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bluesunss · 1 month ago

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The lovers Choi Su-bong (Thanos ) x F!Reader

summary: fate always has something far different in store for you than you expect. that is what you thought, quite literally, when that one-night stand never left your mind, no matter how hard you tried.

warnings: cursing, age-gap (reader is older, 34, while Su-bong is 28)

a/n: idk what to say haha. i've been sooo busy recently, i've proofread it quite a few times but probably not enough. also we've been handing essays in my mother tongue more so some sentences are probably my mind having a mandela effect and being convinced they exist in both languages.

Su-bong knew he shouldn’t have won. The guy at the bar had given him way too many glasses, and slid between his fingers two pills in exchange of a favor, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

The first time he saw you, was right after this victory. His opponent—JB The Great—was a bald retired rapper who came back on stage for that very battle. He’d heard of him a few times, quite popular among underground rappers trying to rise, a mentor for younger ones (Su-bong also knew that any new rapper that encountered him and had a bit of talent was sure to disappear by the next battle. Nobody knew how, nobody asked).

Su-bong hadn’t worked enough to have deserved his victory. At least, not like JB—who’d been overly active on his Instagram account, sharing pics writing lyrics whether it was in a shady studio, surrounded by grimy-looking socks and opened energy drink—and Su-bong would zoom in to catch a glimpse of the lyrics. Except that fucker would blur them out, and Su-bong knew it was ON PURPOSE to stress him out.

That’s why he cheated. He knew JB took something too—they mostly all did—except he managed to get something stronger, to cheat his way into that stupid victory against the horizontally challenged retired star (JB was huge, not big, not obese, literally huge, yet his stomach was flat. No clue how such thing was possible.)

For another reason, too. JB dated Su-bong’s ex. Su-bong had two exes (among many flings), and did not give enough of a fuck about them. But territoriality being an inherent flaw of man—Su-bong was not fond of JB and needed a way to get back at him. It was mutual (Su-bong did get the girl back for one night and made sure to send a ‘mistake’ pic to JB while she showered).

You were working behind the counter. Your makeup was smudged, your hair was disheveled, and your lips parted—the air of the club had gotten too heavy for you to breath through your nose only. The first thing he’d noticed about you, was the sweat dripping down your forehead, gluing your hair to your temple.

You were not his usual type. Under the dark-bluish light, Your hair appeared shinier—you wore long drop earrings, so thin and clear they looked like delicate glass teardrops, as if tiny rain drops floated above your shoulders on your bare nape.

However, they were the only jewels. No bracelets, no necklace, no loose hair. A low bun, or pony tail—he couldn’t tell from this distance. You seemed uninterested, with no desire to interact whatsoever, but you were concentrated on your task—nodding at orders with a far-away gaze, filling the glasses, making new drinks—so efficiently he believed you were a robot.

The bartender next to you would sometimes nudge your shoulder, whisper something, you would nod again, that mechanical movement he hadn’t realised could be so chilling, before grabbing a new glass, taking another order, repeating the movements infinitely. He found himself wondering—did you ever stop ? Even asking himself whether the club closed at night, forcing you to leave. It seemed obvious, at that instant, that your life was dedicated to this.

Maybe it was this, this instant, the realisation that you were quite like an automated doll—that he realised he wanted a try. To shake you, like your hands shook the drink, chest barely bouncing—that movement his eyes used to trace on other female bartenders. To disrupt your universe.

No, it was as if you were frozen, in another world.

Su-bong hadn’t realised that all this time, he was staring. Sitting on a far-away sofa, elbows propped on the table, eyes never straying away from your figure shadowed by the bar’s counter and human backs. His gaze followed your very movement, drink barely grazing his lips. He, who so usually focused on the liquid that scorched his throat, seemed not to realise the teeth that scraped the glass and the finger that gripped it so tightly, he would realise later his palm was marked red and cramping-up.

And then, you leaned down, disappeared for a moment, and he decided it was the right moment. He slammed the glass on the table and stood up, drunk-dazed. The pills were starting to wear out, he was definitely seeing clearer.

When you got up, towel in your hand starting to wipe the counter, Thanos rehearsed his signature smile.

“Hey, señorita.”

🌧

Such a nosy kid. You stared for a second, blinking in disbelief, as he ordered three shots in a row—setting them down abruptly and ordering more. You’d heard him sing—and his lyrics were kinda shit. You had no clue how people had bought it, The Great whatever initials had better flow, less obvious autotune in real life, better stature. The voice came out his vocal cords fluider.

But that Thanos guy—he had that thing—what was it called ? Charisma ? Swagger ? No, it was something else. A mix of both, a touch of something spicier. He had a great voice, you noticed the ‘sexy’ raspiness in it, as two younger girls sitting there a few minutes ago were whispering, but he had no control over it. He faltered, forgot a lyric (you knew when your younglings improvised—no matter how much they tried to hide it, it was as clear as day).

This guy needed voice training. And to chill on the pills Han-bin, your ‘colleague’ had given him, in exchange of a favor (it being the girl Han-bin wanted, you had no clue how two men had to get involved to pull one lady. They lacked romantic skills that much ?)

You’d also noticed that Thanos guy staring like a creep.

Whenever something like that happened, or any other suspicious behaviour from a random stranger stepping way too close to you, you’d blur your eyes and imagine a faceless thing, as not to get tricked by the face, should it be handsome, and only watch the comportment. Most of the times, it saved you.

And, definitely, that guy had an issue. He had watched your every movement, glass glued to his lips, like a cat awaiting the mouse. So, when he was saying whatever bullshit to you while swallowing in one go shots and shots and shots, you put aside the flirting and decided that your only interaction would be to give him what he ordered.

You needed the job, after getting fired from your studio for being too crictical over someone’s lack of progress in their nasal voice, even after giving them MANY detailed voice trainings to do at home. You knew they hadn't watched shit. But your boss disapproved. You lacked ‘tact’. They lacked talent.

You didn't make a big deal out of it, but you needed money, and you took this job, even if that meant dealing with an immature man in heat. It took more than that to trigger you. But that didn’t mean you weren’t annoyed. You couldn’t listen to other strangers because of his constant nagging—the drinks were starting to get to his brain, and he was uttering bullshit while grabbing your hand.

“M’ladyyy,” he mumbled. “More. Give me more.”

You usually didn’t care about strangers. At least, not enough to worry about their alcohol consumption while in an underground club. But, for a certain reason (your heart was definitely too soft), you felt slight pity along of the annoyance for the laid-out like a towel rapper on the counter.

“Nah. No more for you,” you finally responded.

That was all it took for him to rise, eyes-widened in hope.

“You talk!”

You bit your lip. You shouldn’t have said anything, now, he probably had his hopes up, which was not something you were willing to risk, at least not tonight.

“Calm down kid. You’re getting way too ahead of yourself, and I’m not dealing with a blackout tonight.”

He stared at you, dazed.

“Sexy voice,” he smirked.

You smacked the back of his hand.

“Sexy my ass.”

Grabbing the small glass in front of him, you put it under the counter to wash for later, before coming back in front of him and placing a hand on either side of his head that was buried in his arms, muttering some ‘Minsu Namsu’ bullshit.

“Hey, you should go home,” your voice came out a bit softer. “Do you have someone to call ?”

He didn’t respond, only slightly lifted his head mumbling.

“Girl do I look like I do,” he hiccuped. “Ain’t nobody want the legend over for the night.”

Against your better judgment, a smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Sleep and sober up. I’m coming back to throw you out if you’re not gone by 2,” you said.

But you knew you wouldn’t. He placed his head on his forearms, staring.

“Ok, pretty lady. Whatever you say.”

And then, he drifted into slumber.

🌧

It was at least half past two when you closed. You had to kick so many humans out, you weren’t sure if you could stand any more interactions. Hae-bin had ran off with a stranger, and although you were getting irritated by his behaviour, knowing it was mostly to run away from cleaning, you couldn’t afford to complain yet. At least, not until another job was secured. Hae-bin was the manager’s son.

Only one stranger was left. Oh, Thanos, sweet and dearest (if he wasn’t asleep, you would have definitely kicked his ass). Setting down the towel on a table, finally finished, you walked lazily to his stool, stopped right beside him and sat on top of one too.

Then, you paused. Observed him calmly. As you had turned off the multicolored lights, the soft white one allowed you a better look at his disheveled purple hair, or his rosy lips, or his soft cheeks. You could at least give that to the crowd : he had a beautiful face. Still rough, his eyebrows broke the gentleness of his delicate features—thick, arqued enough to give him a sterner look while being focused. His eyelashes rested against his cheeks, casting a shadow on his pale skin.

Your hand rose to brush away a purple strand from his eyes. Younger guys never attracted you. You’d had your fair-share of assholes, you weren’t interested in someone to babysit (anyone younger by a day was enough to be called a kid). He hadn’t even told you his age—you didn’t need it to guess. Late twenties, acting as if youth lasted forever, but an adult at heart.

Suddenly, fingers interlocked with yours, and your hand was brought to warm lips. Looking up, slightly flustered, you saw him staring at you with dark, intense eyes. He held your stare enough to cause you to look away, but his other hand tilted your chin.

“Nah,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

When he was drunk, he definitely acted like a kid. You hadn't expected his voice to come out so mature, so deep when sober. Those youngsters knew how to talk to girls. Shit.

Maybe you needed a break from work. Maybe you needed some attention. Maybe you needed to relax. But your eyes dropped to his lips, and that was enough for him to rise with a smirk. Shoulder to shoulder, his warmth seeped through your black uniform, forearms resting on the counter as his hand left yours to cast away a stray lock of your hair behind your ear.

His finger brushed down softly, following the thread of the earring hovering near your neck.

“They’re beautiful,” he said.

Then, his eyes stared right into yours. The world stopped spinning. Your heart raced, and suddenly, you were drowning in his eyes. He lost himself in yours too, before, finally, dropping his gaze to your lips. Your eyes did the same. Up, down, up and down again.

Until they didn’t. Your arms snaked up to his neck and pulled him close in an instant. He responded eagerly in less than a second, and suddenly, your lips crashed against his with reckless hunger. He tasted like tequila, something bitter, something better, something absolutely addictive, and you only broke the kiss to get a better look at his face. You always needed to do that—to see whether the man was worth it.

And you found it. A man overcome by desire. Swollen lips from the kiss, flushed face, messy hair, heavy breathing, and desire written all over his face. So, in another movement, you smashed your mouth against his, and he let you, grabbed your hips roughly, lifted you onto the counter as something suddenly fell and shattered, but you were too gone to care, his hands roamed your hips, your thighs, your chest, until they reached your pants and stopped there.

He pulled away just for a second. Enough to take all of you—your low tied hair, your smudged mascara, your little beauty mark. And then, finally, he leaned in again, softer, calmer. “You’re beautiful, m'lady”, he murmured against your lips. You felt him smile against your mouth, before melting on your lips again. No apartment. No worries. No ties. That was the silent promise your skin etched onto the other’s.

🌧

You took a week off work after that night. Why ? You weren’t entirely sure. Bringing a friend along, you decided to travel to Busan and spend a touristic trip exploring a new city of your country. It was fun. Absolutely fun. Swimming, eating, flirting. You even went to the museum of contemporary art, which you hated, to change something. To feel something. But it was nearly impossible to get your mind off him. Off that night. Off what he made you feel. Your entire life, you had believed older men—or at least your age—knew better, knew women, were more mature. But fuck, this stranger, or at least ex-stranger, had shattered your entire beliefs. He knew how to take and give. Where, how, and that in many different ways. How long had it been since a night lasted so long yet so short ?

Staring at your palms, by the beach, you tried to understand something that didn’t make sense, that you couldn’t name. To see if anything had changed. But no, it was still same old-you. Just flustered. And lost.

