#this doesn’t even include the caption this video!

[wundrousarts]

Was suddenly reminded about this moment from a November 2020 interview where Jessica Townsend briefly talks about Ages.

Based on the timing of the interview I am unsure if the “not in the next one” bit refers to Hollowpox (which had just recently released) or Silverborn. Regardless, the idea that we might be learning more about Chronologists and Ages in future books intrigues me!

Between the clock emojis (especially the 🕰️🌌 ) and the “… before the clock strikes midnight?” part of the blurb, I think the Silverborn theories floating around regarding Eventide or just moving into a new part of the Age might be on the right track…..

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru insists on being your lock screen.

like actually insists. he’s made it his personal mission, his divine right, his sacred duty as your overly clingy, stupidly hot husband. the moment he sees your screen light up with anything that isn’t his face—your cat, a flower, a quote graphic—he gasps like you’ve just committed adultery in 4k.

“...a sunset? a sunset?” he blinks at you like you’ve betrayed every vow. “is the sun a pretty man with ocean eyes? no. do you kiss the sun goodnight? no. do better.”

instead of letting it go like a normal person, he floods you with selfies. hundreds. different lighting. different angles. thirst traps with his shirt pulled up to flaunt the sin that is his eight-pack. mirror pics where he’s flexing. ones where he’s pouting. one where he’s fake crying. him stuffing his mouth with mochi. him dramatically sobbing with a caption that reads, “you used to love me.”

and the worst part? he’s sending all of this while sitting beside you. phone angled down, giggling like a schoolboy, thinking he’s being slick while your inbox explodes. you’re already overwhelmed when you see it.

sandwiched between selfies and spam, a very accidental mirror pic. last night. you, bent over the bathroom counter, absolutely ruined, face flushed, mouth open in a silent gasp, while satoru stands behind you grinning like a menace, very much still inside you. you scream. you hit him. he yelps but laughs, no shame, no apology. “oopsie~” and “you looked so good, though.”

he doesn’t stop even as you glare. now he’s negotiating. bartering. one lock screen slot for a back massage. five minutes of home screen privilege if he orders your favorite takeout. a full 24 hours if he lets you pick the movie and doesn’t complain even once. he even pulls out the big guns—puppy eyes, soft voice, a breathy, “baby… do it for love.”

you roll your eyes, say no, but you’re already folding. he casually shifts on the couch, hand propping up his jaw just right, profile lit perfect by the golden hour. “what about now?” he says, voice all smug, like he doesn’t already know he’s stupidly pretty. “i’m moisturized. glowin’ like your man should. tell me that’s not lock screen material.”

and in his defense? your face is everywhere on his phone. lock screen, home screen, widget rotation. polaroids of you tucked inside his clear case—some with your cheek squished to his, one with your wedding bands on display. siri responds only to your voice. his notifications banner still reads “i ❤️ my wife.”

his favorites bar? just your contact and his camera roll. album names include: “my baby 🫶,” “hot wife hours,” and “the loml fr.” he’s got slow-mo videos of you laughing, candid shots he took while you were sleeping, a live photo of you on your wedding day spinning in your dress. even that pic you told him to delete? it’s buried in a hidden folder titled with a heart emoji and he opens it like it’s the damn grail.

it’s not even a bit—he just genuinely thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. so really, is it too much to ask for one lock screen in return? balance, baby. harmony. fairness in marriage.

you hold your ground for a solid ten minutes. you really do. arms crossed, phone untouched, lips pursed like you’re not even thinking about giving in. but then he starts pulling out the big guns—his stupidly pretty face all soft and glowy from your skincare, his voice low and coaxing like he’s seducing you into sin (he is), whispering, “just a day, baby. for me?” as if it’s not his lifelong mission to conquer your lock screen.

you scoff, bratty and unmoved. “you want me to advertise you on my phone? why don’t you get a billboard?”

“because,” he says, smug, “my wife’s wallpaper real estate is more valuable.”

you shouldn’t cave. you really shouldn’t cave. but then he kisses your cheek, trails down to your jaw, murmurs something sweet and stupid that melts your last nerve. you grumble about being weak for hot idiots, scroll through the absolute onslaught of selfies he sent, and pick the one where he’s grinning—smug, shirt slightly askew, and your lipstick still stamped on his jaw. it’s criminal how good he looks. you fight the urge to bite your lip and sigh like it’s the biggest burden of your life as you set it as your lock screen.

he gasps like he’s just been proposed to. dramatic hand to his heart, eyes glassy, voice warbling as he says, “i’m your lock screen. me. your husband. this is the greatest day of my life.” and then he traps you—physically. throws his whole weight over you on the couch like a human weighted blanket, peppering kisses across your face with alarming speed. “you can’t leave now,” he mumbles into your neck, “this is your new full-time job. cherishing me.”

you groan, swatting weakly at him, but it’s no use—he’s clinging like a damn koala, legs hooked around you, arms locked tight. “satoru,” you wheeze, “get off—” but he just shushes you, smug. “nope. consequences of loving me. should’ve picked the cherry blossom jpeg.”

and because he’s him, he spends the next hour being insufferable. changes your passcode to your wedding anniversary (“for security and romance”), and sets calendar reminders titled “admire husband” three times a day. “any attempt to change it will be met with a lockscreen tax,” he warns, grinning. “one kiss per pixel replaced. i will collect.”

[tojisun]

sugar, spice, everything on ice (hockey au)

hockey player simon x f!reader’s relationship through the eyes of their fans but like smau - sorta like this!!

simon has never really used his socials properly before. hell, he probably still gets his gossip from the grapevine (being their locker room) or something. of course their goaltender, price, isn’t any better, but at least the man is active online. riley? a fucking ghost.

until, of course, his girl starts popping up in people’s posts.

.

emory @.emowysg

just found out that simon riley’s WAG doesn’t know hockey but she still flies to see him play 😭🙏

Simon Riley ✓⃝ @.riley41 to @.emowysg she’s the sweetest

STREAM TASTE @.bosseysnumber1 to @.riley41 AINT NO WAY YOURE LURKINJ

emory @.emowysg to @.riley41 WHAT IS BRO DOING HERE 😭

bry @.strobrymilf to @.emowysg The way you didn’t even tag them but he still saw this IJBOL

emory @.emowysg to @.strobrymilf IM SAYING 💀

.

sandra @.nightwingsgf

oomf was telling me that simon riley the type to overexplain the sport to his gf (tisming, if you will) and i fucked w that hard

icarizz @.brycelims to @.nightwingsgf tisming 💀

Simon Riley ✓⃝ @.riley41 to @.nightwingsgf haha no i go caveman when i try explaining it to her but she’s so patient with me anyway

papillon @.breedthatginger to @.riley41 i saw this comment, scrolled away, then audibly went, “PAUSE” yo king what thenrufk 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

sandra @.nightwingsgf to @.riley41 trying to stay nonchalant about simon fucking riley shirsey #41 forward and alternate captain of specgru just casually being in my replies (girl im failing)

.

cigarettes after shrek @.autumnblooms

can simon fight

[it’s a screenshot from simon’s instagram story—the phone is being jostled, leaving people looking like pixelated streaks, but the screenshot does a good job at capturing your wide smile as you hold up a puppy in the air]

huggy @.hghsbros to @.autumnblooms she is so so pretty 🥹

ouroboros @.ayacchi to @.autumnblooms heavy on the caption lmao

Simon Riley ✓⃝ @.riley41 to @.autumnblooms and win

marie @.mariejayp to @.riley41 what being in love does to a mf

౨ৎ @.persephonessin to @.riley41 shounen ahh reply 😭

jonah @.jonathanmllr to @.persephonessin bro said [image of gojo’s infamous ‘nah. i’d win’ quote/meme]

.

🍂 @.zeekewin

YALL LOOKIT RILEY AND GARRICKS GIRLFRIENDS CHEERING AFTER THAT LAST GOAL

[the first image is a blurry shot of you in the box, your mouth open as you yelled. the background is a mess of specgru’s colours, showing that the rest of the WAGs came in with this season’s WAG jackets.

the second image includes kyle’s girlfriend who is holding your hand while the two of you are mid-jump in celebration.]

hime @.peaxhespie to @.zeekewin are we.. seeing the formation of a new polycule

🍂 @.zeekewin to @.peaxhespie cant even be like “dont ship real ppl!!” bc theyre too cute 🥹

Simon Riley ✓⃝ @.riley41 to @.zeekewin is that the clearest picture you have?

🍂 @.zeekewin to @.riley41 KING?????? also, yeah. sorry :(

char-les @.charlatron to @.riley41 shit it’s not a myth - bro really /does/ pop up like bloody mary 😭

.

eren truther @.aotsucks

yall are we about to censor his fucking name because hows he always in our replies 😭

🎀 @.ttius_overkill to @.aotsucks no because he’s so in love on g 😭 “she’s the sweetest” sir stand up!!

eren truther @.aotsucks to @.ttius_overkill NOT STANDIP LMAJDHS

momo @.mrdawcy to @.aotsucks not us knowing who you mean right away 😅

.

louis @.lovingtomlinson

idek who simon riley is or the lore with his girl but that man is smitten as hell. good for him good for him

good luck babe @.stellastic to @.lovingtomlinson one of us one of us one- [screenshot of simon riley’s ‘likes’ on his page, with this post at the current top]

louis @.lovingtomlinson to @.stellastic it hasn’t even been five minutes 💀

.

John Mactavish ✓⃝ @.jmactavish_91

Okay but imagine hearing him in person

[video is of drunk simon, nuzzling his face on kyle’s shoulder, murmuring something too faint for the camera to pick up. there’s a muffled laughter from the person recording, probably johnny from the sounds of it, before they shuffle forward and stick the phone close to simon.

simon blinks at it, looks at the person from behind the screen, and goes, “s’at m’girl?”

video cuts with johnny and kyle laughing at their friend, fond and teasing at the same time.]

samson @.zachob to @.jmactavish_91 GIVE THAT MAN HIS GIRL 😭

susana @.sewswan to @.jmactavish_91 PLEASE WHY’S HE ACTING LIKE THEY ONLY SEE EACH OTHER ONCE EVERY 10 YEARS

baron @.mlawdy to @.jmactavish_91 bro must be winning in life if he’s that in love. lord me when

.

Simon Riley ✓⃝ @.riley41

Me and my baby

[image is of the two of you in the lake house, enjoying the last days of summer. the puppy is curled on your lap, sleeping, while you angled your head up to smile into the camera. simon has his arm looped around your waist, his head resting atop yours.]

sandra @.nightwingsgf to @.riley41 TEARS WERE SHED

emory @.emowysg to @.riley41 GOOD SOUP

cigarettes after shrek @.autumnblooms to @.riley41 TWO PRETTY BEST FRIENDS

i laughed making this fhjefjefw. idk just thinking about how simon fr the type to show off his partner if he can - and he could so here we are!! i also just love making outsider’s pov through SMAU <33

[httpsserene]

hey can I request something that’s angsty to fluff and then smut for Oscar where reader gets a ton of hate for dating Oscar so she kind of ghosts him for a bit and they figure things out

best i ever had — 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 oscar piastri x fem!black!reader 5.1k words. requested! angst & fluff. happy ending. reader neglects herself and her relationship. reader is exhausted physically and mentally, and she is not nice to herself. bad eating & sleeping habits. self-deprecation. self-sabotage. oscar piastri is a good boyfriend. emotional hurt/comfort. tenderness. intimacy. implied bath sex. appearances made by lando and logan.

synopsis: oscar really just wants to hear you laugh again.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. i apologize for my inability to write a single fic without including lando, he's my favorite plot device < 3. i couldn't stomach writing smut but there's a little something at the end. dedicated to us women in stem!

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oscar is worried. you haven’t responded to his texts for a week, he hasn’t seen your face for two weeks, and he hasn’t heard your voice for three weeks. four weeks ago, you told him you wouldn’t be able to fly out to see him at the austin grand prix, like you promised. you sounded exhausted and incredibly guilty when you explained that your course load this semester is extreme, and finals are rapidly approaching. oscar understood; he won’t ask you to sacrifice your education for one of his races, there will be plenty you can come to in the future. what he doesn’t understand is how you’re still functioning. it’s your senior year of university at an american ivy league school, you're pursuing an engineering degree, and you’re also working nearly five days a week as a barista. oscar thinks the last time he’s seen you relaxed is before your fall semester started, you spent your entire summer break with him, making appearances at the only three races you’ve been to this season (silverstone, hungary, and spa). the last time he recalls seeing your smile and hearing your laugh is in august—it’s the end of october now. 

you’ve been ghosting him. oscar wants to believe that it’s unintentional, that it’s just a side effect of the amount of work and pressure on your shoulders—but he can’t accept that. if you were unintentionally missing his calls, facetimes, and texts, you’d spam respond to all of them with a voice message or paragraphs of texts before you went to bed or class. you would send him daily or weekly recap videos of how life is treating you, like you used to do. you would send him stupid videos of you messing around on your shifts during a pause of customers. you would send him thirty reels a day on instagram of brain dead shenanigans with little captions of how you reacted, or if you thought it would make him smile. you would send him fit checks every morning before you went to class, even though your outfit consists of a hoodie and sweatpants. you would send him tiktok edits of himself and tell him that he needs to stop being ‘so hot’ because you almost barked in the middle of class. you would ask him how he’s doing, you would respond to his texts the minute you could even if it's hours late, you would leave him voicemails if he doesn’t pick up, you would make an attempt to communicate. 

except, you haven’t. so, he knows that you ignoring him is intentional, and that your lifestyle right now makes it easier for you to disguise your avoidance of him as accidental. 

you didn’t say ‘i love you’ back. 

“mate, what are you frowning for?” oscar jumps, eyes flying up from the phone screen and meeting lando’s. the brit is staring at him in confusion, the two of them are still in their race suits, tied around their waists. the sprint race ended an hour ago, and they’ve just finished celebrating oscar’s win.

