before we go ahead ive been playing clarinet for about 2 years now, i'm not a professional but i do know some shit. (dont judge im scared of u)

Dear god.

okay so the first thing is the obvious. QUIT HOLDING IT LIKE THAT GIRL. WE ARE NOT TRUMPETS STAY IN YOUR LANE. Girl where's your ligature? Hello??? Oh and the mouthpiece is backwards. 3/10 awfully horrendous.

this looks so horribly wrong uhm

Okay we're getting somewhere! Posture is much better but try to sit up straight when you play. Not sure what note you're trying to play??? She's going WAY too far on the mouthpiece. Don't eat the band equipment pls. Also still no ligature hello? 4/10 you're doing amazing though

Oh-ho-ho!!! Look at Mr. Fancypants here! Your clarinet is rotated at an awkward angle. We want the buttons to be facing forward, no? And honey, make sure your mouth is on the actual mouthpiece. You're barely touching it. Ah! But what's this I see? A LIGATURE???? Glad to have you back. Not the best, but points for style and posture 5/10

GOOD GOD! IT'S BEAUTIFUL! Clarinet facing the right way? Ligature is on? Right amount of mouthpiece in your mouth? Good posture? Fingers are good? Overall joy and whimsy? This man is GREAT! We're getting ice cream after your concert sweetie! 11/10

Not Yours — But Not Letting You Go

contains: tension, slow burn, jealousy, possessiveness, soft intimacy, almost-kiss, emotional restraint, non-idol au, school band guitarist ni-ki, quiet reader insert

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

you don’t belong to him.

that’s what makes it worse.

he looks at you like he’s already crossed the line —

you’re the only one still pretending it exists.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The gym always smelled like dust and metal—amps overheating, wires tangled like secrets no one admitted out loud.

You didn’t belong there. Not really.

You weren’t in the band. You didn’t hang around the loud crowd, didn’t laugh too easily, didn’t try too hard. You just… existed in the spaces between things. Hallways, window seats, the back row of assemblies.

And yet somehow, you kept ending up here.

Because of him.

Ni-ki never looked like he belonged anywhere either—except when he had a guitar in his hands. Then everything about him sharpened. Focused. Dangerous in a quiet, deliberate way.

His fingers moved like he knew exactly what they could do to people.

You noticed that the first time you stayed too long after school.

—

“Again.”

His voice cut through the empty gym, low and impatient. The drummer groaned, but reset anyway.

You sat on the bleachers, pretending to scroll through your phone.

You weren’t fooling him.

Ni-ki glanced up between chords, eyes flicking straight to you like a reflex. Like he was checking you were still there.

He always checked.

And you always were.

—

It started small.

A nod when you passed each other in the hallway.

Then him stopping mid-conversation with his bandmates just to watch you walk by—like he forgot what he was saying.

Then—

“Why do you keep coming here?”

You hadn’t even heard him walk up. One second you were alone, the next he was standing too close, guitar strap still slung over his shoulder.

You shrugged, not looking at him. “It’s quiet.”

“It’s not,” he said.

You finally looked up.

He was already looking at you.

Not casually. Not curiously.

Intensely.

Like he was trying to figure out something he didn’t like not understanding.

“You don’t talk much,” he added.

“You talk enough for both of us.”

That made something shift in his expression—something sharp turning amused, but only slightly.

“Careful,” he murmured. “You sound like you know me.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t look away either.

That was your first mistake.

—

After that, he started sitting next to you during breaks.

Not asking.

Just… appearing.

Close enough that your shoulders almost touched. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him when he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, guitar resting against his leg.

He didn’t fill the silence like everyone else did.

He let it stretch.

Like he was testing how much tension it could hold before snapping.

“You’re always watching,” he said one day.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

His fingers tapped against the guitar body, slow and rhythmic. “You think I don’t notice?”

Your throat went dry. “Maybe I’m watching the band.”

His lips tilted, just barely. “Then why don’t you look at anyone else?”

You didn’t have an answer.

He leaned closer.

“Exactly.”

—

The jealousy came later.

Subtle at first.

A girl from another class started coming to practices—loud, bright, the kind of person who touched people when she talked.

She laughed too much at Ni-ki’s jokes.

Stood too close.

Once, she reached out and adjusted his collar like it was nothing.

You didn’t stay that day.

You left before practice ended, footsteps too fast, chest too tight.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

You told yourself he wasn’t yours.

You told yourself—

“Why did you leave?”

You froze.

He was behind you in the hallway, voice sharper than you’d ever heard it.

You turned slowly. “I had somewhere to be.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

That stopped you.

Ni-ki stepped closer, closing the distance like it irritated him that it existed at all.

“You always stay,” he said, quieter now. “You didn’t even wait for me to finish.”