Your friend screamed at you to get into the water, and you did, gladly so, the waves and the swaying water offered a little reprieve to your growing trouble—and you forgot for a moment about going back to Seoul and facing him—you hoped not—again tomorrow.

🌧

Except you didn’t. Face him. You had gotten ready, without realising it, quicker than usual, yet more meticulously. You weren’t usually excited to work, not that job, at least, but that night, you felt your heart beat erratically in your chest, as you gave the effortless woman-touch to your makeup, just enough to make your face remarkable, too less to strike as different. Because it was the impression you wanted to give : detached yet effortless. And you hated that a man was behind it.

But he didn’t come.

No, as Hae-bin handed you the glasses and you repeated the mechanical movement again and again and again, until you couldn’t anymore, until your fingers slipped and a glass shattered. Hae-bin sneered at you, the manager came and scolded you, but they let it slide. It didn’t happen again, you decided to focus. But the whole night went so slow, you felt as if each second lasted forever.

And it happened again. The next night. And the next. And the next. And the next week. And the next week.

Until you thought you had forgotten him. Almost a month had passed since. You were over it, and your brain was preoccupied with other stuff, your old boss had called you, telling you they needed substitute voice coaches (you knew she hoped to have you again, because her voice had a slight very distinguishable tremor in it—hesitation). Since nothing tied you to that club, you could pack up your things and leave. Hae-bin never liked you anyway, and the customers were merely strangers.

That is why, that Tuesday night, you were planning at the end of your shift to go to the backroom and talk to your manager about your choice to resign. You still had to work, and you decided to give it your best, even smiling at customers, so much so that Hae-bin checked on you with a fake-worried expression ‘are you ok weirdo.’

His hand was still on your forehead when you heard it. That voice.

“Ayyy heyy brooo,” he smacked his hand against Hae-bin's. “Yoo, how was the new stuff? It was my best batch. Want more ?” they chatted a few minutes, as you saw Hae-bin slide something to Thanos under the sleeve of his uniform. Thanos grabbed it, took a necklace out of his shirt, opened a cross and stacked the circular things in it with a low chuckle. “How’s Ha-na? She's a good one ain’t she?”

Hae-bin leaned in, approaching his face from Thanos’s ear and placed his hand around it, to whisper a secret. You heard glimpses of “chick” “top” “crazy” and decided it was too much. Almost throwing the glass to the customer next to them, you didn’t even glance backwards as you went to the bathroom, removing your gloves and throwing them in the garbage on your way. “Fuck this!” You thought. He hadn’t even glanced at you. Acted as if it didn’t matter.

Going inside a stall and locking it, you sat on the closed lid and buried your face in your palms. “Calm down,” you repeated to your mind. “Calm the fuck down. He’s a ONE-night stand. That’s literally why it’s called one night. Because it only lasts one night. No more. No less. Get over yourself. No man should make you feel this bad, and especially not a younger one like this.”

The voice in your head, more mature than you, managed to calm your nerves a little. Breathing a little easier, you decided to get through it, let the silent treatment do its trick. By tomorrow, you’d hopefully be gone, back at the studio. No more Thanos, no more purple-hair, and no more worry. You were looking forward to it.

Unlocking the stall, you opened the door, cursed because it was a pull-door (who even puts a pull door inside a public bathroom. Nobody wants to pull that shit closer), before letting out a scream.

“Thought you’d drowned,” he smirked.

Your brows furrowed immediately, you recollected your emotions. He was leaning cockily against the sink, back barely brushing it, arms crossed and head tilted with a sly smile—as if he could control you with just the way his mouth tugged. Your brain yelled he couldn’t, but your heart had a completely different idea of it, going buck wild in your chest. “I would’ve if I had known you were there,” you retorted. “Move, I need to wash my hands.”

“Nah. You haven't done anything in that stall, didn’t even flush the toilet. I’m not dumb.”

He uncrossed his arms, long cross dangling on his chest as he suddenly stepped closer to you, making you take a step back. “Move,” you repeated. “I don’t want to have to call security.”

He scoffed. “Security ? You ain’t calling no one, m'lady.”

“Don’t call me that.” “My lady.” He was infinitely closer now, your back pressed against a locked stall due to maintenance. ‘When would they fix it?’ You found your mind wandering, running away from this ridiculous situation.

“What do you want ?” You titled up your chin, taking him by surprise. You smiled, even though your lips were quivering. “Another kiss? Or maybe another night? Was one not enough for your greedy ass?”

Eyes slightly widened in surprise, he suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Oh señorita. You almost had me fooled there. But you’re the one needy for another night.”

He pinned you to the closed stall, hand sliding to your upper thigh, stroking the soft skin on the inner side. His mouth brushed against your ear. “See? Your legs are shaking, m'lady. Your body remembers me.” You bit your lip, tried to deny him, to push him away. But then, he stared at you with a sly smile. “Hm ?”

It was all it took. In one movement, your lips met his again, the familiar but oh-so-missed scent of him against your mouth, his breathing got heavier, needier, you weren’t even started that he muttered “Fuck” “missed you so fucking much”.

🌧

After that night, it happened again. And again. And again and again and again, until you lost count. Didn’t matter where, when, how, you don’t know—you hadn’t even quit your job—that he would find a way to get you back under him, against him, near him, so close it always felt earth-shattering.

Sometimes, he’d be giving a show to a loud crowd. You disliked his singing—he knew that—but you loved his raspy voice. And he’d tease you on purpose, singing lower, almost whispering in the mic, getting girls’ knees weak as he stared directly at you, always behind that cursed counter, wiping glasses and filling them repeatedly. He’d sing louder, win or lose battles, and you’d wait patiently for him to finish, to wipe his forehead, to disappear backstage before coming back, buying a drink—it had become a game—the specific drink meant a different meeting spot, should it be his car (Bloody Mary), the bathroom (soju), whiskey neat (backroom). And anytime, it would get messier, sloppier, worse.

Instead of feeling better, you felt worse. It drained you. You didn’t get back to your job, and when you called, they had hired a new girl. Then, Hae-bin noticed you mixing a wrong drink, and you almost gave a customer an allergy-attack by handing him the mango cocktail. Or the other night, when you gave a bottle to an underage kid. It was enough to get you fired. “I’m sorry I really like you girl (lie), but that’s not possible anymore.”

That is how you were (almost) on the street, your landlord hadn’t kicked you out (yet). Except you were too drunk. Drunk of him. You needed him—he became vital. You didn’t care about anything, your life had been passive because of the unnatural need you harboured for him. You’d spend nights at his studio, laying in his lap as he composed new lyrics, pinching your cheek when you corrected his vocal projection or the nasality his voice. “Let me do what I’m good at, and do yours, 'k baby ?” And his hand would be on the back of your head, holding your hair etc. etc.

Thanos didn’t ask many questions about you. Not that he didn’t care, you did see he was intrigued, by the way he sometimes stared a little longer while he smoked, absently looking at your face with gleaming while you talked with passion. Or that time, where you told him in a small voice that you were thirty-four while he was twenty-eight, but he barely shrugged, pulling your head back on his shoulder. Or the way he picked you up when you called, crying, the night you got fired, and brought you home, didn’t even suggest anything, bought you snacks and cuddled you to sleep. He still was nonchalant. Slept immediately after you'd done it, right after tucking your hair behind your ear, kissing your cheek.

It was when he was sleeping, eyelids shut, breathing softly, that you'd wonder what the heck you were doing. You’d remember the first night, ask yourself ‘what if I hadn’t touched his hair ? What if I hadn’t sat next to him?’, thinking about the life you could have had if he hadn’t ruined it, but then, he’d wake up, groggy, grab your waist and tuck you under the blanket with a kiss fierce enough to remind you that you belonged there.

That was enough, for as long as it lasted.

Until it wasn’t anymore.

It was draining. You barely slept, and when you'd wake up, almost living at his studio now, only to find it empty, smelling of smoke and dust. And when he’d come back, it would repeat and repeat and repeat.

It struck you one morning, while watching your favorite comfort show, one of them being the wife of a cheater. ‘I wait for hours in an empty home. I feel like a mistress while I should be a wife.’ And that struck home. Well, you weren’t delusional enough to believe he’d ever make you a wife—you didn’t even want a relationship this unstable with someone. But anything, not even a label, just a certainty that, when he’d come back home, it wouldn’t be by surprise, that you would know when he would go out or when he would come back, that he would text you more than randomly 'are you ok’ once during the day or even call you. You hoped for a bit of attention—a glance from a man so distant, starting to treat you like an old rag.

That was when the real distance began. The first gone were the texts. No more ‘what did you eat ?’ or ‘take-out tonight, choose fried chicken or tteoboki.’ Then, the kisses. No more ‘good morning’ stolen on your lips. No more ‘goodnight’. Not even the cheek 'sleep well’ after you'd done it. He’d take what he wanted, slowly, quietly, the passion was gone, just mechanical, until there was nothing left anymore, until he stopped looking at your clear drop earrings with admiration, telling you to wear them for the night, until he just stopped, and the distance became physical too. And one night, he’d just throw words with an annoyed undertone. “You did nothing again today?” or “Is that a wrinkle? Oh just a hair nevermind.” It seemed as though, he was working to annoy you on purpose. To get you to leave so he wouldn’t have to kick you out.

That is why you decided to leave, one morning, right when the door slammed. He was sweeter than usual, this morning. Smiled before brushing his teeth, said hi. And it was exactly why you wanted to leave. It was unbearable to realise, one day a month, you would get some acknowledgement, and even worse, it would make your heart beat again, get your hopes up, and make your forgive all his past mistakes on the spot.

You had already planned it, collecting the scattered make-up across the apartment. You hadn’t even put on a show as you usually did, cleaning the apartment or cooking out of boredom. No. It was strictly the silence and you, and the sunlight barely filtering through the closed shutters. You let out an annoyed sigh, walked to the window and abruptly opened them, almost ripping the handle off, as you swiftly raised the shutters. “This guy can’t even take care of himself,” you muttered to yourself.

And as the sun bathed the room, the clean air invaded the apartment, you suddenly got hit by a realisation. In this haunting silence, you felt it : the loneliness, the illusion, the perfect-bubble carefully crafted of a life that neither of you wanted. You were a roommate unannounced, and he was the kind stranger that took you in. Nothing more, nothing less. So, instead of breaking down, you walked to your makeup bag, put everything inside, zipped it shut, and took your few clothes, your toothbrush, and your dignity.

Maybe it was because none of you had dared to say it. You, because you were stubborn. He, because he was scared. Maybe those three words would have helped you hold on to something. But you were stuck between maybe and almost, and life was too short for uncertainty.

You hoped never to hear from Thanos ever again, so that your heart could take some time to heal. No note left, only leftovers in his fridge, and a clean parquet. You hoped he’d regret you for a bit, before moving on.

This was life. You were used to it.

🌧

Rebuilding your life was difficult. There was no way you’d beg Hae-bin for another chance, and your boss refused to hire you again. That is why, you decided to open an Instagram account to coach people hoping to get better at singing—or just taking control of their voice, mastering it. Getting views was difficult, and your content was very niche. Plus, it was embarrassing to just put a camera, stare at it, and then repeat AAH aaaah AAH aah to an imaginary audience, look at it to edit while physically cringing, posting it, and wallow in the waiting of the twelve likes that usually followed your posts, or that one regular commenter ‘so cool' (happy emoji) or the less regular ones ‘open your mouth wider’. It was quite embarrassing, and you made sure to block the rap star—mostly because you didn't want him to see you, and secondly, well, because he was so active, posting daily, or being spotted with a new star, that you wanted to shield your heart and your peace.

Except, one morning, you woke up to a hundreds new followers. Heart beating, you wondered whether you had posted something (…) by mistake, until you realised you that thgreatJB had reposted on his 12.4K page one of your videos, saying ‘check her out’.

