#some of these i. do not like having a visual for

[heesmiles]

OPERATION: HOW NOT TO GET THE GIRL L.HS

SYNOPSIS ⦂ You've never fit in. That much was true. Always feeling like the odd one out in your friend group. But when you're told to your face, well everything becomes more clear. Suddenly, every sidelong glance, every pity laugh, every party invitation that felt like a mistake, makes a little more sense. But it still stings. Especially when it comes to Soobin; sweet, soft-spoken, out-of-your-league Soobin, who doesn’t even know you exist beyond the orbit of your prettier friends. Enter Heeseung: campus golden boy, effortlessly charming, dangerously smug. He’s the type of guy who knows exactly how attractive he is — and how to use it. When he overhears your predicament (okay, maybe you yell about it a little too loudly in the hallway), he makes you an offer: he’ll help you reinvent yourself, rewrite your story, and finally get Soobin’s attention. In exchange? You’ll tutor him through senior lit, a class he's on the verge of flunking. You agree, of course. What could possibly go wrong?

PAIRINGS: heeseung x fem!reader

WARNINGS: smut mdni, virginity loss, jealousy, alcohol use, mean girls, talk of toxic beauty standards, college setting, ft Dani (katseye), Sakura (le sserafim), Soobin (txt), jay, sunghoon, jake, beomgyu (txt), wonyoung (ive), angst, slight miscommunication + more i’m probably forgetting.

WORD COUNT: 28K

RAIN'S MIC IS ON ࿐ haiii this is based on the movie "the duff" i wanted to give this a fun and very like early 2000s rom-comy vibes!! I do want to note especially that i do not support the toxic mindset that makeup and no glasses and dressing slutty automatically makes you more visually appealing, i think that's a mindset we should be letting go of but for the sake of fiction, it will be playing a part in this. Just a reminder that everyone is beautiful no matter what you wear or what you look like. Wear makeup if you want, or don't. Glasses do not equal ugly and nerdy. Also in this, i shortened “DUFF” to “DUF” because even in fiction i don’t feel comfortable saying “fat” so in my version it just means “designated ugly friend” which is still eh, but again for the sake of fiction it will have to do, Please remember those standards are out dated. Love you all hope you have fun with this like i did (: thank you so much to my love @yeonmuse for helping make the banner, she’s so talented check her out guys.

You’re not sure why you came. 

The music pulses like a second heartbeat as you linger in the doorway of the house, the bass reverberating through your ribcage. Inside, it’s packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in a chaotic kind of harmony, shoulders brushing, drinks sloshing, laughter climbing over music like ivy. You follow the familiar trail of your best friends, Dani and Sakura, as they dive headfirst into the party’s epicenter. They're already laughing with someone, effortlessly folding themselves into a circle of golden-lit conversation. You’re left in the doorway like static caught on the edge of a signal, half-there, mostly invisible. You try to speak, to jump into the flow, but your voice is swallowed by the noise.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look��� kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn��t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

(♬) - @beomiracles @biteyoubiteme @hyukascampfire @dawngyu @izzyy-stuff @1-800-jewon @xylatox @firstclassjaylee @teddybeartaetae @hoonjayke @princesstiti14 @seokjinthescientist @lillotus17 @yeonmuse @hoonieyun @s1rawb3rry

[deadexclamationpoint]

As promised, thoughts on the old black parade costumes vs the new!

Disclaimer that I don't know anything about costuming, but we're gonna push on anyways! I also am taking a lot of observations from a post I made years ago analyzing the original black parade jackets. It doesn't have a ton of notes but if some phrasing etc seems familiar, that may be why!

Also, keep in mind that when I'm talking about the first set of jackets, I'm talking about the ones seen in the music videos and only occasionally worn on stage. They had a set of jackets that were only worn for performing, but I'm not going to reference those because everyone's looked the same.

Reference picture!

(There are no good group pics from last night and I'm at the 10 picture limit so we're gonna have to make do with this. Just scroll down if you wanna refresh on the new individual looks)

Let's start with the band as a whole: the first thing I noticed last night is that now the jackets are less visually distinct from each other. Gerard and Frank's jackets now have basically the same cut, as do Mikey and Ray's. The first set of jackets varied in cut, ribbons, buttons, construction, ornamentation, etc, and the second set are just not that individualized. I might be imagining it but they also don't look as well made and tailored? The first set of jackets look pretty sharp even in stage candids, and these just don't look as nice imo. The impression I get from this is that DRAAG made them new jackets that were more uniform and shittier, a knock-off of the original looks that better suit their vision but lack what made the originals special.

There's also more of a gold tone to the metallics, which goes nicely with the wheat patterning on Gerard's uniform in particular. It's just less goth, isn't it? It's less morbid than cold silver and black, and looks more befitting of a regime trying to showcase it's granduer. The red plays into this as well, while also somehow bringing us back around to morbid, with red stripes around their necks and wrists. There's something visceral about it.

That being said, let's get into the individual looks:

Gerard

(Sorry, the best reference pics I could find for the old jackets were these posters with the heads cut off)

Gerard's old jacket was a beautiful mix of masc and femme elements, combining with his pixie cut to make something really nicely androgynous. In particular, the ribbons across the front start really wide across the shoulders and get more narrow as they go down the length of his torso, giving him the contrast of broad shoulders to a small waist. And of course, there's the corseted back.

The new jacket gets rid of these more femme elements. Gerard has some signifiers of leadership, with his fancy shoulder tabs and braid and patterned ribbon, but it's no longer a terribly androgynous look :( That had to go because, as @milfygerard said, fascism cannot accept femininity in it's icons (thank you for kicking off this whole discussion with your observations!).

Mikey

Mikey's original look was kind of brilliant. His jacket was the most "military" looking, and it wouldn't surprise me if they started with the idea of the medal and built the rest of the look around it. With how skinny he is, dressing Mikey in something so solidly structured gives him more presence, helping him look more like a soldier and less like a dead Victorian waif.

His current look isn't terribly different, but I do miss the buttons on the cuffs :( The truly egregious thing is the medal - it's much smaller, and on the other side. I don't know if that has any military meaning, but it does mean that it's obscured by his bass or the strap a lot of the time. So disrespectful! Perhaps DRAAG doesn't think much of his sacrifice.

Frank

Frank's original look set him apart as the scrappy punk one - it's the least traditional, the patterning on the ribbons makes them look kind of tarnished in most lighting, and he has no shoulder tabs. That in particular is funny to me, because those are for holding tassels and braids that would signify rank or achievement. Apparently, you couldn't bestow that upon him if you tried. Compared to all that, his new look is so NORMAL. It's just a normal-ass jacket with some stripes on the sleeves. Fewer of them, even. They cleaned him up and put him in line with the others.

Ray

Ray. Ray's jacket. This is a travesty. Ray's original jacket was the pretty and fancy one. It was the least "military," with all those curved lines, and the little loopy details around the buttons. The tailoring was wild, his waist looked tiny and his legs looked really long, helped by how high the jacket was cut. This was honestly also kind of a femme look. And NONE OF THAT is retained in the new jacket!!! It's the same cut as Mikey's now, so neither of them stand out as much in that respect. In fact, considering the sash and belt, it looks like Ray can stand out, but only in a way that suggests rank. He looks like a military officer, like he's Gerard's second-in-command. It's still fancy, but it's not pretty. Heaven forbid they just let him be pretty 🙄.

In conclusion, the new black parade looks suffer for being twisted to fit DRAAG's image of how a national band should present themselves, with a particular emphasis on encouraging conformity. And it sucks.

[a99jazzybean]

HELLOOO

i don't recall if i've popped a req in here , so disregard if i already have requested something from you

but i was thinking about your chance fic 'with a taste of your lips' and i was thinking ,,,

could we get a chance x gn!reader who has an oral fixation ? not even a sexual oral fixation , just likes to keep their mouth occupied a lot (chewing on things, rubbing things against their lips, etc) .

maybe the reader has a habit of rubbing whatever is in their hand against their lips , and this time just so happens to be chance's d20

just a little thought 🤭🤭

bonus; here's a silly <3

Love this idea! Thank you for the request! And the art is absolutely adorable!

I did add a bit that was inspired by this drabble from @juicyasstender that was inspired by With a Taste of Your Lips... Inspiration inception!

Just a Taste

synop: You have to keep your mouth occupied and find the closest object is your D20. When Chance abruptly leaves the room, you discover that he can feel what you do to his die body. With this newfound information, you decided to have some fun...

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexgn!reader, masturbation, fondling objects, thigh fucking, orgasm denial, dom!chance, reader has a "hole" and "sex"

a/n: Guys, I love this concept that the objects can feel when you interact with their object form! Also, this is smutty. No minors!

“Stop biting your nails, you’re gonna get yourself sick.” Your mother snatched your hand from your mouth. 

“I can’t help it!” You whined.

It was true, you had a natural inclination to put whatever was in your hands to your mouth. Which in this case, happened to be your actual hand. When your mother released it back to you, you looked over your nails. Bitten down, almost bleeding. Even in your little childhood brain you knew this was likely a problem. 

“I suppose we can try and find something to help.” Your mother sighed.

This issue probably came from your father, who also had issues with keeping things out of his mouth. Especially his fingers. 

“How about gum, hmm?” She eyed the stand over the grocery store conveyor belt. “You’re old enough to have that, right?” She looked down at you.

You shrugged, pretty sure you had tried it once before. 

“Yeah, you’re old enough.” She snatched a pack of bubblegum, adding it to the rest of the groceries. 

When you exited the store, she handed you a piece. You popped it into your mouth and began chewing, finding the sensation quite satisfying. Thus, you had found at least one way to curb the need to comply with your oral fixation. 

Almost two decades later, you sit at your home office. Back to old bad habits, fingers in your mouth. You had been forgetting to purchase gum with your groceries ever since you couldn’t leave the house. Seeing the stand at the checkout was always a visual reminder, one you no longer had to aid you. For now, you found yourself chewing at your nails, or fidgeting with a nearby object on your lips. The latter happened to be less dangerous to your unsuspecting fingers. 

“You know, you’re gonna get sick if you keep doing that.” Mac sat in front of you as you typed away at their keyboard. 

“You sound like my mom.” You said, pulling out your thumb and inspecting it. A ragged tip of your nail greeted you, the skin around it red. “Though, you’re probably right.” 

“Phoenicia, could you add spearmint gum to the grocery list for the weekend?” You asked your phone. 

“You got it!” She cheerily spoke, putting the item on your list. 

While you wouldn’t have your oral aid for a few days, at least you remembered to add it this time. 

For now, you would have to find something else to keep your mouth occupied. From your peripheral, you spotted your lucky D20. The object had witnessed its fair share of days dancing upon your lips. Occasionally receiving a nibble. 

Shrugging your shoulders, you picked it up. Returning to your work on your computer you brought the die to your lips. Unaware of what exactly you were doing. 

From the end of your desk, Chance sucked in a groan. Feeling your lips ghost over various parts of his body. Eyes narrowing, he sent a glare to Mac. Of course they had to point out your habit. Leading you to unconsciously teasing him. 

Ever the people pleaser, Chance would never let you know how your actions affected him. He could only picture how embarrassed it would make you. Instead, he forced himself to suffer in silence. Watching as you brushed your lips over his die body, shivering with each touch. 

Looking to your side, you spotted Chance hunched over behind his GM screen. Peeking over, you saw him looking up at you with a red face.

“S-sorry!” You sputtered. “I swear I wasn’t trying to see what you were working on…” You obviously lied. 

“Mhmm, sure…” He held in a groan as you rubbed the die across your lips, feeling a kiss against his chest. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind during our next session. Your character is at what…” he glanced down at his notes, “17 hp?” He gave you a cheeky grin, glad that your discussion of G&G was distracting him from what you were doing to his body. 

“Whaaaat??” You shuffled around your desk, looking for your character sheet. “Ah shit.” 

There it was, “17/85 hp”. Ugh, you’d probably have to take healing potion if you were planning on not dying next session. 

“If you hope to keep your mortal soul, I suggest not looking over the screen.” He teased. 

Despite his mind’s attempts at pushing away the feelings moving though his body, you still were affecting the dice greatly. The red in his face growing darker and darker with each press of your lips to his body. 

You spotted his flustered state, concern on your face. 

“Is everything alright?” You turned back to him, die still pressed against your lips. 

His eyes darted to your mouth, then to your eyes. 

“Uh, yeah.” He choked out. 

This was beginning to become unbearable. Then, of course you just had to do it. That one habit of yours that had him going absolutely insane. With just the smallest amount of teeth, you nibbled on the 19 side. Chance let out an audible groan as he felt your teeth graze the sweet spot in the crook of his neck. 

“You sure you’re good?” You pulled the die from your mouth, setting it on the table. Reaching for Chance, you placed a hand on his forehead. His skin felt extremely hot to the touch. 

“I-I’m fine! Really!” He brushed your hand away. 

“Your head is really hot. You sure you’re not sick?” Worry, furrowed your brow. 

“Us objects can’t get sick, heh.” He brushed you off again.

“If you say so…” You left it at that, returning to concentrating on your computer. 

The die was back to your mouth. 

No, no, no, not that side! Chance practically melted into a puddle as your lips pressed to his seven side. Feeling a soft warmth press right against his rock-hard crotch. 

Suddenly, the man shot up. The red still burning against his cheeks. You and the other objects gave him a concerned look. 

“Ah, um, if you’ll excuse me!” As nonchalantly as possible, he cupped his hands over his crotch, then shuffled off into whatever space he lived in, one that you had yet to see. 

In his little home, Chance rubbed a hand down his face with a groan. How much more of this would he be able to take? Sure, he managed when you didn’t know of his living existence. He was easily able to run off and take care of himself. Now, with you being able to see him, it was significantly more difficult to hide. However, admitting what you do to him? Oh, he absolutely could not handle the embarrassment that would bring you. 

For now, he would have to manage it the only way he knew how: jacking off when you weren’t looking. 

Sitting down with thud, Chance cupped himself over his pants. Giving himself a tight squeeze, he let out a satisfied moan. Pulling down his pants and boxers, his hard cock flopped out against his stomach. Gripping himself tightly, he began to pump at his length. His thumb brushing over the underside of his reddened tip. 

As he ran his fist up and down he thought about you. About your lips on him. Ones that he could still feel right now. You pressed the six side to your mouth. A kiss pressed against his thigh, making him moan. Then you slid the die to the seven, making his cock jump. Fuck. Precum beaded at the tip of his cock as he felt your lips on him. 

The mixture of your mouth and his hand would have him cumming in no time. 

Then, there it was again, your teeth nibbling on the die. This time on the 12 down his chest. As you moved the die along your lips, you pressed against his lower stomach. 

With you no longer being around, Chance let himself be loud. Moaning and praising your actions as you made him near his climax. Each pump of his cock emphasized the feeling of your mouth on his body. 

A final press of your lips to the seven was his undoing. His balls tightening, then long strands of cum bursting out of him. Coating his hand with warmth as he continued to overstimulate himself with more pumps. 

“Ah, ah, fuck. You feel so fucking good.” He moaned out. If only you knew…

As you sat unaware in your office, Mac snickered knowingly. Turning away from where Chance had run off to, you gave them a confused look.

“What’s so funny?” You asked.

