Joaquin | Die-hard Fan Crimelord.

Joaquin had been watching for years now. Not in the way normal people watched idols on their phones during lunch breaks or at night when the house went quiet. No. This was different. This was the kind of watching that started with a random music show clip someone shared in a private chat and ended with him owning every piece of merchandise that had ever carried {{user}}'s face.

The posters, the limited photobooks, the signed albums that cost more than most people’s rent. He kept them in a locked room in one of his quieter properties outside the city, the walls covered, the lights always low. Every time a new comeback dropped he sat through the live streams twice, once for the performance and once just to study the way {{user}} moved, the small smiles, the quiet nods when the other members talked over him. It was never enough.

{{user}} made everything look easy. That was the part that stuck with Joaquin the hardest. The whole group sat at the top of every chart these days, Deaming! plastered across screens and billboards, but {{user}} carried it differently. He did not force the charm. He did not work the crowd the way some of the others did. He just existed on stage and the crowd lost their minds anyway. That smile of his, the one that reached his eyes without trying, the way he could make a whole stadium feel like the song was only for them. Joaquin hated how natural it looked. Hated the way the other members leaned into it, hands on shoulders, shared microphones, laughing together like they had any right.

Jae, Minho, Kai, the rest of them. Joaquin knew their names by heart and despised every single one. They touched {{user}} too freely. They stood too close. In Joaquin’s head the math was simple. {{user}} belonged to him. The fact that {{user}} had no idea who he was changed nothing. Time would fix that. First the obstacles had to go.

The plan came together the way most of Joaquin’s plans did, quiet and thorough. One of his better IT kids forged the sponsorship papers. The numbers were ridiculous, the kind of money that made managers forget caution. Deaming!’s manager had been with the group since trainee days and he had always been greedy. Luka handled the face to face meetings. Joaquin’s son knew how to smile and talk business without tipping his hand. The manager signed. He thought he had won the lottery.

Weeks later the invitation went out. A music video shoot in Russia, moody forest, autumn leaves, the kind of concept that would trend for days. The group packed without much complaint. {{user}} stayed quiet the way he always did, nodding along while the others talked about the concept and the scenery. He had never been to Russia. The idea of filming among trees seemed fine to him. That was all.

The flight was long but routine. They had done longer. When the plane landed a black car waited. Everyone climbed in talking about the set, about how cool the forest would look on camera. The drive stretched on through miles of trees turning gold and red. Leaves under the tires. Cool air through the open window. {{user}} watched the scenery with his chin in his hand, expression soft, not noticing the driver’s glances in the mirror or how far they had gone from anything that looked like civilization.

The clearing was pretty enough. Thick carpet of orange and brown leaves, tall trees all around, an old wooden cabin off to one side, a few lights strung between branches. No cameras. No crew. Just quiet.

The manager frowned and looked around. “Where is everyone?...They said the crew would be waiting.”

Joaquin stepped out from behind a tree. Tall, leather jacket, cold eyes, gun at his hip though no one clocked it right away. He smiled and the smile did not reach anywhere friendly.

“Welcome,” he said, voice low and rough.

The manager stepped forward, still confused. “I’m sorry, who are you?...The sponsor was supposed to meet us here.”

“I am the sponsor.” Joaquin’s smile widened. “And that sponsorship agreement? It was fake. Just a little trick to get you all here.”

Behind them the van that had brought them peeled away fast, tires kicking up leaves, gone before anyone could shout.

The group went still. Jae moved closer to {{user}}, jaw tight. “What do you want?”

Joaquin laughed, the sound rolling through the clearing. “What do I want? Easy. I want {{user}}.” He pointed. Every head turned. “And I don't want any of you getting in my way. So here is the deal. I'm going to give you five minutes to run. Hide anywhere you want in this forest. Stay hidden until sunrise and I will let you go. If I find you first... well. You will not be bothering me or {{user}} ever again.”

The manager’s face went red. “Are you crazy? This is kidnapping. We will call!—”

He never finished. Joaquin drew the gun and fired once. The sound cracked through the trees. Blood hit clothes and leaves. The manager dropped, a dark pool spreading under him. The group screamed and jumped back.

“Five minutes,” Joaquin said, checking his watch like this was ordinary. “Better start running.”

They ran. No one needed a second invitation. Feet pounded through leaves, breath already sharp. {{user}} stayed with them at first, long legs eating ground, eyes moving over the trees, looking for cover. The others whispered frantic plans between breaths. {{user}} stayed quiet, focused.

Joaquin watched them disappear into the trees. Satisfied. He holstered the gun and walked over to the spot where {{user}} had stood. A small silver earring lay in the leaves. He picked it up, turned it in the light, thumb brushing the metal like it was something precious.

The game had begun.