Afterwards, it was a blur. The followers kept coming in, the DMs, the young teenagers wanting to become idols DM’ing you for advice, or even some older people with a reasonable amount of following asking for private coaching. You started to make money again, your life was getting better. You could go out again without feeling as if people were staring with judging eyes, you could smile without your heart feeling heavy. You started wearing makeup again, you went back to the salon, got your nails and your lashes done, and, slowly, you felt as if you were reviving.

Almost three months had passed, you were a new woman, reborn. People would flood your comments ‘you’re glowing recently girl!’ or ‘im not the only who sees it right’ and other people agreeing in the comments that you were quite beautiful, on top of a great voice. That was the boost you needed. You expanded your page, stopped replying to needy DMs who wanted advice but refused to pay a cent, that you used to take out of good will, opened a paid coaching service, your account gained more and more traction, your name got popular, agencies would call you, your boss even apologised for the way she treated you and asked you to come back. Life was treating you well. And you treated yourself well too.

But well.

It got boring, after a while. You were single and childless—no tuitions, hobbies to worry about paying, the bills were always settled, the rent paid in advance, you even started tipping. You didn’t buy much groceries.

You lived alone.

You were alone.

Your friends had gotten slightly opportunistic and you dropped them—you were at the age were bullshit was not needed. And there was, in your heart, this gap, unfulfilled. This small crevice that let everything pass through you like air. Like a gush of wind, so weak it barely shook you.

You missed him. Of all things that had happened in your life, of the hole he had dragged you down into, of the weird things he had made you try and the visions they made you see, a spark had been ignited, so ready to be alive. You had felt it. The way he made you feel there. Real. Out of your mechanical existence. It was so repetitive. So fake. You weren’t even alright with it, you didn’t like it.

And you hated feeling this way.

Opening the drawer near your bed, you found an old ring. Your ex-fiancé. He was a sweet guy. A bit worrying around the edges, and he had gotten slightly too lazy about life, expecting without giving, so you decided he wasn’t worth the headache. You did feel something when he propped down on one knee and opened the small black box, and you saw the gleaming ring. You said yes because you wanted to feel something. You let him slide the ring on your finger, let him kiss you. Even if you disliked silver. Because you wanted to feel something. To feel alive.

Absentmindedly, you slid it onto your ring finger, staring at your hand. You got lost in your thoughts, and before you could take it off, your phone dinged. Curious, you grabbed it, looked at the screen. A new DM asking for vocal training. Even the adrenaline of the popularity had worn-off. You slouched on your bed and accepted the DM. ‘700,000 won if you come tonight. Sorry if it’s too late, my audition is soon and I want to find someone quickly.’

Coming tonight? Well. That sounded intriguing. Routine-breaking. You told the stranger it was alright for you, he gave you an address and told you to wait outside the place. Even if that seemed slightly dangerous, you wanted some rush. You accepted.

Later that night, you changed your clothes, put light makeup. Your eyes fell on the white pair of earrings. Your fingers hovered above the desk, but you resigned last minute and went outside, carefully locking the door. You tipped the doorman—even if life had changed, you didn’t change your apartment, and felt the cool night air hit your face.

You walked quietly through the busy streets of Seoul. It was great. A start, at least. When your legs carried you between a sea of people and shoulders, you could forget for a minute. After half-an-hour, you saw the spot. He had said ‘under the lamppost’. You were worried it would be shady, but it was quite clean, and some people were chatting outside or smoking with lively voices. It seemed safe. You found the tallest lamppost ('with a deflated red balloon tied to it, nobody removed it since years', he had texted), and quietly leaned against it, scrolling absentmindedly as you waited.

You heard rustling, and suddenly, a familiar scent struck your face with such intensity, you suddenly spiraled back to that first night at the bar. Your heart beat erratically, you put a hand on your chest to calm it down, refusing to look up, hoping he was just a passerby.

Except his shadow stopped right before you. The familiar sneakers. A hand resting above your head, as he leaned in dangerously close. “Hey, señorita.”

🌧

“What brings you here?” You asked, staring at the brownish drink swirling between your palms. “Same as you. Vocal training. Except you’re the trainer, and I’m the student.” His voice was still as smooth. Still as silky. Still as deep. It struck exactly where it had all those months. All your body vibrated. “So you created a fake account.” “Nah we’re not putting this on me m’lady. You’re the one who left like a coward.”

You did not take a sip, tapping your fingers on the glass. His head was resting in his palm, slowly rotating his glass while staring at you. When you finally lifted your head to meet his eyes, his lips tugged into a half-smile. “Well hello there. Missed those eyes.” You bit your lip. “You still talk too much.” He shook his head. “Nah, you too little. For a vocal cord trainer, you’re an awfully silent expert.”

That brought a small smile to your lips. You finally took a sip. It burned your throat, and you stifled a cough. “Coach doesn’t play.”

He didn’t respond immediately, observed you intently, eyes piercing a hole through your skin. “Oh yeah?” Then, silently, his hand went to your cheek. You stopped playing with your drink, paused too. Lifted your gaze and met his. Way longer than you should. “Yeah,” you whispered. He kept watching you, nodded slightly, an instinct. “Coach was quite loud when I got her to be,” he suddenly said. Your face burnt red. “That’s the past.”

His cold eyes held yours an instant before looking at his glass again. His quietness was unsettling. As if he was putting an act. You felt like, he was ready to shatter the glass in his palms, knuckles white because of how hard he was gripping it. And his eyes, who used to be warm, well, not before you left, were cold. A different cold. A chilling cold. As if something way scarier was brewing under those distant eyes. Something terrifying.

“Oh I see,” he chuckled a low, far-away chuckle, pointing his cheek toward your naked ears, then your ring finger. You widened your eyes. “That…” “I don’t care, señorita.” He smiled without his eyes. Shit. Your heart froze. The smile was from another galaxy. This guy wasn’t with you right now. He despised you. A shiver ran through your spine. “I’m… I’ll go to the bathroom.” Getting up, you grabbed your purse, but his hand suddenly gripped your wrist so tightly, you felt his fingers mold your skin. “Did I say soju?” he said in an ironic tone.

You froze. “We’re not doing this.” “Fuck yes we are.” You were talking without looking at his face, your right side facing him. “No.” “I’m not playing with you girl.” “What do you want.” He got up, slammed his fist on the counter so hard, the drink spilled. A bartender said something, but Thanos glared so hard he ran away. “The fuck I want? Since when do you give a shit what I want, huh?!” His voice was rising. You clutched your purse unsteadily, noticing how dark the bar was, how it smelled so rotting, how hot it was. “Don’t fucking start this,” you said. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Let go of me.” “Look at me.” “No let go of-“ “LOOK AT ME, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! IS THAT TOO DIFFICULT?”

Immediately, you turned around, pressing your purse to his chest. “Calm down!” You said in a quiet tone. “Thanos this is not-“. He yanked the purse from your hand and grabbed your wrist, walking in long strides, before slamming the door to a backroom shut. “You ain't fucking leaving, coward,” he spat. The last word came like a knife, split your skin apart. “Don’t call me that,” you threatened. “I’m older than you.” “Older?! So fucking mature! Running away from your feelings is the only fucking thing adults are good at!”

You felt yourself stumble on something but caught yourself back on a messy desk. Realising what room you were in, you took it all in, the scattered papers, the opened cans, the dusty boxes, the ground littered with cardboard and unidentified objects, the dim flickering light. You could barely stand, let alone two people. “You’re an adult too! Don’t take this tone with me,” you muttered. “Oh I’m an adult now? You choose when I fucking am or not?” “I don’t choose shit! I reflect on your comportment. You wake up and tell me ‘one more wrinkle’ or ‘someone’s lazy today’, as if I’m your fucking wife that you forgot at home!”

In frustration, you grabbed a nearby pencil and pointed at him. “No, not even your wife, a mistress!” His eyes were quivering, irises surrounded by a black orbit. “Don’t give me this bullshit. You’re as faulty as me, if not worse. You come to my place, eat my damn food and what do I get in return? You fucking leaving without as much as a word goodbye. You do realise how I should be feeling, no? Don’t blame me for not hugging you and being fucking nice right now!” “Oh so having me was nothing? Sleeping with you every night was nothing? Even to a mistress, you wouldn’t say that!” your voice broke.

His eyes stayed hard, his anger dominating his emotions. “Stop this mistress bullshit! You weren’t my mistress!” “EXACTLY! It’s exactly that! I was NOTHING. Nothing to you!” You shouted back, pen still pointing toward him. He stepped toward you and flicked your palm, sending the pen flying. “You’re twisting the conversation! Stop fucking lying and face yourself!” “Face what! There’s nothing to face! Now let me OUT!” You pushed him away, hands pressing his chest and strode to the door. As you grabbed the handle, you kept insulting him. “You killed this! You stopped caring about me. We never gave this a name, so you don’t have the right to get mad at me.” The door wasn’t budging. You tried again, but it stayed frozen. “Fuck and now we’re stuck! Thanks to you! Perfect!” You threw your hands in a powerless motion. “Let us out!” He shook his head, still silent. “No.”

“What the heck is wrong with you. I don’t get it. You bring me here, only to fight with me. Is it an ego thing? Because I left? Get over it!” He rose his head, back against the messy desk and palms resting on the counter. “You don’t get shit, do you?!” “Not if you don’t explain!” “Aren’t you the most mature, you should fucking know!” That’s when you punched the drawer beside you. “Go to hell, Su-bong! You’re just an entitled piece of shit!”

His anger was so quiet, you felt your heart beat in anticipation of his next reaction. It was terrifying. “Am I?” His voice came in a whisper, a glimmer in his dark eyes that pierced yours. “When everybody at the Underground fucking know who you are, and I learn from a fucking noob that isn’t half my age that his coach is the woman I slept with for months, the only fucking woman I ever gave cared about, and who left me like a piece of shit without even a word goodbye? Who’s the entitled piece of shit?!” “This was bound to end!” You shouted. “I was rotting! I had nothing, nothing anymore, but your body when you gave it to me and a small part of your soul when you dared!”

A flicker of pain passed in his eyes, and his voice came harsh before he could stop it. “I was hurting too! The… the day I fucking saw you, the first time, you worked lifelessly, you were like a robot, and I thought I just… I wanted to see you alive. I don’t know why. I just did. And then…” his voice is shaky. “After some time, you looked at me the same. Empty. I would try to give you something, but your eyes stopped looking at me. You weren’t there! I was with a fucking robot!” “Then give it feelings!” You shouted back. “You treated me like shit!”

Against your volition, your eyes welled up with tears you were not able to stop. Rolling down your cheeks, the first tear came out silently, and you wiped it with the back of your hand. “I’m no saint, Su-bong,” you added. “I have feelings.” “Yeah, for someone else,” he spat. “I’m not falling for your bullshit when you’re… whatever the fuck that is.” Following his gaze, you yanked the ring from your finger. “Oh fuck you! I don’t care about this shit. Take it if you want!” You threw it at him, and he caught it mid-air. He stopped talking for a second.

You stayed in silence for a few minutes, chests heaving loudly. You wiped your tears, heart still aching. “Do you notice something?” Your voice came out more assured than you thought. “Notice what?” “The ring. Look at it.” He spun it in his palm. “No fucking shit. What do you want,” his voice sliced the air. “The ring. Look at it well.”

He paused. Stared at it better. “It’s silver,” he then said. “Tiny diamond. Around 10 grams-“ “I don’t give a fuck about that. Say the first sentence again.” “What?” “The first.” “It’s silver.” “Now think.” He stared, confused and annoyed. “I’m not doing this shit-“ Then, he looked at it again, as if struck by a realisation. “It’s silver. You…” he looked at your wet eyes. “You don’t like silver.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

He looked at you, confused. “But… what…” “Su-bong, do you think at my big age, and my wrinkly face,” you said as he shamefully looked away, “I would marry a guy that doesn’t know what I like?”