“Oh nothing…” They trailed, eyes dropping to the die at your lips. 

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Your eyes narrowed. “Spill.” 

“Aww, but you’re so fun to tease.” Mac leaned their hands on their knees, cocking their head playfully.

Narrowing your eyes further, the computer conceded with a sigh. 

“You know we can feel you interacting with the objects, right? It’s not like I’ve gushed over your double-clicking or anything…”

“Yeah, I thought that was obvious.” You said, unsure of where this was going. 

Mac coughed into their hand, motioning at the object pressed against your mouth. Eyes widening, you removed the die. Placing it down and lifting up your hands as if it were something extremely delicate. 

“You mean…” You sucked in a harsh breath, eyes wide. “He, he felt…”

“Everything.” Mac finished for you. 

“Oh. Oh no.” Your eyes were filled with horror at the realization. 

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about it.” Mac waved you off.

“Why shouldn't I worry? I’ve been mouthing at Chance without even knowing!” You groaned, making your head fall into your hands. 

“Why do you think he hasn’t told you?” Mac gave you a pointed look.

Peeking through your fingers, your eyes widened again. That’s right, he hadn’t ever told you. This wasn’t a habit of yours that just began, you had been doing it for years. Yet, Chance, not even once, had told you. 

“He likes it?” 

“I mean, all of us kinda do…” Mac trailed. “However, Chance has been one of the luckier ones you tend to play with.” 

“What am I supposed to do now that I know this?” You asked, voice cracking. 

Inside you were filled with a weird mixture of embarrassment and intrigue. On the one hand, you had literally been kissing and nibbling on Chance’s body this entire time. On the other hand, Chance had never said anything about it. Which could mean that he liked it, or he could be absolutely mortified about it. 

Thinking on it though, you remembered his state earlier. Red in the face and stuttering. It didn’t seem like the embarrassed kind. More like the flustered kind. Then there was the fact that he had run away. Run away while covering his crotch… Oh god… He liked it!

A lightbulb went off in your head, and a mischievous grin grew on your face. One that Mac caught. They quirked a brow, wondering where your head was at.

“Care to share your thoughts? You’re giving me that look you get when you come up with something new for a self-insert fic.” 

“Oh, I have some ideas…” You chuckled to yourself. 

Chance had always interested you. He was one of the very first items you came across when you first received the Dateviators. At first sight, you were pretty much smitten. The personified D20 charming you immediately. It didn’t help that he was quite the flirt, especially when he was in his GM mode. 

Having the knowledge that you were able to affect him in such a way, well that was a fun surprise to say the least. A surprise that you would be taking advantage of.

You glanced at the calendar on your computer, letting out an amused huff. In just two days, you would have your next session with Chance. A session that you will be enjoying greatly.

When Chance returned to the office, you had already left. While part of him was disappointed, another part of him let out a sigh of relief. He didn’t know if he could face you after what he had just done. Little did he know, you were about to make things worse for him. 

For the next two days you decided to make sure you were right about your suspicions regarding Chance. Continuing to play with his die by your lips whenever you were in the office. Testing out different ways to mess with your favorite D20. 

With each press of your lips to the die, you watched him out of your peripheral vision. Every time he felt your mouth on him, his face grew red and his breathing grew labored. He did his best to hold himself together, but found himself running off to take care of himself before things got too bad. If you continued to mouth him like that, he surely would cum in his pants. While his condition was certainly embarrassing, he could not be seen doing that. 

Every reaction you gained from him, you catalogued in your mind. Making sure you knew exactly what got him going. 

From your observations, you found that each side of his die resulted in a response from a different part of his body. You noted that the seven and eight elicited more intriguing results. 

Soon enough, the day of your next G&G session arrived. Across the table you sat with a smirk. Looking at you over his screen, Chance raised a questioning brow. 

“What are you looking so smug about?” He asked, fingers below his chin as he attempted to get a read on you.

“Oh nothing… I just know how I’m going to get my way this session.” You said, the smirk turning into a cheeky grin.

“Is that so?” 

“It very much is.” Your finger messed with his die on the table. 

You watched as he began to shuffle in his seat uncomfortably. Tracing around the six, you saw him shudder. The feeling of your finger stroking over his thigh, almost making him keen. He managed to hold himself back, a blush begging to bloom on his neck. 

“R-right, we’ll see about that.” He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Anyways, shall we begin?”

“We shall!” You gave him a soft smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. Instead, something else swirled in your irises. Something that had Chance shivering. 

He cleared his throat again, then cracked his knuckles. Surely he could make it through his session, right?

  Very quickly, you proved him wrong. The die brought to your lips as you concentrated on Chance’s storytelling. 

“So, you’re currently fighting against a group of undead skeletons and a necromancer in the kingdom’s cemetery. Right now you are 17 health. It is your turn to go…”

As you looked over your character sheet, you pressed your lips to the die. An action that could be seen as wholly innocent, though the intentional placement of your lips was most certainly not. The 10 slid over your bottom lip, making Chance feel a kiss upon his lower belly. The feeling made him visibly shiver. 

“Hmmm…” You moved the die to the six side. His thigh received the warm caress of your lips. “I think I’ll pop a healing potion for now.” You set the die down. 

When you released your hold on the die, you swore you heard him sigh. This was torture for him. Blissful, sexy torture, but torture nonetheless. 

“Okay, roll your two D4 please.” 

You rolled the dice, earning you five points of health back. When you finished your roll, Chance’s D20 returned to your mouth. The man let out a huff at the feeling. 

Looking at him, you caught his gaze. Pupils blown out, mouth slightly hung open as if he was trying to catch his breath. Just a dusting of red on his cheeks as he held himself back. Catching your gaze, Chance was taken aback. There was a knowing look in your eyes. 

He watched as his die moved over your lips. Then, your fingers twisted it around. The seven side now pressed to them. Keeping eye contact, you added more pressure. Kissing the die deliberately. 

Chance let out a soft grunt, doing his best not to moan out as you mouthed at the die equivalent of his dick. Then, you were mean. Tongue lightly flicking out against the number.

There it was in your eyes, that mischievous, knowing look. One that had a smirk written on your face as you toyed with the die. 

You knew! You fucking knew! 

As if your tongue wasn’t enough, you moved the die again. This time nibbling on the 19. You watched with amusement at Chance lifted his neck to the feeling of your teeth scraping along his throat. Then, you set the die back down.

“Y-you,” Chance caught his breath, “you regain five points of health back.” He croaked. 

“Awesome. I’d like to use my bonus action to prepare to dodge.” You said, that smirk still on your lips.

“Of course.” He did his best to regain his composure. 

It was now the enemies’ turn, in more ways than one it seemed. 

“One of the skeletons is going to attack you with its longswoooord, oh!” Your tongue was back on the seven. “It, it-” His face had gone bright red now.

“It what?” You pulled back the die, a small strand of saliva breaking away as you did so.

“It hits!” He gasped out as your tongue returned. 

Why was he continuing to let this go on? He knew, oh he knew why. This was only something he could dream of. You knowingly teasing him. However, he knew it would become unbearable if he didn’t do something about it. 

“You didn’t roll though, how did it hit?” You played coy with another cheeky grin. 

“It just does.” He said through gritted teeth, eyes narrowing as you returned to pressing the die against your lips. 

“Does it, now?” You nipped at the five, the feeling of your teeth hitting the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. 

“F-fuck. Yes it does!” He slammed his hands on the table, pushing himself up. 

As he lifted up, your eyes darted to the prominent bulge in his pants. The sight had your mouth watering. Oh, you could get used to this. Moving your gaze up, you shivered as you met Chance’s eyes. They were dark, filled with hunger. 

His hands gripped at the table harshly. Fingernails biting into the wood as he tried to keep himself composed. 

You didn’t stop messing with his die. Mouthing around various sides, just slightly avoiding the numbers that would stimulate his sex. A teasing smirk on your lips as you trailed the die along them. 

That darkness in his eyes grew as he let out an audible groan. How much more could he take before he snapped? By now he had to be close to his boiling point. With his shivering body and labored breathing, he would crack soon. 

Staring straight into his eyes, you flicked your tongue out on the seven. There it was, a spark of something even deeper in Chance’s eyes. Want. 

With what little composure he had, Chance marched over to you. Your eyes trailed to his chest as you watched him inhale and release harsh breaths. 

Giving him an innocent bat of your lashes, you looked up at him with a confused stare. Cocking your head to the side as you read the frustration on his face. 

“Is something wrong?” You asked sweetly, pressing the die to your lips. 

“Get up.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command. 

“Why should I?” You decided to tease, see how far you could really push him. 

“Because I’m not asking.” He placed a hand on the back of your chair, leaning his large frame over your body. 

“Maybe you should.” You kissed the six of the die. “It’s polite.” 

“Get up. Or I will make you.” 

Oh. Well that was certainly new. Something that you were very interested in. 

“As you wish.”

He moved away, letting you stand up. As soon as you were on your feet, the man walked you back. Pressing you against your office wall, making you let out a sharp gasp. 

“What’s this all about?” You cocked your head with a coy smile. 

“You and I know very well what ‘this’ is about.” He practically spat. 

He was now nose to nose with you. Hot breaths fanning your face as he pinned you to the wall. 

“What exactly am I supposed to ‘know’, Chance?”

The die in your hand returned to your lips. You gave it a little nip, watching with amusement as his eyes scrunched shut with a groan. Opening them, you were met with that deep look of want once more. It had you shivering. 

“Care if I show you?” He asked lowly. 

“Be my guest.” You feigned an air of confidence, but couldn’t help the slight waver in your voice. His dominating presence had you squirming. 

Slowly, he leaned towards you. Lips puckered to kiss you. Fluttering your eyes shut, you leaned in. Only a low chuckle met you. Instead, Chance’s head turned to kiss up your jaw and down your neck. The featherlight kisses had you letting out soft whines. 

When his mouth reached the crook of your neck, he gave you a soft bite. The feeling had you yelping, making Chance bite you again. This time, lightly scraping his teeth up your neck. 

When he pulled away, he appraised his work. Dark marks now forming around your pulse point and sweet spots along the column of your throat. His thumb lightly brushed over one of the bruises as he let out a satisfied huff. 

“Now, do you know what I’m talking about?” He leaned toward you with an amused hum. Loving the way you squirmed from his close proximity. 

But he couldn’t win that easily. 

“No, I don’t know.” You grinned at him, eyes sparkling teasingly. 

Gritting his teeth, he grabbed your wrist. Holding up the hand that held his die in front of your face. 

“Don’t try to play coy. I know you know.” 

“You still have yet to tell me what I ‘know’, exactly.” You teased. 

“Fine.” He let out a harsh breath. “I can play this game too, you know?” He released your hand. 

His own warm hands slid up your body. Softly caressing you. Leaning in, he whispered into your ear. 

“Tell me to stop, and I will. But if you want me to keep going…well…” He chuckled darkly. “You’ll see.” 

“I won’t stop you.” You cocked your head to the side giving him a challenging stare. 

With the dice in your hand you brought it to your lips, giving it a kiss on the seven side. You watched Chance shudder and groan at the feeling. 

Suddenly, your hand was pinned to the wall. 

“Do that again, see what happens.” He hissed through gritted teeth. 

With surprising strength, Chance flipped you around. Shoving your chest into the wall. From behind, you felt him press against your body. The outline of his hard cock pushed against your ass. 

“Do you feel what you do to me?” He breathed against your ear. “Do you know what it’s like?” He groaned, grinding himself against you. 

“Know what, what’s like?” You asked quietly. 

“What it’s like,” his hand slid down your torso and teased over your pants, “to be touched, but you can’t do anything about it.” 

Gasping, you tried to cross your legs as he cupped over your sex. With his thigh, he pushed your legs apart. He tsked you with a click of his tongue. 

“Nuh uh, you’re not running away from this.” His hand returned to playing with you over your pants. “After all, I couldn’t run away from you.” 

“B-but you did. You always left the room.” You looked at him over your shoulder, shivering at the lustful gaze deep in his eyes. 

“I certainly tried. But I couldn’t really escape you. Not your lips, not your kisses, your tongue, the biting.” He emphasized the final word with a bite to your shoulder. 

“Ah, mmph!” You moaned as his hand continued to cup over you. Teasing you with light strokes and squeezes. 

As he continued to touch you, you felt yourself growing more and more aroused. Needing some type of friction to assist you. However, Chance didn’t appear to care all too much. Enjoying the sounds of your whimpers and moans as you helplessly took what he gave you. 

Pulling his hand back, you let out a whine. From behind you heard the shuffling of his pants. Chance let them hit the floor. Looking over your shoulder you moaned at the sight. 

Chance stood there, his cock out and standing proud. His length, thick and delicious looking. Fuck, you needed it. 

For a moment, Chance watched you. His hand wrapped around his cock, slowly pumping away. Beads of precum dripping down the shaft. The amused smirk on his face indicated how much he enjoyed watching you squirm. 

“Chance…” You let out a groan. 

“Yes?” His voice held a teasing lilt. 

“Please…”

“Please what? Use your words.” 

“Please just do something!” You whined, dropping your head in exasperation. 

“I am doing something.” He groaned, gripping his dick tighter and pumping faster. 

“You know what I mean!” You huffed in frustration. 

“Do I? You didn’t seem to understand what I was telling you earlier.” He stopped touching himself. 

Pressing his body against yours, he spoke into your ear. 

“So tell me,” he purred, “What. Do. You. Know?” You felt his cock press into your backside. 

“I know! I know that you can feel what happens to your die!” The time for teasing was over, you needed him, NOW. 

“Was that so hard?” He chuckled, placing a soft kiss under your ear. 

Quickly, Chance pulled down your pants and underwear. Warm hands grabbed at the swell of your ass, giving it a squeeze. One of his hands trailed between your legs, cupping your bare sex. The action had you jolting. Every part of your being was on fire from his teasing. Buzzing with an ever growing energy that you wished to dispel. 

Pushing between your legs, you felt Chance’s thick cock. He groaned at the feel of your plush thighs squeezing around his length. The head of his cock brushed up against your awaiting hole, but he didn’t push in. No, instead he continued to fuck your thighs. Gripping them tightly as he thrust in and out. His cock just barely teasing your sex as it brushed past. You whined at the lack of friction, but the man behind you didn’t let up. 

He moaned as he continued to fuck between your legs. Occasionally teasing your hole, but never entering you. A smug smirk on his face as you looked over your shoulder with a glare. 

“Chance, please!” You cried out as he brushed up against your most sensitive parts. “I can’t take it. Please just fuck me!”

“No.” He said lowly as he continued to pummel himself between your legs. 

He leaned over your shoulder, biting into it again. 

“You’re gonna take me like a good little slut. Since you like teasing me like one. So, no whining or complaining.” He growled into your ear before nipping it lightly. 

“I can’t take it!” You felt tears of desperation prick at your eyes. 

“Yes you can.” He moaned, feeling his climax grow nearer. 

“N-no! It’s too much! Please!” Your whimpers only spurred him on. 

Forcing your hips back he fucked between your thighs over and over. Cock brushing up to your hole for the barest amount of friction. 

With a final pump, he let out the lewdest moan. Cock spraying out ropes of cum, painting your thighs white. His arms wrapped around your middle as he shook with the aftershocks of his orgasm. 