“you’ve won a race, oscar—what could possibly make you sad after that?” lando says teasingly. but, the smile on his face is quick to fade as he must see oscar’s dejected mood.

the australian debates his next move for a moment, before deciding that telling lando isn’t a bad idea; they’ve been getting closer—they’re friends, oscar would say. he sighs, and hands his phone to lando, maybe he’ll tell oscar he’s worrying over nothing.

“oh,” lando says, eyes widening, “i’m sorry, mate.”

oscar brushes off lando’s words, and buries his face in his hands, “she’s pulling away from me. that was five days ago, and she hasn’t answered any of my calls. she’s only responded to my texts since then with one word answers or very dryly. she’s ghosting me.”

oscar feels lando fumbling for words, not needing to look at him to know that the older man has no idea how to go about reassuring oscar.

“look, mate, if it were me i’d go see her anyways.”

oscar huffs, “she literally said she doesn’t have time.”

“oscar,” lando stares at him in disbelief, “she hasn’t seen you in two months. i guarantee she’s probably dying to see you again, fuck whatever time she doesn’t have. she also can’t ghost you, if you see her face to face. you should go and try to fix whatever’s wrong, before you let her slip away.”

“maybe…maybe she’s just burnt out,” oscar suggests shakily, “i’ll go see her after the triple header–i’m probably just overreacting about this. she’ll be back to her usual self in time.”

oscar is enraged. he’s pissed off at his fans for attacking you in a sick twist of ‘defending him,’ ‘protecting him’ and the supposed ‘ownership’ they think they have over him. he’s pissed off at you deciding to ghost him instead of confiding in him about the hate you receive. he’s pissed off that his flight to you has been delayed for four hours. he’s pissed off at his race in brazil, if you can even call what happened a race. he’s pissed off at the fact that you can’t make time to see him before vegas. he’s pissed off that you lied to him about picking up extra shifts at the cafe.

he stalked through your instagram the minute after he was allowed to escape debrief, hunting down your roomates accounts from where you’ve tagged them in an older post. he innocently made a group message to the two girls, figuring it would be kind and proper to inform them of his impending arrival to surprise you. and the two girls you shared an apartment with responded eagerly to his message telling him that you’ve been extremely stressed and almost depressed this semester, and that hopefully his appearance will break through to you in a way they are unable to. oscar asked them if they knew your work schedule for the week, since you never told him when you're working–and learned that you lied. you didn’t accept any extra shifts, matter of fact, you got all of your shifts covered for the next two weeks. apparently, all you have been doing is going to class, working, studying furiously, and crying. when he asks if there’s any reason besides the stress from work and school that has you crying, the girls decline to speak for you, and strongly suggest that he asks you himself when he arrives. 

oscar’s no longer pissed at you for lying to him or for ghosting him–he’s hurt, but, he already understands your motive. you don’t want to worry him, so you bottle it up and distance yourself to not make him aware of how you're struggling. he won’t let you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders alone anymore, he’s going to see you and he’s going to take care of you, and then he’ll sort out the ignorant people on the internet.

when he’s at your apartment, you’ll be coming home from your last shift before your time off. and then, once he has you in his arms, he can make everything right again.

your hands are shaking; a result from the mix of stress and exhaustion that has been plaguing you for a few weeks. it takes you four and a half attempts to unlock the front door to your apartment—this is an improvement, yesterday it took you six times. a trembling sigh of relief exits your lungs as you shut the front door, triple checking that you lock the door properly. you remove all of your outerwear and slip out of your shoes, half-heartedly making an attempt to neatly place them in the organizer you have by the door. (you fail to register how there’s only two pairs of shoes stored away; yours and a pair of shoes that look too big to be one of the girls you live with—the usual sneakers the girls wear are nowhere to be seen.) you grunt as you tenderly put on your backpack and slowly make your way into the kitchen, off-handedly murmuring a “hi,” in the direction of the living room since you can hear the tv playing, but you don’t even spare a glance to see which roommate it is—you can’t stomach anymore human interaction today.

your walk is more of a waddle; your legs and feet are sore from working nine-hour shifts five days in a row, and also from going to class four out of those five days. you place your backpack on the small island, and continue to gently meander towards the fridge. your stomach aches at the thought of food—which is unfortunate, considering you’ve only had one meal today. regardless, you will shove a sandwich down your throat, you need the energy if you’re going to study for three hours before you go to bed. 

you pause before you open the fridge, a note is stuck on the door with a magnet. your roommates are gone; the two girls have spontaneously decided to go spend the weekend with their boyfriends—you’re not going to complain, you have the apartment to yourself. a brief wave of loneliness washes over you, you were kind of looking forward to venting about the week you had to the girls in the morning, and also, couldn’t they have texted you this earlier today? who leaves old-fashioned notes on the fridge anymore? you pull out your phone to send a text in your group chat wishing them a nice weekend, and see that they did, in fact, text you that they would be gone—three days ago. and, you never responded, because you never saw it. you shrug, and send the text anyways, you’ve been incredibly busy and you’re bound to miss a few texts (especially the eighteen texts from oscar that remain unopened). 

you're just going through a little bit of a slump, and you’ve had a bad day. you accidentally messed up three orders today (out of the hundred you fulfilled, so three isn’t really terrible), your running off of four hours of sleep (you’re more energized when you sleep less, anyways), and a customer accidentally bumped into you as you were walking to bring coffee to a table, causing the hot liquid to spill and burn a little spot on the back of your hand by your thumb. well, you know it wasn’t purely accidental, as the girl giggled to the group of friends she was with after she “bumped” into you. based on the way she was wearing a mclaren hoodie, you can make several guesses as to why she did it—you’re kind of shocked that she noticed you even though you wear a mask at work (you have for about a month, too many fans have noticed who you are), her hate for a relationship that’s not hers should be studied for science. 

incidents like these have made your coworkers start to…dislike you. the decrease in tips when you’re assigned to the register causes you to be forced to be hidden behind coffee machines the entire shift, only making drinks the entire nine hours you’re there. it’s better for you though, at least you can have a physical barrier blocking the prying eyes you feel are judging you the entire time. if anything, the recent atmosphere at work made you want to put in your two weeks—but, you have bills to pay. you’re just glad you managed to find a way to get two weeks off so you can focus on school and prepare for your exams—you can’t afford to fail, it’ll cost your scholarship and then you’ll need more than the job you have right now to finish school.

the buzzing of your phone pulls you back to the present—oscar’s calling. you squeeze your eyes shut for a few seconds, before you blink and silence the ringer. if you speak to him, you won’t be able to hide your troubles from him any longer; he reads you as easily as a kid’s picture book. he definitely doesn’t need to deal with your problems after whatever the hell happened in brazil. the noise of your phone startled you into a new thought, however. if the girls aren’t in the apartment, why the fuck is the tv on? who did you greet when you walked past the main room without a glance?

“i was calling to tell you that i’ve got takeout from the asian restaurant you like, if you’re looking for something to eat,” oscar says gently.

it’s a testament to how extremely exhausted you are: you don’t scream, you don’t fight, you don’t run—you just flinch slightly, and turn around slowly to face your boyfriend…the man you’ve been avoiding for nearly a month. at the sight of him (his fluffy hair, his soft sweater, the confused and concerned glint in his eyes) your lip starts quivering, and your eyes start watering. oscar’s gaze softens into something sweet yet empathic, and he says, “i know it’s been a while since we’ve last talked, but i didn’t think you’d cry at the sight of me.”

you burst into tears with a sob, and in a second oscar’s got you wrapped up in his arms, one hand soothingly massaging your back, while the other cradles your head on his shoulder. your borderline hyperventilating, your tears have started to soak his sweater, and you’re sniffling every two seconds to avoid getting snot on him too. oscar doesn’t try to quiet your tears, he doesn’t ask about what’s making you cry, he doesn’t even try to tell you that everything will be fine—he just holds you as you cry it out and presses kisses into your hair. eventually, the flow of tears dries and you focus on pulling in shaky breaths of air to calm down. oscar switches to holding you to his chest with one arm while he uses the free one to reach across the counter and grab a tissue. wordlessly, he wipes the wetness off your cheeks and under-eyes, he even uses another tissue to wipe your nose, clearing away the snot that managed to escape. you almost start crying again at the tender treatment and the matching look in his eyes, but you muster enough strength to keep the happy tears from falling over the waterline. 

oscar nods once, deeming his cleanup complete, and clears his throat, “i’m going to heat up the food. then, we’ll eat and you’ll tell me what’s wrong and if that has anything to do with why you’re ignoring me.”

there’s no attempt from you to keep the façade up any longer, all you do is nod and step to the side so he can grab the food from the fridge.

oscar has already cleared his plate and you’re still picking through half of yours. the two of you are sitting on opposite ends of the couch, teen wolf is playing on a low volume, and your eyes are tunneled on the screen even though oscar can see that you’re not paying attention at all. one of the characters is screaming about having to get his arm cut off (stiles, probably) and suddenly you start talking to oscar.

“it’s been a shit semester. if i wasn’t graduating in spring, i honestly think i would’ve dropped out or taken a gap-year. and, i knew what i signed up for as an engineering major, and i knew that working was only going to add more on my plate—but, it’s not like i can quit my job, i have bills to pay. so, juggling school and work is difficult, and i was managing fine. but, i guess i made the mistake of scrolling through twitter—which is truly my fault i think—and everyone on the internet was calling me a ‘terrible girlfriend’,” oscar watches you scoff out a choked laugh, “and, i obviously didn’t believe i was. in the beginning, at least. i mean, it’s like they expected me to be at every race by your side, like i’m not working my way through a hellscape of a degree. i watched every practice session, qualifying, and race—they’re literally the only hours i don’t spend studying or working. i brag about you to everybody who would listen, i missed hours of sleep just to speak to you on the phone for five minutes, i work as hard as i can so i can finish this degree early so i can be with you as early as possible, and they say that you deserve a better girlfriend.”

you pause and rub at your eyes furiously, mouth opening and closing as you take time to find the words to continue. oscar quiets the flare of anger at your distress, and stays silent, not wanting to interrupt your speech, this is the most you’ve said to him in a month.

“the thing is: i-i i let their words get to me. i think it’s because i was being kicked while i was down—or whatever the phrase is. i was already mentally exhausted, and i already believe that i’m not doing my best this year, i’m disappointing everybody who knows me, i’m a shit student—and just seeing everybody agree, even though they’re just randoms on the internet, tore me down. i even deleted all of the apps off my phone,” your voice has shifted into something desperate, “so i couldn’t see what they were saying about me anymore, but it’s like once i saw it, it never left my mind. i feel like everybody is staring at me with condescending eyes, like they all think i’m terrible. and, logically, i know that’s probably not true. but, this semester has pushed me past the point of being able to rationalize properly. so as a result, i have become a ‘terrible girlfriend’ to you; like a twisted self-fulfilling prophecy.

“i avoid your calls, i leave you on delivered for days, i respond with one word, i lie to my friends and say i was up all night talking to you on the phone when i was really crying and studying at the same time, i hold back from bursting into tears in the middle of my shifts when one of your ‘fangirls’ spills their drink over me for the third time. and while doing all of this, i was hoping you’d do the hard part and just break up with me,” your voice rings out sharply and you refuse to look at your boyfriend, afraid to see the look on his face.

“because…” you whimper slightly, tongue flicking out to lick at your lips anxiously, “you do deserve a better girlfriend.”

oscar is lost for words at your conclusion; seeing you, one of the strongest women he knows break down, is a sight he never imagined. a sense of guilt builds within him, knowing that he’s added to the deprecating thoughts in your brain by postponing this intervention for weeks. you may think that he deserves someone better, but he hasn’t been the best to you either recently. if oscar was half the man you think he is, he would’ve never allowed you to avoid him in the first place. oscar stands up, collects your plate and his, and places them on the coffee table. he turns and drops to his knees in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs, and squeezes them gently to grab your attention. it takes a minute, but eventually you allow your eyes to fall to meet his, and oscar breaks further at the lack of light in your eyes.

“i think,” oscar starts quietly, “that you expect me to break up with you and leave—am i guessing correctly?”

you blink down at him and shrug, biting your lip to prevent it from quivering.

“i also think, that if i flew all this way to see you, and that if i listened to your heartbreaking recollection of how this semester and how the world has been incredibly unkind to you, and that if i sat here and still broke up you—it’s not me that deserves a better girlfriend; it’s you that deserves a better boyfriend.”

stunned, you stumble over your disagreement, but oscar steadfastly continues.

“you did the right thing by deleting your socials—and that would explain why all three hundred of the reels i’ve sent you have gone unseen,” he laughs lightly, “and even if their words took root, you prevented yourself from being able to see more of it every time you used your phone; so even if my pride is not needed, i am proud of you for doing that. i’m even more proud that you sat here and told me that you aren’t doing well, that you didn’t make an attempt to lie, and that i didn’t have to force you to tell me,” oscar says seriously, holding steady eye contact with you to make sure you're hearing him.

“i wish that you would have mentioned the hate you’re receiving as soon as it started, and that you would have told me your mental health was suffering too. you know i do everything in my power to avoid reading anything with my name in it unless it’s a credible article—so imagine my surprise, when i learned about what people were saying about you through a twitter thread logan, of all people texted me about,” you snort out a laugh at the feigned disdain in oscar’s voice when he mentions the american driver. 

“you know i have no issues embarrassing people on the internet for their incorrect claims—and i’d especially tear them to shreds for trying to drag you down. we’ve been together too long for you not to come to me about things like this, even if it’s something that mildly upsets you—i want to know, because then i can make it better, or i can at least try to. you haven’t complained to me about the grueling lifestyle once, as i worked my way up to f1; if anybody could be perfect, it would be you. so, let me try to be as perfect as you, and support you properly and thoroughly as you finish up this degree, baby.

