibly far away. Your head is spins and you don't know how to snap out of it on your own. You feel disconnected from yourself and the world around you, everything so surreal, like you are detached from reality.

You whimper, feeling something warm and comforting on your skin, a hand, perhaps? It gently takes ahold of your waist and turns your body around, an arm now wrapped tightly around your middle as your palms are pressed up against someone's naked chest.

"Eddie..."

Gut-wrenching sobs tear through your chest, the sound of wailing and suffering echo throughout the room. You're so broken, so angry and sad. You just want this to end. You remove your hands from his chest, bringing them up to your face to hide away from him. You can't stand him seeing you like this.

"Eddie, I - I can't.." you manage to say, "I d-don't want this anymore. Just wanna die. I... I really hope I die. I think I'm dying." The sobs increase in caliber, louder and ricocheting like the worst fireworks he has ever heard inside of his skull.Eddie flinches at your words and his grip around you tightens subconsciously. His jaw clenches and he tries to hold in his own tears.

"Love, stop. Please breathe, I need you to breathe."

When you shake your head, a slight rocking motion taking over your body, he doubles his efforts. His fingers are gentle as they wrap around your wrists, encircling them entirely as he pulls them away from your face. Puffy, red, exhausted, you peer up at him. Your breaths are still uneven, painful in your lungs as you struggle to get them down.

You clench your eyes shut, pushing it down. Your head is screaming at you, replaying the nightmare you can't be bothered to remember in vivid detail across your eyelids. You can't so much as blink without the terror clotting in your vocal cords, emitting sobs that turn into coughs; minor suffocation that have Eddie holding both sides of your head firmly, making you meet his eyes.

"You can do it. Breathe with me."  He situates himself against the wall next to his bed, drawing you into his lap and giving physical reminders of existence.His arms are draped around you securely, his chin gently resting on your shoulder as he feels you tremble and shake.

"Listen baby. I need you to breathe in as slowly, deeply and gently as you can, through your nose. And breathe out slowly, deeply and gently through your mouth."

You stare ahead, shaking, sniffling and wringing your fingers until they are raw. Your vision keeps flipping, shots of you and Eddie from afar, the world taken out of perspective, then you're suddenly thrust back into your own body, staring at your hands as if they are the problem and the solution all the same.

"Close your eyes and focus on your breathing."

His instructions, however, fall on deaf ears, as you just gasp and cry and whimper, incoherent pleas leaving your lips. You feel like you're drowning in water and struggling to keep afloat. You know you need to take a deep breath and calmly tread water. But every fiber of your being is making you want to splash your arms around wildly.

His heart pounds, guilt festeres, stomach churns. He feels helpless, wanting to help you out of this. But he feels like he’s bound. His mind is spinning, thinking about the best way to calm you down.

Music? Probably, but he doesn’t have the heart to let go of you to put on his stereo, scared that if he would do so, you’d slip away and fall deeper into that hole that’s currently swallowing you.

Eddie's been patiently waiting, but as the crying only worsens, he tucks you closer into his body, hiding you away and providing a world of your own. A world contained in gasping breaths and reassuring whispers, trembling fingers; the gaps and spaces between reality and the safe haven that he solely creates, designed for just you and him; a sanctuary. You are tangled up with him in the same proximity that you had been a thousand times before. Times of passion and euphoria, not of anxiety attacks and nightmares. Yet here you are, a new type of intimacy formed as he gives you a balm for your fear.

"You're safe. I'm here, I'm always here."

You listen to his steady breaths, trying your hardest to do the same, counting in your head, you take a deep breath before you breathe in for five seconds, hold it for five seconds, and then breathe out for five seconds. Done? Repeat.

Eddie watches you intently, his own heartbeat finally slowing down as he sees you are a whole lot calmer than before. Your hands are still shaking, silent tears running down your cheeks as you focus on the most important thing in life. He brings his lips up to your cheek, hands still holding you so tight, scared that if he lets go, you will fall into that frightening state of panic again, scared he would not be able to help you calm down this time around.

"There you go." He kisses away any tear that still slips, and you curl into him, trying to bring him impossibly closer.  His warmth is suddenly a lot more prominent and your breathing relatively normal again. For a while, you just sit there with him, his fingertips tracing your skin gently as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

"Ed.” You mumble, heartbeat stabling as you keep matching the movements, the inhales and exhales of his chest. A mirror to copy from, guiding you back.

“Yes, love?” He is patient, letting you gather yourself gradually.

Eddie is a loud person. You always know when he enters a room, he’s making sure of it. He’s flamboyant and showy in the way he carries himself. What people don’t know, however, is this Eddie. The Eddie that will be uncharacteristically silent, guiding you through this mess. The Eddie that will make you feel safe and sound in his arms. The Eddie that puts your needs before his, always. The Eddie that cares.

For you, he isn’t Eddie the freak. For you, he’s Eddie, your freak.

You turn around weakly in his embrace to face him completely, and your orbs study him. His brown eyes are only half opened, long brown hair messy as the corners of his mouth edge up in a lazy, relieved smile. It's vibrant and warm, it's Eddie. You want to thank him, get lost in his presence and never let go, but at the same time, you want to apologize, want to get away from his grasp. Embarrassment rushes through you and then it just dawns on you; he has seen you at your worst even if you never wished for this to happen.

"I’m sorry.” you mumble, snapping out of the trance, minor waves of adrenaline still having you flinching every now and then.

He stares at you for a moment. Brushes away the tears you hadn’t even realized started falling again. Smiles at you in the way that always makes your heart soar.

"You’ve done nothing wrong, sweetheart. Wanna tell me what caused all this?" He asks with careful approach, not wanting to trigger anything. He has seen you similar to this before, and he knows very well what it feels to be seized by panic himself, but this? This sure was to another extreme. It felt like you got overpowered by panic and anxiety, swallowed by it. Consumed. Eaten.

"Nightmare." Is all you say. You can't talk about it yet, not after the exhausting few minutes you had just experienced. He nods his head in silent understanding.

“Want some water? Food? Or should I play some music?” He finally asks, but you shake your head at him. Your chest presses against his while your hands come up to his hair, comping through it gently to untangle his frizzy curls.

“I could also play something on my guitar if you’d be-" You cut him off with a sweet kiss, mouth moving smoothly against his while his fingertips trail over your bare back. You love to hear him play, you truly do, but right now there is only one thing you crave…

“Just want you close.”

"How close.” He breathes out, letting his lips ghost over your own, but not quite touching them.

"Impossibly close, you big tease.”

He kisses you. In this kiss is the promise of realness, of connection, the promise to never let you go.

Eddie is your safe haven, your sense of comfort in a word filled with darkness, the one piece of light that you have in your life. Your favorite place to go to when your mind searches for peace. Your sanctuary.