His lips pressed soft wet kisses up your throat. Warm hands caressed at your sides. 

Slipping out of your thighs, he groaned lowly. Turning around, you saw the man red in the face. His chest heaving with labored breaths. Despite his tired state, he gave you a smirk. 

He pulled up his pants and walked up to you. Gripping your chin, he brought your face to his. Softly, he pecked your lips. Giving you just a taste of him. He let you go, then turned to walk away. Throwing a cheeky grin over his shoulder, he spoke. 

“Now you know how it feels.” 

[zazaiafe2]

How to use a nap to shift, enter the Void state, or have an OBE

Naps are one of the most powerful underrated tools for consciousness work. If you’ve ever struggled to shift, enter the Void, or astral project at night ,naps might be exactly what your system needs. Here's how to make them work for you.

Before you nap:

1. Keep a soft light on if you can tolerate it. Full darkness may send you into too deep of a sleep phase. Light helps you stay closer to conscious awareness.

2. Drink a little water before your nap. This helps lightly activate your system, and might cause a natural micro-awakening (which you want).

3. Set the intention for micro-awakenings.

A simple sentence like:

"I will gently wake up a few times during this nap without stress, and I'll use those moments wisely."

No pressure, no obsession. Just a gentle mental imprint.

4. Optimal nap time: 20 minutes minimum, 30–90 minutes is often ideal.

Longer naps tend to produce more REM, which means more micro-awakenings and chances for altered states at the end of the nap.

WHY NAPS WORK SO WELL:

You have more frequent micro-awakenings during naps than during full-night sleep cycles.

Why is that helpful?

Because micro-awakenings are literal gateways into:

Astral projection (OBE)

The Void state

Shifting into your Desired Reality

They are moments where you're partially disconnected from your body, but not fully lost in unconsciousness, perfect for transitions.

WHAT TO LISTEN TO (Optional):

Only use sound if you're used to it or if silence feels too intense. Some helpful audio options:

Delta Waves (1–4 Hz) → Best for Void / OBE access.

Theta Waves (4–7 Hz) → For shifting & deep subconscious connection

Soft ambient tracks that remind you of your DR

For exemple these kind of video

Silence → totally valid and often better for Void or advanced states

Avoid anything too stimulating or complex (like busy subliminals). A nap should feel like a dream, not a task.

WHAT TO DO WHEN YOU WAKE UP MID-NAP:

If you wake up for a second or two,don’t move. That’s a micro-awakening. This is your golden opportunity.

Now choose your pathway:

To astral project (OBE):

Imagine you're rolling, floating, standing, or "falling out" of your body You can also do Michael Raduga's techniques from the phase, it's very effective. .

Feel your non-physical body move while your real one stays still.

Think: “I’m separating now.”

To shift:

Affirm softly in your mind: “I’m already there” or “This is my DR now.”

Visualize a mirror, door, bed, or scene from your DR.

Let the feeling sink in, don’t force anything. If you're not here In 1 to 2 minutes go back to sleep and try again at the next micro awakening

To enter the Void:

Imagine sinking into total darkness.

Repeat words like “Void,” “Let go,” or “I surrender.” Really simple affirmations

Focus on silence, emptiness, and your own presence.

Don’t try to do all three. Pick one and keep your focus gentle.

Note : It's easier to shift and enter the void via astral projection so you can make that your objective and then shift/enter the void from there.

How long until you see eesults?

It depends on your mental habits, your subconscious state, and how often you practice.

Some people will enter the Void or shift in their first nap. Others may need:

A few days to get familiar with the feeling of micro-awakenings

A week to build the right intention + mindset

Or longer to release mental pressure

But with consistency and curiosity, something will happen.

How to practice with naps:

1. Don’t overload the process. Choose one main goal: shift / void / OBE.

2. Practice relaxed awareness, not intensity.

3. Use naps 2–4 times a week if possible. More is okay, but allow integration time.

4. Every nap is feedback. Whether you shift or not, something is unfolding.

Your job is to stay open, non-attached, and consistent.

I also found this subliminal which can be really helpful for some

Common mistakes you can probably make:

Wanting it too much → Pressure blocks access remember to be in the present moment

Being way too tired -> You are immediately in a deeper sleep

Switching goals mid-nap → Stay focused on one target

Using the phone right before → It overstimulates your brain

Audio too intense → Stick to low, calm, minimal tracks

Moving during micro-awakenings → The window closes fast

Note: You can do it this way, but if you have trouble, you're probably making one of these mistakes.

Helpful points that make a big difference:

Light in the room (helps semi-conscious awareness)

Gentle intention before nap

Drinking water (small amount, not too much)

Putting the phone far away

Trusting your subconscious

Journaling dreams & wake-ups

block that eren’t mistakes (But slow You down):

Unconscious belief "I can’t do it" → becomes a loop

Thinking too much → energy stays in the head

Sleep deprivation → body overrides intention for deep rest

Trying to "control everything" → Void and OBE require surrender try to let go the noise to fall into it to fall into your own presence.

These aren’t your fault. But they do need gentle support.

I invite you to see this document by Michael Raduga for more information.

What will help you most:

Meditate regularly (even 5 minutes)

Work on trust more than technique

Practice breathing exercises daily

Learn to recognize early signs of altered states

Use naps as exploration.

Let your curiosity guide you

Final Note:

Naps are not “cheating.” They’re one of the most intuitive bridges between consciousness and other states of being.

So next time you nap, remember:

-> “All I need to do is surrender to what already belongs to me.”

[so-i-did-this-thing]

WHY DO PEOPLE THINK YOU LOOK LIKE SAM REICH WHATEVER THE HELL HIS NAME IS YOU TWO LOOK NOTHING ALIKE. COMPLETELY DIFFERENT VIBES. (also you two's facial features aren't that similar you both are white guys with completely different styles)

It's very frustrating, but I am learning that a lot of people abstract "suit" to mean "jacket + shirt & tie + pants" and don't see any other differences.

These two looks are effectively identical to a lot of people. Even though the personas these outfits evoke are very different:

All of the other visual language of these garments has been compressed to the point of being rendered meaningless. (Thanks to the folks who have admitted in followups that they truly could not distinguish between these outfits, much less know their physical and cultural functions are for a modern gameshow host style vs a vintage country gentleman.).

It's also why people think I am dressed "Victorian" (or even older) here. They see the "suit" (I am wearing low rise jeans and a casual button up, mostly J. Crew stuff) and the color brown, as those are quickly becoming the only meaningful indicators of "Victorian".

So, these fits are likewise identical to a lot of people (the third is less because of the look of the outfit and more that people are bad at assigning century to fashion. But some will insist I am 18th century nonetheless):

Same thing with beards. A full beard on a man is a full beard, brain shut off. People cannot articulate how the beard changes face shape and I wonder if they can even *see* the differences (For example, Reich has a very bottom-heavy triangle shape with his beard and I have a more diamond shape).

The uptick in this phenomenon makes me wonder if it's fallout from the sheer amount of content people consume, and the speed at which they do so -- instead of broadening their palette, everything get flattened into an increasingly narrow slot.

Capitalism ruthlessly mines aesthetics to sell products, instead of caring about how design communicates culture and other meaning. Context, form, and function are becoming increasingly detatched. Non-verbal and non-written communication is rapidly becoming forgotten, while even the spoken and written word degrade.

And AI, of course, continues to make this all worse. We're losing a lot of cultural language very, very quickly as fashion, music, *everything* is treated as interchangeable and exploitable.

I do not expect people to be able to define what makes *my* aesthetic my own, but I am getting increasingly frustrated at how detatched folks are getting from culture - to understand that art and even the look of functional objects have *meaning* - to the point where people don't even realize how detached they have become.

And what really sticks in my craw is the absolute, arrogant confidence at which some people say all of this stuff is the same, and that any differences are superficial/meaningless and that I should bow to their ignorant, content-rich blandness.

I am at a loss at how to combat this at scale, as an individual. Other than shunning AI and the tech bro mindset, I can only encourage people to be curious about what they consume. And to think critically about what their own tastes mean to them -- being able to articulate what you like and do not like about something (a fashion trend, song, painting, whatever) and be able to learn more about it and its influences.

And above all, create your own art, examine it in the same deliberate way. And if it's art you like just because it "looks cool", I desperately urge you to unpack that, to ask yourself what "cool" even means to you -- does it actually resonate with you, or is it some commercial shorthand you have been spoonfed?

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

I fully don’t believe in beauty. And ugliness either. Making any sort of judgement re: appearance is disgusting and wrong to me. Unless the way you look is offensive in the REAL sense (like idk having a swastika tattooed on your forehead or something like that) there is absolutely zero reason to cast judgement, good or bad. Doesnt matter if they’re a bad person. Judge their character! This extends to my feelings on dating and sex. I don’t date anymore because every space I’m in (even queer ones!) are so fucking shallow and judgmental about everything. I don’t NOT have desires but desires are inherently judgmental because Im putting some people over others aka finding them “beautiful”, which I hate. I wish society was purely practical and we had no concept of visual stimulation or “beauty” or “ugliness”. Only mental. Only character. We’d still shower and wear clothes and stuff because illness and lice and stink are still things to worry about but other than that? No fashion and no frivolous styling. No weight loss and no cosmetic surgery. (Except for trans people. That’s a medical need if they need it)

Am I bad or not accepting of autonomy? Is it weird that I want to reject all appearance compliments I get? Good or bad? How do I tell someone “Hey, never call me pretty again.” without sounding rude??? Being called “pretty” is a distraction to everything I actually value about myself INSIDE my head. I’m not “pretty”. I’m not “ugly”. I just exist. I only want to exist and be smart and stop having internalized judgements that have been drilled into me my whole life whether it be towards myself or toward others. Am I a dick for this? Am I puritanical for rejecting all sex because desire and preferences are selfish and mean? For NOT accepting supposedly “good” comments?? I thought you as the makeup post person might be interested in my hard swing in the other direction from all those people who try to justify that shit….

y'all have got to stop asking me to tell you if you're good people jesus christ

[fortunxa]

-ˋˏ✄ loser!Jinx college AU + miscellaneous ⊹ ࣪ ˖

H E A D C A N O N S

Jinx masterlist ⭑.ᐟ

#cw. Jinx x fem!reader, obsessive & pervy!Jinx, soft & caring!Jinx, mental health + eating habits mentions, brainrot, mentions of bullying, modern/college AU, sfw + nsfw. MINORS PROCEED WITH CAUTION .ᐟ

ᯓ★ author’s note: these have been in the making since april. be warned… it’s a lot. i missed writing hcs but this took me days to edit. i don’t have the energy to proofread.

┈┈・✦ loser!Jinx in general

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx always has a wrist full of random bracelets—beaded ones, handmade ones, mixed metal bangles. when she’s anxious, she twists them. when she’s zoning out, she picks at the knots. they jingle everywhere she goes. you always know when she’s nearby by the sound alone. she’s like a queer windchime.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she also has a carabiner clipped to her belt loop (or backpack strap). it started off as a practical thing—just a random carabiner she found in a junk drawer to hold her dorm key. but now? it’s a full-blown personality trait + flagging. it’s cluttered with a mini plushie, a crow keychain, and a bunch of other random keys now (she has no idea what they unlock). she stacks her rings on it when she gets overwhelmed (lowkey sensory issues at times).

˳·˖✮⋆˙ loser-core meets alt-girl hotness (visual). she’s decked out in piercings—stretched ears with black tunnels, shiny little hoops through the cartilage, nose ring to match her sister’s, barely healed bridge she keeps touching, one (1) lip ring (which she absolutely fiddles with when she’s nervous or thinking horny thoughts). she’s got plans, more piercings than sense. wants her tongue done next, or maybe her nipples—can’t decide.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ often wears beat-up converse that she covered in doodles and stickers. they’re filthy, falling apart, and the soles are separating, but she refuses to let them go.

“these shoes have been with me through war. they have lore.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ wears oversized hoodies with chewed-up strings one day and rave crop tops the next, a bright purple bra poking out. blue hair always messy, sometimes glittery. one time, she wore a skirt with bike shorts, a tool belt, and a band tee—somehow made it work.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ additionally, she wears shirts from the boy section as baby-tees. they’re always cropped, always tight, and she pairs them with cargo pants, chokers, big boots, or raggedy cutoffs. she has no idea how hot she looks half the time despite her loser status.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ shaggy haircut/wolfcuf. must i say more.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ blue light glasses during lectures, and prescription ones she only wears after-hours in her dorm room. both pairs have fingerprints on them because she keeps forgetting to clean them. she thinks they’re fine.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ hygiene = a roulette. some days she doesn’t shower, doesn’t brush her teeth, hair’s greasy (dry shampoo is her religion), bags under her eyes, and she’s been wearing the same hoodie for 3 days. either because her mental health is low or she’s hyperfocused on a project. the next day? eyeliner sharp enough to kill, fun eyeshadow, painted nails, glitter freckles, smells like vanilla coke and body spray.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ but no matter how much she showers, there’s always something industrial lingering. not necessarily unpleasant, just confusing. you lean in expecting cherries and get hit with “hardware store.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx rollerskates across campus. she’s surprisingly skilled, but not graceful—she’s fast and messy, with too much speed and zero caution. backpack swinging, hoodie strings flying, energy drink in one hand.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ the original reason? she’s late 99% of the time. early in the semester she was running late to her engineering lab and just said “fuck it.” she slapped on her beat-up skates and never looked back.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ there are times when she absolutely eats shit on the pavement. books go flying, doodles scatter—she doesn’t care. she pops back up like “that was a trick. i meant to do that.” or just stays on the ground for a bit longer because “i’m already down. might as well take a break.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her skates are decorated and lowkey falling apart. they’re covered in stickers and scuffed to hell with colorful laces. one wheel glows, the other squeaks.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ can’t sit still in lectures. always slouching, always doodling in the margins of her notes, always fidgeting. she bounces her leg under the table, spins her keychain around her finger like a nervous tic. she acts super chill, but it’s a front for the thousand thoughts racing through her brain.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s also a tablet kind of girl—solely for digital art—and she bites her stylus when she’s thinking. she ruined like four of them. she’ll chew on the rubber tips until they’re useless, and she can’t stop. (oral fixation strikes again)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ goes feral during lectures she actually cares about, though. she’ll bring a fidget toy to help her sit still, a notebook, and her tablet. somehow multitasking everything at once and constantly raises her hand.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s unintentionally intimidating, but in that weirdo way. her professors think she’s either a genius or about to burn the lab down. other students are a little scared to sit next to her because her eye twitches when she’s deep in thought, and she mutters shit like, “if it explodes, it explodes.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx hyperfixates on the weirdest, most random things. one week it’s quantum mechanics, the next it’s FNAF. she rambles to anyone who blinks near her. full speed, wide-eyed, smiling—and then goes quiet mid-sentence when she realizes they’re not following.