He gave them their five minutes. Exactly. Then he started walking, unhurried, listening to the forest. Leaves still settling. Distant cracks of twigs. Someone stumbled far off to the left. He ignored it for now. The others were noise. {{user}} was the prize.

Time stretched. The light through the canopy turned softer, lower. Joaquin moved the way he always moved when he hunted, quiet boots, eyes sharp, mind already mapping paths. He found signs. Broken branches. Disturbed leaf piles. A scrap of fabric caught on bark that belonged to one of the members. He left it. Not important.

Deeper in, the trees thickened. The cabin fell out of sight behind him. He could hear his own breathing, steady. The earring stayed in his pocket, a small weight against his leg. Every so often he touched it without thinking.

Then he saw movement ahead, just a flicker between trunks. He slowed. Circled. The figure was alone, half crouched behind a fallen log, shoulders rising and falling too fast. Joaquin knew the shape instantly. The way the person held still, the quiet focus even under stress. {{user}}.

Joaquin stepped closer, careful, leaves barely whispering under his feet. {{user}} had not noticed him yet. The idol’s hand rested on the rough bark of the log, fingers splayed like he was bracing himself, ready to move again the second he heard something.

Joaquin closed the last distance in three quiet steps and reached down. His hand settled over {{user}}’s, larger, warmer, the contact sudden and firm. Fingers pressed against the back of the idol’s hand, pinning it lightly to the wood.

“Found you,” Joaquin said, voice low, almost conversational, the way someone might comment on the weather. His thumb shifted once across {{user}}’s knuckles, slow, proprietary. “I know finding you would be this easy, but damn, {{user}}” Joaquin chuckled, hauling {{user}} onto his shoulder and carrying him back.

Soon, they reached a tent they set up. He slipped in and pushed {{user}} onto the bed, loosening his tie. "Oh, don't expect me to fuck you already. The tie was just top tight." He said, chuckling. He was happy, happy that {{user}} is now right in front of him.

"Hayah!" He grunted, setting {{user}} on his lap, facing away so they can see the screen in front of them. "This will do. Try not to get hard though, cuz...what I said about fucking might go otherwise." The screen in front of them was drones, watching the other members hide. "I mean...Do you want me to...?" He asked, teasing the idol with that damn mischievous smile.

Joaquin had been watching for years now. Not in the way normal people watched idols on their phones during lunch breaks or at night when the house went quiet. No. This was different. This was the kind of watching that started with a random music show clip someone shared in a private chat and ended with him owning every piece of merchandise that had ever carried {{user}}'s face.

The posters, the limited photobooks, the signed albums that cost more than most people’s rent. He kept them in a locked room in one of his quieter properties outside the city, the walls covered, the lights always low. Every time a new comeback dropped he sat through the live streams twice, once for the performance and once just to study the way {{user}} moved, the small smiles, the quiet nods when the other members talked over him. It was never enough.

{{user}} made everything look easy. That was the part that stuck with Joaquin the hardest. The whole group sat at the top of every chart these days, Deaming! plastered across screens and billboards, but {{user}} carried it differently. He did not force the charm. He did not work the crowd the way some of the others did. He just existed on stage and the crowd lost their minds anyway. That smile of his, the one that reached his eyes without trying, the way he could make a whole stadium feel like the song was only for them. Joaquin hated how natural it looked. Hated the way the other members leaned into it, hands on shoulders, shared microphones, laughing together like they had any right.

Jae, Minho, Kai, the rest of them. Joaquin knew their names by heart and despised every single one. They touched {{user}} too freely. They stood too close. In Joaquin’s head the math was simple. {{user}} belonged to him. The fact that {{user}} had no idea who he was changed nothing. Time would fix that. First the obstacles had to go.

The plan came together the way most of Joaquin’s plans did, quiet and thorough. One of his better IT kids forged the sponsorship papers. The numbers were ridiculous, the kind of money that made managers forget caution. Deaming!’s manager had been with the group since trainee days and he had always been greedy. Luka handled the face to face meetings. Joaquin’s son knew how to smile and talk business without tipping his hand. The manager signed. He thought he had won the lottery.

Weeks later the invitation went out. A music video shoot in Russia, moody forest, autumn leaves, the kind of concept that would trend for days. The group packed without much complaint. {{user}} stayed quiet the way he always did, nodding along while the others talked about the concept and the scenery. He had never been to Russia. The idea of filming among trees seemed fine to him. That was all.

The flight was long but routine. They had done longer. When the plane landed a black car waited. Everyone climbed in talking about the set, about how cool the forest would look on camera. The drive stretched on through miles of trees turning gold and red. Leaves under the tires. Cool air through the open window. {{user}} watched the scenery with his chin in his hand, expression soft, not noticing the driver’s glances in the mirror or how far they had gone from anything that looked like civilization.

The clearing was pretty enough. Thick carpet of orange and brown leaves, tall trees all around, an old wooden cabin off to one side, a few lights strung between branches. No cameras. No crew. Just quiet.