“we’re soulmates, aren’t we?” it’s a question, but oscar states it like a fact, “and i know i can’t magically make the self-loathing disappear with one conversation, but i'll tell you that you’re the best girlfriend i’ve ever had countless times, until you believe me unquestionably.”

oscar watches your nose scrunch cutely as you sniffle, unable to stop the tears that leak from the corners of your eyes. sweetly, he catches them with his thumb before they fall. he stands up and tugs you to your feet, pulling you into a tight, warm hug. 

“i love you, kanga,” oscar coos as he kisses your forehead.

“i love you the most, roo,” you answer back, leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“i’ve bought some lavender epsom salt and an embarrassing amount of bath bombs. will you let me take care of you tonight?” oscar asks quietly.

he sees the mix of awed-disbelief and confusion as you stare up at him, like you can’t imagine why he’d want to love you tenderly tonight, and that hurts him more—the words of his ‘fans’ online have done enough damage to cause you to doubt him. maybe he can convince you to come to vegas with him so he can keep you close, but first, he needs to focus on caring for you here and now.

oscar grabs his duffle bag and smiles as you hold his hand to lead him to your room and the attached bathroom (rent is ridiculously expensive, but at least you don’t have to share a bathroom with your roommates.) oscar sends you to grab pajamas while he starts filling the tub, epsom salt already poured in. he fiddles with the temperature for a while before it’s set to the boiling-your-skin-off hot you enjoy. by the time you join him in the bathroom, he’s added the salts and soap in the water and has placed the bath bombs out for you to choose one. oscar can’t help the small smile that rises to his face at the sight of the serious furrow of your brow as you pick out your favorite from the bunch. 

oscar hums as you hand him the jade-infused bath bomb, and asks, “can i wash your hair too? or will it mess up your schedule?”

“i actually really need to wash it,” you murmur with a humorless chuckle, “i’ve been so busy that i haven’t been taking care of my hair properly.”

oscar blinks and continues non-judgmentally, “i’ll give you an extra scalp massage to make up for that—you can start getting undressed now, the water’s nearly ready.”

he turns around awkwardly, he’s seen you naked before but he feels like it would be slightly perverse to watch you while you’re clearly in a more sensitive state tonight. he fumbles with the faucet for a few seconds before turning it off, and drops the bath bomb into the water so it can start dispersing. oscar faces you again carefully making sure he avoids staring at your body and locks eyes with you, he beckons you forward with an outstretched hand and holds your hand as you submerge yourself in the water. once you’re settled comfortably, oscar grabs your hair products (he holds up any bottle he thinks you may not want to use tonight, and you give him a thumbs up or down to decide), and then kneels at your side.

he starts to roll up the sleeves of the hoodie but your hand halts his motions, the water splashing loudly at the quickness of your movement, “you’re not getting in with me?”

“uh,” oscar stutters, “i-i wasn’t planning on it. i just wanted to give you a nice bath.”

oscar pinkens as you stare at him wordlessly and when your unimpressed gaze shifts to a slight glare, he finds himself shedding his clothes and sinking in behind you at an impressive speed. 

his heart began to race as the two of you shifted into as comfortable of a position you could achieve in a too-small tub, but calmed at your pleased hum as you settled between his legs with your back resting on his chest. this may be the most romantic experience oscar has ever indulged in. sure, it’s not a candlelit dinner at an obnoxiously expensive restaurant but, it’s him detangling your hair, it’s him massaging shampoo into your crown, it’s him scratching softly along your scalp as the deep conditioner sits, it’s you playing with the water innocently, it’s you whispering every detail of your life that he’s missed out on, it’s you gently directing him through braiding your hair, and it’s him pressing kisses to your shoulder when he finishes. there isn’t a single moment where the two of you become unsettled during lapses of silence; the intimacy of his actions is loud enough to fill the gaps. oscar can’t imagine ever being this comfortable with anybody besides you, he hates that he almost allowed you to pull completely away from him. moments like these, where you allow yourself to be thoughtlessly vulnerable with him, are exactly why he’s completely enamored with you.

your body has loosened against him, muscles syrupy and lax from the effects of a toe-curling scalp massage, and oscar gently guides you to sit upright while steadying most of your weight with a single hand splayed against your abdomen. the sound of the cap of your body wash clicking open startles you into the present, and you shift around to straddle his lap. it’s amusing; he inaudibly chuckles at the sight of you struggling to complete your change of position without sending water over the edge. you make a triumphant noise when you’ve managed to turn around to face him, and oscar’s hands cradle your hips when you rest on his lap. 

“can i–”

“shouldn’t you–”

oscar bursts into laughter and you into giggles, at the interruption of each other's sentences. it’s definitely not that funny, but oscar’s heart skips a beat at the sound of your laugh–he hasn’t heard that sweet noise in what feels like forever. he motions for you to speak, ever the gentleman, and eagerly awaits for our question with a smile still stretched across his lips.

“shouldn’t you fuck me before we wash up? so we don’t have to clean up twice?”

oscar chokes on his breath, his grip on you tightening in surprise, and he babbles, “what? no-i mean, yes, i mean—wait. i didn’t do all of this just to have sex with you, you know that right? i genuinely just wanted to pamper you–”

“oscar,” you cut him off, intentionally this time around, “after the semester i’ve had, and the less than kind words i’ve heard and thoughts i’ve had describing myself–i really do appreciate the bath, i feel reminded that you love me. however, i really think that having sex would help…solidify your devotion for me.”

oscar blinks up at you, he wasn’t quite expecting you to return to your normal sassy behavior as quickly as you did. but, he is thankful that you’ve opened up to him with no further hesitation–it’s actually incredibly attractive of you, how you’ve resumed complete comfortability in expressing exactly what you want to him. at least, that’s the excuse he’s telling himself to cope with being half-hard already.

“...at least let me take you to bed, then?”

“no,” you whine down at him, your hips sneakily twitching forward, oscar moans lightly at the light grind, “too far! saves time later if we don’t have to come back to shower.”

“you’re right,” oscar hums distractedly, moving his right hand off your waist to slip between your thighs and brush along your cunt, “i’ll fuck you here as long as you let me do all of the work.”

oscar’s blood heats at the sound of your whimpering moan and he takes his other hand off your waist to grab at your chin and he pulls you down for a kiss.

oscar groans when you pause before your lips touch his, and he feels the breath of your giggle ghost over his mouth, “mmm, i’ll never say no to that—and, didn’t i agree to let you take care of me tonight?” 

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[scoupsakakitty]

heyyy, i was thinking maybe ATEEZ reaction to you going to another idol fanmeeting or concert? (i just had this idea of the video they did literally fighting about this HABAHAHA) 🙇‍♀️

Ateez’s reaction to y/n going to other idol’s concerts or fan meeting

Seonghwa

Seonghwa hears about your plans while you’re casually chatting over coffee. At first, he just smiles politely, but his eyes narrow slightly.

“You’re going… where?” he asks, setting his cup down with a deliberate slowness. When you tell him again, he feigns calmness but starts tidying up furiously.

“You’re going to cheer for them? Do they fold their laundry as perfectly as I do? Can they build a model spaceship? I don’t think so.” He huffs dramatically and crosses his arms.

Later that night, he’s pouting in your direction but sneaks in soft glances to see if you’re paying attention to him.

Hongjoong

When you casually mention attending another idol’s fan meeting, Hongjoong freezes mid-task. Slowly, he puts down the notebook he’s been scribbling in.

“Wait,” he says, tilting his head, “so you’re saying… you bought tickets? To someone else’s event?” His tone is deceptively calm, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze.

He’ll act like he doesn’t care, but later you find him trying to write a diss track. “I’m not jealous,” he mutters, “I’m just… creatively inspired by betrayal.”

You catch him googling the other idol group late at night, muttering, “Let’s see what they have that I don’t.”

Yunho

Yunho laughs when you tell him, assuming it’s a joke. But when he realizes you’re serious, his smile falters.

“Wait, are you… cheating on me with another fandom?” He grabs his chest as if wounded. “I thought we had something special!”

Yunho dramatically whines about it all day, but he doesn’t actually get upset. Instead, he keeps cracking jokes like, “Do you think they’re taller than me? Probably not.”

He sends you texts while you’re at the event, including a selfie captioned: Remember who your bias is.

Yeosang

Yeosang’s expression barely changes when you tell him, but his tone betrays his feelings. “Oh? Another idol group? That’s… nice.”

You try to explain it’s just for fun, but he cuts you off with a dry, “No, no, enjoy it. Really. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

He pretends he doesn’t care but gets strangely competitive, suddenly talking about how hard Ateez works and how much he appreciates you.

Later, he casually asks, “So, what did they do that was so great?” but he’s clearly fishing for compliments about himself.

San

When you tell San, his jaw drops, and he gasps as if you’ve just committed a crime.

“You’re going to see them? But what about me? What about us?” He clutches his chest and falls onto the couch dramatically.

San spends the entire day “rehearsing” just to remind you why he’s your ultimate bias. He even performs some over-the-top aegyo, saying, “See? They can’t do it like this.”

When you come back from the event, he greets you with a half-joking pout and asks, “Did you miss me? Did you think about me the whole time?”

Mingi

Mingi looks genuinely confused when you mention your plans. “Wait… but why? Don’t we give you enough content?”

When you explain, he narrows his eyes playfully. “Are you… betraying me? I didn’t think you were that kind of person.”

Mingi spends the next few days randomly asking questions like, “But do they rap as well as me?” He acts hurt, but it’s all for fun.

When you come back, he dramatically says, “Tell me the truth were they cooler than me?”

Wooyoung

Wooyoung immediately reacts like he’s been stabbed. “EXCUSE ME? Another idol fan meeting? Do you think I’ll just let this slide?”

He turns into the playful chaos king, staging mock scenarios where he confronts the other idol group. “Do they know you’re mine?” he says, pretending to argue with an imaginary rival.

Wooyoung makes it his mission to remind you why he’s your favorite, showering you with extra attention. He even threatens to “outperform” the idols at their own concert.

When you get back, he smirks and says, “So, how did it feel to downgrade?”

Jongho

Jongho raises an eyebrow when you tell him, his expression unreadable. “Oh, you’re going to their concert?” he says coolly.

He doesn’t say much at first, but you can tell he’s quietly competitive. He suddenly starts singing around the house more often, his voice extra powerful, as if to remind you of his talent.

When you come back, Jongho nonchalantly asks, “So, were they good?” before casually cracking an apple in half and smirking.

“Just don’t forget who you come home to.”

[fnzktn]

hype girl

abm!haerin x abm!reader

synopsis: she never said much. but every choice she made brought her closer to you.

includes: slowburn!!!, thesis💔, soft jealousy, slight favortism but she's never gonna admit that, r is oblivious to haerin's crush😞

word count: 9.9k

part of the shs!njz series

a/n: literally had to bribe my former abm bsf to give me the link to their thesis that won when we were in 12th grade so i could use it to this fic💔 worth it

the first thing people say about kang haerin is that she’s quiet. not in a cold way, not even in the sharp, untouchable way people might expect from someone who looks like her. just quiet.

quiet in a way that feels deliberate. in a way that makes you pay more attention to the sound of your own voice when you speak to her, like anything too loud might crack the space she keeps around herself.

she doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. she doesn’t walk in groups unless she’s needed there. she never lingers in doorways the way most of your classmates do, never stays behind to gossip or stretch out her presence just to be seen. and yet, somehow—she’s always seen.

some people think it’s because she’s pretty, which is true. she is. the kind of pretty that isn’t accidental. it’s practiced, almost polished, in a way that hints at structure. school-pressed uniform, hair always neat, minimal jewelry that still somehow looks expensive even when it isn’t.

there are campus stories—her parents run businesses you’ve seen on EDSA billboards. someone once said she modeled for a school campaign when she was in junior high. you’ve seen one of those posters in the admin building. her face is half-turned, eyes slightly downward, the edge of a smile on her lips. it doesn’t look posed. it just looks like her.

but it’s not just that. it’s not the beauty that draws people to her. it’s the silence. or rather—how she uses it.

haerin’s the student council treasurer. always on time, always speaking with just enough confidence to hold a room without overpowering it. she doesn’t argue with teachers, but she doesn’t shrink in front of them either. she listens. she folds her arms and tilts her head slightly when she disagrees. when she answers, her voice is calm. measured. decisive.

there are videos on her instagram story highlights—short clips of her dancing in a studio. muted lighting, big mirrors. she never tags anyone. no captions. just her. sometimes she posts on weekends and deletes them after a few hours. it’s always a little unexpected. it’s like seeing someone blink mid-statue. movement in the middle of all that stillness.

you don’t talk often. just sometimes. usually when you don’t understand something in fabm, or you need help finding a formula for business math. she never seems bothered by your questions, but she doesn’t exactly invite them either. she answers plainly. writes things down if you forget. slides her notes your way when you ask.

she’s always been kind. just… distant.

but then came the first day of inquiries, investigations, and immersion.

third period is supposed to start at ten. but at 10:03, the iii teacher still hasn’t arrived.

the classroom isn’t loud, but it isn’t quiet either. students half-slouched over their desks, refreshing gc messages and half-finished quizlets, poking at leftover food with plastic forks. someone yawns dramatically near the back. two boys in front are sharing one earbud each. your seatmate is drawing on the corner of their paper. from where you’re sitting, you can see three people using ai to finish their business case drafts. someone opens a bag of chips. it crackles too loudly. no one tells them to stop.

you’re sitting in your usual seat—third row from the back, by the windows. it’s a decent spot. close enough to hear but not enough to be noticed. you like it that way.

outside, the clouds are thick and slow-moving. the sunlight coming in is pale, almost watery. not golden, not sharp. just soft. a tuesday kind of light.

haerin’s seat is two columns away from yours, diagonal. she’s not doing anything, just flipping a pen between her fingers. there’s a reviewer open on her desk, but her eyes aren’t moving across the page. she looks like she’s reading, but you know she’s not. she does this sometimes—sits very still, lets the world move around her like she’s not quite part of it.

someone calls her name across the room. she blinks, looks up. nods. doesn’t say anything. then goes back to her pen.

the door clicks open at 10:06. finally.

the teacher walks in, holding a manila folder. they look serious. everyone starts sitting up straighter.

you reach for your notebook instinctively.