“never mind. it’s dumb.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she has strong opinions on energy drinks and will absolutely rant about which ones taste like battery acid and which ones make her vibrate in a good way. her current favorite is some off-brand neon thing with no recognizable logo. she calls it “brain juice.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she makes herself the punchline before anyone else can. if she feels vulnerable, she’ll roast herself. she’d rather make you laugh than let you see her flinch.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s scared of being known. some people like her. they really do. but the second someone tries to really know her? ask about her past? her family? her hopes? she clams up, cracks a joke, deflects. she wants connection so bad it hurts, but the idea of being seen makes her want to disappear.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s the type to overanalyze everything alone in bed at 2am. “did i say that weird?” “did they mean that thing they said or were they just being nice?” “do they hate me or are they just chill?” she will lie awake in the dark and overthink a throwaway comment from four days ago.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ wears her headphones all the time. she needs them to exist in public. the music’s bleeding through whenever she’s listening to something (example). other times they are connected to nothing—it’s just a signal to leave her alone or so she can eavesdrop unnoticed.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ nightcore obsession. still present. next!

˳·˖✮⋆˙ social battery? weird and unpredictable. sometimes she’s the loudest in the room, making everyone laugh with weird voices and wild tangents. other days she ghosts everyone for 3 days to lie on the floor with her “emotional support” cat.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ pets aren’t permitted in dorm rooms, so Jinx smuggled him in a canvas bag with a busted zipper and whispered, “don’t you dare meow, this is life or death” the whole way to her room. the cat meowed anyway, and she just coughed over it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ he’s little black cat with a chewed ear and way too much attitude. his name is something dumb and obvious like Mr. Cat or Whiskers, but the nicknames are endless—Void, Sir Purrs-a-Lot, Catboy, Bastard, Your Majesty. he knocks over cups, screams at 3am, and bites toes under blankets. Jinx is obsessed.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she constantly takes pictures of him and posts them to her story with little doodles: tiny sunglasses, swords, or hearts and stars.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her roommate caught her baby-talking to him, and she tried to bribe them so they wouldn’t snitch about how she smuggled him in with:

weekly DoorDash orders (“pick anything under $25. i’ll Venmo you, no questions asked.”)

doing their assignments for two weeks

bringing back snacks whenever she leaves campus (“don’t say i never do anything for you.”)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ but the roommate shrugs and goes, “whatever, just don’t let him piss in my laundry basket.” eventually, they just grow to love the cat too, and now it’s their shared secret.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she keeps the litter box in her closet. it should smell. it doesn’t—because it’s the only thing she obsessively cleans every. damn. day. she sprinkles baking soda in and has air purifiers nearby, but still panics every time the door is opened even an inch. if her RA ever comes by, she dumps the cat in a laundry basket.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx worries about him constantly when she’s not in her room and has a camera set up on her laptop just to check in.

“please, stop eating the wire. i’m not taking you to the vet again. we don’t have health insurance.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she wakes up with the cat on her face every morning. he sleeps directly on her cheek or chest, and she pretends to be annoyed.

“oh my god, stop suffocating me, you freak.” but then immediately kisses his head and whispers, “you’re my entire life.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she carries him around like a baby and calls him her son. he’s wrapped in hoodies, sometimes worn like a scarf. she has one arm under the butt, one across his chest. she looks like a divorced dad with visitation rights.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her part of the dorm room has duality. one side is a chaotic mess: wires, loose parts, half-finished projects. the other side is comfort: fairy lights, soft blankets, squishy plushies she never admits to liking, a stuffed animal from her childhood. her desk is cluttered: tools, wires, candy wrappers, a Gameboy she gutted, a coffee cup with pencils and brushes in it, and a framed picture of her and her cat.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ the room smells like Vicks VapoRub because she likes the “freshness” of it, energy drinks, and paint. she occasionally lights incense or some candles but forgets to blow them out.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx has Minecraft props in her dorm room like a foam pickaxe leaning against her dresser or a torch mounted on the wall. she also has a bedside lantern she leaves on at night and pretends it’s for the vibes when it’s actually for comfort. the soft pixelated glow helps when her brain won’t stop buzzing.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she also owns the full set of Minecraft guidebooks. they’re dog-eared, highlighted, and falling apart. she’s covered some in stickers and doodles—hearts, swords, personal annotations. they’re her sacred texts. she also loves pop-up books.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s weirdly into LEGO and keeps a sealed baggie of her “emergency pieces” in her desk drawer in case she needs to fidget or gets inspired.

“it’s like therapy. but with clicky sounds.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she either has zero appetite or is absolutely starving. will say “i haven’t eaten since yesterday” while building a contraption, then casually demolish two burritos in one sitting. she’ll eat whatever is available just to fill her stomach rather than opting for proper meals.

⤷ side note: she really enjoys curry and seafood dishes—mostly sushi or sushi wraps/onigri and fish, because shrimps kinda freak her out. she also has a sweet tooth, and her favorite candies are Skittles. orange juice is her go-to, of course.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx desperately needs a calendar but refuses to use one. her schedule is a mess—she’ll show up to the wrong class on the wrong day and pretend she meant to be there.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she carries a tiny screwdriver everywhere. if someone’s glasses fall apart? she’s there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with her tiny screwdriver, grinning proudly like, “stand back. i’ve got this.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she has rewritten the Wi-Fi password more than once just to mess with the admin. if something on campus breaks mysteriously, it was probably Jinx. if it works again five hours later? also Jinx (tiny screwdriver glory moment).

˳·˖✮⋆˙ learned how to trick the vending machines into giving free snacks. she doesn’t use it for herself often, but she’ll randomly hand someone a bag of chips and wink like it’s a secret mission.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ talks to inanimate objects. “please cooperate, you tiny bastard,” she mutters to screws and wires. once cried when her old fan finally broke and said, “she was loyal.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she avoids doctors and dentists. hates regular check-ups (she’s lowkey afraid of being touched by strangers and highkey afraid they’ll tell her she’s broken).

˳·˖✮⋆˙ listens to fast and chaotic ASMR like Miss Manganese. she can’t do the “relaxing” stuff. she also listens to roleplay ASMR like “mad scientist repairs your android body.” it puts her to sleep instantly.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’ll act like she’s zoning out while someone talks about their bad day, but later she’ll hand them their favorite candy or send them a meme that somehow perfectly references what they were upset about. she also leaves tea and cold meds by her sick roommate’s bed, brings snacks to study groups, and gives forehead flicks as affection.

“it’s not a thing. don’t make it weird.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx hates studying, but can’t handle failing. she pretends not to care about grades, but if she gets anything lower than her average, it eats her alive. she doesn’t tell anyone. she just stays up all night redrawing diagrams.

“stupid. you’re smarter than this.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s awkward in group projects. she either accidentally takes over or zones out entirely. there’s no in-between. she’s bad at replying to group chats but will send a random meme at 2am and then a full draft of the project out of nowhere.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she once did a group presentation solo because no one else showed up. she had no slides, just a marker and an insane amount of charisma. got full marks and absolutely derailed the class discussion.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sometimes, she plays the lone wolf role a little too hard. “i don’t do group stuff,” she’ll say, then proceed to hover at the edge of a study group, make weird jokes until people laugh, and eventually settle in like she belongs there (she does).

˳·˖✮⋆˙ people come to her for help with assignments. she pretends to be annoyed but secretly loves explaining things and gets really animated about it. she always ends up going on a 30-minute tangent while eating gummy worms.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she would rather die than admit she wants to be invited to something. “parties are dumb anyway,” she mutters, then sits in her room half-listening for noise in the hallway, wondering if anyone would’ve wanted her there.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ obsessed with things like the robotics club, weird horror comics, old Nickelodeon shows, and anime she swears she watches “ironically.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx was a theatre kid and you can tell. she wasn’t the lead—she was the unhinged supporting character who stole the show because she brought way too much intensity to the role. she still warms up her voice in weird ways and does stage makeup for fun. she’s not in drama anymore, but it’s in her bones with the way she talks with her hands and does dramatic readings when high.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ is absolutely in the D&D campus circle. she builds elaborate homebrew worlds, makes custom maps, invents gadgets to use during campaigns, and has a special set of dice she made out of blue resin with glitter inside (iykyk). once, her character was offered safety, a family, a home. the DM described it in such vivid, sincere detail that Jinx sat there, eyes glassy, jaw tight. she muttered, “i don’t trust it,” but her voice shook.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ is in way too many discord servers. she mutes all of them and only checks 3. one is about mechanics. another is an art trade group that’s completely dead but she won’t leave “for history.” the third? a secret vent server.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ used to be a mod and it still haunts her. she tries to play it cool but she absolutely wore the admin role like a crown back in her peak mod era. ran that shit like the navy but couldn’t follow her own rules—changed them every day depending on her mood. still flinches at the words “server drama.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ was in a discord relationship that lasted 3 weeks. they roleplayed, exchanged playlists, and Jinx gifted her Nitro like it was the greatest love gesture of all time. then they broke up when Jinx ghosted because she “felt too much.” she will deny this to her grave.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ loves webcomics and made her own. it had a strict color palette, fourth wall breaks, dramatic monologues, and a main character that definitely wasn’t made after Jinx herself. she got burnt out instantly and it never made it past page four, but she still draws the characters sometimes in the margins of her notes.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she had a DeviantArt phase. she made OCs. the energy still lingers when she gets too into D&D lore.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she was definitely a Gacha kid, and it shows. she used to grind for SSRs like her life depended on it. still mutters “pleasepleaseplease” under her breath when opening emails.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she used to pretend she was possessed for attention. middle school era. she would draw runes in her notebook, walk into class with smudged eyeliner, and dress like she got lost in a Hot Topic. people thought she was haunted—she was just lonely, undiagnosed, and very online.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ therefore, she was bullied. people made fun of her hair, her laugh, her fandom hoodies. it never broke her, but it shaped her. she had to pull out the “older sister guard dog privilege.” someone called her “crazy” for the first time and it stuck. it made her quick with comebacks and afraid of being vulnerable. it made her Jinx.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ grew up deep in the Creepypasta trenches. she thought Slenderman was real until age 14. she used to stay up until 3am watching badly edited YouTube horror videos with red text, distorted audio, and bad jumpscares.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her favorite character is Jason the Toymaker. she says it’s “the aesthetic, okay? he’s red and fucked up and makes things. it’s me-coded.” but it’s also the story—abandonment issues, obsession, resentment turning into possession. it gets her.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s emotionally invested in the lore and has deep takes.

“Jeff the Killer was emotionally neglected. you’re all shallow.”

“Jason would NEVER act like that. read the actual lore, idiot.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she once blocked someone for saying Ticci Toby was overrated.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s obsessed with internet urban legends. Cicada 3301? SCPs? webcore rabbit holes? she’s in deep and has watched every “explained” video.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ additionally, she’s obsessed with ARGs. “Marble Hornets” rewired her brain when she was younger. she tried to make her own ARG once using a blog, an abandoned hallway on campus, and distorted audio clips she recorded with a broken mic. no one cared. she still updates it sometimes. just in case.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ knows FNAF lore too well. she doesn’t even like the games that much anymore, but she knows the timeline like the back of her hand. can and will explain every animatronic’s origin, murder theory, and security cam angle.

“no, no, you don’t get it. the Bite of ‘83 and the Bite of ‘87 are different events. sit down.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ therefore, she absolutely worships Markiplier, she grew up watching him and calls him “The Only Man.” quotes him constantly.

“i’m not ashamed. he’s the only man i trust.”

⤷ bonus: she had a phase where she found him kind of hot and is deeply ashamed of it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ will randomly say “HeLLo EVerYBoDy my name is MaRkIpLiEr” mid-convo and jingle-jingles herself when she gets distracted.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ got way too into backrooms lore. she knows every level. the entities. the scent of Level 0. she will casually bring it up in convo like “this hallway feels liminal. don’t noclip, okay?”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx uses outdated internet slang in a deadpan voice to make people uncomfortable. “that’s so based. very pog. i’m quaking.” but sometimes it slips out for real and she instantly tries to cover it with a cough or a fake laugh.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she makes custom content for The Sims 4, and she’s so good at it. she’s got a whole CC folder of textures, meshes, poses, recolors. she also loves creating clothes and tattoos. she posts them under a fake username and has a tiny loyal fanbase.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ makes fake dating profiles for her Sims to live out the relationships she’s too scared to have. she’ll spend two hours designing a goth girl Sim, then set her up on dates with shy library girls and watch them hold hands.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she had a cosplayer era back in middle/high school. did full makeup, foam props, spiked wigs, contacts. she hot glued her fingers together weekly. she still has it all in a trunk under her bed. sometimes she puts them on when no one’s around. felt weirdly connected to Sally Face and the game in general.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ at one point she tried to teach herself Japanese via Hatsune Miku. if you play a Miku song around her now, she’ll pretend she’s too cool, but her eyes will glaze over and she’ll whisper the lyrics like a summoning chant.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ yandere simulator. that's it. send tweet.

┈┈・✦ loser!Jinx with a crush

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx gets so blushy it’s ridiculous. not just her face—her ears, her neck, her chest. they get blotchy so fast.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ the first time she sees you, she knocks over her own coffee, burns her hand, and stares at you like she’s been hit with a flashbang. she fixates instantly.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sits near you in class but never makes eye contact, just sends vibes in your general direction and acts like that counts as flirting. she stares at the back of your head during lectures and zones out for twenty minutes imagining your future apartment together.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she pretends she doesn’t care, but she waits for you every time. outside class, at the coffee shop, after lab. she even shows up a few minutes early, just to catch you walking in. she leans against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to scroll—until she sees you and instantly straightens up like she wasn’t watching the door the whole time.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she practices what to say in the mirror and still chokes.

“hi, uh—i mean, hey—hi. again. oh god. i like your shirt—jacket? skin? hair? fuck—wait no, not your skin—”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ on a particularly confident day, she will absolutely do the most when you’re around: sits on the back of chairs, swings keys on her finger, smirks too much. but when you flirt back, she breaks. one compliment and Jinx short-circuits—mouth opens, no sound comes out, eyes go wide. then she says something like “shut up before i explode” and kicks a chair over on her way out.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she pretends to be chill but accidentally flirts too hard.

“i like your shirt.”

“you could borrow it. or take it off me. either way.” then blinks, shuts her laptop, and leaves the room. “WHY did i say that.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she rewatches every movie or show you even casually mention so she can “accidentally” bring it up in conversation.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ stalks your Spotify playlists. adds the same songs to her own and pretends she “just stumbled on them too.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she talks to her cat constantly when she’s alone, asking for advice. “should i text her?” she says while pacing. the cat blinks. “she did like my story. and she said ‘lol’ in all lowercase. that’s flirty, right?” the cat yawns. “you’re no help, bro.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx overthinks everything. you liked her tweet = it’s true love. you didn’t like her tweet = she’s definitely annoying and should delete her entire internet presence. you laughed at her joke = in love with her. you touched her arm = marriage pending. you texted “goodnight loser 💕” = Jinx is literally rolling around on her bed whispering, “she loves me she loves me she loves me—”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she changes her discord status every time you go offline. if you’re active, her status is “🧠 doing brain things” or “drawing crusty shit.” when you log off, Jinx changes it to something cryptic like “ghost mode activated” or “no point in speaking when no one’s listening” and then immediately regrets it.