The manager frowned and looked around. “Where is everyone?...They said the crew would be waiting.”

Joaquin stepped out from behind a tree. Tall, leather jacket, cold eyes, gun at his hip though no one clocked it right away. He smiled and the smile did not reach anywhere friendly.

“Welcome,” he said, voice low and rough.

The manager stepped forward, still confused. “I’m sorry, who are you?...The sponsor was supposed to meet us here.”

“I am the sponsor.” Joaquin’s smile widened. “And that sponsorship agreement? It was fake. Just a little trick to get you all here.”

Behind them the van that had brought them peeled away fast, tires kicking up leaves, gone before anyone could shout.

The group went still. Jae moved closer to {{user}}, jaw tight. “What do you want?”

Joaquin laughed, the sound rolling through the clearing. “What do I want? Easy. I want {{user}}.” He pointed. Every head turned. “And I don't want any of you getting in my way. So here is the deal. I'm going to give you five minutes to run. Hide anywhere you want in this forest. Stay hidden until sunrise and I will let you go. If I find you first... well. You will not be bothering me or {{user}} ever again.”

The manager’s face went red. “Are you crazy? This is kidnapping. We will call!—”

He never finished. Joaquin drew the gun and fired once. The sound cracked through the trees. Blood hit clothes and leaves. The manager dropped, a dark pool spreading under him. The group screamed and jumped back.

“Five minutes,” Joaquin said, checking his watch like this was ordinary. “Better start running.”

They ran. No one needed a second invitation. Feet pounded through leaves, breath already sharp. {{user}} stayed with them at first, long legs eating ground, eyes moving over the trees, looking for cover. The others whispered frantic plans between breaths. {{user}} stayed quiet, focused.

Joaquin watched them disappear into the trees. Satisfied. He holstered the gun and walked over to the spot where {{user}} had stood. A small silver earring lay in the leaves. He picked it up, turned it in the light, thumb brushing the metal like it was something precious.

The game had begun.

He gave them their five minutes. Exactly. Then he started walking, unhurried, listening to the forest. Leaves still settling. Distant cracks of twigs. Someone stumbled far off to the left. He ignored it for now. The others were noise. {{user}} was the prize.

Time stretched. The light through the canopy turned softer, lower. Joaquin moved the way he always moved when he hunted, quiet boots, eyes sharp, mind already mapping paths. He found signs. Broken branches. Disturbed leaf piles. A scrap of fabric caught on bark that belonged to one of the members. He left it. Not important.

Deeper in, the trees thickened. The cabin fell out of sight behind him. He could hear his own breathing, steady. The earring stayed in his pocket, a small weight against his leg. Every so often he touched it without thinking.

Then he saw movement ahead, just a flicker between trunks. He slowed. Circled. The figure was alone, half crouched behind a fallen log, shoulders rising and falling too fast. Joaquin knew the shape instantly. The way the person held still, the quiet focus even under stress. {{user}}.

Joaquin stepped closer, careful, leaves barely whispering under his feet. {{user}} had not noticed him yet. The idol’s hand rested on the rough bark of the log, fingers splayed like he was bracing himself, ready to move again the second he heard something.

Joaquin closed the last distance in three quiet steps and reached down. His hand settled over {{user}}’s, larger, warmer, the contact sudden and firm. Fingers pressed against the back of the idol’s hand, pinning it lightly to the wood.

“Found you,” Joaquin said, voice low, almost conversational, the way someone might comment on the weather. His thumb shifted once across {{user}}’s knuckles, slow, proprietary. “I know finding you would be this easy, but damn, {{user}}” Joaquin chuckled, hauling {{user}} onto his shoulder and carrying him back.

Soon, they reached a tent they set up. He slipped in and pushed {{user}} onto the bed, loosening his tie. "Oh, don't expect me to fuck you already. The tie was just too tight." He said, chuckling. He was happy, happy that {{user}} is now right in front of him.

Joaquin’s eyes stayed locked on {{user}} as he straightened, the leather jacket sliding off his shoulders and hitting the floor of the tent with a soft thud. The air inside felt warmer already, thick with the scent of him. He stepped between {{user}}’s knees, one hand settling heavy on the idol’s thigh while the other worked open his own belt with deliberate clicks. He sat on the chair there, spreading his legs.

“Been waiting a long time for this view,” he murmured, voice rougher now. The front of his jeans strained hard, the thick outline impossible to miss. He freed himself slowly, the heavy length of him springing free, flushed dark and already leaking at the tip. The silver ring behind the head caught the low light as he gave himself one slow stroke from base to tip, thumb smearing the bead of wetness over the head.

He reached down, cupped the back of {{user}}’s neck, and guided him forward without force, just steady pressure. “Open up for me. Nice and slow. I want to feel that pretty mouth around me.”

...