Su-bong crushed the ring in his palm.

“There’s nobody else?” he stared at you with a surprised expression. You shook your head. “Never was. I’ve… I’ve tried forgetting you. I really have. But I can’t. I always came back to this,” you looked up. He was holding his breath, unable to respond. “You really hurt me,” you finally cracked. Your shoulders quaked, and you couldn’t stop the tears anymore. “That was so… so painful…”

Slowly, ever slowly, arms suddenly wrapped around your trembling body, pulling you close, chin resting on the top of your head. “Me too. I’m… I’m so sorry if I ever hurt you,” he finally said. He pulled away for a second, stared at your bright eyes. “Don’t pull this shit again. Don’t run away. I wanted you.” “You didn't make me feel like you did.”

Gently, his fingers left your shoulder, one by one, before he pulled away. “I’m sorry.” “It’s fine.” “It isn’t.” He nodded in promise. “It’ll be.” Then, he opened his palm again, stared at the gleaming ring.

“Can I destroy it?” “Please.” He threw it on the ground and stomped his foot on it. “To hell with that. I don’t fucking want anyone in the way of us anymore,” he declared, suddenly determined. His voice came out more confident than you thought. “Us?” “Yeah. I fucking wasted too much time on this shit. I’m so done fighting.” “What do you mean?”

He breathed heavily, as if you were stupid but he liked you. “What I mean,” he started, stepping closer, “is that I’m done with all this bullshit and this running away. I’m not ready to let someone else have you. I…”

“You don’t have to say it,” you whispered. Your hand rose to meet his, his fingers interlocked with yours. He stared at your eyes for so long, he felt as if the world had stopped spinning for an instant and the universe was on hold. He nodded quietly. He still wasn't ready, but he'd be. “I want to.”

This time, it was him who kissed you first. It used to be you, always. But your salty lips were met with his bitter ones, so sweet against yours, always being there to mold with the other’s, to complete them. “I…” His voice broke as he pulled away. “I really like you.”

It was as if a new world had unfolded before him. His eyes started glimmering again, his heart beat again, his walls came crashing down, and he suddenly let himself fall into the crook of your neck, humming your sweet scent. “Shit, I missed you so much, m'lady. So so much.”

He pulled away, breathless. “I like you so much. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life but this.”

“But why?” you cried softly into his palms, as his thumb worked to brush the teardrops away. “Because. It’s just like this. I can’t explain it.”

“Then why did you push me away?” In his face, you saw frustration, pent-up anger. “I felt things. I don’t like it. I’m not used to it.”

You stared at each other silently. Then, you nodded. “We have time.”

So he kissed you. Longer. Harder. Better.

Like he meant it. “I really like you too,” you murmured against his lips.

And it was enough. At that moment, it was enough, and your heart was whole for the first time since so many years. As long as you would have him, as long as he would have you, then you would be okay.

i hope you will enjoy this!

@breakmeoff

#thanos #thanos squid game #choi su bong #player 230 #player 230 x reader #alternate universe #squid game #thanos x reader #squid game 2 #choi su bong x reader

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dawnbreaker-mylove · 4 months ago

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Astra's Tool

Warnings: Implication of rape, child abuse, domestic violence, stalking (implied), power imbalance.

A/N: So... I wrote this... Before we start, I want to emphasize that this is fanfiction. I know this isn't canon, I'm not telling you to recognize it as canon. I wanted to write down my headcanon on Astra and Zayne and whatever relations they have. Don't ask me where I thought Zayne had a step-dad because I forgor. It was probably some Mandela effect or I read a headcanon on Dawnbreaker killing him somewhere back when I started playing the game. Reader's discretion is advised.

You asked Zayne where those marks on his arms came from. He would dodge the question every time with a joke or he'd change the subject. You decided not to pry too much, but your curiosity was never one to fade with time.

Today, you asked again.

“I've been meaning to ask. What happened to your arms? Were you just clumsy when we were kids or something?”

Zayne chuckled as his fingers trailed along the stacks or chocolate bars as you walked through the aisles of the grocery. “It could be that,” he picks up a bar of chocolate with raisins and nuts before placing it back, “but let's not think of things from the past. Instead, why don't you help me pick between almond or hazelnut chocolate for tonight, hm?”

He smiled, lighthearted and sweet like he always does. However, there's a glint of something in his eyes, just for a split second, before it disappears.

You were never one to pry. You both were dating for a while now but you both have your secrets. You respected that, of course. But this particular secret of his felt too important to simply forget. Like it was something you had to know.

Your gaze flickers towards the fridge. The metal doors were covered in colorful magnets from around the world, gifts from Zayne's parents. Then it hit you. If Zayne won't tell you, someone who knows him for years would answer your question.

His mother.

That evening, you called her. Once she picked up, her voice was as bubbly and warm as ever. “Hello, sweetheart,” she greets over some sitcom playing in the background. “What made you call? Is everything alright?”

“Everything is fine, Auntie,” you replied. “I just wanted to ask something.” The woman in the other line was encouraging, eager to sate your curiosity. The moment you mentioned Zayne's scars on his arms, the laughter faded. Followed by a sound you least expected. A muffled sob.

“I should've taken him away,” her voice trembled. “He… it was my fault.”

Through her sobs, the past unraveled before you.

Years ago…

We all know one thing for certain: gods have a way of taking what they want. Mortals were no exception. To deities, mortals were nothing more than a piece of a chessboard, their purpose moved by the divine. Astra was no different.

Like a flower blooming in the snow, Astra sees her. The doctor, a woman of beauty and grace, eyes dark and intelligent. He intended to make her his.

For a year, the god watched from the heavens, studying the doctor. He learns she was soft-hearted, the type to reach out to the lonely or to engage with helpless strangers. It was easy to take on a mortal guise, to be the kind of man she could fall for. And she did.

The doctor thought she had met the love of her life. The god thought he had won.

Another year passed, and she was happy. Until one December night, when the snow fell heavily on the city, Astra revealed what he truly wanted.

She tried fighting, but a mortal can never stand a chance against a god. He pinned her down, a cruel smile played on his lips as he whispered to her that the child she would bear would be the greatest gift of all.

She could never forget the look in his eyes that night. It glimmered but not with love or devotion, but with possession.

On the fifth of September, the doctor gave birth to a boy. His father held him in his divine hands, looking down at the baby with his cold gaze. The god named him Zayne.

The doctor wanted to believe, even just a little, that Astra might love the boy. That Zayne could be raised in warmth, not under the god’s watchful eye. But it was when he turned three, the ice came.

The child’s Evol manifested early, and Astra had waited for so long for that day to come. Training had to begin immediately. Every failure was met with punishment. Anytime Zayne's control faltered, Astra would take his wrists and let the ice spread over his arms and let it pierce through his skin like glass.

The doctor would hear Zayne’s cries echo through their home, but there was nothing she could do. Astra's word was law. A mortal could never go against a god.

Until the night she ran.

Zayne was four when his mother carried him in her arms and fled from the clutches of their abuser. But she was unsure if Astra would come for them. She didn't know if he could be outrun.

But she ran anyway. As far as they possibly could.

They built a new life in another city. An apartment for two, a quiet existence. But Astra never truly left.

Nightmares would haunt the young boy. Visions of a faceless man watching from the darkness. He would whisper to Zayne in his sleep. Followed by the ice. He would wake up, screaming in pain as the ice, sharp and jagged, pierce through his skin as they emerged again and again. His mother would hold him as the night filled with his screams of anguish, whispering soothing words and assurance she only half-believed.

The doctor thought she could never give Zayne a normal life. That was before she met the surgeon.

A cardiac surgeon visiting her hospital, tall and lean. She told herself she would never let anyone in again, she would never risk her life and Zayne's again, but then the boy met him.

Zayne, who rarely smiled or laughed, beamed when the surgeon scooped him up into his arms. The two would play and eat mints on a bench in the park. Watching all this, the doctor cried. But they were not sad tears. Tears of relief, of joy, streamed down her cheeks.

It wasn't long before they married. The surgeon gave Zayne his last name: Li. He did it without a second thought, without asking anything in return. Zayne finally has someone he can truly call his father.

Present day…

The call ended and you were left stunned. Your hands trembled as you curled into a ball on the couch. Zayne found you like that.

Without a word, he sat beside you and rested his hand on your back. His warmth was comforting but your chest still felt tight. Your eyes, swollen, flickered to his arms

“I'm sorry,” you whispered. Zayne frowns, lifting your chin up between his thumb and index finger. “For what?”

“For snooping around. For everything.”

You explained in between sobs. The things his mother told you. The things he never found the courage to tell you. Zayne's jaw slightly clenched, his fingers tensed, but his smile didn't waver.

“Enough with the tears,” he whispers as he strokes your hair. “That's all in the past.”

You look up at him, baffled. “You can't just forget something like that.”

His smile faltered slightly. Zayne shook his head and cupped your cheeks gently, wiping the tears from your cheeks before kissing your eyelids.

“What's in the past should stay in the past. I'm fine now, aren't I?”

You sniffled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. “Why are you comforting me?” You grumbled. “I should be the one comforting you.”

A soft laugh escapes from Zayne's lips, brushing a stray lock from your face before lightly tapping your nose. “For starters, it's because I never heard of someone crying while trying to comfort the person who isn't.”

His voice was too light. Like if he acknowledged it—truly acknowledged it—he might break.

Now you were unsure of who he was comforting, you or himself.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding Zayne closed as humanly possible. You were scared to let go or loosen your grip, as if he would disappear if you did. Zayne only hugs back just as tight, kissing your hair then burying his face in the crook of your neck.

Above the clouds, beyond the falling snow, He watched.

Astra sat on his mighty throne, his gaze locked on the boy. His face that was often twisted in anger, was unreadable.

He had seen this play out before. His Foreseer, falling in love once again with the same mortal that proved to be his downfall in the past. He will not let it happen again.

He would wait. Time was irrelevant to a god.

In the end, what's his will always return to him.

#lnds #l&ds #lads #zayne love and deepspace #lnd zayne #zayne l&ds #dr zayne #love and deepspace #foreseer zayne #maybe write a dawnbreaker version?#first time in a while writing something like this #zayne x reader #zayne x you #tw: abuse

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doshielasol · 2 months ago

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BTS Theory — More than a "simple" Glitch

ARMY, I have a theory that through many of the contents released from 2021 to today in 2025, we ourselves are currently stuck in a Time Loop to prepare us for what's to come next. Just like how HYYH BU Jin time-travelled, we're travelling back to 2017 and then we'll move forward from there when all 7 BTS Members reunite in June.

Let me explain in this long post.

Disclaimers:

1. This post is my PERSONAL INTERPRETATION/ THEORY / SPECULATION based on MY OWN OBSERVATION. I am NOT, in any way, saying that these are canon to BTS’ (upcoming) plans and/ or the actual BTS Universe (BU).

2. You may NOT use any part of this post as a “Gotcha!” moment against BTS.

3. Contains BU Spoilers.

4. You may agree, or disagree. If it's the latter, you can make your own post of your own interpretation.

5. I’m emphasizing yet again that these theories are in relation to the FICTIONAL “BTS Universe“ story; not the real-life BTS Members.

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Notes:

1. PLEASE CLICK ALL THE LINKS AND WATCH/ READ ITS CONTENTS BEFORE MOVING ON TO THE NEXT WORD/ SENTENCE/ PART.

2. We'll use this definition of "regressor" from the manhwa community:

"A REGRESSOR is someone who returns to the past by turning back time often as a product of a mysterious magic incident. They'd regress to younger versions of themselves while keeping their memory of the future"

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LET'S START!!!

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At the time of posting this, 5 of the 7 BTS members are still doing their mandatory military service, so of course BH “has no choice” but to bring back or use old OT7 contents. BUT there are just way too many parallels and little, subtle changes for it to be called a “simple throwback” because those said “little, subtle changes” may have actually affected the space-time continuum, causing us to feel either a sense of déjà vu, or Mandela effect… or maybe even both.