“okay,” the teacher says, not wasting time. “since we’ve already covered your research orientation last week, we’re moving straight to groupings.”

you feel something in your stomach fold in on itself.

groupings.

you glance around. a few people are already side-eyeing their seatmates, mouthing names. some groups are obvious. some are already forming under desks. haerin hasn’t moved.

“this semester, you’ll be working on your research papers in fixed groups of five,” the teacher continues, adjusting the folder. “the subject is designed to simulate a business environment, so we’re treating this like a project-based task. not just research, but immersion. you’ll conduct field work, you’ll propose your own focus, and yes—you will defend your findings by the end of the term.”

no one’s speaking anymore.

then, the teacher adds, “and to make this more interesting, we’ll be assigning leaders. four of them. the rest will be drafted—yes, drafted—into teams.”

groans. tension. disbelief. but nothing new. this teacher is known for curveballs.

“the four team leaders,” they say, reading from a small card, “will be…”

there’s a pause. a paper shuffle. then names.

you don’t hear your name. you barely react. not disappointed—just relieved.

but then, “kang haerin.”

heads turn.

she blinks once, sits up straighter. her pen stops moving. she doesn’t look surprised. she never does.

your teacher continues. “team leaders, you may now choose your members. one by one.”

and then—

“we’ll go in reverse order. kang haerin, you’re up first.”

you freeze.

she stands up, notebook still closed. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t ask questions. doesn’t even glance at anyone for a cue. just says your name.

calm. clear. definite.

your name. first.

your name leaves her mouth and lands in the room like a dropped pin.

not loud. not dramatic. not dragged out with emphasis or flair. just said. simply. like it made sense.

and for a second, no one reacts. the class seems to hesitate—like the name didn’t register because no one was expecting it. not even you.

especially not you.

your first thought isn’t even a thought. it’s more of a physical thing—like something invisible tapping against the inside of your ribs. a second of blank stillness before the wave reaches your head.

she called your name.

haerin. kang haerin. student council treasurer. the one who’s good at decision trees and breaking down amortization schedules in under ten lines. the one who always walks just slightly apart from everyone, like she exists on a different plane of focus. that haerin. she said your name. first.

you blink. you aren’t sure if you heard it right. maybe it was someone else with a similar name. maybe she meant to pick someone sitting near you.

but then people start turning.

not dramatically. just little glances. a few shifting shoulders. the sound of someone snorting quietly to your right. someone from the back whispers, “wait—what?”

your body doesn’t know what to do. your hands are suddenly too still. your notebook feels like the only thing anchoring you to your seat. you don’t move. not until the teacher clears their throat and looks at you.

“that’s one,” they say, making a note on the clipboard. “next?”

the rest of her group fills in slowly, but no one remembers their names.

not really.

because the surprise of your name hangs in the room longer than it’s supposed to, stretching through each new pick like a secondhand echo. your classmates shift back into polite focus as the other leaders begin to choose, but the tension has already cracked. now there’s an edge of curiosity under it. something tight and low and wordless. like you’ve been pulled into the center of a story that hasn’t even started yet.

you watch her. carefully.

after you, she calls a quiet boy from the top ten. next is a girl from the debate team—someone articulate, good under pressure. then, someone unexpected again, a transfer student who barely speaks unless prompted. and that’s five.

five people. including you and haerin.

when the teacher nods, announcing that the groupings are final, you nod too. but yours is automatic. you’re still looking at her.

there’s a stillness to haerin’s posture as she sets her pen down and folds her hands, like nothing about this morning has been surprising to her. like this was the plan all along.

you don’t know what to make of that.

the rest of the draft moves in a blur.

other leaders are called. names are picked. teams slowly form. you hear your classmates call out to each other, some joking, some groaning, some whispering predictions like they’re betting on exam scores. someone claps when two people who clearly wanted to be grouped end up together. the noise returns, gradually. the room fills with movement again.

but you stay quiet.

you can’t seem to shake the feeling that everyone’s a little more aware of you now. not in any intense way—just in the corner-of-the-eye, side-of-the-mouth kind of way. glances that are too quick to be kind, too casual to be real. you catch someone whispering something to their seatmate, eyebrows raised. another girl leans forward to whisper, “since when were they close?”

you aren’t sure what to do with your face. you don’t feel smug, but you don’t want to look confused either. so you keep your eyes on your desk and your hand on your pen and pretend to take notes that don’t matter.

from the corner of your eye, you see haerin turning to the teacher to confirm your team schedule. her voice is calm. her hands are still. she could be discussing stock returns and she’d sound exactly the same. no shift. no weight. just certainty.

when the bell rings, people start rising immediately. the scraping of chairs, the shuffle of bags. your name’s been called three times before you realize someone’s waiting for you by the door.

you stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. haerin’s already halfway down the hall, her steps slow, precise. she doesn’t wait for you. but you know you’re supposed to follow.

you catch up outside the building.

she’s walking beside the trimmed hedges, the sun catching at the edges of her hair where it’s tied back loosely. she’s scrolling through her phone, probably checking the new group schedule.

“hey,” you say, not too loudly.

she looks up. slows. waits for you to fall into step beside her.

you walk together for a few seconds. quiet. just the gravel beneath your shoes, the hum of the afternoon.

then you ask, carefully, “why’d you pick me?”

you don’t look at her when you say it. just keep your eyes ahead.

she doesn’t answer right away. you hear her thumb tap the side of her phone. she breathes in once. then—

“you were the only one who asked last semester if immersion could be off-campus.”

you blink.

“i remembered that,” she adds, tone even. “you asked about real-world application. no one else did.”

you’re silent. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you’re realizing you didn’t know she’d heard that. that she'd remembered it. you’d said it in passing. to the teacher. to no one, really.

she noticed.

“i thought,” she says, slower now, like she’s choosing her words as she walks, “that someone who asks questions like that… probably has ideas worth listening to.”

your heart knocks a little too hard against your ribs.

you swallow. nod. “okay.”

she hums softly. a small sound. almost a smile, but not quite.

then she pockets her phone, adjusts her grip on her bag strap, and says, “our first meeting’s on friday. i’ll message you.”

friday afternoon. room 302.

it’s a quiet, out-of-the-way classroom on the third floor, usually reserved for electives or teachers who don’t like being interrupted. the lights are dimmer here. the windows are dusty, only half-open. the air smells like paper and whiteboard ink and faintly of rain, even though the sky outside is still clear.

you’re the second to arrive.

haerin is already seated by the far window, a half-drunk bottle of water beside her, her hair tied loosely in a way that feels more lived-in than usual. she’s reading something—a printout, probably the class syllabus—eyes scanning, pen tapping once against the edge of her notebook.

she doesn’t look up when you enter, but she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to acknowledge that you’re there.

you sit two chairs across from her. not beside. not yet.

the rest of the group trickles in slowly. you know them, more or less—two boys, one girl, all smart enough to keep up but casual enough to get distracted when things get too abstract. one of them—the taller guy with the chain necklace who always carries an iced americano into class—is already talking about presentation templates before he even sits down.

haerin waits until they’ve settled. then she speaks.

“so,” she says, flipping her pen around, “we’re finalizing our direction today. whatever we pick, we commit to it.”

no one answers immediately. someone shifts in their seat.

then the girl says, “we could do something safe. like e-commerce growth post-pandemic. everyone’s doing that.”

the others nod. something easy. something passable. nothing risky.

you hesitate. the idea forming in your head is half-formed, but it’s there—has been there since last week. it’s not as clean, not as familiar. a little ambitious. maybe too much.

but it’s the only one you’ve been thinking about.

so you speak. quietly.

“what if we did something on small community-based startups?” they look at you. you continue, voice a bit more certain now. “like sari-sari stores that restructured after lockdowns. people who used to sell in-person but had to shift models completely. it’s still e-commerce, technically. but from the ground up.”

you feel the weight of silence right after.

the guy with the iced americano frowns slightly. “that’s… a bit messy, isn’t it? hard to quantify.”

“data’s gonna be hard to pull,” the girl adds. “and those places don’t keep records.”

you nod, slowly. already pulling back, already regretting speaking.

and then—

“it’s our strongest lead so far.”

everyone turns.

haerin isn’t looking at anyone in particular. just writing something down in the corner of her notes.

“the rest are surface-level,” she continues, voice calm. “this one has depth. and flexibility. and a unique angle for our defense.”

her words are quiet, but they don’t need volume. they settle into the space with finality.

no one argues.

someone says, “okay.” another nods. the iced americano guy leans back, quiet now.

you’re still processing.

because she didn’t just accept your idea. she claimed it.

not to be nice. not to make things easier, but because she actually meant it.

you glance at her. she’s still writing. doesn’t look up. doesn’t need to.

and for the first time, you think—maybe you’re not just here because she remembered something you said. maybe you’re here because she trusts the way you think.

the hallway outside the faculty office is quiet except for the low hum of electric fans and the occasional scuff of shoes along the tiles. the light through the windows is weak and diffused, more gray than gold, casting everything in the tired color of early morning nerves. it’s pitch day, a formal pre-immersion presentation for all iii groups, and the whole class has been instructed to show up in full business attire.

the result is a corridor filled with uneven collars, ill-fitted coats, and classmates swapping belts. you’re standing just beside a dusty mirror bolted to the wall, trying to fix the same necktie for what feels like the fourth time. the knot keeps slipping sideways, no matter how tightly you pull it.

your fingers are clumsy with the fabric—too stiff, too smooth, like it refuses to cooperate with the rhythm you vaguely remember from a tutorial you watched the night before. you try again. pull, loop, fold. no good. it still sags a little to the left. you sigh under your breath and glance at your reflection. not awful. but not great, either.

“you’re doing it wrong,” comes a voice just over your shoulder. low, steady, no trace of teasing.

you glance up. it’s haerin.

she’s already fully dressed, neat in a crisp navy blazer over a pale blouse, sleeves fitted just right, a pair of simple earrings you haven’t seen her wear before catching a bit of the light as she tilts her head. her hair is tied loosely at the back, a little messier than usual, but it suits her. she looks like she’s already been calm for hours. like there was no part of this morning that could’ve unsettled her. she’s looking at your tie now, not you.

“i know,” you say quietly, almost embarrassed.

she steps in without another word, raising her hands to your collar. “stay still.”

you do. you try not to breathe too loudly.

her fingers are light but certain as she undoes the knot, slipping it free in a single practiced motion. she moves carefully, not slow, not fast—just enough for you to feel each adjustment. the pull of the fabric. the brief press of her knuckle against your chest. the clean slide of the tie being straightened, tightened, tucked.

she doesn’t comment on how off-centered it was, doesn’t sigh or frown or act like she’s doing you a favor. she just works quietly, like it’s nothing new. and yet, the air between you shifts into something quiet and careful, like even she feels the weight of this simple thing being shared.

when she finishes, she steps back. “there.”

you look down. the knot sits perfectly now—centered, flat, almost sharp against your shirt. her fingers had only brushed your collarbone once, but it lingers more than it should. you glance at her. she meets your eyes for a second. there’s no smile, no expression of pride, just that familiar neutral calm. but something about the moment feels like it’s been folded and placed somewhere you’ll return to later.

“wear it like that from now on,” she says, not waiting for a response, already turning to leave as one of your groupmates calls her name from the other end of the hallway.

you watch her walk off, blazer catching slightly at her sides as she moves. you reach up once, touch the edge of the knot again, as if to prove it’s real. it is. still firm. still exactly where she left it.

the week after, she grows quiet.

not in a cold or distant way. just quieter than usual. a kind of gentle withdrawal. she still shows up on time for meetings, still replies to the group chats, still submits her deliverables without reminders. but her presence feels dimmed, like someone lowering the brightness on a screen. she listens more than she speaks.

she stares at her laptop a little longer between sentences. she doesn’t interrupt jokes, doesn’t offer side comments, doesn’t even give you that usual nod when you walk in a room. she’s not ignoring you. but she’s somewhere else.

the others don’t seem to notice. you do.

you try not to overthink it. but it follows you—through meetings, through class, through the way your eyes keep flicking toward her even when you’re supposed to be writing.

it takes until friday to ask.

you’re the last two left in the room after a group check-in. the others have already left for lunch, leaving papers half-folded on the desks and a bag of barely touched snacks on the windowsill. haerin’s packing slowly, folding her charger neatly, checking her usb twice before putting it away. her face is neutral, tired maybe, but not upset.

you stand there for a moment, watching her. “are you okay?”

she doesn’t look up. not at first.

“yeah,” she says after a second. it’s not curt. just soft.

you wait. she zips her case.

“sometimes i just get like this,” she continues. “it doesn’t mean anything.”

you nod, even though she still isn’t looking. “okay.”

a few more seconds pass. she finally straightens and meets your eyes.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out.”

you weren’t expecting that. not from her. not out loud.

you search her face—calm as always, but this time there’s something else there. something quiet and unguarded. not vulnerability exactly, but a flicker of honesty that feels new.