“what the fuck am i doing?”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she cannot be normal about your Instagram posts. you post a casual mirror selfie? Jinx stares at it for ten full minutes, saves it, zooms in, imagines what’s underneath your shirt, what your voice would sound like whispering her name before pulling her down to the bed…

˳·˖✮⋆˙ obsessively rewatches your stories. she mutes the sound and turns the brightness all the way up so she can “focus on the way your nose crinkles when you laugh” and then replays it six more times while kicking her feet.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s accidentally horny all the time. it’s not her fault. you’re pretty. you exist. Jinx will be mid-conversation, watching the way you talk, and realize she hasn’t heard a single word—she’s too busy imagining you pressed against the dorm wall. cue her snapping her rubber band bracelet against her wrist like stay in the moment, loser. stay in the moment.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you wear lipgloss one day. it’s subtle, pink, soft. she spends the whole afternoon obsessing over it—staring at your mouth during every sentence, imagining what it would taste like, smear like, feel like dragging across her skin. she goes back to her dorm and ruins herself with two fingers and a whimper.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she gets off to the idea of you, too—just the thought of you pinning her down, grabbing her hips, whispering something mean and hot into her ear. that’s enough. that’s too much. she finishes fast, almost messily, and then just lies there like “i’m so fucked. i am sooo fucked.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her roommate walked in on her masturbating ONE (1) time, and it ruined her life. it was late. Jinx thought they were gone for the night. she was under the blanket, headphones in, red in the face, flushed as hell, whispering, “fuck, baby…” into her pillow while watching one of your old Instagram stories on a loop. the door opened, they made eye contact, Jinx screamed and threw her phone across the room.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she tried to pretend it didn’t happen, but she was clearly spiraling. she avoided eye contact for two days, over-apologized, left apology snacks on her roommate’s desk. eventually, her roommate felt bad and offered her a bag of pretzels as a peace treaty. they never spoke of it again.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ but she starts setting elaborate booby traps before masturbating after that. she puts a chair against the doorknob, ties a bell to the handle, wedges her desk in a way that makes the door jam. all so she can scroll through your selfies in peace.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sometimes, she gets herself off, still flushed, and ding—you text her. “you around?” or “can you help me with my laptop?” Jinx stares at the screen, legs still trembling, heart racing. she types “yeah sure lol” like she wasn’t just moaning your name into her pillow five minutes ago.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she made a Sims version of you once. gave you soft sweaters, delicate walks, custom pink lipgloss. she played out a whole domestic storyline she’ll never admit to… then got horny when you did the WooHoo with her Sim (she has Wicked Whims), got scared, and deleted the save file mid-crisis.

“nope. nope. too weird. i am not that girl.” (she is that girl)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she tries to get over you. fails. tries again. still fails. “i’m done,” she says one night. “she’s too pretty. too soft. i’m not normal around her. it’s too much.” the next morning? you say hi and Jinx is back at square one with her heart pounding and her soul leaving her body.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ jealous in the dumbest ways. she sees someone compliment you and mumbles, “ha, well she’s mine, so… fuck off.” under her breath. while walking away.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her crush isn’t subtle. everyone knows. you probably know. Jinx is in too deep to notice she’s already outed herself.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ will walk across campus in the rain to bring you something stupid like a charger. will hand you a chocolate bar and say, “i accidentally bought two. shut up and eat it.” will sit silently next to you in the library just so you don’t fall asleep studying alone. she acts like it’s nothing (it’s everything).

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx gives you the best bits of everything. whether it’s a cookie, a doodle, or a scavenged trinket, she always gives you the prettiest, softest, most perfect piece, then acts like she didn’t even notice. “this one’s cursed. you can have it.” you just smile and thank her. it melts her every time.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you complain about the wind, so Jinx just plops her hoodie over you without a word. you blink. “you’re ridiculous.” “you’re cold,” she mutters, pretending to look at anything but you. (that hoodie never gets returned)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she makes herself unavailable to everyone except you. she’ll ghost group chats, ignore emails, miss class, but the second you text “are you around?” she replies instantly with “always. what’s up?” she will drop everything—assignments, meals, sleep—just to help you find a lost earring or talk about your weird dream.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she overthinks every message before sending, rewriting it at least 5 times.

💬 jinx [4:46 PM]

Hey.

hey :P

heyyy (ignore me lol)

do u want to hang out maybe unless that’s cringe

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she eventually lands on “yo. u alive?” and throws her phone across the room as soon as it delivers.

“she’s gonna think i’m cold. or dumb. or both. or she’ll block me.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she pretends she doesn’t care, then waits by her phone. she’ll say “yeah, whatever, text me if you feel like it” and act nonchalant—but she checks her phone every five minutes after. when you do text her something sweet? Jinx bites her lip, hugs her pillow, and stares at the screen way too long before replying, “lol lame. i like u too i guess.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she sends you cat photos as a flirting method. it starts off tame:

💬 jinx [2:32 PM]

look at this idiot lol

he bit my charger again

˳·˖✮⋆˙ then it slowly escalates into “matching hoodies,” “he posed like me, we’re soulmates,” and one where she’s holding him with ‘accidentally hot’ messy hair and a tank top. (you secretly save that one)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she tries to get you to visit just to “meet The Cat™️”

💬 jinx [5:17 PM]

wanna come over? he’s been asking about you

💬 you [5:25 PM]

he doesn’t even know me

💬 jinx [5:26 PM]

that’s what makes this so tragic. come fix his heart? :)

˳·˖✮⋆˙ once you finally do come over, she pretends the cat has a crush on you to project her own feelings.

“he only acts like this around you.”

“he doesn’t cuddle anyone else. i think he imprinted.”

“he likes you more than me. rude.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she sends voice messages of the cat meowing, with her voice all soft in the background. you hear her cooing “who’s a handsome little guy? yeah, you are” and forget how to breathe. she immediately regrets sending it and spends the next hour lying face-down in her bed screaming silently into her hoodie.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she builds a secret “shrine house” for you in one of her Minecraft servers. it’s a beautiful, slightly chaotic cottage in the woods—blue flowers, cats, and little signs that say stuff like “you’re so pretty lol” and “no monsters allowed except me <3.” she waits like 2 weeks before inviting you to “just explore.” when you find it, Jinx pretends it was an inside joke or plays it off like “oh that house? idk. i just built it. no big deal.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ your late-night discord calls start chaotic—games, yelling, memes. but slowly, it turns into something quieter. Jinx curls up under her blanket when you start talking softly. she listens, smiling into her pillow, letting your voice carry her to sleep.

“still there?”

“mmhmm.”

“okay. good.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she picks flowers for you and tries to make it a joke. she hands you a clumsy, crumpled little wildflower—nothing fancy—and goes, “here. because you’re, like… nature or something.” you smile like she just handed you a diamond, and Jinx has to look away because her face is on fire.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you notice when Jinx stops talking mid-ramble. she gets carried away explaining something—how a circuit board works, her latest cursed Sims mod, a half-finished sketch idea—and then suddenly quiets, thinking she’s being annoying. you just say softly, “you can keep going. i like hearing you talk.” and she looks at you like she just got handed the sun.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she has no idea you like her back because she can’t fathom it. you could say “you’re my favorite person :)” and Jinx would be like “haha… she probably says that to the lunch lady too.” she’s too caught up in her own spiral to notice your soft stares, lingering touches, bashful giggles, or the way you always save her a seat.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx hates when people touch her… except you. you can fix her bangs, tuck a strand behind her ear, run your fingers through it when you’re laying down, watching something. she melts each time.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx starts letting her guard down in little ways. she lets you into her dorm without apologizing for the mess, lets you sit at her desk, lets you see half-finished art, chaotic projects, the weird corners of her world. she shrugs and says, “it’s not much,” but she means, “i trust you.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she tries to confess a few times. the first time, she laughed nervously and played it off as a lame joke.

“god, i’m like… so in love with you it’s pathetic.”

“what?”

“hah. nothing. unless… i mean, unless that’s cool with you. then it’s definitely something.” she spends the next six hours pacing her dorm trying not to implode.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ the next one was fueled by a sudden wave of emotions. it’s 2am, you were laying in bed, quiet, almost touching. her roommate was out, her fairy lights were on, and her heart was open.

“do you think people can want someone so bad it makes them sick?”

“are you talking about me?”

Jinx just went silent, blushed, then whispered, “yeah. sorry.”

⤷ side note: you could’ve confessed back that time, but you wanted her to mean it—no jokes, no apologies.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ the final confession was a mess. she couldn’t keep it in anymore. you were just sitting there, being soft and kind and looking at her like she matters. she blurted it out without thinking: “you make everything hurt less. and it scares the shit out of me, because i think i like you like you and i don’t know what to do with that.” then she immediately covered her face, said “forget it—oh my god, i’m so fucking embarrassing.” but you just… kissed her. quietly, with certainty. Jinx didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared, wide-eyed, lips parted. when she finally whispered, “wait. that actually just happened?” you simply kissed her again.

┈┈・✦ loser!Jinx in a relationship

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her lovergirl era hits hard. she’s suddenly doodling your names together, writing love notes, drawing you as a little cartoon with hearts around your head. she wants to kiss and touch you all the time.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx keeps saying “this is so dumb” while clearly being obsessed. she’ll be holding your hand, forehead pressed against yours, giggling like an idiot, and still go, “ugh, this is so dumb. you’re so dumb. you’re gonna make me throw up.” and then she kisses you like she’ll never stop. she never shuts up about you either—constantly shocked she gets to have this.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she tried to be chill the first week—it lasted a few hours. she showed up to class with a lipstick mark on her jaw and told her friends “whatever, she’s just into me. who isn’t?” later that night, she was curled up in your lap whispering, “do you still like me? you do, right? say it again. please.” she constantly needs to reassure herself that this is real.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sometimes, she still has late night meltdowns where she asks if you’re sure. “are you really happy with me?” “you could have anyone.” “what if i mess this up?” you never get tired of reassuring her. you kiss every worry off her mouth, wrap her in arms and words. and Jinx—shaking, sniffling—lets herself believe it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she has a folder in her phone just for candids of you: reading, painting your nails, laughing with your head thrown back. Jinx looks at it when she’s sad, overwhelmed, or in bed alone. she scrolls through the folder and just whispers “mine.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she still overthinks every little thing you do… in a good way now. before, she spiraled wondering if you cared. now she spirals because “she looked at me like i’m the only person in the world. what the fuck. what the actual fuck.” she keeps these moments like pocket treasures. she writes them down, rereads them, draws them out.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she whines without meaning to—not like a brat, but more like a kitten. soft, needy noises when she’s tired, when you pull away, when she wants to be held.

“c’mere. babe. baby. babyyyy. touch me or i’ll explode.” it’s not a threat. it’s emotional truth.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she starts leaving her stuff at your place instinctively: a hoodie, a charger, a sketchbook. it’s not even a conscious thing, she just wants to exist around you, wants your space to feel like hers, too.

“i’m nesting. deal with it.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her room slowly becomes your room, too. your clothes end up on her chair, your drawings on her wall, a toothbrush in the cup. Jinx pretends she didn’t notice. “wow. weird. who put this here?” but she touches it all like it’s holy.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sleepy Jinx is just heartbreaking. the first time you spend the night, she clings to you like a blanket, buries her face in your shoulder, mumbles, “you’re warm. you’re real. i like that. i like you.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ needs a 10-minute prep talk before saying i love you. she rehearses it while brushing her teeth and cries a little. ultimately chickens out.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ ended up saying it casually, then panicked after. it just slipped out: “thanks for the juice—i love you.” she froze, went pale, backed up like she just said something unforgivable.

“i love you too, y’know.”

“…oh. okay. cool. that’s fine. great, even. i’m just gonna go scream into my hoodie now.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she draws you all the time, but with love instead of longing, softer and gentler now. she sketches you asleep on her couch, tying your hair up, or smiling. sometimes she adds herself, too. she used to draw you like a dream. now she draws you like a home.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you’ll kiss her just to watch her stumble. she’s mid-rant when you lean in and kiss her mid-sentence. Jinx immediately short-circuits, loses her train of thought, blinks at you like she just got slapped with a rose.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx giggles through soft, lazy make-outs. you’re in bed, it’s quiet. she’s on top of you, pressing gentle, slow kisses along your jaw, lips, collar... but she keeps giggling. not because anything’s funny, but because she’s so full of love she doesn’t know how to hold it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she also makes the softest little noises between kisses. they’re not loud, not intense—just soft, warm little hums and sighs. she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she starts letting herself be taken care of (terrified, but she tries). she lets you help her with things she’d normally lie about—eating, resting, calming down. she gets really quiet when you take care of her, sometimes teary-eyed. she whispers “you don’t have to…” but deep down, she wants it more than anything.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she plays it cool until your first time comes, then she absolutely panics. she thought she’d be fine—she flirts, teases, even makes a joke as she kisses your neck like “i bet you taste like candy or some shit.” but when you actually start undressing her? her face goes beet red, hands shaking slightly, breath catching like she just remembered it’s really happening.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s clumsy at first and apologizes a lot. her hands fumble with your bra, she bumps foreheads during a kiss, she almost falls off the bed while trying to take her socks off. “wait—hang on—fuck, no i swear i’m good at this, just give me—” you just laugh softly, cupping her cheek: “you’re fine. you’re perfect. slow down.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s inexperienced in ways she didn’t realize until now. she’s done stuff before, but never like this—while in love. so everything—every touch, every soft moan from you, every inch of skin—hits her so much harder. it’s not just physical, it’s emotional. she keeps blinking too much like she’s trying not to cry.

“is this what it’s supposed to feel like? because holy shit.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she makes the sweetest, most embarrassing sounds. whimpers, gasps, shaky and hiccups “fuck”s, drawn-out moans when you touch her just right. she’s sensitive—painfully so. her thighs twitch, her hands claw at the sheets. you kiss her neck and she lets out the tiniest choked “oh.” she covers her face and groans: “i sound like a virgin.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ her eyes go glassy after, her breathing gets soft. when you pull her close and stroke her back, she just presses her face intro your shoulder.

“i don’t think anyone’s ever touched me like that. you could’ve been mean, and you weren’t… i don’t know what to do with that.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx learns what you like, and it changes her. she pays attention and gets addicted to the way you gasp when she kisses down your ribs, to the way your hips stutter when you get praised. she never thought she could give that kind of pleasure—now she craves it, gets drunk on it, and learns how to own it.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ after that, the sex gets even more tender, sweeter. it’s not just lust anymore—Jinx is reverent. slow touches, kisses that last forever, whispers like “i’ve got you” and “you’re so pretty like this.” she lets you guide her, ride her, wrap her up in warmth. she never knew being loved could make her body feel so light.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ and then… it gets filthier. because now that she feels safe? Jinx starts to play. she teases more, grinds into your lap while biting your lip, tries new positions. she even buys a strap online and sends it to you with a dumb caption like “hope ur ready to see god <3” she stops holding back.

“you wanna use me, baby? wanna make me squirm?”

“c’mon, tell me what to do. i’ll do anything, just touch me. fuck—please.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx can make-out for hours—hand tangled in your hair, hips rocking lazily, completely lost in it. but as soon as things get intense, and clothes come off? she gets nervous the first few minutes again. not scared—just overwhelmed. might say something dumb like, “you’re so hot it’s making my brain turn to soup.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she still blushed when you undress in front of her. it doesn’t matter how many times she’s seen it, she still gets giddy

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s weak for your voice when you’re turned on. the breathier it gets, the more she loses her composure. she’ll press her forehead to yours, panting, whispering “do that again. i wanna hear you like that.” and when you do? her whole body shudders. ruined.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Jinx will run her mouth all day—“bet you’d melt if i touched you right”—until you actually climb into her lap, grab her jaw, and kiss her like you mean it. she’s done. she’s whimpering, gripping the sheets. suddenly shy, suddenly quiet. she doesn’t recover for hours.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she loves when you’re a little mean to her. just a little. you’re teasing her, calling her out when she’s flustered? “aww, is my bratty girl getting shy?” she turns to liquid. she’ll try to sass back and end up mewling instead. total switch energy—thinks she’s in control, then you smirk and it’s over.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ later, in a moment of weakness (maybe during pillow talk), she finally confesses to everything she did before you got together.