My theory is that we have been going back to December 2017 then RE-LIVING 2018 to 2019. Just like how BU Jin keeps going back to the date April 11th, I say that we ARMY are being time-travelled back specifically to the month and year “December 2017” through the contents BECAUSE OF THE GLITCH.

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PART 1. Wait, what glitch?

We already saw TV screens showing White Noise STATIC as early as No More Dream MV. It's also in the MVs of I NEED U, DOPE, and EPILOGUE: Young Forever, to name a few. The Color Bar TV Static is even included in In The Seom Chapter 3 "DESERT Stage."

Initially, it was this SUBTLE static, however it developed into the following stages until it reached the OBVIOUS GLITCH:

STAGE 1:

In 2016.01.14 25th SMA’s VCR, “Unknown Signal Transmission” was seen before the glitches in the scenes of DOPE & RUN MVs were shown. I interpret those words as a Regressor from the future interfering with the current timeline.

STAGE 2:

2017.02.11 Not Today MV teaser: From 00:21, while there’s the TV static on-screen, the sound is just “straight line” which reminds me of the old school TVs when it doesn’t get any signal. Plus, at the end of the teaser, there’s a blank canvas which reminded me of the painted canvas in Jimin's WINGS Short Film… but a blank canvas may symbolize new beginning different from the WINGS Short Film / LY Highlight Reel.

2017.02.20 Not Today MV= there were minor glitches whenever “Not Today” was shown on screen. BTS were being chased by hooded figures & my interpretation of this is that the running members are Regressor BTS from the future and they’re fighting to change the timeline, which matches the lyrics as well. “A day may come when we lose but it is not today. Today we fight.” Coincidentally, if you slow down in those said lyrics on-screen in the MV, it’s like you’re being sucked in then out while the glitch/ static is present. I interpret that part as a “solid evidence” of a future version of BTS going back in time to change something from their past coz they’re fighting it here in “Not Today.” [thus "Unknown Signal Transmission" in Stage 1]

STAGE 3:

2017.02.22 6th Gaon VCR, from the gray TV static we've seen in the MVs before Stage 1, this time, the TV Static became the well-known Color Bar TV Static. After which, it was followed by the words “NO SIGNAL”. The words “NO SIGNAL” indicate that the display is temporarily not receiving a stable signal from the source, leading to the glitch (visual distortion). Therefore, seeing these words in February 2017 were just precedent to the more-noticeable / glaringly obvious glitches spread throughout most of the subsequent BTS contents, even today in 2025.

STAGE 4:

2018.04.02, many ARMY worldwide saw glitch & errors in BTS’ MVs, misspelling in BTS’ Blog saying “reversed” instead of “reserved” that resulted in the hashtag #BTSGlitchParty.

My theory is that this was a deliberate move TO INCLUDE THE READER/ AUDIENCE, us BTS’ ARMY, IN THE STORY by letting us spot those "errors".

The glitch never really left us since it appeared, and to prove this, here's a list of one content with glitch per year starting from 2019 (since I already mentioned from 2013 to 2018 above) until today in 2025...

2019: MAMA VCR, 2020: Interlude: Shadow, 2021: CCTV Live (plus notice the subtle changes in the surroundings BEFORE and AFTER the members disappeared), 2022: We Are Bulletproof, 2023: D-DAY GLITCH film, and the D-DAY logo glitching after the concert ended, 2024: MONOCHROME trailer, 2025: Mona Lisa Teaser + in "HOPE ON THE STAGE TOUR" title, during "Dis-ease", the words, "No Signal" + the static TVs were seen!

BTW, in HotS Seoul, Hoseok made ARMY say “aniya~ (nope)” after he said “byeong? (dis-ease); and for me, this is HUGE coz for me, he's declaring that there is NO MORE DIS-EASE (discomfort) since they’ve DONE the MANDATORY double-edged sword M.S.; a HUGE difference than when they first released it (because they haven’t enlisted yet + there was a virus, a disease at that time).

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PART 2: So, how do these Glitches connect to the Time Loop?

What happens when there is a glitch? Glitches means that there's interference in the signal. BU Jin went back to April 11th every time there was a “Bad Ending” in that timeline. We also saw in the 2021.12.20 CCTV Live that when there was a glitch, the members disappeared from the current timeline.

So, just like what I implied in Part 1, what if all the glitches we’ve seen so far it’s because someone from the future is interfering with the current timeline; changing or erasing what previously happened to bring in a new timeline?

Coz if you think about it, why else would they bring back old photos of significant events in BTS’ career from 2013-2023 in 2024, but in a SLIGHTLY different angle or pose, or maybe even an unreleased photo from that event, other than to mess with our brain and think “I’ve seen it before.” but no, we actually haven't seen them yet! It’s why I got to put this thread of Spot-The-Difference!

Other reasons how The Glitch is connected to the Time Loop:

1. BTS' 5th Anniversary Show in the 2018 FESTA (2018.06.13) is entitled “Re;view & Pre;view” with glitch on the 2018 FESTA logo. — Review means to look back to see what's already happened, and Preview means a sneak peek into the future. There's also the semicolon before “view” and a semi-colon's function is "to join two closely related independent clauses (complete sentences) into one, indicating a stronger connection than a comma but less separation than a period" . They literally said that you cannot move forward until you look at your past.

☆ In this FESTA show, after DDAENG, BT21 debuted through a VCR with the last scene was their backs before it glitches to show BTS wearing BT21 onesies to perform ANPANMAN. This is one of the evidences of "HERO theory" which could be connected to why the 6th ARMY Membership concept (July 2019- July 2020) was Super Hero.

2. It might be related to what Namjoon said in PTD Seoul, “IT'S BEEN 5 YEARS! The spring you've been waiting for is coming”

I already said my theories as to what the 5 YEARS might be on thread but I'll say it again here:

"The full sentence was, "It’s been 5 years; the spring you’ve been waiting for is coming" w/c could BOTH mean:

The 5 years from 2017 to 2022 = 2017 was the year when SPRING DAY was released, and 2022 was the year when PTD ON STAGE SEOUL happened where Joon said these words. 2022 is also plus, AND also the same year when BU!Jin stopped time traveling, and YEAR MAY 22 was SUPPOSED to be the last in the BU timeline, which I interpreted as the time that BTS’ activities resumes after their Military Service IF the pandemic didn't happen since Bang PD said that BTS already planned for their military service in early 2018, yet they still were supposed to have the MOTS Tour in 2020. And if all the members conscripted at the same time by December 2020 “after MOTS Tour”(assuming that their tour months would've been the same as WINGS Tour, spanning from April to December), then they all would've gotten out by May 2022 to continue the timeline. — This would probably happen if the pandemic and lockdown didn't happen in 2020. But since the pandemic DID happen in 2020, ruining their schedules, my other theory is..

The 5 years from 2020 to 2025 — BTS' INITIAL PLAN to enlist after BE album (released: November 2020), up to when all members FINISHES their Military in real life (June 2025). Coz, like what's said in Suchwita ep.21 with Jungkook, “2025: For our second "Most Beautiful Moment in Life" ”

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Part 3. So, why is December 2017 the starting point of ARMY’s Time Loop?

December 2017 to early 2018 was a delicate time period. Bang PD shared in this CNN interview that BTS was discussing doing the Military Service since early 2018, which explains why…

1. In the 2017 MAMA (dated: December 1, 2017) VCR, the words “The Second Chapter” appeared and there were lots of GLITCHES on the members’ bodies, the scenes from LY Highlight Reel, and on the TV Screens. However before their performances, the TV screens exploded. It’s also in this same award show where the iconic RED Background on 7 silhouettes Mic Drop was born, and it’s parallel to when Hobi performed Mic Drop with red lights all over in Paris, France at Gala Des Pièces Jaunes

2. In THE WINGS TOUR THE FINAL (Dec. 8 to 10, 2017), BTS recounted their painful past thru the Opening VCR. Then ended the concert with the words “Special Thanks to our Chapter 1, ARMY.”

This is also parallel to Hobi’s Paris performance because Hobi performed with an orchestra on stage, and the last time BTS had any string ensemble on stage with them was during The WINGS Tour in 2017.

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Part 4. What older contents (mostly from 2017, 2018, 2019) are parallels to those that were released from 2021 up to now that proves we’ve been time-travelling with potential re-writing of the timeline?

1. Songs

• N.O. (2013) — ON (2021) • Boy in Luv (2013) — Boy with Luv (2021) • No More Dream (2013) — Dream (coming soon???)

2. blue and white school uniform

• 2017 Season’s Greetings concept • 2022 Us, Ourselves, and BTS concept

3. Glitch/ No Signal

• 2017 6th Gaon • 2022 Us, Ourselves, and BTS concept: No Signal • 2025 HotS — Disease VCR

4. string ensemble / orchestra on stage with BTS

• WINGS Tour (April to December 2017 — with Jin, and Yoongi) • j-hope inParis (January 2025)

5. Baby Photos from the 5th Term ARMY Membership Concept (5th ARMY Term: June 2018 to June 2019)

• Big Hit used those Baby Photos for the 2024-2025 Birthday Greeting cycle • Namjoon changed his IG pfp to a new toddler pic, then Hobi used his 5th Term baby photo as his tiktok pfp • In The Seom's 2025.04.03 Play Pass

6. Prince, and Sailor Outfits of 5th Term ARMY Membership Concepts 2 & 3 (May 2018 to June 2019):

• In The Seom: released those outfits in February 2024 and January 2025

7. The act of reminiscing / recounting the past BEFORE MOVING ON

• 2018 FESTA “Re;view & Pre;view” • 2019 MMA Montage of old songs (there's A LOT of glitch too) • RUN BTS ep. 155 (use of a comma (,) ) • PROOF Anthology album • Film strip in D-DAY Tour after “Life Goes On” • 2021 MUSTER: SOWOOZOO VCRs that recounted BTS’ journey in the industry, even including the songs Film Out and Moving On • PROOF Exhibition worldwide • BTS 7 Moments

8. “Memory Clouds”

• 4th MUSTER (2018.01.13-14) —4th MUSTER is the fanmeeting of the 4th ARMY Membership (Term May 2017 to May 2018) • 2024 Monochrome

9. Smeraldo

• Jimin’s track in MUSE “Smeraldo Garden Marching Band” • 1 day before Hobi got released, the Smeraldo account on IG [that's usually inactive] posted a Story saying “Thank you for your purchase”.... on the next day, we saw Jin holding a bouquet of blue/ purple flowers and gave it to Hobi to welcome him back from getting discharged

10. Choose-Your-OWN-ADVENTURE (CYOA) Games

• BTS World • BTS World Season 2 • BTS Universe Story • Jin's Ending is a Happy Ending

11. Doors

• In every BTS Concert VCR • Proof Concept photo "Door ver."

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Part 5: Where do we go from here? What's next?

This time loop might result either in a change since one of HYYH’s song is ‘Butterfly’, and butterflies are symbols of transformation.

The Time Loop could (potentially) be stopped and the Timeline would only move forward AND CHANGE once all the members have reunited in June 2025 and then released their new OT7 album, showing us The Next Chapter.

For now, I think our biggest clue lies in the juxtaposition seen AND heard 2019 MAMA VCR wherein the voice said "Present Meets Future: Eternal Journey", however the words on the screen is different; it was "Future Meets Past: Eternal Journey".

youtube

In connection to the video above, here are my theories on what might happen next since there was a "Re;view" and a "Pre;view":

Continuation of Map Of The Soul as they found their true selves

The "preview" of what's to come can be seen in the Solo Albums that BTS released which are reflections of who they are, and because the spectrum of their music's style heard in their solo albums were so vast, it reminded me of the time when Namjoon said, “the SEVEN of us are on a boat, LOOKING in different directions, but GOING the same way.” Because their sense if self has been experienced thru their solo albums, we could see the continuation of Map Of The Soul, and the culmination of MOTS might possibly through an IN-PERSON concert in the future because as Namjoon said in the Love Yourself: Answer Press Conference:

"For a singer, [their work] is completed on stage. We have shown everything through our stage. That person’s music and the visuals they want to show are all shown through concerts and albums. All our members love music and we have strived to show that."