“i get it,” you say, and you do.

she nods once. doesn’t say anything else.

you walk out together. there’s no need to talk.

but the space between you feels different now. not wider. not heavier. just more real.

the immersion site is just two jeepney rides away — still within the city, though farther than most of your classmates are assigned. it’s a quieter part of town, nestled past the marketplace, near a line of low-rise apartments with rusting gates and cracked sidewalks. the streets aren’t unfamiliar, but they’re quieter than what you’re used to.

your group is assigned to a small home-based printing business run by a married couple and their niece. they take bulk orders for stickers and packaging from nearby cafés and shops, operating mostly through facebook and instagram dms.

everything is done in their living room — orders lined up on a folding table, samples stacked inside plastic drawers, handwritten records clipped together with binder clips. no official branding. no business cards. just a steady, humble system that keeps the orders moving. when they describe their process, it’s with phrases like, “we just figured it out along the way,” or “as long as the supplies don’t run out, we’re okay.”

they’re generous with their answers. open, even if they don’t fully understand why you’re asking what you’re asking. haerin leads the interview. she sits across from the couple with a small spiral notebook and a list of questions she barely glances at — she knows most of them by memory.

her tone is soft but confident, her posture straight without looking stiff. she listens closely. never interrupts. and when she does speak, her questions feel more like conversations than interrogations.

you sit nearby with the recorder, mostly quiet, logging timestamps and checking battery levels. your pen stays near the edge of your notebook, unused except for the notes you jot quietly between answers.

until something catches your ear.

it’s the fourth or fifth question. haerin is asking about when the business moved online, and the husband answers easily, saying it happened around june. but something doesn’t line up. earlier, they’d mentioned having a surge of graduation orders that came through dms, which shouldn’t have happened midyear. you glance at your notes. march. that’s what they said the first time.

you raise your hand a little, quietly.

“sorry—can i ask something?”

the couple pauses. the group turns. not startled. just slightly surprised.

you glance at haerin once — she nods — then look back to the interviewees.

“earlier you mentioned that you were already receiving graduation orders through instagram,” you say slowly, “but just now you said you moved online in june. did you start using digital channels earlier than that? maybe around march?”

the wife turns to her husband. he blinks. then nods, smiling like he’s only just now remembered.

“yes! you’re right. it wasn’t june — it was march. we only said june because that’s when we opened the new account.”

the niece laughs. “i told you it started earlier.”

the husband chuckles. “good catch,” he says, glancing at you. “thanks for clarifying. we always mix that up.”

your groupmate beside you scribbles the correction into their notes. you nod, quietly writing it down as well. the others move on. but for a moment, you feel something different settle into the air around you — something small, like the sound of a quiet switch being flipped.

from across the table, you feel haerin watching.

she doesn’t say anything. just picks up her pencil and draws a small circle next to a timestamp. that’s all.

but later, when the interview ends and the group is filing out of the house, tired but satisfied, she walks beside you for the first few steps. she doesn’t speak. doesn’t make it a point.

but she stays close.

someone suggests stopping somewhere nearby before heading back. no one argues. there’s a café at the edge of the barangay, tucked beside a small clinic and a dental lab. the kind of place students go to finish essays or kill time between errands. it’s narrow, air-conditioned, with a glass counter full of uneven brownies and labeled drinks in stickers. two fans spin lazily overhead. the stereo plays a soft acoustic playlist, half drowned out by the whir of the blender.

you take a table by the window. haerin sits across from you.

your groupmates are still near the counter, debating over who’s paying for what, distracted by iced coffee options. no one notices the way the sunlight lands gently across your table. your drink arrives first. hers, a bit later — something warm, even in this heat. she pulls out her notes before she even takes a sip.

you watch her underline a word.

“you’re still working?” you ask, not in criticism — just observation.

“if i don’t mark what stood out now,” she says without looking up, “i’ll forget what mattered.”

you nod. you understand that.

she circles a line. taps once near the edge of her page.

you glance at her again. “you noticed the timeline thing too, right?”

this time, she does look up. her eyes meet yours. “yes. but you spoke first.”

she says it plainly. not like she’s impressed — more like she’s confirming something. acknowledging it.

you don’t respond. not immediately.

she tears a small square from her paper. writes a timestamp in her sharp, slanted handwriting and slides it across to you. “use this when you cross-check your audio.”

you fold the paper without thinking and tuck it into your pocket.

you don’t talk much after that. but there’s no pressure to. the quiet stretches naturally between you. outside, a motorbike rolls past, followed by the slow, hollow bark of a dog. inside, the light is soft, and the fan hums, and for a while, the rest of the group just blends into the background.

when it’s time to go, she stands first. your straw wrapper is still on the tray. she picks it up and throws it away without a word.

the classroom is warm. not hot, not uncomfortable — just warm in that way old rooms tend to be when the lights have been on too long and the windows barely let the breeze in. it’s late afternoon, maybe an hour before dismissal.

your group is gathered around one of the long wooden tables in a half-circle, laptops open, papers fanned out. you’ve just presented your revised framework to the supervising teacher. this is meant to be the mid-point consult — where flaws are spotted, adjustments made, and promising directions are encouraged. but it doesn’t feel like encouragement today.

you’re halfway through explaining your proposed angle when the teacher leans back in his chair and frowns.

“i don’t think that’s feasible,” he says, tapping his pen lightly against the table. “how do you plan to measure something as vague as that? what are your indicators?”

you blink. “well—”

“and if you’re basing it on self-reported data,” he adds, interrupting, “how do you plan to account for bias? you’re not psych students. i don’t want assumptions passed off as findings.”

you nod, swallowing back the words you were going to say. you weren’t expecting praise — just not this. not this fast. you glance at your notes, unsure where to begin defending something that hasn’t even been fully shaped yet. your fingers fidget near the edge of the printout. one of your groupmates shifts uncomfortably.

and then, quietly — from your left “we’ve accounted for that.”

it’s haerin.

she doesn’t raise her voice. doesn’t sit up straighter. just speaks clearly, like she’s adding a line to a conversation she was always part of.

“the variable isn’t vague,” she continues. “it’s emerging behavior. it’s supported by existing business literature, especially in informal microbusinesses. we plan to isolate it by observing purchasing decisions over a fixed period. we’re not using abstract metrics. we’ve broken it down.”

the teacher raises an eyebrow. but says nothing.

“as for bias,” she adds, “we know our limits. that’s why we’re framing it as patterns, not conclusions. we’re not interpreting motive. just documenting action.”

she says it calmly. like this isn’t about proving anything — just about making sure something true doesn’t get misunderstood. her hands stay folded near her notebook. she doesn’t even glance at you.

the teacher leans forward again, slower this time.

“that’s a good point,” he says, more thoughtful now. “make sure to write that in the limitations. and don’t bury it. i want it on the first page.”

haerin nods. “yes, sir.”

he stands a few minutes later, dismissing the session with a reminder about submission deadlines. your group gathers their things. someone jokes about how intense that felt. someone else sighs in relief.

you don’t say anything. not right away. you’re still sitting where you were, watching her close her folder. she does it like it’s done — no celebration, no tension. just another task folded neatly into the afternoon.

as the others move toward the door, you linger behind. your bag’s half-zipped.

“thanks,” you say.

she looks up. “for what?”

you gesture vaguely to the space between you. “that.”

she shrugs. “i knew you were right.”

you smile, small, unsure.

“you don’t have to explain things perfectly the first time,” she adds. “that’s why we’re a group.”

it’s such a simple thing. said without weight. but it lands somewhere soft inside you. you don’t know what to say back, so you just nod.

she turns to leave, walking ahead of you by a few steps. not far. just enough that you watch her for a moment before following.

and for some reason, you feel lighter than you did before the meeting even started.

later that night, the group call drags past midnight. it starts as a discussion, turns into document formatting, and eventually dissolves into half-sentences and background yawns. someone falls asleep without leaving the call. someone else plays music too loud. you and haerin stay silent for most of it, cameras off, both of you working in parallel without speaking.

at 12:43 a.m., she messages you privately.

“your idea made the whole framework work. just so you know.”

the second immersion takes place in a busier district, not far from a university belt. the roads are uneven, lined with shops that never close, and people who never seem to walk slowly. it’s not unfamiliar, but the pace is sharper — everything louder, faster, more unpredictable. your assigned business is a compact booth that sells thrifted clothing and repurposed accessories. it's owned by two sisters in their late twenties, both former design students who decided to build something of their own after dropping out.

the stall is tucked inside a commercial strip between a milk tea place and a print shop. it’s barely wider than a classroom door. the walls are made of thin plyboard, painted by hand with swirling yellows and greens. shirts hang from the ceiling. bucket hats drape over plastic hooks. there’s a mirror framed with mismatched stickers and a glass counter full of mismatched earrings.

your group arrives in two batches. you’re in the first, along with haerin and one other. the sisters are welcoming, excited even, and they talk fast — explaining how they source items, how they price, how sometimes the business makes enough for rent and sometimes it doesn’t. you and haerin take turns asking follow-ups. she stays composed, unhurried. you find yourself adapting to her rhythm — letting her ask the questions that shape direction, then chiming in to fill the gaps.

at some point, one of the owners compliments the structure of your questionnaire. “you two are very organized,” she says, pointing to your clipboard. “most students don’t ask about our struggles. just sales.”

you glance at haerin. she says nothing, but nods once. you’re not sure if it’s meant for them or for you.

after the interview ends, your group decides to eat nearby. the others still haven’t arrived. the three of you step into the street — bright, noisy, overfull. it’s the kind of late afternoon that feels stretched too thin. cars honking, motorcycles weaving, people brushing past your elbows without pausing. you feel a little dazed by it.

you glance at her once. she doesn’t look back. just says, softly, “you ask good questions.”

you turn. not quite sure if you heard her right.

she’s still looking straight ahead, like it wasn’t even meant to be heard—just something she said because it was true.

“you’re good at noticing things,” she adds, a little quieter. “you don’t talk much, but when you do, people listen.”

it’s quiet for a while after that.

the milk tea shop is cramped, overly air-conditioned. you share a table by the window, your drinks sweating between you. she takes your straw wrapper when you forget to throw it away. doesn’t say anything about it. just does it. later, when someone starts talking about deadlines, she passes you her checklist without being asked.

no one else notices anything. not the compliment. not the way your eyes follow her hands more often now. not how her voice sounds less distant when she’s speaking just to you.

but you do.

and you start to wonder if maybe she notices it too.

your group has settled into a rhythm. not perfect — but stable. every few days, you meet in the same corner classroom at the end of the second floor hallway, the one with the loose window lock and the flickering ceiling light that no one ever fixes. sometimes it’s too cold from the aircon, sometimes too warm when it’s turned off, and someone always arrives fifteen minutes late. but no one complains. you sit. you work. you try not to get overwhelmed by how much of the research still doesn’t make sense yet.

today’s focus is data sorting.

haerin is at the whiteboard, breaking the variables into columns, her handwriting small but sharp. the others are hunched over their laptops or fidgeting with printed transcripts. your group is quieter than usual. there’s something about messy data that flattens everyone’s mood. too many numbers. too many phrases that mean nothing unless you squint at them sideways.

you stare at your section of the spreadsheet. you’ve been trying to code your notes into usable insights, but everything looks off. inconsistent. like you missed something. you keep reading and re-reading your own writing, and the more you stare, the less confident you feel. there’s a margin note you don’t remember making. one timestamp doesn’t line up. you scroll too far, then lose your place.

one of your groupmates sighs. “none of this matches the framework.”

someone else adds, “i think we should just redo this part.”

your stomach sinks. they’re not talking to you directly. not even criticizing. but your fingers pause over the keyboard anyway.

you feel it. that low, quiet kind of doubt. it creeps in softly — the thought that maybe you’re dragging things down. maybe you’ve been silent too long. maybe they’re right to redo it.

you glance across the table.

haerin’s not looking at the board anymore. she’s looking at you.

“it matches,” she says, to no one in particular.

the others stop. look up.

“this part here,” she continues, stepping toward your end of the table. she places one hand lightly on the printed sheet you’ve been working on. “it doesn’t look like the rest because it was tracked by behavioral pattern, not by product type. that was intentional.”

you stare at her.

she taps one of your notes gently. “it’s consistent. just not with the parts you were expecting it to match. but it lines up with our first visit.”

someone frowns. opens the photo log. someone else flips through the observation record.

she stands there calmly, not defending — just clarifying. just stating something that needed to be said.

one of the groupmates nods. “she’s right. this part actually strengthens the framework.”

another mutters, “we should’ve started from this, honestly.”

you don’t say anything. just sit there, still, unsure how you feel.

after a few minutes, the others shift back to work. someone goes back to color-coding. another asks if anyone brought snacks. the conversation resets.

you lean slightly toward haerin as she returns to her seat.

“you didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, low enough so only she hears.

she doesn’t look at you.

“i know.”

a pause. “but you’re too quiet when you get unsure.”

you glance at her. her gaze stays fixed on the whiteboard. her voice doesn’t change.

“and i don’t like watching you disappear like that.”

you don’t know what to say.

so you don’t.

you just sit there beside her, quiet, feeling the air shift around that one line — like she handed you something you hadn’t realized you were missing.

by the time the session ends, the light outside has dimmed enough that someone finally notices the flickering ceiling bulb above. the group starts gathering their things. chairs scrape gently against the floor. someone jokes about ordering fries on the way out. no one moves too fast — everyone’s tired in that content kind of way, the kind that follows a day that wasn’t perfect, but felt like progress.

you’re slow to pack. you move your notes carefully into your folder, double-check your usb, uncap your tumbler and find it empty.

beside you, haerin closes her laptop with a soft click. she doesn’t rush. doesn’t speak.

but as you reach for your bag, she taps her knuckle lightly against the edge of your table.

you look up.