“remember when we weren’t together and i was weird and twitchy all the time? yeah. your fault. i was obsessed.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she’s obsessed with your hands in a soft, gentle way. she loves holding them, playing with your rings, kissing your knuckles. when you’re talking and getting flustered, she will reach over and just grab your hand, rubbing her thumb over your palm with a smile.

“you’re okay. you’re okay.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ also obsessed with your thighs. can’t stop staring but will pretend she’s not. she’s toast if you wear shorts or a skirt—hands get grabby.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ Minecraft dates become your thing—late-night builds, cozy houses in biomes you picked together. Jinx gets all happy when you log in. she makes you matching beds, leaves love notes on in-game books, follows you around and throws flowers at your feet. you have a shared farm with signs like “our gay little wheat patch.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you sleep in Minecraft beds next to each other even if you’re in person and just playing side-by-side.

“wait for me to log on. i don’t wanna go to bed without you.”

“you’re so sappy.”

“shut up and build me a love shrine.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she gets mad if someone kills your Minecraft pet. like actually mad. she starts muttering threats, plotting revenge.

“you killed Cinnamon?! cool. watch your crops rot, bitch.” proceeds to lay TNT under their base.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ if you ever fight, Jinx logs on and builds sad shit—a tiny, lonely tent, a rainy forest campfire with one empty stool, a grave that says “here lies my dignity.” you show up in-game and leave a sign that just says “i still love you. come home.” she cries. you build a new cottage together.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she makes you a resource pack that replaces Creeper sounds with her voice. the Creepers now go “babygirl don’t turn around” before exploding. she’s so proud.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you nap together a lot. it always starts the same way: “we’re not sleeping, just resting our eyes.” cut to both of you passed out in a nest of pillows, limbs tangled, Jinx half-snoring with her cheek against your chest and her fingers loosely curled around your shirt.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ sometimes she makes you hold her hand while she rollerskates. she’ll just roll up next to you on the sidewalk, grab your hand without warning, and coast along while you walk.

“you’re my little gravity tether.”

“you’re going to pull me into traffic.”

“then we die in love. worth it.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you share headphones when you study. Jinx puts one earbud in your ear and one in hers. you don’t talk—just sit, music low, working in sync. sometimes she reaches over and pecks you.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she picks at her fingers until they bleed during study sessions—she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. it’s quiet, repetitive, little half-moons of damage around her nails. you notice and gently hold her hand still or kiss her knuckles. Jinx doesn’t say anything, but her breathing slows.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you encourage her to try cosplaying again just for fun. you see the way she lights up when she talks about old builds or character design. one day you say, “i’d help you put something together. just for us.” Jinx tries to brush it off, but later she’s tearing up, smiling softly to herself while brushing a wig she hadn’t touched in years.

˳·˖✮⋆˙ she doodles you, herself, and her cat as a little family—constantly. it starts in the corner of a notebook page, just a tiny cartoon: her, you, and your weird goblin son (the cat), all holding hands with a tiny heart bubble that says “our dumb gay little life.” you find it on accident, and Jinx tries to grab it back.

“DON’T LOOK AT THAT—THAT’S NOT FOR—IT’S—SHUT UP.”

“you’re so soft it hurts me.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ you start bringing toys for her cat, and Jinx falls in love all over again. a small plush mice, a banana with catnip, a little blue collar. she opens her bag after class and finds a treat pouch inside.

“you’re trying to seduce me with animal enrichment. it’s working.”

˳·˖✮⋆˙ one night, you stay up late building a LEGO set together. it’s 3am, you’re on the floor, her cat keeps stealing bricks. it’s a half-finished flower bouquet and a very questionable spaceship that Jinx swears is “intentionally asymmetrical.” you’re giggling, cross-legged, bumping shoulders.

“this is like… weirdly romantic. just us. building stuff.”

“you’re weirdly romantic.”

totally not inspired by myself!! 100% pure Jinx fr

ᝰ.ᐟ dedicated to . . . @jinxsbunny @ac1dmeow @sketch303 @16spades @thisrots aka my helpful council ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

[ptej1980]

Girl you need serious therapy and most important some real help and maybe even good meds! Luke was at the Wimbledon with his real,legit girlfriend Antonia. What you and others weirdos don't understand?! He has been with her since 2023..... He loves her. She is beautiful,young,slim,fit and right for him. He doesn't love N or is even attracted to her not even a little nor he even truly likes her.... He loves Antonia as you can see. Stop with this. You are wrong. Antonia is probably with him in US now and will be there all the time like a perfect girlfriend she is,taking care of him and give him everything he needs,taking perfect home. Get some help.

Ok let me try to put this for in words you will understand…..um no

But let me give this a try….we believe in Lukola because we have this little thing called “critical thinking skills”. We have seen the evidence done the research and do not swallow the bull shit the tabloids try to feed everyone.

Let’s just break it down, I do admit to having Lukola / Polin brainrot…but you know I am better for it, I do not need therapy and I self medicate with caffeine and wine on the daily! Thanks for asking

If you think he has been with her since 2023 then you really have no idea what love or a healthy relationship should be and it has nohing to do with outward appearance you are the one who needs a serious reality check. Here are some visual aids

Now Nic is with Luke at one of these events can you tell which one? Hmmmm

Can you guess who Luke is looking at?

Oh just a few more examples of Lukola connections

Anon if you truly think about it logically, there is literally no way….after everything you saw and continue to see from the blatant in your face PR push….cmon. It is obvious when you think clearly about it. Really you think they were dating? The whole of 23

Now I will leave you for my fellow Lukolas to obliterate you in the comments because how dare you even bring body image into the conversation. Even if it was to come down to looks Nic is an absolute goddess, 🐜 will never be on the same level of hot, she does not even rate.

See ya….and again I will remind if you don’t like don’t read…block and move on!

[kisakis-boyfriend]

Could you do a Cyno alphabet?

For our 3000 follower celebration! (CLOSED NOW)

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Curls up in your arms immediately and buries his face in your chest, kissing your neck a little before he falls asleep.

On the off chance that Cyno doesn't fall asleep though, he wants to talk just so he can hear your voice some more. It soothes him after so much excitement.

B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He is pretty fond of his arms, and his hair if that counts.

Of yours, I think he would really admire your legs and your thighs.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically)

So much cum at once, it's amazing how much cum is inside such a tiny body. Cyno is quite embarrassed about this, but he cries whenever he cums. It's rare that he doesn't at least shed a few tears.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Cyno is unhealthily into breeding. Honestly he wishes that he could go into heat and be bred by some beast with a monster cock (both in size and like, not a human cock)

Alas, he is not a hybrid like some of his friends… but if you can still find ways to indulge in his fantasy, you'll have one very happy Mahamatra on your hands 💜

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

I'd say he has a little bit of experience, but not a ton. He has enough knowledge about kinks, fetishes, nonhuman sex across many different species, and things like that, but not a ton of field experience.

F = Favourite Position (This goes without saying. May include a visual)

I don't know if there's a name for this, but Cyno fucking loves being almost upside down while you pound him. Like, shoulders on the floor, ass pointed up, legs dangling in the air, probably propped up against the bed or something. He loves watching your cock disappear inside of his ass in this position 💜

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Oh, Cyno… the puns don't stop for anything, not even sex… how you manage to stay focused and continue railing him while he's making dick and ball puns is a miracle.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

His pubic hair is oddly straight, rather than curly. He does trim and shape it a bit, just to make it look extra nice, but he would never shave it all off or trim it super short.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect)

He's definitely intimate, but in a more aggressive/passionate way. Cyno presses his chest against yours, grunting in your ear all of the things he'd like for you to do to him, clawing into your skin while he begs you to go deeper, kissing you until your lips bruise as you unload into him.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

Every now and then Cyno will rub one out, mainly when he's craving your touch or when his mind brings up a memory of a fun night between you two.

Cyno also grunts a lot more when he's jerking himself off, he gets super into it and sounds more animalistic.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Breeding, choking, cock stepping, a little CBT, and petplay/roleplay of the nonhuman variety.

L = Location (Favourite places to do the do)

Really anywhere is fine. Cyno isn't particular about where you have your fun.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

A hand around his waist stirs up some steamy feelings within Cyno's gut. Playing with his hair can also get him going if he was already in the mood to begin with.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Bloodplay and watersports are the main things he wouldn't be into.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

He really does enjoy both, but I think he would like receiving just a tiny bit more 🤏

Getting the chance to facefuck you is heavenly~ You spoil him every time, treating him like a king as you use your hands to jerk off whatever won't fit in your mouth, putting everything into the blowjob and practically sucking him silly.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Generally prefers faster and rougher, but make sure you show him some gentle lovin' as well. Gently fucking Cyno through the tears from the previous round will always make him cum extra hard~

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Cyno has no qualms about a quick round during a lunch break, or whenever you're able to fit in a short rendezvous.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

A little bit, yes. Generally, Cyno wants to stick to what he likes, but he's not entirely against adventuring a bit and discovering new things for you to enjoy together.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last)

On average, he can probably go for 3 rounds, though they won't be super long. His stamina is good, and the training Cyno has to do for his job definitely helps, but it's nothing too crazy.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

The only toys Cyno would feel comfortable using are monster dildos, and a large variety at that~

Dicks with knots, ridges, complex shapes, even tentacles are all right up his alley!

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

I think Cyno would tease a bit, but he's usually so horny and needy that he doesn't want to delay the sex too much. He prefers to really dive right in and stay focused on the best bits.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Cyno's a bit loud, mostly grunting and whining while you're pistoning your cock in and out wildly. He's very skilled at dirty talking as well, and he does so throughout most of the sex.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

(Modern day specific headcanon) - Cyno listens to those smutty rps on youtube, specifically ones where the speaker is trying to tame a feisty listener, or the ones where the speaker is some type of nonhuman mating with a nonhuman listener. He also listens to ear licking/eating asmr for smutty reasons.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

He's kind of a big guy, a nice 6 inches and rather veiny to boot. Definitely not cut either.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

Cyno's libido is pretty damn high, but not high enough to disrupt his work or day-to-day life terribly. It's just that, once he gets turned on it's extremely hard to get out of that mindset, and he usually has to cum real quick just to move on with things.

Z = ZZZ (How quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He falls asleep pretty quickly, and he snores… a lot. Cyno will sleep quite soundly and for a while if you choose to stay cuddled up with him too.

[miasmaghoul]

Ok, I am no longer a Ghost virgin! Have some (long, mostly opinion based) NC ritual highlights. Song order might be wacky bc holy fuck I have a shit memory and can't think straight lmao

(Oh also I've now decided I'm calling the new guy Gale and the new girl Vesper. Just so y'all know <3)

- First and foremost, HOT. Hot and so humid. Miserable. Please note I forgot all about both of these things the second Peacefield started.

- Spotted Vanessa in the distance outside, then twice more inside. She seems so sweet, and looked lovely in her ritual dress!

- Museum is so sick! It's crazy to see how TINY all the outfits (and bodies) on display are. The era 4 ghouls costume HAD to be Dew's, it's SO SMALL! Didn't spend a ton of time in it, I was super dizzy from the outside heat and needed to go sit. Copia's white suit was there too! He's also bitty lmao.

- But onto the music.

- Peacefield amazing live. Sounds exactly like the album (except for a few flubbed words). The moment the curtain dropped took my breath away. Many such instances this night.

- Lachryma is a certified banger anyway, but godDAMN. Backing vocals? Immaculate. The girls sounded amazing and so did the new guy! His voice is wonderful, he's playful and a little silly, and at one point (during Mummy Dust I'd like to say?) he was doing body rolls behind his keys. Adore. He is also HUGE and will indeed deserve the title of big sexy #4.

- Spirit fucks incredibly hard. Like, INCREDIBLY hard. Dew and Aeon doing their interlude at center stage was excellent.

- Dew is still booted, presumably for protective reasons. Perpetua teased him about it (playful) and said the boot was kickass 👍

- Aeon is SO active. He was all over the place, so much energy. He did the thing where he came out during a costume change all cute and did the applause wars. He was also, as always, rolling all over the place like a critter. Huge fan. He had a few very cute moments with Papa, Rain, Dew as well.

- Per Aspera. Immaculate. Stunning. This is around the point where I was just Experiencing It and things get vague lmao. However, I will remain completely delusional about a single moment. Dew did the "as above" gesture and I did it back, and I SWEAR he was looking directly at me for that. No way, I was three rows into the floor seats, but G O D I want to believe.

- (Also they were really REALLY good seats omfg)

- Elizabeth. Holy FUCK. I cannot tell you guys how FERAL the crowd went for that. I wonder if Perpetua got tired of no one remembering the lyrics to Satan Prayer 😔

- Speaking of Perpetua, that man is IMPOSSIBLE to look away from. Like, you guys know I'm a Ghoul Guy through and through. I literally missed half of their bits because I could NOT take my eyes off of him. Incredible stage presence, sounds phenomenal, and the outfits? Chef's fuckin SMOOCH.

- He's also a big fan of mic tricks, he was flailing that thing around everywhere. He also did that down-low fingering move and HOO BOY.

- CMLS. I was expecting Majesty, ngl, but oh my GOD I never thought that experience live would be so different. Gale's backing vocals are INCREDIBLE omfg like...yeah I wish I had gotten to hear Swiss' "call me" for myself too, but omfg this guy can SING.

- TFIAFL. Started with the usual little speech (I cannot get over how much easier he is to understand without the mask holy hell) and then melted right into it. 2034 and all.

- I should mention that all the stage stuff (with the exception of malfunctioning side screens) all went off just fine. These visuals really are stunning.

- Also I personally feel like the audio was the tiiiiniest bit off? Bass was super loud and the guitars felt kinda quiet. Certainly didn't sound bad, could've just been me, but still. Did not effect my enjoyment level at ALL.

- Anyway.

- Devil Church/Cirice. Oh boy. Papa Cirice'd one of the stage cameras and his face popped up on the screens and I could not blink for a single second of that stare. It literally made my nipples so hard they hurt. I am not joking.

- DATHOML was beautiful. It's never been my favorite, but it really is something special live. Every song is. They could play two hours of La Mantra Mori and I'd thank them for it.

- Satanized starts with the electronic cue from the start of Umbra and it confused a BUNCH of people at first but then the guitars started and we lost our minds. I could barely hear Papa over the crowd singing and it was awesome.

- Umbra was a masterpiece. The keytar/guitar battle is fucking GLORIOUS, just like I thought it would be and I'm having so many Dew/Cirrus thoughts because of it xhyxdgd. Papa ascending with the cowbell GOT me, and he gave it to Aurora!

- Year Zero. I thought I was prepared. I was not. No Raindrop choke, but they did get all close to each other. Also Rain was once again a shit and wouldn't move when Perpetua told him to. Kept mocking his little nods to get out of the way 😭 Also tail omg TAIL.