At the same time, we also heard Taehyung say, “what if they perform their solo songs in their reunion concert?” So, there’s that.

Additionally, in my opinion, Jin's "Running Wild" is a song for AND about BTS AND ARMY. It's a promise that after all these years of waiting, we will still be together and our journey together will be unrestricted as we run wild together.

Jimin's Rebirth from his MUSE album could also be linked here since that song is like an ode to keep on striving to be the best version of himself. Likewise, I'm also mentioning YOUNG FOREVER here in connection to HYYH / Youth series since if we are forever young, then we will always have the passion, drive, mentality, and desire to stay youthful in spirit, energy, and/or attitude in one's life; we'll be full of enthusiasm for our future, to CARRY ON even when things get hard.

2. Door Theory

In most of BTS’ concert VCRs even today in 2025 with HOPE ON THE STAGE tour, there are doors. SOPE's Solo Concert Tours could also be considered as Doors... and as I've said on my tweet here, perhaps, one day, BTS might be able to pass through their own doors, to be freely up on stage.

3. HERO + Dream Theory

• In the Save Me webtoon (HYYH Pt.0) , BU Taehyung said that "he’s been seeing dreams of the members". It was also Tae who first approached Jin in his home (signifying that Jin ALSO needs to be saved, and not just the 6 members whom BU Jin has been trying to save). In January 2025, he released a photobook called “Reve” which translates to “To dream” (active voice).

• In 2018 MAMA in Hong Kong, we also saw these words "You gave me power You gave me love So now I'm a hero So now I'm a boy with love I'll show you the map of the soul I'll show you the dream" (glitch out) before performance of Intro: O!RUL8,2? to FAKE LOVE

3. ARMY Membership Concept Theory

So far, we’ve seen that the old ARMY Membership Concepts starting from the 5th term being brought to light again since January 2025, such as from 5th term: Childhood photos, to 6th Term: Hero concept, so what if what Joonie said on his 2025.02.01 post, “Act my age? I don't wanna.” is a subtle hint to not living in a fairytale? That would make this a hint either for the 7th Term concept (Fairy Tale) concept.

4. Starting anew / "DREAM ON"

Whether the goal of the time loop is "to erase the past", or "to find my own purpose", what remains is that the time loop in the BU is happening... and this is why I think the song 00:00 (Zero O'Clock) has great significance in these theories — because the song's lyrics go,

"And you gonna be happy. Like that snow that just settled on the ground, let’s breathe as if this is the beginning. And you gonna be happpy. Turn this all around [to] a time when everything is new, Zero O’Clock"

Plus, remember that it's the only B-side that has an MV, and the title even has the words "Dream On" in it.

5. The SEA / ETERNAL JOURNEY with ETERNAL YOUTH

The photocard holder inclusion in the MERCH BOX of their Solo Albums could be connected together to make the words “When we’re together, even the desert becomes the sea.”

Back in the lyrics of SEA [the hidden track / CD-only track of LY: HER album (the first in the series)], RM said,

“Ocean, desert, the world Everything is the same thing (but with a ) different name. I see ocean, I see desert, I see the world Everything is the same thing but with different name. It's life again”

Plus, we also saw the SEA at the end of the MAP OF THE SOUL ON:E concert; which is different when we saw the desert at the start.

Additionally, it's also in MOTS ON:E where Namjoon said that "BTS is not just a story of 7 people. It's a story of you, me, and everyone." as seen on the first image at the very top of this post.

In "Yet To Come" (2022), BTS sang “my moment is yet to come” so I just believe that.

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1. Future version of BTS went back in time and fought in ‘Not Today’

2. They rebelled and made their lives better by singing “I’m so SICK of this FAKE LOVE” which helped them take off their dark, heavy cloaks by singing “You’ve shown me I have reasons I should love myself” which then led to the hands that kept grabbing them in the Fake Love MV to crumble down in PTD On Stage LA, and then be completely gone and replaced by a blooming flower during PTD On Stage Seoul & LV

3. They showed their love for themselves through their individuality in their solo albums = either 00:00 (Zero O'Clock) or Rebirth in Jimin’s MUSE album takes place = their best moment TOGETHER AS ONE GROUP IS YET TO COME since they’ve not made their reunion after individually searching for their true selves. But once they’ve reunited as a group, we’ll surely see the best versions of BTS.

Bottom line/ TL;DR: We ARMY are being time-travelled through the contents being released as a way to invite/ bring us ARMY into BTS' story, and the current timeline is as if we are back in late 2017/2018, and we'll move forward from there once all 7 reunites in June and when they eventually release a new album.

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MY OTHER THEORIES / ANALYSIS:

BTS' Sonata (A.K.A explaining Chapters 1, 2, and then 3)

SUGA | Agust D "D-DAY" tour

j-hope "HOPE ON THE STAGE" tour

8:28 of BTS 7 Moments

#BTS #BTS ARMY #BTS Theory #Eternal Youth #Glitch

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a-deed-without-a-name · 6 months ago

Note

Hey— I have a bit of an angstier but pretty much only angsty for the reader prompt for you. Could be sex, could just be soft interaction, but: something between Tim and NotSasha?

Tim is in the break room, making a cup of tea, when someone he doesn’t know enters.

The Institute doesn’t have that many staff, and the list of those who regularly come into the break room is even smaller. Tim knows all of them, after working together for so long. He could recognize them blind - and has, on a couple occasions. Elias’s neat, precise tread, heel-to-toe, like some finishing school beat it into him (which might actually be the case). Jon’s, quick, perpetually irritated, like he’s stabbing at the ground with his feet. Martin’s - nervous, awfully light for a man his size. Sasha’s: — — —.

This is someone else.

The hair on the back of his neck rises. There’s a hard, metallic pinch in his back, adrenaline flooding him in a nauseating wave, the bad sort, not like comes from rapids or looking down during a free climb. He whirls, already tense, hands already up, and -

It’s Sasha.

“Whoa!” She puts her hands up, eyes wide. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Tim waits for the thump of his heart in his throat to fade. “Sorry. Just a bit jumpy, I suppose. Hard not to be, after the wormpocalypse…”

“Oh, tell me about it. I’m still checking myself for them every time I shower.”

She’s grinning cheekily, as if she knows exactly what the downright lovely mental image of her showering that she’s just put in his head is doing to him. He should smirk back, play the game. He looks down, and something about the motion of it feels odd. As if his neck ought not to be bending that way. Hasn’t Sasha always been —?

There’s something else odd about it, though. Something that gives him pause, and it must show on his face, because she raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms over her chest.

“What?” She pulls a face. “I don’t have something stuck in my teeth, do I?”

“Sorry, I just - this is gonna sound odd, but.” Tim pauses, and Sasha laughs.

“High bar, considering,” she teases him. “This’d better actually be odd, or I’ll be disappointed.”

“Well, not that odd, I suppose.” Tim frowns. “Just. Could’ve sworn your eyes were —. Are you wearing contacts or something?”

Does she wear glasses? She isn’t wearing them right now. Has she ever worn them? He’s suddenly unsure.

She arches a thin eyebrow. “They are blue.”

Did he say “blue?” He could swore it was a different color. “Right. Sorry ‘bout that, just…” He waves a hand. “Light in here’s strange.”

That satisfies her, and she starts to move away, but before she can go, something spills out of him, almost involuntary.

“I miss you.”

She sighs heavily. “Tim - ”

“I know, I know. I just…I do. I know it was mutual, I don’t regret any of it, I just…I’ve been missing you more, lately.” He shakes his head. “Much more. Not sure why.”

“Couldn’t be because of the terrible brush we just had with the supernatural and our own mortality, could it?” she asks dryly, playfully, that smile he’s always loved softening it at the end. “Things like that never stir up strong emotions.”

“Yeah, I know that’s probably it.” Tim sighs. “Just wanted to get it off my chest.”

“Probably a good idea. Can’t be bottling things up.” She reaches for him, and squeezes his arm. She’s had a manicure recently. That’s new. Isn’t it? “I’m still here, though. With you. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not. Have to come hunt you down, otherwise. Who else am I gonna talk about Elias’s ties with?”

She laughs. He smiles. But it falters.

“What now?” Sasha asks, putting her hands on her hips.

“Nothing, nothing. Just…” He braces himself. “Are you sure your eyes have always been blue?”

She rolls them. “Eyes don’t change, Tim.”

“I know that!” he responds indignantly. “Just could’ve sworn they were…different.”

She eyes him. There’s a short silence, which she breaks.

“Have you ever heard of the Mandela effect?”

“Course. Mostly nothing, when you get right down to it.”

“You sound like Jon.” Sasha laughs.

“He’s been doing much better,” Tim reminds almost automatically. Something he’s not really sure how he feels about, to be honest, but it’s one of those things he puts away in a neat little drawer in his mind. A drawer that sometimes rattles and judders, too full, something in it trying to get out.

It might be doing it now.

“Well, even he’d agree with you. Mostly nothing. You need to let it go.” She leans in. She leans up. Something in Tim’s brain twists, a hitch in the tape, even as his heart beats fast in a pleasant way that makes him want to ignore it. Her breath is soft and warm against his lips. “You’ll drive yourself mad.”

She pulls away before he can do something stupid. Probably for the best.

He’s not sure what he’s more afraid of: messing up their friendship, which he truly does so treasure, or the very slim chance that once he gets his hands on the soft bare skin of her body, some cold echo in his brain will tell him he’s touching a stranger.

“Could you make me one, too?”

She nods to the cup sitting forgotten on the counter. Tim blinks.

“Ah. Sure. No problem.”

She leaves. Tim misses her, aches with it, even though she’s barely been out of the room half a breath. He shakes his head, irritated.

You’ll go mad.

Doesn’t he know it.

He makes another cup. Then he stares at it for a long few seconds, and pours it out.

He’s not quite sure how she takes it.

#ask #prompt #the magnus archives #tim stoker #notsasha #i know this isn't quite in the spirit of the notthem #but i do like the idea of cracks around the edges

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

Text

One of the section leaders for my computer-science class, Hamza El Boudali, believes that President Joe Biden should be killed. “I’m not calling for a civilian to do it, but I think a military should,” the 23-year-old Stanford University student told a small group of protesters last month. “I’d be happy if Biden was dead.” He thinks that Stanford is complicit in what he calls the genocide of Palestinians, and that Biden is not only complicit but responsible for it. “I’m not calling for a vigilante to do it,” he later clarified, “but I’m saying he is guilty of mass murder and should be treated in the same way that a terrorist with darker skin would be (and we all know terrorists with dark skin are typically bombed and drone striked by American planes).” El Boudali has also said that he believes that Hamas’s October 7 attack was a justifiable act of resistance, and that he would actually prefer Hamas rule America in place of its current government (though he clarified later that he “doesn’t mean Hamas is perfect”). When you ask him what his cause is, he answers: “Peace.”

I switched to a different computer-science section.

Israel is 7,500 miles away from Stanford’s campus, where I am a sophomore. But the Hamas invasion and the Israeli counterinvasion have fractured my university, a place typically less focused on geopolitics than on venture-capital funding for the latest dorm-based tech start-up. Few students would call for Biden’s head—I think—but many of the same young people who say they want peace in Gaza don’t seem to realize that they are in fact advocating for violence. Extremism has swept through classrooms and dorms, and it is becoming normal for students to be harassed and intimidated for their faith, heritage, or appearance—they have been called perpetrators of genocide for wearing kippahs, and accused of supporting terrorism for wearing keffiyehs. The extremism and anti-Semitism at Ivy League universities on the East Coast have attracted so much media and congressional attention that two Ivy presidents have lost their jobs. But few people seem to have noticed the culture war that has taken over our California campus.