“don’t second-guess it next time,” she says.

her voice is quieter than before. almost like a reminder she doesn’t want anyone else to hear.

you nod.

she slings her bag over one shoulder and heads toward the door, her steps unhurried.

you follow after a few seconds, her words still repeating in your head, like something written in the margins, half-faded but carefully placed.

the auditorium isn’t loud, but it isn’t silent either. it’s the kind of in-between sound that settles under your skin — a steady murmur of folders being flipped open, heels tapping against the aisle, the low whirr of a dusty projector bulb warming up on stage.

the air-conditioning is colder than it needs to be. the lights are too white, flickering slightly at the edges. a bottle cap rolls faintly across the floor before someone stills it with their shoe. it’s the last hour of the program. your group is next.

you sit in the third row with your hands locked loosely on your lap, fingers twitching beneath the hem of your blazer. you’ve adjusted your tie four times now, but it still feels crooked. your name tag is pinned too close to your collar. someone behind you sneezes. a teacher coughs. you’re not really hearing any of it.

haerin sits to your left. her legs are crossed neatly at the ankle, posture perfect. her folder is closed, clasped in her hand like she doesn’t need it. and maybe she doesn’t.

you’ve seen her recite her part so many times you could mouth it along if you wanted to. she hasn’t spoken since your group was called earlier, but she’s alert — eyes focused, shoulders still. calm in a way that makes your own breath feel too loud in comparison.

the current group presenting wraps up with a shaky thank you. the audience claps politely, and the panelists — three professors seated at a long table just below the stage — begin scribbling their final notes. they don’t look impressed. the emcee adjusts her mic, her voice low but practiced as she calls the next group.

“representing the ABM strand group four, under the research of kang haerin.”

you stand when the others do. haerin leads. you follow. your steps are quiet on the wood-paneled stage. your blazer pulls slightly when you bow. the lights aren’t blinding, but they’re bright enough to make your skin feel warmer than before. you try not to look at the crowd. you focus on the screen. then the panel. then haerin.

she’s already at the laptop, plugging in the usb. the title slide appears. she takes the mic, doesn’t test it, just lifts it calmly and says, “good afternoon.”

her voice doesn’t shake.

“the study we’ll be presenting today is titled ‘purchasing patterns in low-visibility microbusinesses: a behavioral lens.’” her tone is measured. no filler. no notes in hand. just the rhythm of someone who’s rehearsed something until it lives in her bones.

she outlines the context — a breakdown of your chosen stalls, your decision to focus on low-foot-traffic areas, the nuance of your behavioral angle. she paces her words carefully, not rushed, not drawn out. there’s something magnetic in how she speaks. not performative, not flashy — just sure. like she knows what she’s saying and doesn’t need anyone’s approval to say it.

the first slide clicks. then the second. your groupmate presents the methodology, the field structure, the decision tree behind your customer approach. then it’s your turn.

haerin looks at you once — just a glance — as she hands you the mic.

your fingers brush.

your hands are colder than they should be. the mic feels heavier than usual. you step forward and look at the screen, but not for too long. you inhale, just once.

you begin.

“for this segment, we’re focusing on a behavior cluster observed during our third immersion visit — specifically, patterns that deviate from predicted logic-based decisions.”

your voice doesn’t sound like much at first. it’s softer than you meant it to be, and the reverb in the room makes it echo oddly. but you keep going. you frame the deviation, then introduce your anchor subject — the customer who repeatedly chose the more expensive vendor out of habit, not price. you explain the three-site comparison, then gesture toward the color-coded map. it’s the slide you made. the one haerin told you not to take out even when you were unsure it made sense.

you reference it now with more ease than you thought you’d have. your language stays sharp. the panel doesn’t interrupt. one of them — the visiting lecturer — leans forward. nods, once.

you close your section with the phrasing you’ve practiced exactly three times. “we interpreted this behavior as spatial habituation under limited cognitive engagement — a response not to price or brand, but to perceived effort and routine anchoring.”

the room doesn’t react. not right away. you hand the mic back without looking up.

haerin takes it again, voice soft but even, weaving your points into the study’s final conclusions. she doesn’t repeat anything. just folds everything in, word by word. her final sentence lands cleanly, “we propose a behavior-first lens not just for customers, but for how microbusinesses position themselves in low-competition markets.”

you all bow. the panel doesn’t move.

then applause — not rushed. not loud. but held just a second longer than expected.

you step off the stage slowly. your hands are sweating. the group sits down again. no one says anything for a while. you wipe your palms against your pants once. haerin is already adjusting her name tag.

but after a few breaths, she leans in and whispers something only you can hear. “you didn’t even look at your notes.”

you don’t say anything. but your pulse skips.

the rest of the congress passes like a blur you’re only half in. the last strand presents — TVL, a case study with too many text-heavy slides. then comes a panel commentary segment, then closing remarks from the research coordinator. you nod when you’re supposed to. clap when everyone else claps.

and then the emcee returns to the mic, card in hand.

“we’ll now announce the recognition for best output and best presenter across strands,” she says, her voice bright, a little too rehearsed. “for best research study—”

a pause. then your group’s name.

“—ABM strand, group four.”

there’s a beat of silence in your chest before you hear the others beside you react. one of your groupmates exhales a sharp “no way,” then gets to his feet. someone behind you claps. someone else gasps a soft “wow.” your body feels like it hasn’t caught up to the words yet.

you stand slowly.

the host reads the next line.

“and for best research presenter—” another pause, “—y/n l/n, also from the ABM strand.”

you feel it land.

this time, you don’t move. not until haerin stands beside you, her hand brushing your sleeve. not until she nods once — not telling you to go, just reminding you that you earned it.

you walk up to the stage again. your name is called. you’re handed a framed certificate, the edges cool against your fingers. one of the panelists leans in as she passes it to you.

“you speak like you’ve done this for years,” she says quietly. “you paced it perfectly.”

you murmur something polite in return. you don’t remember what.

the camera flash catches you mid-blink.

you don’t look for her after the program ends. but somehow, she’s already waiting at the back hallway, where the noise dies down into faint applause and footsteps echo off the cement walls. you’re rebuttoning your blazer, still holding the award folder when you feel her hand on your wrist.

she doesn’t say anything. just rests her fingers there for a moment — light, almost unsure — before reaching past you to push open the door beside you. the small restroom tucked behind the curtain partition. dimmer, quieter, unused.

you glance at her once, but she’s already stepping in.

you follow.

the door closes softly behind you.

you stand there, a little too close. neither of you speak at first. the light above flickers faintly, casting a pale wash over the floor. your award folder is still in your hand. your collar is slightly uneven. she notices — straightens it with a quiet touch.

your eyes meet.

and for a second, that's all it is.

then she lifts a hand — not confident, not certain, but slow — like she’s still waiting for you to move away. when you don’t, she touches your face. just barely. her thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone, a careful, searching motion like she’s never done this before. maybe she hasn’t. maybe she has, but not like this.

you don’t lean in. not yet.

it’s her. it’s always been her.

she draws just a little closer. her gaze flickers to your mouth and back again. and then finally — only when she’s close enough to feel your breath catch — she kisses you.

gently.

not rushed. not deep. not even for very long.

just once. light and hesitant, like she isn’t sure she’s allowed to.

when she pulls back, she stays near. her hand hasn’t moved. she looks at you like she’s still somewhere inside that moment, somewhere between the breath she took and the one she forgot to exhale.

“you looked really good up there,” she says. her voice is low. steady, but quieter than usual. “i couldn’t help myself.”

she doesn’t smile. but she doesn’t look away, either.

and neither do you.

for a moment, nothing moves. the air feels heavier than it should — like even your breath might shift the balance if you’re not careful. her hand lingers near your jaw, still half-raised, but she’s not touching you anymore. her fingers hover like they forgot how to rest or retreat. her eyes flicker to your mouth again, just once, then stop halfway — as if thinking better of it.

she draws back half a step. not because she wants to, but because she thinks she should. her gaze drops to the folder you’re still holding, and for some reason, that makes her expression soften — like she’s only just now remembered where you are. what all of this just came from.

“we should go,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t move.

you nod. or at least you think you do.

neither of you walks to the door. not right away. she leans back against the sink counter, arms crossed loosely now, but her posture isn't composed anymore. it’s a little messier — just slightly. the collar of her blouse has shifted beneath her blazer. the hand that kissed you now curls against her side like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

you stay where you are.

and for a while, you just look at each other.

there’s something quieter than silence between you — not heavy, not awkward. just full. like everything that needed to happen already did, and now you're both standing inside the space it left behind.

eventually, she exhales. “thank you,” she says.

it takes you a second to understand.

“for what?” you ask.

her eyes meet yours. and this time, there’s no hesitation.

“for making it feel easy,” she says.

she doesn’t explain. and you don’t ask.

because maybe you understand anyway.

you don’t leave right away. not until the hallway outside quiets again — until the echo of chairs being scraped across the auditorium floor fades into something distant. she straightens first, brushing a wrinkle off her skirt, fixing the loose strand of hair tucked behind her ear. you mirror the motion, slower. the silence between you doesn’t feel strange. just full.

when she reaches for the door, she doesn’t look back to check if you’re following.

she already knows.

the hallway is empty when you step out. the hum of the venue remains faint in the background — laughter in clumps, teachers calling attendance, someone’s name shouted near the exit. she doesn’t rush. her steps are even, light, as if she’s conserving the last of her energy. your pace falls in line with hers without thinking.

neither of you speak.

the folder stays tucked beneath your arm, its corner pressing into your ribs. your award certificate peeks slightly through the plastic sleeve. you catch your reflection in one of the windows you pass — uniform straight, tie slightly loosened now, cheeks still warm. you wonder if anyone would notice anything just by looking.

haerin doesn’t touch you again. but she walks close. close enough that your elbows nearly brush with every step. her bag strap slips once down her shoulder, and you almost reach to fix it — but she pulls it up herself.

when you reach the courtyard, she slows.

the group’s still gathered there, under the trees, trading food from their packed lunches, animatedly reenacting parts of the earlier presentations. they haven’t noticed you yet. your classmates are laughing about something. someone waves their certificate like a fan.

haerin stops beside a low stone bench and exhales.

you stop too.

“do you want to go back now?” you ask, voice quiet.

she looks at you. studies your face for a second like she’s memorizing something.

“in a bit,” she says.

so you sit down next to her, shoulder to shoulder. you rest your hands on your knees. she folds hers in her lap. the breeze moves through her hair. you feel her glance at you once, then look away just as fast.

and for the next few minutes, you don’t talk.

you just sit there together.

not waiting for anything. not needing to explain. just letting whatever this is — settle.

later that night, she messages you.

the event is minor — just a local showcase for the business track, held in one of the open halls behind the annex building. it’s loud, cluttered, not too formal. tables lined with folders and sample mockups. students huddled in clusters explaining brand plans to wandering teachers, a few alumni visiting, two unfamiliar faces from another senior high. everyone’s either in pastel polos or tucked-in uniforms, sleeves rolled up, name tags pinned crookedly to collars.

your group — the same one from III — had been tapped last-minute to present your now-award-winning paper as an example. not for judging. not for competition. just for show. a “model output,” they’d said. something for others to look at.

so you stand near the center table, beside the neatly propped-up trifold board, repeating the same summary you’ve now memorized by heart. your voice is calm. your hands stay still. you’ve done this too many times to stumble now.

haerin is just a few feet away, talking to a teacher who keeps nodding at your visuals. she’s in full student council mode — neat, composed, perfectly poised as she explains how the framework could be applied to local vendors. but she glances at you every so often. you catch it each time.

and you don’t think much of it — not until later.

you’re halfway through walking a visiting college rep through your feasibility metrics when someone new approaches your table. another student — not from your class. tall. unfamiliar. easy smile. they wait until the rep leaves, then lean slightly closer to your side of the table, gesturing to your summary sheet.

“you’re the one who spoke at the congress, right?”

you glance up. “yeah, that was us.”

“you were really good. like, actually made the topic sound interesting.” they smile, easy and a little too smooth. “kind of rare.”

you laugh once under your breath, polite. “thanks. we just rehearsed it a lot.”

“you didn’t look like you were rehearsing. you looked like you knew exactly what you were talking about.” they point toward the flowchart pinned to the board. “can you walk me through this part?”

you nod and begin to explain — outlining the data sequence, the way your group layered in comparison samples, your voice steady, hands gesturing just a little. they stay attentive. too attentive. and when you glance to the side mid-sentence, you see haerin.

she’s standing near the corner, not too far, one hand resting on her elbow, gaze trained directly on you.

you keep your explanation calm, voice even, but you can feel the weight of her stare. the other student smiles again. “seriously, you made this look easy. if you’re planning on taking business, i hope we end up in the same course.”

“i’m… not sure yet,” you say, half-distracted.

“well, you’d do great either way.” they step back just slightly. “and if you ever need help with mockups or design stuff—”

“hey.”

the word lands light but firm. you both glance up. haerin is at your side now, expression composed but unmistakably cool.

“we’re packing up,” she says to you, not looking at the other student. “you ready?”

you nod quickly. “yeah, let me just—”

“i’ll handle the rest,” she cuts in. “come on.”

you follow.

she walks toward the hallway behind the annex building, the quieter one where most students rarely go unless they’re cutting through. her pace isn’t hurried, but it’s not slow either. focused. when you reach the end, near the faculty lounge, she stops. you stop too.

she turns to face you fully now, her eyes sharp but unreadable. “you’re popular today.”

“that was just someone asking about the panel.”

“they weren’t asking about the panel. they were asking about you.”

“haerin—”

“you looked good,” she says. “too good.”

your breath catches, just slightly. “what?”

“when you explain things. when you stand like that. like you don’t even realize how serious you look when you’re focused.” her voice is quieter now. “people see it. they start thinking things.”

you don’t respond, unsure if this is irritation or something else. she takes one step forward.

“they think they can get close. like you’re available. like you’re theirs to impress.”

another step. she’s close now. just inches away.

“i don’t like it.”

you meet her gaze. “why?”

her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t blink. “because they don’t know you the way i do. and they shouldn’t get to look at you like that.”

you hold your breath.