You crossed your arms, defensive. “You had company.”

His jaw tightened.

“She doesn’t matter.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

Something in his eyes darkened—jealousy, unmistakable and raw, but not the kind you expected.

Not directed at her.

At you.

“For someone who doesn’t talk much,” he said, voice low, “you assume a lot.”

“And for someone who doesn’t care,” you shot back, “you’re asking a lot of questions.”

Silence.

Heavy. Thick.

Then—

“I don’t like it.”

Your breath caught. “Don’t like what?”

“When you disappear.”

His voice dropped, softer now, but more dangerous for it. “Feels like you’re slipping out of my hands.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You don’t have me,” you said, barely above a whisper.

He stepped even closer.

Now there was no space left.

“I know.”

The way he said it didn’t sound like acceptance.

It sounded like a problem he intended to fix.

—

After that, everything changed.

He touched you more.

Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice.

But you did.

A hand at your wrist when you tried to walk away too quickly.

Fingers brushing yours when he handed you something—lingering just a second too long.

Once, when you were sitting together, his knee pressed against yours and didn’t move.

Neither did you.

“Say something,” he murmured.

“About what?”

“About anything.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

“Because when you’re quiet like this…” His thumb traced absent circles against the edge of the bench, dangerously close to your hand. “I start thinking things.”

“What things?”

His gaze lifted to yours, slow and deliberate.

“That you don’t feel it.”

Your chest tightened. “Feel what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shifted—closer, closer—until your shoulder was pressed against his, your breath caught somewhere between in and out.

“Tell me to stop,” he said softly.

But he didn’t sound like he wanted you to.

You didn’t say anything.

His hand moved.

Just enough to brush against yours.

Electric.

You inhaled sharply.

“That,” he murmured.

Your fingers curled slightly, instinctively reaching before you could stop yourself.

His grip tightened immediately.

Possessive.

Not harsh.

But certain.

“You do feel it,” he said, almost to himself.

—

The almost happened the night of the school festival.

The gym was louder than usual—crowded, lights dim, music vibrating through the floor.

Ni-ki’s band had just finished playing.

You were waiting backstage, heart still racing from watching him.

He found you instantly.

Like always.

Sweat-damp hair, breath uneven, eyes already locked on yours.

“You stayed,” he said.

“Of course I did.”

Something in his expression softened—just for a second.

Then the tension snapped back into place.

He walked toward you, slow, deliberate.

“Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You stepped forward.

Too close.

Always too close.

The noise from outside faded, like the world had shrunk to just this narrow, electric space between you.

“You looked at me the whole time,” he said.

“You noticed?”

“I notice everything about you.”

Your pulse spiked.

His hand lifted—hesitated for half a second—then tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

His fingers didn’t move away.

They slid down, brushing your jaw.

You exhaled shakily.

“Ni-ki…”

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You swallowed. “Ni-ki.”

His eyes darkened.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Like that.”

His thumb lingered just under your chin, tilting your face up slightly.

Closer.

Closer—

Your breath mixed with his.

The line blurred.

This was it.

This was the moment.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered again.

But this time, his voice wasn’t steady.

It was strained.

Like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

You looked at him—really looked.

At the tension in his jaw.

The way his hand tightened just slightly, like he didn’t trust himself not to pull you closer.

The jealousy.

The possessiveness.

And underneath it—

Something softer.

Something careful.

You shook your head, just barely.

Not no.

Not yes.

Just—

Don’t.

Not like this.

He stilled.

For a second, you thought he wouldn’t listen.

Then slowly, painfully, he pulled back.

But not far.

Never far.

His forehead rested lightly against yours instead.

A compromise.

A promise.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered.

You almost smiled. “So are you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, breath warm against your skin.

“Yeah,” he said. “But at least I know it.”

His hand slipped into yours again.

This time, gentler.

Still possessive.

But softer.

Like he was learning.

Like you both were.

And even though the line hadn’t been crossed—

It felt closer than ever.

And neither of you were pretending you didn’t want to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

he almost did.

you almost let him.

some lines aren’t meant to be kept — only blurred.

next time, you won’t stop him.

—or maybe you will.

that’s the problem.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

late afternoons in empty gyms,

guitar strings humming,

dim lights,

shared silence,

almost-touching hands,

looks that linger too long,

heat that builds but never breaks

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

What It Is To Burn - Finch

Cover by “N/A” we dont have a band name yet lol uh, School lunch cover lol (2/13/26 edit: We are arrowhead)

Guitar: Me :P

Vocals: @frescoxoxo

IGNORE MIKE IN THE BACK PLAYING 😭

so I’m in marching band right? and we had our first game of the season tonight. and our colors are black and yellow.

and guess what the other teams colors was.

FREAKING BLUE

BYLER IS FOLLOWING ME ISTG