For four months, two rival groups of protesters, separated by a narrow bike path, faced off on Stanford’s palm-covered grounds. The “Sit-In to Stop Genocide” encampment was erected by students in mid-October, even before Israeli troops had crossed into Gaza, to demand that the university divest from Israel and condemn its behavior. Posters were hung equating Hamas with Ukraine and Nelson Mandela. Across from the sit-in, a rival group of pro-Israel students eventually set up the “Blue and White Tent” to provide, as one activist put it, a “safe space” to “be a proud Jew on campus.” Soon it became the center of its own cluster of tents, with photos of Hamas’s victims sitting opposite the rubble-ridden images of Gaza and a long (and incomplete) list of the names of slain Palestinians displayed by the students at the sit-in.

Some days the dueling encampments would host only a few people each, but on a sunny weekday afternoon, there could be dozens. Most of the time, the groups tolerated each other. But not always. Students on both sides were reportedly spit on and yelled at, and had their belongings destroyed. (The perpetrators in many cases seemed to be adults who weren’t affiliated with Stanford, a security guard told me.) The university put in place round-the-clock security, but when something actually happened, no one quite knew what to do.

Stanford has a policy barring overnight camping, but for months didn’t enforce it, “out of a desire to support the peaceful expression of free speech in the ways that students choose to exercise that expression”—and, the administration told alumni, because the university feared that confronting the students would only make the conflict worse. When the school finally said the tents had to go last month, enormous protests against the university administration, and against Israel, followed.

“We don’t want no two states! We want all of ’48!” students chanted, a slogan advocating that Israel be dismantled and replaced by a single Arab nation. Palestinian flags flew alongside bright “Welcome!” banners left over from new-student orientation. A young woman gave a speech that seemed to capture the sense of urgency and power that so many students here feel. “We are Stanford University!” she shouted. “We control things!”

“We’ve had protests in the past,” Richard Saller, the university’s interim president, told me in November—about the environment, and apartheid, and Vietnam. But they didn’t pit “students against each other” the way that this conflict has.

I’ve spoken with Saller, a scholar of Roman history, a few times over the past six months in my capacity as a student journalist. We first met in September, a few weeks into his tenure. His predecessor, Marc Tessier-Lavigne, had resigned as president after my reporting for The Stanford Daily exposed misconduct in his academic research. (Tessier-Lavigne had failed to retract papers with faked data over the course of 20 years. In his resignation statement, he denied allegations of fraud and misconduct; a Stanford investigation determined that he had not personally manipulated data or ordered any manipulation but that he had repeatedly “failed to decisively and forthrightly correct mistakes” from his lab.)

In that first conversation, Saller told me that everyone was “eager to move on” from the Tessier-Lavigne scandal. He was cheerful and upbeat. He knew he wasn’t staying in the job long; he hadn’t even bothered to move into the recently vacated presidential manor. In any case, campus, at that time, was serene. Then, a week later, came October 7.

The attack was as clear a litmus test as one could imagine for the Middle East conflict. Hamas insurgents raided homes and a music festival with the goal of slaughtering as many civilians as possible. Some victims were raped and mutilated, several independent investigations found. Hundreds of hostages were taken into Gaza and many have been tortured.

This, of course, was bad. Saying this was bad does not negate or marginalize the abuses and suffering Palestinians have experienced in Gaza and elsewhere. Everyone, of every ideology, should be able to say that this was bad. But much of this campus failed that simple test.

Two days after the deadliest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust, Stanford released milquetoast statements marking the “moment of intense emotion” and declaring “deep concern” over “the crisis in Israel and Palestine.” The official statements did not use the words Hamas or violence.

The absence of a clear institutional response led some teachers to take matters into their own hands. During a mandatory freshman seminar on October 10, a lecturer named Ameer Loggins tossed out his lesson plan to tell students that the actions of the Palestinian “military force” had been justified, that Israelis were colonizers, and that the Holocaust had been overemphasized, according to interviews I conducted with students in the class. Loggins then asked the Jewish students to identify themselves. He instructed one of them to “stand up, face the window, and he kind of kicked away his chair,” a witness told me. Loggins described this as an effort to demonstrate Israel’s treatment of Palestinians. (Loggins did not reply to a request for comment; a spokesperson for Stanford said that there were “different recollections of the details regarding what happened” in the class.)

“We’re only in our third week of college, and we’re afraid to be here,” three students in the class wrote in an email that night to administrators. “This isn’t what Stanford was supposed to be.” The class Loggins taught is called COLLEGE, short for “Civic, Liberal, and Global Education,” and it is billed as an effort to develop “the skills that empower and enable us to live together.”

Loggins was suspended from teaching duties and an investigation was opened; this angered pro-Palestine activists, who organized a petition that garnered more than 1,700 signatures contesting the suspension. A pamphlet from the petitioners argued that Loggins’s behavior had not been out of bounds.

The day after the class, Stanford put out a statement written by Saller and Jenny Martinez, the university provost, more forcefully condemning the Hamas attack. Immediately, this new statement generated backlash.

Pro-Palestine activists complained about it during an event held the same day, the first of several “teach-ins” about the conflict. Students gathered in one of Stanford’s dorms to “bear witness to the struggles of decolonization.” The grievances and pain shared by Palestinian students were real. They told of discrimination and violence, of frightened family members subjected to harsh conditions. But the most raucous reaction from the crowd was in response to a young woman who said, “You ask us, do we condemn Hamas? Fuck you!” She added that she was “so proud of my resistance.”

David Palumbo-Liu, a professor of comparative literature with a focus on postcolonial studies, also spoke at the teach-in, explaining to the crowd that “European settlers” had come to “replace” Palestine’s “native population.”

Palumbo-Liu is known as an intelligent and supportive professor, and is popular among students, who call him by his initials, DPL. I wanted to ask him about his involvement in the teach-in, so we met one day in a café a few hundred feet away from the tents. I asked if he could elaborate on what he’d said at the event about Palestine’s native population. He was happy to expand: This was “one of those discussions that could go on forever. Like, who is actually native? At what point does nativism lapse, right? Well, you haven’t been native for X number of years, so …” In the end, he said, “you have two people who both feel they have a claim to the land,” and “they have to live together. Both sides have to cede something.”

The struggle at Stanford, he told me, “is to find a way in which open discussions can be had that allow people to disagree.” It’s true that Stanford has utterly failed in its efforts to encourage productive dialogue. But I still found it hard to reconcile DPL’s words with his public statements on Israel, which he’d recently said on Facebook should be “the most hated nation in the world.” He also wrote: “When Zionists say they don’t feel ‘safe’ on campus, I’ve come to see that as they no longer feel immune to criticism of Israel.” He continued: “Well as the saying goes, get used to it.”

Zionists, and indeed Jewish students of all political beliefs, have been given good reason to fear for their safety. They’ve been followed, harassed, and called derogatory racial epithets. At least one was told he was a “dirty Jew.” At least twice, mezuzahs have been ripped from students’ doors, and swastikas have been drawn in dorms. Arab and Muslim students also face alarming threats. The computer-science section leader, El Boudali, a pro-Palestine activist, told me he felt “safe personally,” but knew others who did not: “Some people have reported feeling like they’re followed, especially women who wear the hijab.”

In a remarkably short period of time, aggression and abuse have become commonplace, an accepted part of campus activism. In January, Jewish students organized an event dedicated to ameliorating anti-Semitism. It marked one of Saller’s first public appearances in the new year. Its topic seemed uncontroversial, and I thought it would generate little backlash.

Protests began before the panel discussion even started, with activists lining the stairs leading to the auditorium. During the event they drowned out the panelists, one of whom was Israel’s special envoy for combating anti-Semitism, by demanding a cease-fire. After participants began cycling out into the dark, things got ugly.

Activists, their faces covered by keffiyehs or medical masks, confronted attendees. “Go back to Brooklyn!” a young woman shouted at Jewish students. One protester, who emerged as the leader of the group, said that she and her compatriots would “take all of your places and ensure Israel falls.” She told attendees to get “off our fucking campus” and launched into conspiracy theories about Jews being involved in “child trafficking.” As a rabbi tried to leave the event, protesters pursued him, chanting, “There is only one solution! Intifada revolution!”

At one point, some members of the group turned on a few Stanford employees, including another rabbi, an imam, and a chaplain, telling them, “We know your names and we know where you work.” The ringleader added: “And we’ll soon find out where you live.” The religious leaders formed a protective barrier in front of the Jewish students. The rabbi and the imam appeared to be crying.

Saller avoided the protest by leaving through another door. Early that morning, his private residence had been vandalized. Protesters frequently tell him he “can’t hide” and shout him down. “We charge you with genocide!” they chant, demanding that Stanford divest from Israel. (When asked whether Stanford actually invested in Israel, a spokesperson replied that, beyond small exposures from passive funds that track indexes such as the S&P 500, the university’s endowment “has no direct holdings in Israeli companies, or direct holdings in defense contractors.”)

When the university finally said the protest tents had to be removed, students responded by accusing Saller of suppressing their right to free speech. This is probably the last charge he expected to face. Saller once served as provost at the University of Chicago, which is known for holding itself to a position of strict institutional neutrality so that its students can freely explore ideas for themselves. Saller has a lifelong belief in First Amendment rights. But that conviction in impartial college governance does not align with Stanford’s behavior in recent years. Despite the fact that many students seemed largely uninterested in the headlines before this year, Stanford’s administrative leadership has often taken positions on political issues and events, such as the Paris climate conference and the murder of George Floyd. After Russia invaded Ukraine, Stanford’s Hoover Tower was lit up in blue and yellow, and the school released a statement in solidarity.

When we first met, a week before October 7, I asked Saller about this. Did Stanford have a moral duty to denounce the war in Ukraine, for example, or the ethnic cleansing of Uyghur Muslims in China? “On international political issues, no,” he said. “That’s not a responsibility for the university as a whole, as an institution.”

But when Saller tried to apply his convictions on neutrality for the first time as president, dozens of faculty members condemned the response, many pro-Israel alumni were outraged, donors had private discussions about pulling funding, and an Israeli university sent an open letter to Saller and Martinez saying, “Stanford’s administration has failed us.” The initial statement had tried to make clear that the school’s policy was not Israel-specific: It noted that the university would not take a position on the turmoil in Nagorno-Karabakh (where Armenians are undergoing ethnic cleansing) either. But the message didn’t get through.

Saller had to beat an awkward retreat or risk the exact sort of public humiliation that he, as caretaker president, had presumably been hired to avoid. He came up with a compromise that landed somewhere in the middle: an unequivocal condemnation of Hamas’s “intolerable atrocities” paired with a statement making clear that Stanford would commit to institutional neutrality going forward.

“The events in Israel and Gaza this week have affected and engaged large numbers of students on our campus in ways that many other events have not,” the statement read. “This is why we feel compelled to both address the impact of these events on our campus and to explain why our general policy of not issuing statements about news events not directly connected to campus has limited the breadth of our comments thus far, and why you should not expect frequent commentary from us in the future.”

I asked Saller why he had changed tack on Israel and not on Nagorno-Karabakh. “We don’t feel as if we should be making statements on every war crime and atrocity,” he told me. This felt like a statement in and of itself.

In making such decisions, Saller works closely with Martinez, Stanford’s provost. I happened to interview her, too, a few days before October 7, not long after she’d been appointed. When I asked about her hopes for the job, she said that a “priority is ensuring an environment in which free speech and academic freedom are preserved.”