“you’re mine,” she says. low. final.

and then she kisses you.

no hesitation. no asking. just her hand reaching up to your collar, the other at the side of your face, pulling you in with a quiet intensity that makes the whole hallway disappear.

it’s not rushed, not showy — just firm and certain. like something she’s been keeping in for weeks. her lips press warm against yours, lingering. and when she finally pulls back, she doesn’t move far. her forehead leans lightly into yours.

your eyes stay closed for a moment. then you open them.

“you’re bold today,” you whisper.

“i was being patient,” she murmurs. “you made it hard.”

you laugh under your breath, fingers brushing lightly against hers.

she doesn’t let go.

neither do you.

the convenience store is mostly quiet now. a few students linger by the window, waiting on rides. the overhead lights buzz faintly, casting pale reflections on the table between you. your tie is folded in your pocket. haerin’s hair is slightly mussed, one sleeve rolled higher than the other. your fingers keep brushing the condensation on the shared milk tea cup, half-watching the swirl of pearls at the bottom.

neither of you have brought up the kiss.

but it’s there. humming underneath everything. the shared glances. the way she sat beside you, not across from you. the way her leg stayed pressed lightly against yours. none of it accidental.

you look at her. “so.”

she stirs the drink once with the straw. “so.”

“you kissed me. again.”

“you let me.”

“you called me yours.”

she pauses.

“i meant that,” she says softly.

you turn slightly to face her better, cheek resting against your knuckles. “mm. i liked it.”

her gaze flickers toward yours, unreadable.

“but,” you add, “i feel like i should know what that makes us.”

she blinks. “…what?”

“am i just someone you kiss in empty hallways? or do you have a title in mind?”

“you’re insufferable.”

“but charming,” you counter. “and curious. what are we, kang haerin?”

her fingers tighten slightly around the cup. “you’re mine. isn’t that enough?”

“sounds like a placeholder.”

“it’s not.”

“then what am i? say it.”

she exhales. you can see the internal battle behind her eyes. not because she doesn’t want to say it — but because saying it makes it real. makes it more than just what’s been simmering between you since the first day of immersion.

she murmurs something, too low.

you lean in. “huh?”

“…you’re my girlfriend,” she says, clearer now. voice low, firm, not looking directly at you.

you grin. “one more time?”

she finally looks at you. “you’re my girlfriend,” she repeats. then adds, quieter, “do you want me to write it down, too?”

“maybe.” you lean back, smug. “school record. printed. laminated.”

she rolls her eyes, but her ears are pink. “you’re ridiculous.”

“but officially yours?”

a pause. then, “yes.”

“girlfriend,” you repeat, a little softer. “mine, too.”

you bump her shoulder lightly. she doesn’t move away.

outside, the street is emptying, headlights sweeping by in slow motion. inside, under the soft hum of cheap fluorescent light and a nearly finished milk tea, haerin reaches for your hand. doesn’t make a show of it. just lets your fingers slip together, quiet and sure.

and just like that, it’s official.

girlfriend. hers.

finally.

[just1cefor4ll]

—Celebrity crush

Joost Klein x fem!reader

A/N. ⚠️ ⚠️ this doesn’t include a description of your skin colour or anything like that— you’re just dutch specifically. in the photo part i tried to be inclusive but i hope I didn’t offend anyone!! feedback will be appreciated ❤️

Y/N L/N

Joost read the bold letters on the new magazine his friend had taken off a stand whilst they were walking to a place to eat. He nudged his friend, making her look up at him. “Who’s Y/N L/N?” His friend turned the magazine around, looking at the photo of the woman and her eyes lit up. “She’s one of the newest models and poets here in The Netherlands. Isn’t she gorgeous?” She smiles but the conversation quickly died down as they arrived at the restaurant— the magazine getting thrown away like the hours spent on editing and writing it meant nothing.

The day went on smoothly, Joost leaving to go home with a full stomach and a heart full of more memories he would cherish.

He lazily stepped inside his home, his legs barely carrying him to his bedroom to change and letting himself flop face first onto his soft bed. It felt like heaven to finally be off your feet after hours of constant walking and standing— but in the end it was all worth it for a good day. Like every other person on this earth after a long day, Joost opened up his social media and began mindlessly scrolling through the various media the internet had to offer— yet something in particular caught his eye.

stardustmanagement

liked by joostklein, just.y/n, user228847361 and 1.7 MIL. others

stardustmanagement 🇬🇧 We’re thrilled to welcome Y/N L/N as the newest member of our team. A gifted poet and a professional with exceptional potential, she brings both creativity and talent to everything she does. We look forward to the impact she’ll make as she begins this exciting journey with us.

🇳🇱 We zijn verheugd om Y/N L/N te verwelkomen als het nieuwste lid van ons team. Als getalenteerd dichter en professional model met uitzonderlijk potentieel, brengt zij creativiteit en talent in alles wat ze doet. We kijken ernaar uit om haar impact te zien terwijl ze aan dit spannende avontuur begint.

tagged. just.y/n

573K commented

His eyes lit up the moment he saw your name tagged beneath the post. Curious, he tapped on your account, and just like that, his heart began to race.

Was this love at first sight?

Was this what being a fangirl felt like—only reversed?

Joost found himself scrolling through your feed, completely entranced. Each photo, each video revealed something about you that pulled him in deeper. You looked incredible, effortlessly beautiful, but it was more than that. Your captions radiated warmth and sincerity. Your smile—soft, kind, genuine—made something stir in his chest.

He couldn’t help but adore your quiet grace, your humble presence, and the way you carried yourself with a kind of elegant calm. There was something magnetic about you. He was drawn in—no, completely captivated

just.y/n

📍Vienna, Austria

liked by stardustmanagement, aikoofan, user2718939965 and 324K others

just.y/n 💛

13K commented

just.y/n

liked by joostklein, lyraasvn, stardustmanagement, fandomhopper2 and 579K others

just.y/n so fun !!! :D

27K commented

Highlights; Dream

posted 4 days ago posted 1 week ago

posted 3 weeks ago posted 6 weeks ago

Joost had been thinking about you for weeks.

He couldn’t explain why, not even to himself. You weren’t someone he knew—he’d never spoken to you, never seen you in real life—but somehow, you stayed on his mind like a loop he couldn’t break.

He’d see hints of you in strangers. In a passing laugh. In a girl stepping off a bus. In a shadow across the street that, just for a second, looked like it could’ve been you. It was driving him a little mad, honestly. He wasn’t the type to get caught up in things like this. So, he figured maybe what he needed was air. People. Something to ground him. When Apson asked him to grab coffee that Saturday, he jumped at the chance. Anything to clear his head.

They sat outside the café, sunlight pouring over the table, the hum of street life buzzing in the background. Joost was mid-conversation when his words caught in his throat.

Because there you were.

Inside. Sitting by the window. Notebook open, one hand lazily stirring your drink, completely unaware that the guy outside had gone completely still.

Joost blinked. Then blinked again.

“Apson,” he said quietly, almost like he was afraid to break the moment.

“What?” Apson asked, lifting his cup.

Joost tilted his head slightly. “That’s her.”

Apson glanced toward the window. “Who—wait.. her her?”

Joost nodded slowly, unable to look away. “Yeah.”

Apson leaned back in his chair, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Well, damn. You’ve been losing sleep over her for weeks. Go say something.”

Joost dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t just—she looks busy. She’s probably in the middle of something important.”

“And you’re in the middle of not talking to her. What have you got to lose? Shoot your shot.”

He hesitated, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. You looked serene, almost out of reach, and yet—you were right there.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m doing it.”

Without another word, he stood up and headed for the door, palms slightly sweaty, every nerve alive. He entered the café slowly, each step hesitant, as if he thought you'd vanish if he moved too fast. When he finally reached your table, you glanced up, arching a brow as you set your pen down.

“Can I help you?” you asked, your tone calm but edged with curiosity.

He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly nervous. “You’re Y/N, right? I promise I’m not being weird, I just.. I saw you and figured I’d regret it if I didn’t say something.”

You leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit. “Say something like..?” He stumbled over his words, trying to form a sentance that wouldn’t give ‘i’ve been obsessing over you for weeks now.’ and creep you out.

You chuckled at his nervousness, the corners of your lips twitching upward as you gestured to the empty seat across from you. Joost quickly took the offer, sitting down with a sort of rushed gratitude that only made his awkward charm more apparent.

“You’re Joost, right?” you asked, casually.

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. “Uh— I, yes, I am. Sorry—how do you know that?” You gave him a look, one brow raised in disbelief, as if the answer was obvious. “Seriously? You were in the biggest song contest in Europe. You represented our country, remember?” A hint of red colored his cheeks as he let out a soft, self-conscious laugh. “Right. l guess I didn’t expect someone like you to recognize me.” You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin on your hand. “Well, I didn’t expect to see someone like you awkwardly hovering by my table like a lost tourist when you carry yourself so effortlessly online, so.. I guess we’re both a little surprised.”

Joost laughed, more at ease now. “Fair. I was hoping to come off as cool and casual. Clearly, I nailed it.”You laughed, setting your notebook aside to give him your full attention. “Well, as intriguing as this conversation has been, I have a shoot in a few minutes so I’m afraid I have to go. It was nice talking to you, Joost. Message me sometime.” You smile, tearing a piece of paper from your notebook and writing down your number before leaving the café with one last smile sent his way.

He went out a few minutes after you, sitting back down next to his friend who started interrogating him the second he sat down. He showed him the phone number and Apson whistled. “Damn, you scored.” He chuckled, patting his back.

Joost stared at the piece of paper and smiled to himself. “Yeah, I did.”

© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[accio-victuuri]

March 2025 CPNs round-up ❤️💛💚

• a compilation post i translated of assorted fake stories from the past

• same calloused hands lol

• xz vacation pics on ig seem to cue mermaid/intercross

• the fact that wyb was supposed to fly out friday night 3/7 but no one saw him. we only got a clue from a stylist. which made us all think that if he doesn’t want to be seen he won’t be. so it kinda gives some weight to all our speculation that he goes to some places when he wants to — specifically, when he wants to be with xz and vice versa. i think even his flight details were not leaked. good for him. i really love how he goes out of his way to be private and at the same time not cause commotion at the airport. i know usually brands encourage this for exposure, but i’m glad that wyb said no. now that i think about it, something similar happened to xz. no more crowds and mob at the airport. i love how they are aligned with how they approach their status & influence. always making sure to not cause some disturbance.

• lacoste pfw clowning 🐊 - mostly about their same hair and photo composition from their studios & other coincidences

• loewe clowning - mushrooms and carrots! 😂😂😂

lemme just add here that i don’t understand the fixation with the carrots. it’s even on the caption, both yibo-official and over at instagram. i can’t help but think that it has something to do with our bunny xiao.

i think if it’s relevant, we will see it again 👀 there are other vegetables there, so why fixate on it? and the fact that they bought the carrots. fans saw it on oliverjune’s post, he had a shopping cart and you can see the baguette and the carrots among other things.

also look at them with their leica 📸

there is also some conversation about the theme they got going on for their photos. even if they both wear shades and some photography/editing choices are similar ( take note yibo’s is by oliverjune-warmstudio ) — the overall feel is different. yibo was leaning more towards the cactus, vegetable and greens. while gg was more of the colors and roses. i think it totally represents their personalities.

not to go into the whole “gg is the girl” mindset. not at all. it’s just their personality and their preference. it is what they are drawn too. we love to it! tho they have a lot of similarities, you can still their individuality.

• matching tulips 🌷 - this is a lot to handle. they are so loud. 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️ why? why? why tulips and that close? you would think yibo will avoid it cause he knows he will be accused of copying gg or whatever but he still did it.

WORLD DOMINATION FOR OUR BOYS 💕🙌🏼

• YIBO GOING TO SPAIN after his PFW excursion. Take note, XZ also went to spain after MFW. Lol. they went to the same place! I wish they could go together someday 💕 this is up for debate cause some say it’s just an IP linked to Loewe weibo.

• 3/14/2025 candies! a puppy with his bone necklace and all the red, green and yellow

• there was a video that was never seen before of xz explaining some paintings and it includes van gogh’s sunflowers. people are saying it appears to be 2019 xz during OOL time. and some are saying it aligns with the whole yibo visiting the national portrait gallery to look at the same painting during this time.

• WX shirt logo

• some xzs vlog in europe episode 1 candies

• 3/21 tarot card reading

• a cute snowman in yibo’s glacier documentary looks similar to something xz made

• i’ll just add this here cause i briefly reacted to it on my blog then deleted cause i didn’t want that energy on main. so basically, a “paparazzi” who does blind item comics posted one that said there was an A list star in his 30s that was in a relationship with his female manager. Netizens guessed XZ. and shrimps were putting the blame on WYB who was not even in his 30s. lol. then the clarification account related to XZS posted that it’s not true and that XZ is single.

this has always been an anti rhetoric, that XZ is dating his manager. i guess, even if it was male, there will still be a relationship rumor. it’s a common rumor to pass around. as a cpf, i just roll my eyes at that. i know it’s easy to question things cause antis really do make a convincing argument with their bullshit “clues” but if you are a rational human being you will know better.

• oranges!!!!! xz’s is a ralph lauren ad released 0323 and bobo’s is jeanswest 0324 🍊🍊🍊

• yibo official leaves a cpf flag and then edits it

i guess it depends on who is looking and what they want people to see. because spotted in evisu’s short film docu, you can see a cpf’s bjyx phone case 😋

• a zhanbi-bobo umbrella during the race lol

and that’s it! i try my best to pack in as much as i can — with candies that are largely talked about and makes sense. anything can be “cpn” if you clown hard enough so i only include what i personally see as significant ones. 💛 see you next month!