- He Is. Also WOEFULLY underprepared for this one. Actual religious experience. The visuals here are fantastic in particular.

- Ritual took a lot of people by surprise! Dew had his bit at the beginning with Perpetua, and his bit at the end with Rain. That one was especially cute, Rain was watching with his cheek resting on his hand and then doing a hand motion to tell Dew to keep going when he stopped. So cute. Also Vesper and Aurora danced off their platforms to go play tambourine with him, and it was so sweet.

- Rain looks amazing in the veil, can confirm. It was billowing in the breeze more than once, and it's rad to see him headbang in it. Can also confirm that black bass Rain is extraordinarily cunty. Also I heard that he lifted his bass at one point and was apparently either chubbed up or is PACKING so. Do what you will with that information.

- Rats was SO good. The bass was insane, made my chest rattle and probably would have been the one to take my voice if it wasn't gone already lmao

- KTGG was SO fun. This is another one that has grown on me over time, but live? GOD. I thiiiink this is the song where Gale invited Aurora onto his platform for a little dance, unsure, but possible!

- Mummy Dust was a fucking EVENT. I had a feeling it would be but omg. The growls were perfection, and ghoul antics were good as ever. Cirrus' solo? Beyond incredible. My characterization of her has changed so much with this lmao. Finally got to see Dew jerk off with my own two eyes! He did it after sticking his whole finger in his mouth and then doing the slow chest touch thing, and I needed to die the whole time. Cannons didn't blow much our way, but the sight of the air full of confetti and mummy bux filled me with determination joy.

- Monstrance Clock is such a great closer. Just the right speed, the right vibes, it's perfect, absolutely perfect. Could not have been better.

- ENCORE TIME

- MoaC is so much better live than I ever imagined it could be. The crowd went insane, of course, and Perpertua introduced it as his daddy's song. Also, when he tried to give the cues for the ghouls to stop so he could do the "marijuana" thing, they all kept playing. Kept going until Perpetua stomped up Mountain's steps and did it again but more exaggerated and Mountain got all sheepish and did a little "sorry, sorry" hand raise. Very cute.

- (Overall I'd say my impression of Perpetua with the ghouls is that there is very little trust or respect between them so far - with the exceptions of Vesper and Dew)

- Dance Macabre was a fuckin BOP omfg. The rainbow lights and the sparkling outfits and Papa's silver jacket and and and. His mic seemed to cut out during the wobble wobbles tho. Also didn't get confetti blown towards us this time, but grabbed some off the floor after lmao.

- He did the joint roll, and someone caught it this time!

- And finally, Square Hammer. What a fucking RUSH. Cerberus Mode is REAL and the effect is VISCERAL. It was the perfect loud rush to cap off an absolutely perfect show. Also Perpetua called Dew a little cocksucker after the fistbump. Hope he knows from experience.

- Bonus: the couple next to us had been to two shows on this run prior, and said this was the best one. I think they must have gotten their stuff all lined up and worked out the kinks. Excellent news!

- (BONUS 2 FT UNMASKED GHOUL MENTION) While people were filing in, the girl behind us noticed a certain poofy-haired former ghoulette in the stands!! Perpetua gave her a little finger wave at one point, just for a second, and it was adorable.

And here's the haul:

Overall? 7378336⁷⁸/10 experience. Easily one of the best nights of my life. Thank you so, so much to @iamthecomet for coming all the way down here just for this, and to @obsidianghoul for the bracelets, ghoul masks, sticker, keychains and for scoring us mummy dust!!!!! It was awesome meeting you <3

Also I clapped so hard my hands bruised 👍

Now to do it all over again in two weeks with @belle--ofthebrawl and @forlorn-crows >:3

[hexjulia]

This is already very long but I want to add something about tidying up, which is not exactly the same as simpler repeating tasks like laundry that have results that are easy to look forward to (clean clothes, nice smells) and limited in a way "tidying up" isn't, especially when your place is just one big mess.

For the longest time I had no idea how much clutter bothered me. This was in part because like most people with adhd I was constantly nagged at (and shouted at) about the mess I left behind when I was distracted, to the point that tidying up just felt bad. It made me feel anxious, tired, guilty. I was convinced I just thrived in a cluttered mess simply because I dreaded tidying up and other people always wanted me to do more of it. I certainly felt better sitting in a messy place without anyone bothering me than I did in a somewhat tidy one with someone constantly complaining about the state of things. I figured I was simply more comfortable in a messy environment... but that's not true!

It took a long while to realise because I spent a long time subjected to this negative treatment and responding to it. After a while of it being absent however I started trying to pay more attention to/identify when I was feeling overstimulated and/or overwhelmed in some way, and really what I was feeling in the background of other things at all. Which often turned out to be... irritation. A lot of irritation. Often caused by a visually overwhelmed sensation best described as "seeing too many objects with no oversight". Which irritates and exhausts me, and was part of why I found starting so exhausting.

This was not immediately obvious to me. Other emotional responses were more in the foreground, more obvious because they were interpersonal ("finally I'm not being hounded and shamed!" i love being left to my own devices) and this is more of a sensory/emotional response to environment I suppose. I'm not really someone who explodes in anger. It was also easy to just sense as vague discomfort without realising what it was about.

But at some point I noticed my supposedly comfortable mess was actually a constant source of background irritation and overwhelmed sensation leading to a sort of paralysed exhaustion I was always having to fight my way through, every step of the way (also exhausting). So I started to try fixing this uphill battle situation. It's very important to me to do this for my own comfort and to keep thinking about that as a reason for every single action part of this. If you have a similar experience growing up with adhd and dreamily irritating adults ill-equiped to help you develop habits that support you this will likely be the main thing for you. It really is about your own comfort and taking away sources of discomfort. But you have to get there somehow and every step can't be exhausting.

Figure out how things in your environnent feel to you. Sometimes you just have to sit down and do nothing but think about that intensely for a bit. I set a timer and start by looking around, examining which objects are irritating me right now. Then i do something about it. And i look again. And what irritates me now? And now?

For me that usually turns out to be a lot of objects. It might be different for you.

This prevents the overwhelmed sensation from festering and becoming itself something that is hard to face. It stops a pile of stuff from being perceived as one big huge overwhelming thing that i don't know where to start with and exhausted by. I let irritation lead. After a while it just feels like restless energy and then it transforms into a contented feeling when things become less overwhelming to look at. Irritation/anger in response to your environment doesn't have to be a problem. Sometimes you can also let it lead and use it to stop feeling tired and overwhelmed.

ok that was very long so i hope adding this it helped at least 1 person. ^^

thinking about how many people hate doing chores like laundry ironing etc (for themselves! unfairly being expected to take care of everyone else's things is something completely different) and how in attempts to fix the resulting issues (piles of gross stuff etc) it's just framed as another thing to feel bad about not doing, which is not very encouraging under any circumstances -- but if the reason why things keep piling up is something like depression or adhd will make it about 10x as hard, because you likely already feel bad about yourself. And now looking at the piles comes with a lecture about getting your shit together and being an adult at the back of your head.

It's just not effective. It's the wrong reason. You shouldn't be cleaning because you're afraid of being shamed or because you feel guilty. That might work once every few months in a burst of manic chore energy but that's no way to live. The reason why I don't find these things exhausting to do is because it's just things I do to make myself comfortable, and it feels that way. When I'm ironing my clothes I look forward to wearing clean cozy warm clothes. I'm also daydreaming about 20 other things because I do have adhd and I'm maybe listening to an audiobook, but the emotion associated with doing my own laundry is something like ...contentment because I get to decide how exactly I want my clothes to smell and feel. It's largely just a positive emotion. I think the trick is getting yourself to be happy you get to make future you happy. That's a sustainable motivation you don't need shame or guilt for.

Also sometimes it's easy to underestimate how much a "small" sensory issue is making things hard. I hate touching dirty laundry, especially things like wet dishrags. I realised this was what made me want to avoid doing that specific bag of laundry and got some gloves. Now it's fine because I don't have to touch any wet and questionable textures. A lot of these accomodations might feel like overkill + you might not notice how much they bother you/contribute to putting things off until you pay attention and do something about it. If you think the scent bothers you a lot wearing a mask to empty the bin might help remove revulsion re: emptying the bin and so make that easier to motivate yourself into doing just wear one. Yeah it is overkill and not needed. But you don't want to accumulate trash inside because the smell would make you uncomfortable. If the goal is to avoid discomfort you should also eliminate the discomfort of the chore itself insofar possible! If your hands hurt easily from scrubbing things clean see if you can find a more effective cleaning agent or a cheap electric brush. If the sound of the vacuum bothers you even just a little put on headphones. There is no need to make this into some kind of guiltstriken spartan ordeal or only prevent discomfort if it's absolutely necessary for the task.

Chores are going to be a part of your days probably your entire life. It can be a comfortable experience associated with feeling cared for by yourself, feeling in control of how you live, a moment of quiet simple tasks and no deadlines. It doesn't have to feel bad. And if you fail at keeping up you aren't lazy or bad. You're just probably making yourself uncomfortable, but that's not a sin. And you can always change what you do to accomodate your needs.

[pinkmom3]

Part 5

   Six weeks later and the Texas summer heat is in full swing. On Monday Adam asks to host a pool party on the coming weekend, a common request, which is almost always allowed. Hosting means he chooses the food and drinks served, he makes sure we have enough supplies, and he cleans up afterwards. One of the many burdens of being an older teen in my household. Hubby and I approve, although hubby will be out of town that entire weekend with a valued client, leaving me to chaperone 10+ teens around a pool.

I dont mind.

Friday is here and after school I will have 4 teenage boys to myself, oh the possibilities, I resist the temptation to daydream and play with myself. Maybe later I will indulge.

After school all 4 boys get home. Adam and I have already shopped for the party, but what to feed these young men?

I order Chinese food. While we wait the boys change into swimwear and head to the pool.  Food arrives family style and i allow tge boys to go wild, full teenage boys are easier to deal with, in my honest opinion.

I get my Kung pao chicken and a margarita. After kitchen island clean up they head to the media room for video games while I crack open my book and drink my drink.

Some hours later, I'm placing snacks out on the kitchen island when Tim comes out of the media room and starts grazing.

"How ya doing, sweetie?"

"I'm doing good, Ms Linda, good grades and everything."

"How's the family?"

"Umm you know, no worse off than usual."

"How about a girlfriend?"

"I'm looking, but you're already married."

"Haha flattery will get you everything, seriously you know that's an unfair comparison, right? I'm curvier than most school age girls.

"Yes ma'am,  but really, no one seems interested right now."

"Are you staying positive about it?"

"Absolutely."

Soon the others come filing out looking for food. We snack, we talk, and we laugh.

"Ok guys I'm headed to the hot tub, you're all still in swim wear and are welcome to join me or not."

Kevin and Tim are automatically in for hot tubbing, Adam and Bryce will join after some epic video game battle.

I choose a light grey bikini, pin my hair up, and join these two young men, margarita in hand. We talk of school and future plans and we're joined about a half hour later by the other two. After mundane small talk our conversation turns to spicy relationship talk, where I can learn so much about what is going on with these guys. I ask the others about girls, none are spoken for, but all have their eye on someone. I asked what made these women standout, the first round of answers were as polite as these young men and included intellect, sense of humor, personality, etc.

"Ok ok boneheads, this is me you're talking to, while I appreciate your answers, I also know that men, by and large, are visually stimulated. I know there are exceptions, but I'm not buying what you four are selling. None of you said, boobs or butt and I know those are usually the initial motivators for men."

They were quiet a beat too long and I worried that maybe I was too harsh, but then above the sound of hot tub bubbles Adam said, "I like Amy's boobs" and one by one they all shared what drew them to their young ladies. Mostly boobs.

Mmm I learned Adam is looking to date.

The conversation continued with questions on how to get a girlfriend. I promised them I would share the secrets of snaring a woman if each and everyone of them swore not to use these secrets for a quick hookup. Around the tub we went and all promised, so I shared the secrets of catching a woman.

At some point in the night my hands squeezed thighs, brushed a crotch or two before yawning and calling it a night.

Whether it was the heat of the tub or the two margaritas I had, I accepted help up the stairs of the hot tub. As I bid the boys good night is am aware that I left my cover up beside the hot tub so I have a wet bikini clinging to me that was barely covering me as it was. The bottoms are riding up exposing my butt cheeks and the cool ac is making my nipples erect. As the boys go back to the media I hear the normal comments that poor Adam has had to deal with most of his life, comments like, "Man, how do you stand to be her son, if she were my mom I'd fap myself into a raisin." And, "I'd be hard all the time, dude."

Poor Adam.

I head up stairs to shower and sleep wondering if they will touch themselves thinking of me.

Do boys masturbate en mass?

A group activity?

I know some watch porn together, right?

[nekoboydreams]

Hello, how are you? I hope very well 💗💗 I love Harlequin since I saw him I said "wow I want to have pancakes for lunch with him 😍"

well if it's not too much to ask could you give us some information about him whether they are characteristics, tastes, dislikes etc...

thank you very much for giving us such a beautiful visual novel much success in your work and whenever you can please take a break eat well and rest 💗🫶🏻

I’m doing well, thanks!

I can share a few small details about him! It’s nice to see that lately more people who like him are showing up! Harlequin:

He’s 1.87m tall. (6 feet 1.5 inches) He likes the colors green, cyan, and red. Food-wise: He loves meat! And prefers savory food and enjoys trying spicy dishes (he also likes offering them to others to see their reactions). Although he’s not very fond of sweets, he always steals at least one that Pierrot makes, even though he finds them too sweet. He likes to always be well-groomed and presentable to the public.

Thank you! Sometimes I take at least one day off from social media to focus a bit more!

[mutt-monster]

TLDR; When you impulsively call someone a “chaser” or a “fetishist” for being sexually attracted to uncommon physical traits, you are denying people of that category a positive experience related to their body. This increases stigma associated with such traits, and you are hurting that community. An ally of X community isn’t an ally if they immediately call people “fetishists” or “chasers” for being attracted to that community’s inherent physical traits.

This is not to deny the existence of harmful objectification. It is very real, but it is not restricted to any one community. Anyone can be objectified for *any* physical trait.

=================================

I want to add that I think — because this occurs across communities — that this truly is a general issue stemming from the old “don’t judge a book by its cover” being taken to the extreme.

Books have covers for a reason.

You can read a book, but without the cover would you have ever noticed it in the first place? When you wander around a library or B&N, how do you find a book? How do you find something that calls to you. I bet you just said, “I saw the cover,” but I’ll take it one step further. I bet you also walked over to the shelf that had a specific type of book. Does that mean you like the book purely for it’s subject, or purely for its cover? No, read the book and you liked it. This may not be the case for all the books you like, I’m sure some of their covers might not be very interesting, but it was a good book nonetheless. People can be the same way. You can be drawn to a person for their visual qualities, and whether they might be a wonderful partner (or not) comes after you read them. This is my first argument. A “fetishist” and “chaser” is just a person who knows what covers draw them.

Now lets talk about people, because books don’t have emotions. People have bodies, and they want to feel sexy in their body.