We talked about the so-called Leonard Law—a provision unique to California that requires private universities to be governed by the same First Amendment protections as public ones. This restricts what Stanford can do in terms of penalizing speech, putting it in a stricter bind than Harvard, the University of Pennsylvania, or any of the other elite private institutions that have more latitude to set the standards for their campus (whether or not they have done so).

So I was surprised when, in December, the university announced that abstract calls for genocide “clearly violate Stanford’s Fundamental Standard, the code of conduct for all students at the university.” The statement was a response to the outrage following the congressional testimony of three university presidents—outrage that eventually led to the resignation of two of them, Harvard’s Claudine Gay and Penn’s Liz Magill. Gay and Magill, who had both previously held positions at Stanford, did not commit to punishing calls for the genocide of Jews.

Experts told me that Stanford’s policy is impossible to enforce—and Saller himself acknowledged as much in our March interview.

“Liz Magill is a good friend,” Saller told me, adding, “Having watched what happened at Harvard and Penn, it seemed prudent” to publicly state that Stanford rejected calls for genocide. But saying that those calls violate the code of conduct “is not the same thing as to say that we could actually punish it.”

Stanford’s leaders seem to be trying their best while adapting to the situation in real time. But the muddled messaging has created a policy of neutrality that does not feel neutral at all.

When we met back in November, I tried to get Saller to open up about his experience running an institution in turmoil. What’s it like to know that so many students seem to believe that he—a mild-mannered 71-year-old classicist who swing-dances with his anthropologist wife—is a warmonger? Saller was more candid than I expected—perhaps more candid than any prominent university president has been yet. We sat in the same conference room as we had in September. The weather hadn’t really changed. Yet I felt like I was sitting in front of a different person. He was hunched over and looked exhausted, and his voice broke when he talked about the loss of life in Gaza and Israel and “the fact that we’re caught up in it.” A capable administrator with decades of experience, Saller seemed almost at a loss. “It’s been a kind of roller coaster, to be honest.”

He said he hadn’t anticipated the deluge of the emails “blaming me for lack of moral courage.” Anything the university says seems bound to be wrong: “If I say that our position is that we grieve over the loss of innocent lives, that in itself will draw some hostile reactions.”

“I find that really difficult to navigate,” he said with a sigh.

By March, it seemed that his views had solidified. He said he knew he was “a target,” but he was not going to be pushed into issuing any more statements. The continuing crisis seems to have granted him new insight. “I am certain that whatever I say will not have any material effect on the war in Gaza.” It’s hard to argue with that.

People tend to blame the campus wars on two villains: dithering administrators and radical student activists. But colleges have always had dithering administrators and radical student activists. To my mind, it’s the average students who have changed.

Elite universities attract a certain kind of student: the overachieving striver who has won all the right accolades for all the right activities. Is it such a surprise that the kids who are trained in the constant pursuit of perfect scores think they have to look at the world like a series of multiple-choice questions, with clearly right or wrong answers? Or that they think they can gamify a political cause in the same way they ace a standardized test?

Everyone knows that the only reliable way to get into a school like Stanford is to be really good at looking really good. Now that they’re here, students know that one easy way to keep looking good is to side with the majority of protesters, and condemn Israel.

It’s not that there isn’t real anger and anxiety over what is happening in Gaza—there is, and justifiably so. I know that among the protesters are many people who are deeply connected to this issue. But they are not the majority. What really activates the crowds now seems less a principled devotion to Palestine or to pacifism than a desire for collective action, to fit in by embracing the fashionable cause of the moment—as if a centuries-old conflict in which both sides have stolen and killed could ever be a simple matter of right and wrong. In their haste to exhibit moral righteousness, many of the least informed protesters end up being the loudest and most uncompromising.

Today’s students grew up in the Trump era, in which violent rhetoric has become a normal part of political discourse and activism is as easy as reposting an infographic. Many young people have come to feel that being angry is enough to foment change. Furious at the world’s injustices and desperate for a simple way to express that fury, they don’t seem interested in any form of engagement more nuanced than backing a pure protagonist and denouncing an evil enemy. They don’t, always, seem that concerned with the truth.

At the protest last month to prevent the removal of the sit-in, an activist in a pink Women’s March “pussy hat” shouted that no rape was committed by Hamas on October 7. “There hasn’t been proof of these rape accusations,” a student told me in a separate conversation, criticizing the Blue and White Tent for spreading what he considered to be misinformation about sexual violence. (In March, a United Nations report found “reasonable grounds to believe that conflict-related sexual violence,” including “rape and gang rape,” occurred in multiple locations on October 7, as well as “clear and convincing information” on the “rape and sexualized torture” of hostages.) “The level of propaganda” surrounding Hamas, he told me, “is just unbelievable.”

The real story at Stanford is not about the malicious actors who endorse sexual assault and murder as forms of resistance, but about those who passively enable them because they believe their side can do no wrong. You don’t have to understand what you’re arguing for in order to argue for it. You don’t have to be able to name the river or the sea under discussion to chant “From the river to the sea.” This kind of obliviousness explains how one of my friends, a gay activist, can justify Hamas’s actions, even though it would have the two of us—an outspoken queer person and a Jewish reporter—killed in a heartbeat. A similar mentality can exist on the other side: I have heard students insist on the absolute righteousness of Israel yet seem uninterested in learning anything about what life is like in Gaza.

I’m familiar with the pull of achievement culture—after all, I’m a product of the same system. I fell in love with Stanford as a 7-year-old, lying on the floor of an East Coast library and picturing all the cool technology those West Coast geniuses were dreaming up. I cried when I was accepted; I spent the next few months scrolling through the course catalog, giddy with anticipation. I wanted to learn everything.

I learned more than I expected. Within my first week here, someone asked me: “Why are all Jews so rich?” In 2016, when Stanford’s undergraduate senate had debated a resolution against anti-Semitism, one of its members argued that the idea of “Jews controlling the media, economy, government, and other societal institutions” represented “a very valid discussion.” (He apologized, and the resolution passed.) In my dorm last year, a student discussed being Jewish and awoke the next day to swastikas and a portrait of Hitler affixed to his door.

I grew up secularly, with no strong affiliation to Jewish culture. When I found out as a teenager that some of my ancestors had hidden their identity from their children and that dozens of my relatives had died in the Holocaust (something no living member of my family had known), I felt the barest tremor of identity. After I saw so many people I know cheering after October 7, I felt something stronger stir. I know others have experienced something similar. Even a professor texted me to say that she felt Jewish in a way she never had before.

But my frustration with the conflict on campus has little to do with my own identity. Across the many conversations and hours of formal interviews I conducted for this article, I’ve encountered a persistent anti-intellectual streak. I’ve watched many of my classmates treat death so cavalierly that they can protest as a pregame to a party. Indeed, two parties at Stanford were reported to the university this fall for allegedly making people say “Fuck Israel” or “Free Palestine” to get in the door. A spokesperson for the university said it was “unable to confirm the facts of what occurred,” but that it had “met with students involved in both parties to make clear that Stanford’s nondiscrimination policy applies to parties.” As a friend emailed me not long ago: “A place that was supposed to be a sanctuary from such unreason has become a factory for it.”

Readers may be tempted to discount the conduct displayed at Stanford. After all, the thinking goes, these are privileged kids doing what they always do: embracing faux-radicalism in college before taking jobs in fintech or consulting. These students, some might say, aren’t representative of America.

And yet they are representative of something: of the conduct many of the most accomplished students in my generation have accepted as tolerable, and what that means for the future of our country. I admire activism. We need people willing to protest what they see as wrong and take on entrenched systems of repression. But we also need to read, learn, discuss, accept the existence of nuance, embrace diversity of thought, and hold our own allies to high standards. More than ever, we need universities to teach young people how to do all of this.

For so long, Stanford’s physical standoff seemed intractable. Then, in early February, a storm swept in, and the natural world dictated its own conclusion.

Heavy rains flooded campus. For hours, the students battled to save their tents. The sit-in activists used sandbags and anything else they could find to hold back the water—at one point, David Palumbo-Liu, the professor, told me he stood in the lashing downpour to anchor one of the sit-in’s tents with his own body. When the storm hit, many of the Jewish activists had been attending a discussion on anti-Semitism. They raced back and struggled to salvage the Blue and White Tent, but it was too late—the wind had ripped it out of the ground.

The next day, the weary Jewish protesters returned to discover that their space had been taken.

A new collection of tents had been set up by El Boudali, the pro-Palestine activist, and a dozen friends. He said they were there to protest Islamophobia and to teach about Islam and jihad, and that they were a separate entity from the Sit-In to Stop Genocide, though I observed students cycling between the tents. Palestinian flags now flew from the bookstore to the quad.

Administrators told me they’d quickly informed El Boudali and his allies that the space had been reserved by the Jewish advocates, and offered to help move them to a different location. But the protesters told me they had no intention of going. (El Boudali later said that they did not take over the entire space, and would have been “happy to exist side by side, but they wanted to kick us off entirely from that lawn.”)

When it was clear that the area where they’d set up their tents would not be ceded back to the pro-Israel group willingly, Stanford changed course and decided to clear everyone out in one fell swoop. On February 8, school officials ordered all students to vacate the plaza overnight. The university was finally going to enforce its rule prohibiting people from sleeping outside on campus and requiring the removal of belongings from the plaza between 8 p.m. and 8 a.m. The order cited the danger posed by the storm as a justification for changing course and, probably hoping to avoid allegations of bias, described the decision as “viewpoint-neutral.”

That didn’t work.

About a week of protests, led by the sit-in organizers, followed. Chants were chanted. More demands for a “river to the sea” solution to the Israel problem were made. A friend boasted to me about her willingness to be arrested. Stanford sent a handful of staff members, who stood near balloons left over from an event earlier in the day. They were there, one of them told me, to “make students feel supported and safe.”

In the end, Saller and Martinez agreed to talk with the leaders of the sit-in about their demands to divest the university and condemn Israel, under the proviso that the activists comply with Stanford’s anti-camping guidelines “regardless of the outcome of discussions.” Eight days after they were first instructed to leave, 120 days after setting up camp, the sit-in protesters slept in their own beds. In defiance of the university’s instructions, they left behind their tents. But sometime in the very early hours of the morning, law-enforcement officers confiscated the structures. The area was cordoned off without any violence and the plaza filled once more with electric skateboards and farmers’ markets.

The conflict continues in its own way. Saller was just shouted down by protesters chanting “No peace on stolen land” at a Family Weekend event, and protesters later displayed an effigy of him covered in blood. Students still feel tense; Saller still seems worried. He told me that the university is planning to change all manner of things—residential-assistant training, new-student orientation, even the acceptance letters that students receive—in hopes of fostering a culture of greater tolerance. But no campus edict or panel discussion can address a problem that is so much bigger than our university.

At one rally last fall, a speaker expressed disillusionment about the power of “peaceful resistance” on college campuses. “What is there left to do but to take up arms?” The crowd cheered as he said Israel must be destroyed. But what would happen to its citizens? I’d prefer to believe that most protesters chanting “Palestine is Arab” and shouting that we must “smash the Zionist settler state” don’t actually think Jews should be killed en masse. But can one truly be so ignorant as to advocate widespread violence in the name of peace?

When the world is rendered in black-and-white—portrayed as a simple fight between colonizer and colonized—the answer is yes. Solutions, by this logic, are absolute: Israel or Palestine, nothing in between. Either you support liberation of the oppressed or you support genocide. Either Stanford is all good or all bad; all in favor of free speech or all authoritarian; all anti-Semitic or all Islamophobic.

At January’s anti-anti-Semitism event, I watched an exchange between a Jewish attendee and a protester from a few feet away. “Are you pro-Palestine?” the protester asked.

“Yes,” the attendee responded, and he went on to describe his disgust with the human-rights abuses Palestinians have faced for years.

“But are you a Zionist?”

“Yes.”

“Then we are enemies.”

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