When you call the beholder a “chaser” and a “fetishist” you are denying the the person beheld of a positive body-related experience. You twist these admissions of attraction and beauty into something demeaning and malicious. This is may simply due to the connotation of these words, but the impact of this negative association is profound. When you call someone who is sexually attracted to transgender people a “chaser” by default, you are sending a message that transgender people don’t deserve to be found sexually attractive. The same goes for automatically calling someone a “fetishist” in the case of disabled and fat people. This increases stigma around these physical traits, harming the communities they belong to. This is my second argument.

Let me be clear. Objectification of real people IS a problem, but it is not limited to any one community. When you negatively objectify a person (I say “negatively” because there can be positive objectification within circles like the kink community), you are buying a book with no intention of reading it. You are denying someone’s humanity, someone’s personality and and soul, simply because you want their body. Let me repeat this one more time, OBJECTIFICATION IS NOT LIMITED TO ONE COMMUNITY. This is my third argument.

Thank you for your time. I hope you have many people who think you are sexy and the bomb. Goodnight. *mic drop*

The weird intersection between fatphobia, sexual puritanism and fake progressiveness that breeds the idea that a skinny person attracted to fat people is a "chubby chaser" or a "fat fetishist" and not just like. Someone who has the hots for fat people. The idea that only another fat person could be attracted to fat people, otherwise it's sinister. Secretly you think any skinny person who'd want to fuck a fat person is debasing and devaluing ourselves, but you've pivoted into pretending you worry about a fat person's dignity.

[lesiasmadness]

do you have any hcs for what animals the pl cast would be if they were mobians in the sonic universe

You feed my darkest impulses anon! Of course that's something I've thought way too much about.

For Hershel I was thinking owl at first because smart and nocturnal and cozy, but I also wanted to try a capybara and ended up liking it too much. They have one capybara character in the IDW Sonic comics and I stuck close to that design, and I think it suits Hersh, what with the longer more rectangular face, and the short limbs, and just the general blockiness of his build. Capybaras are also considered very chill, and they get along with any animal, even their predators, which I think works for Hersh

There's one doodle of a more on-model design for his face with normal eyes, but of course the button eyes prevail. Though some artists go for button eyes even in the official comics so it's not illegal XD So yea. Very married to the idea of capy Hersh

Bizarrely I think he could also be a Zeti. I think a zeti archeologist would be a cool idea

I know it wouldn't work for the story but visually Luke is a chao to me. He just has the same face and eye shape and the expressions and he needs to be fed and likes to draw he is a chao. He is a sacred creature. I even tried recreating his hair swoop with the chao editor but didn't get too close XD

On the more normal side I really like him being a bunny, because haha the pet form MM, and the way he came out in the sketch there's also a bit of dog in him which is even better. I also thought the funny round eyes from the Sonic Forces character creator were similar to his little eyes and while looking them up realized Forces had a bear species available, and that just seemed so prefect to me, calling back to his teddy.

I also had to get a wolf in there too just because of our werewof AU. I had to.

A few ideas for the other characters, Flora is a baby deer to me. But also her big bug eyes give dragonfly. For emmy I just went with animals that hit hard or a canary because haha bird (looks at Thyme)

Kinda stealing form Lucas with Des hiding his species, but in my case he is a sheep. In wolve's clothing. Haha.

I'm sure Randall could be something better but it's like 5 am I gotta sleep so he gets hedgehog for the main character energy.

he kinda ended up looking like nicky from that one manga

[hargreeves-duncan]

OMG I JUST READ IT HAD TO BE YOU WITH BUCKY AND PLEASE PLEASE COULD YOU WRITE A PART 2??? LIKE HE OBVIOUSLY GETS CAPTURED BY HYDRA ETC, BUT READER ALSO GET FREEZED OR SOMETHING LIKE THAT MAYBE WITH STEVE OR SOMETHING AND HE ACTUALLY GETS THAT DATE (i don't really know where could you place this like in Civil War, or maybe even in TFATWS, I DON'T KNOW PLEASE SURPRISE MY DUMB ASS) 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻❤️❤️❤️PLEASE I'M CRYING 😭YOUR WRITING IS SO GOOD❤️❤️ obviously if you don't want to write it just ignore my request 😄😘

pt. 1 | pt. 2 (happy ending)

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: bucky finally gets that date, even if it’s not quite you

warnings: mentions of canon-typical violence, death/grief

word count: 2.2k

a/n: thank you for your request!! unfortunately for you, my lovely anon, i chose violence and strayed away towards angst so good luck 😭 (however, if you’d like a happy part 2, let me know, as i’d be happy to write an alternate ending!)

There was no easy way to put it: His life had been stolen from him.

Bucky had accepted that almost immediately after his memories had returned. There’d be no reclaiming the time, no undoing what Hydra had taken.

His family - all of his sisters, his mother and father, his grandparents - were long gone. A fact he’d learnt through a friend-of-a-friend whose name he didn’t even know, as if the loss alone wasn’t hard enough.

Having his memory back did him almost no good. What good was remembering, when all it did was remind you of who you’d lost?

You were among the people he’d searched for too. But, like all of his kin, you were gone.

Not because of Hydra. Not because of some world-ending event. Just old age. You’d lived to ninety, just five years shy of him having the chance to see you again.

And you’d had a hell of a life in his absence.

You’d dedicated every second of it to helping others and Bucky couldn’t say it surprised him. You had been one of just five Army Nurses who’d received a Silver Star after the war.

Shortly after his disappearance, and presumed death, you’d requested a transfer further down the Italian coastline to assist a core overrun with wounded as they made their way home, still under fire.

When others had fled, you’d stayed. You’d put your life on the line that day, saving six men.

Bucky could almost hear your voice; “Well, what was I going to do, leave them?”

He couldn’t be prouder of you. He also couldn’t help the ache in his chest when he thought of everything he’d missed.

Your life had been so full of good. In your story, he’d barely have made a paragraph.

You’d never married. Never had children. You’d given your life to the cause. To helping others. With Peggy’s help, you’d co-founded a foundation for the families of those killed in action.

And at the headquarters of that foundation, a long memorial wall bore the names of the lives it had touched.

His was the first name carved.

There was even a photograph of you, from the newspaper, carving it yourself. Stood at the top of a ladder, caught mid-laugh as you etched his name into permanence.

That photo had broken him. You’d looked after his family. After him. And he hadn’t even been there to thank you.

You were so wonderful in so many ways. He’d never deserved you.

He’d stared at that photo for hours, the first time he’d seen it. Something about the joy on your face, even in the act of memorialising him, struck him painfully in the chest. It was so you to find light even in loss.

He wondered what you’d think of the version of him that existed now.

He certainly wasn’t sure what to think of the new version of you.

Five years after your passing, the foundation had partnered with Stark Industries to create a digital memorial. An interactive exhibit to be incorporated into the Captain America Smithsonian wing.

To commemorate the legacy of your service and to inspire future generations.

That was the slogan they were pushing.

Steve had told him about it weeks ago, in a way that one might approach a wounded animal. He’d explained it as plainly as he could.

You would be what was now called a ‘hologram’.

A three-dimensional likeness, designed to talk and interact with visitors. Now, you were made of archival footage, interviews, letters.

“They wanted it to feel like… like her.” Steve had said.

Bucky had refused, at first. Just the thought made his stomach turn. You, smiling, moving, and talking, like you weren’t dead. It felt cruel. Wrong.

He’d seen enough ghosts in his lifetime. He didn’t think he could face one more.

Especially not you.

But once Steve had told him about it, he couldn’t get you off of his mind.

Most nights, he’d lie awake, staring at the ceiling and twirling the access pass Steve had given him between his fingers until dawn broke.

He thought of your voice and how you were caring but never babied. All the quips you used to make to keep him in line.

He thought of your eyes. All the times he’d caught them lingering on his arms, and how he’d pretended not to notice, just so you’d keep your attention on him a little longer.

He wondered what you might say to him now, if you could. If you knew what had happened to him. What he’d done. What had been done to him.

He mulled over Steve’s words too, “If anyone were to be the first to see her, it should be you.”

And, so, on the anniversary of his fall, he caved.

The exhibit hadn’t opened to the public yet. It was barely dawn. The museum was deserted, save for the security team, who let him through without a word once they saw his pass.

At the entrance, a black marble pedestal bore a gold plaque with your name etched into it.

And, as Bucky stepped closer to it, your hologram flickered to life, having sensed movement. And then, piece by piece, from toe to head, you were stood in front of him again.

He stopped breathing.

You stood there, or rather something like you, in the middle of a museum, surrounded by artefacts from a life that had once been his.

In the soft light, you looked real. Real enough.

He could pretend.

“Oh! Hello, there,” you smiled brightly, placing your hands on your hips, “I didn’t see you!”

And suddenly, Bucky was back there.

As you walked back to your station, your eyes met Bucky and your lips parted softly, “Oh! Hello there, I didn’t see you. Are you alright?”

Bucky had been caught staring.

He cleared his throat, laughing awkwardly as he gestured to his shining bruise around his eye, “Uh, yeah, hi, sorry, I needed some help."

You clicked your tongue softly, walking over. You cupped his face, looking it over with a small sigh, “Nothing much we can do for a black eye, but we'll get some ice on it."

Then, with a gentle nudge to his arm, you added, “Come sit."

And then you were gone again, replaced by your hologram as she proudly announced:

“Welcome to the Captain America Smithsonian Exhibit. We’re glad to have you here!”“What’s your name, soldier?” you asked with an eerily cheery smile.

“James.” Bucky muttered, wringing his metal hand out.

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence!” you laughed, “I knew a young man by that name, back in 1945, working with the 107th.”

“Come to think of it, you look an awful lot like him too!”

“You’d better not stick around too long or I might start getting attached.” you winked at him.

You didn’t recognise him.

He should’ve guessed. You were a program, after all. You had limitations. You weren’t you.

Still, it didn’t hurt any less to have you this close and still be unreachable.

Bucky swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he fought to find the right words.

“I don’t suppose you’d remember much about him,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

The hologram tilted its head, eyes shimmering with a quiet fondness, “On the contrary, soldier. James Barnes was quite the character.”

“He was incredibly brave,” your smile softened, “His bravery… his kindness… Sergeant Barnes’s impact on my life is why I developed the All Flower Foundation with Peggy Carter.”

“Today, the All Flower Foundation supports the families of those who lost their lives protecting our great country.”

Bucky nodded, finally swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat.

“He would’ve been proud,” he whispered, his voice growing tighter with every word you said.

“He always was, of me,” you smiled, “He was impressed by my rank when we first met, but can you blame him? Lieutenant’s not too shabby.”

That wasn’t right.

The real you wouldn’t have said that. Not the girl he knew.

You were humble. You always downplayed your accomplishments, wanted everyone on the same playing field. This wasn’t you at all. You didn’t brag.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Part of him wanted to shut the whole thing down, to walk away and leave the ghost behind.

But he didn’t.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” he asked softly, rooted to the spot.

The hologram tilted its head again, leaning closer and watching him with gentle sympathy.

“I’m terribly sorry, soldier, but I don’t believe we’ve met. You do remind me of someone… someone very dear.”

He felt tears beginning to burn.

“James Barnes,” Bucky said gruffly, trying not to lose his patience with you, “That’s who you’re remembering, doll.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re remembering me,” his voice broke.

“I’m here. It’s me, doll. I’m James.”

The hologram paused. There was a flicker in your eyes and a red sheen passed over them for a moment.

A security alert. Bucky felt the change instantly.

His tone. His posture. Elevated stress signals. He’d been flagged.

You saw him as a threat.

Whatever was left of you was only trying to keep him calm until someone came to take him away.

And that, somehow, hurt more than anything else.

You didn’t want him there. Or, at least, this version didn’t.

“James,” you said softly, “I’m glad you came. There’s so much you should know… and not enough time for me to tell it all.”

He closed his eyes, chest heaving. This wasn’t real. You were gone.

And his heart broke all over again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping back, “I shouldn’t’ve come.”

The hologram smiled gently, tilting its head. It was trying to be kind but it was hollow, performative.

It wasn’t you. It’s wasn’t you. It wasn’t you.

“Don’t be,” the hologram replied, “We’re grateful for every visitor who carries the memory of our soldiers.”

The words were empty. They weren’t meant for him. They were meant for field trips, tourists, strangers. Not for the man who loved you.

He’d come here thinking he could handle it, but there were some wounds that didn’t scar over and you weren’t something that he could replace.

He turned away.

Your voice followed him down the corridor.

“Take care, soldier. And thank you for your service.”

He wiped the tears from his face.

He felt like he was trying to escape a maze, one whose walls were formed of the life he’d lost out on. It was a whole other type of torture. He feared it was never going to end as he walked on.

Dozens of rows stretched before him: memorabilia, placards, curated histories. Medals behind glass. Field uniforms on mannequins. Black-and-white photos arranged in neat chronological order.

He stopped in front of one wall: “Heroes of the 107th.”

There was Steve, clean-shaven, smiling, and his arm slung around Bucky’s shoulder. And there he was too: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

Below the image, a placard read:

James Barnes, presumed KIA, 1945.

Remembered for his valor and service. An integral member of the Howling Commandos.

He let out a humourless laugh.

Presumed dead. Not wrong, per se, just incomplete. No mention of the years in the dark. No mention of what he became afterwards. They’d tied his story up with a beautifully patriotic bow. What else did he expect?

He moved on.

Peggy had her own corridor. Steve too. Rows and rows of artefacts in their names.

Then he saw it: “The All Flower Foundation”

Your face was represented in a mosaic at the entrance, built from hundreds of tiny images.

Patients you’d treated, families you’d supported, soldiers who’d returned because you stayed behind when others didn’t.

This you would’ve liked. Not the shell of you in the room he’d left behind. His chest constricted again.

A quote ran across the top of the archway in a font that mimicked your handwriting:

“To remember the fallen, we support the living.”

He hadn’t known you’d said that. Maybe you hadn’t. Maybe it was just something they’d attributed to you because it looked nice on a plaque.

The exhibit was composed of projections across its walls. They flickered to life as he stepped inside, bathing him in sea of soft light and sound.

Grainy footage played first, reels from the war. You were standing in a muddy field, hair tucked under your cap, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. You shooed the camera away, smiling amusedly at the person behind it.

“You’re wasting film,” you’d teased, laughing.

They’d subtitled the video. There hadn’t been sound back then, not with the kind of portable cameras the Army could afford.

Bucky stood still.

He remembered that day. The higher-ups wanted recruitment material and morale reels. You’d refused to stop treating the wounded long enough to pose.

The projection changed. A different reel now, one he remembered very dearly.

“James!” you shrieked, voice full of delight, as Bucky scooped you up into his arms.

A younger man, some Sergeant whose name Bucky could no longer recall, laughed from behind the camera.

You were howling, clutching at him as he spun you once, twice, then set you gently down. You swatted at his chest but he just caught your hands, pressing a kiss to your fingertips.

You rolled your eyes, smiling, and he leaned in to kiss you properly. A chorus of whistles and cheers erupted from the men offscreen. He smirked against your lips and turned you away from the crowd, arms wrapped tightly around you.

“Alright, show’s over, fellas!” the younger version of him had been grinning like a fool. If only he knew what little time the two of you had left together.

The projection flickered, and the scene shifted again, this time to something newer. He couldn’t see what it was through his tears.