<< previous post

[meadowfics]

Can you do Dae-ho and Byeol headcanons??

yes!!! this duo needs to be explored more and I will continue to do so in the future :D

kang dae-ho and his daughter, kang byeol, headcannons:

apart of this series linked here

I LOVE THIS FAMILY sorry, please start reading:

dae-ho was the one who named the baby “byeol,” which means “star” in korean.

he’d loved the name since he was a teenager, always feeling drawn to the night sky for comfort when he was in pain by the torment of his father.

when he first saw you sleeping in the hospital bed after giving birth, holding your baby girl to your chest, he only thought of that name.

after you named seo-ah, the two of you agreed that dae-ho would name the second baby.

you smiled at the name when he called newborn byeol by her name.

it was perfect, you told him it was perfect.

byeol looks just like you. like, scarily so.

dae-ho often finds himself staring at her with that lovesick expression, murmuring, “she has your lips. your cheeks. your eyes. she’s… you.”

there’s a softness in his voice every time he says it, like he can’t believe how lucky he is to have two versions of you in his life.

he often calls her “my little moonbeam” or “baby star.”

sometimes when she’s napping against his chest, he’ll look down and just admire the fact that he lived to be able to be a father of two.

he’ll do anything to make her laugh.

sometimes that includes full-on embarrassing himself in front of the rest of the family (you and seo-ah).

whether it’s funny faces, pretending to sneeze, or letting her “pull” on his nose.

he’ll do it again and again just to hear her baby giggles.

when she was a newborn, he was the one who figured out that she only calmed down with a very specific humming pattern.

he still uses it when she’s fussy, and it’s like magic.

he’ll rock her back and forth in the glider and hum a tune that doesn’t even have a name.

it works.

always.

when he feeds her her bottle, he always brushes the wisps of hair away from her forehead with his thumb.

it’s unconscious, instinctive, and soft.

he loves giving her her evening baths.

it’s their “dad and daughter spa time” as he jokes.

he’s meticulous about testing the water temperature, makes sure the towel is warm, and narrates everything in a silly voice.

“and now we’re shampooing the royal curls of princess byeol!”

he has so many photos of her sleeping on his phone.

like, way too many.

daeho's phone is filled with pictures of her knocked out in the weirdest poses.

he will send them to you always while whispering in a voice memo:

“she fell asleep like this five minutes ago. look at her hands. why is she like this?”

he loves when she holds his finger.

sometimes, you’ll find him in her nursery just watching her sleep.

no phone. no distractions.

daeho will just sitting in the chair beside her crib, resting his hand on the railing.

he says that sometimes, when it’s quiet, he feels the most like a dad.

he did the same thing with seo-ah, and you melt seeing him do the same with baby star.

when byeol is teething really badly, dae-ho was the one who walked around the house at 3am with her in the baby carrier.

he will whisper lullabies in korean to soothe her.

he never once complained.

he just told you, “she needs me. that’s all.”

he takes photos of her every sunday in the same spot in the house to track her growth.

every single one is timestamped.

he plans to make a collage for her first birthday.

he did the same with seo-ah too!

on bad nights, the nights where his PTSD takes over his mind and takes him back to the games or his days in the military, he will stop by seo-ah's room and check if she is okay while sleeping.

afterwards, he stops by byeol's nursery.

he says goodnight to her every night with a kiss on the forehead and a whisper of “i’ll always protect you.”

when she started cooing for the first time, he recorded a video of it and sent it to you with the caption, “your twin is making music.”

during family outings, he insists on carrying her even if she’s in the stroller.

“she wants to see the world from up here,”

he says, adjusting her onto his chest with pride.

dae-ho sometimes whispers to her in korean when he thinks no one’s listening.

he will say things like, “don’t ever forget how much we wanted you,” or “you and your older sister are the best things that ever happened to me.”

lastly, he loves how much she resembles you because it’s like falling in love with you all over again.

in byeol's smile.

in her tiny nose.

in the way she snuggles.

“she reminds me of your softness,” he tells you.

he loves his youngest daughter endlessly.

he never lets a single day go by without making sure she knows that.

masterlist

[oddaesthetin]

i love my guitarist side — han hyeongjun

tiktok trend fluff

—

“junhan, come here for a second,” you call, barely containing your excitement as you queue up the video.

he shuffles over, his guitar still slung across his shoulder, looking a little suspicious. “what are you up to?”

“just sit,” you say, grinning as you pat the spot next to you.

he gives you a side-eye but obeys, plopping down beside you. you’re practically bouncing as you press play, and he leans in to watch.

the video starts innocently enough— cute pictures of guitar, then slowly transitioning to pictures of you with the caption,

i love my guitarist side.

the music swells as the caption reappears:

but you don’t play guitar.

his brows furrow slightly, lips twitching like he’s trying to figure it out. but then the video cuts—right to him.

a clip of him shredding his guitar on stage. another of him practicing in the dorm, hair a little messy, head down in full concentration. the camera zooms in on his hands, and the final shot? a candid you took of him in the practice room, bathed in golden light, tuning his guitar like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

the screen fades to black, and you’re biting your lip, waiting for his reaction.

he doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at the screen, blinking. you watch his ears turn red before the rest of his face catches up, his hand automatically coming up to rub the back of his neck.

“wait,” he finally says, voice soft, “this is about me?”

you nod, grinning. “yup,” emphasizing the p. “you’re my guitarist side, duh.”

his lips part slightly like he wants to say something, but all that comes out is a quiet, “oh,” he looks down, then back at you, his gaze flickering between your face and the laptop like he’s still processing, “you made this?”

“yeah,” you nudge his shoulder playfully and proudly adds, “the one and only.”

there’s a pause, and then he lets out a small laugh, covering his mouth with his hand. his ears are bright red now, and you can tell he’s absolutely flustered.

“you’re insane,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“insanely sweet, uh-huh.” you correct, nodding your head as if you’re really agreeing with yourself.

he glances at you, and you swear his smile is the softest thing you’ve ever seen.

“you really think that?” he asks quietly, the teasing tone gone.

“think what?”

“that… i’m, like… part of you.”

his voice is so shy it almost breaks you. you lean back, trying to play it cool despite the sudden urge to squish his face. “well, yeah. obviously. you’re my guitarist, aren’t you?”

he doesn’t respond right away, just looks down at his hands like he’s trying to hide how much he’s smiling. he combs back his hair and licks his lips; actions that you notice he always does when he’s flustered. and then, finally, he looks up, with his eyes meeting yours. there’s this quiet intensity that makes your heart skip. “i like that,” he murmurs, voice soft but steady. “i think you’re part of me, too.”

it’s your turn to be flustered now, heat rushing to your cheeks as you look away. “OKAY,” while you’re not entirely sure why, you said that so defensively, and then added, “STOP.”

“what?” he asks, grinning now, voice teasing again. “you started it.”

“i regret everything.”

“no, you don’t,” he says, leaning closer to nudge your shoulder like you did earlier.

and when you peek through your fingers, his expression is so warm and fond that you know he’s right. you definitely don’t.

thank god for being chronically online and for not having anything else to do.

—

© oddaesthetin 2024

ughh i just noticed there’s no junhan inner thoughts ughhh (lmao). i made it my goal to always include a peek of the male pov bcs honestly y not. it helps my delusions. not even a week yet and univ ruined my brain already.

[moonlightbae20]

AoT headcanons (actor AU)!!

- eren is the FUNNIEST person ever off camera. literally has tears inducing kind of humor, like whenever he opens his mouth the rest of the cast is already laughing.

- he goes on smoke breaks with connie, jean, annie and reiner in-between takes.

- eremin are dating (fight me) although they’re very professional on set. but also, no pda because they’re lowkey both too private for that.

- armin is also a singer (a really good one too.)

- he sings constantly on set. sometimes even ruins takes because he sings while other characters talk.

- once, on armin’s birthday, reiner posted a video on ig of him singing in his trailer, unaware he’s being filmed. the caption was “does he ever shut up”

- mikasa and armin are geniunely the best of friends. i’m talking HOURS long facetime calls and flowers being sent to different movie sets just to support each other <3

- they also love to gang up on eren hehehe

- mikasa is known for clapping back at rude interviewers. has been called a ‘diva’ so many times, doesn’t care.

- the cast loves to introduce themselves with each other’s names in interviews.

- jeankasa are dating. they do red carpets together, interviews and even went to met gala as a couple.

- connie posts a million videos on snapchat with little glimpes of the cast behind the scenes. he’s the one who feeds the fans the most.

- he loves to post pics of eremin because he knows fans CRAVE even a crumb of their relationship.

- sasha goes live on ig sometimes and tries to include (poor) levi who doesn’t understand how technology works but nonetheless wants to partecipate.

- levi is a sweetheart off camera. has the most bloopers because it’s hard staying so serious for him.

- erwin is EMA’s father. no discussions.

- on his ig, isayama posts blurred pics of the friendship between the cast slowly blossoming. from armin and mikasa holding hands, to sasha feeding connie food in-between takes, to levi comforting gabi after a rough scene, to eren hugging armin after the table scene.

- the cast loves making videos when rehearsing fight scenes. they’re like little vlogs that they either post on snapchat or ig and the fans EAT IT UP.

- several iconic moments come out of them (falls, inside jokes, iconic injuries)

- hange is jimmy fallon’s favourite guest.

Idk bye

[unlikeable-female-character]

Doesn’t he only deadlift when he’s prepping for Wolverine or am I wrong? Like yes he posts gym videos a lot but why would he be deadlifting 200+ pounds just to stay in shape or whatever. I want to believe…

I don’t know if it’s the only time but he has to know, given the speculation and the fact he’s been asked about it recently, what assumptions people would make when he posted that. Especially since he included no caption. He normally puts something even if it’s an emoji but nothing?

Not saying it was deliberate but he’s not a fool…..

[whoistartaglia]

genshin men as types of influencers—part two

part one

cyno has a prank channel, but “prank” is a loosely-defined term. sure, he acts like everything he’s filming are pranks, but are they really? he laughs at them meanwhile the person being pranked ends up more confused than anything else. the ends of the videos include an in-depth explanation as to why the prank is funny and why the audience should be laughing (they’re still not).

dottore has a very bland account dedicated to his research and experiments. this includes hours long, unedited videos of him going through the procedure, and barely explaining anything at all. he doesn’t get a lot of views, except for one random video with millions of views, likes, and comments. it’s definitely not pinned on his channel either.

albedo also has an account dedicated to his experiments, except that his videos are more like tutorials. he’ll explain the procedure, what materials you’ll need, and go through step-by-step on how to set up and complete the experiment. struggling high school and college kids love him, and he even takes his time to respond to some comments.

heizou is the host of a true crime podcast. what started out as him bragging about his escapades turned into biweekly uploads about true crimes around teyvat. sometimes he’ll bring on co-hosts, other times it’ll just be him. heizou knows the ins and outs of the detective side of things, and he’s such a naturally-gifted narrator that he’s swiftly amassed a legion of loyal fans.

tighnari has an account dedicated to nature and the environment. you’ll find several videos of animals, wilderness survival guides, and even a glimpse into his own day in the life. he most certainly has a couple rants about travelers and adventurers getting a little too friendly to hostile animals—he tells his audience to learn from their mistakes, no matter how funny the story may be.

kazuha posts pictures of short videos of his travels over teyvat, and his account is very aesthetically pleasing. he has an overall neutral color scheme and the photos he takes breathe serenity and peace—even if his day-to-day life can sometimes be anything but. he always includes where he’s currently visiting and comments on the county in the caption.

lyney posts card tricks. he is able to captivate his audience with such tricks, even fooling the most keenest of eyes. his shuffling is also impressive; can he split the deck and have the cards arranged in whatever order he wants in under a minute. his audience begs for a tutorial that lyney will never give—a magician never reveals his secrets, after all.

[stylesclarified]

I need to head out for the day, but I just saw Larries on Twitter try to connect Louis’ instagram story to Pleasing’s and I feel it’s important to nip it in the bud.

They’re connecting the stories because Louis posted a dartboard and Pleasing posted a dart.

I’m not worried about Larries’ supreme delusions, because I presume that when you’ve been waiting for 15 years for something to happen and gotten not even crumbs for the last 10, you tend to grow this desperate. They’ll try to claim it was somehow planned and synchronized or some other nonsense. To what effect? They don’t even know. Like, what would it accomplish? Literally nothing. But delusional people will stay delusional.

This post is to debunk this idea that Pleasing is “Larriebaiting.” Because down the line, people will forget the circumstances and what will prevail is something like “Plaasing saw Louis posted darts, so they posted darts. A BLUE dart!”

Children, the stories were posted less than two hours apart. I took the screenshots myself. You have 12 more hours to check for yourself before they’re gone, but I included the timestamp with the actual time so it’s clear. There’s an hour difference in the counter which means more than one hour and less than 2 between Louis posting and Pleasing following up.

Pleasing is teasing a Valentine’s Day release. They have a bunch of promotional pics and videos set up. The “Romeo and Julio” fish bowl thing is part of a longer video reel

It’s a whole staged set up, which was probably shot weeks ago. You can find the full reel here. They didn’t rush to stage an entire bedroom, shoot an ad, edit, color correct it, and post it, within the two hours between Louis posting that and them posting the reel. You do realize how that is NOT FUCKING POSSIBLE, correct? Just flat out impossible?

In fact, the post was most likely scheduled. There wasn’t a person writing a caption and hitting send. Pleasing is not reacting to Louis Tomlinson’s photos. You’re only finding connections between the two of them because you are looking for them.

One day I’ll debunk all the ridiculous Larry baiting accusations leveled at Pleasing, because genuinely, one of the stories right before the fish ones was Colman Domingo wearing Pleasing on the cover of Time Magazine

I think you’ll find that this brand doesn’t need a D list washed talentless up pop star to get attention. It’s doing more than fine on its own.

[the-collector-blog]

Hugo's EP lyrics - my EN translation (Destin et Malédiction)

(The English lyrics in the video captions take far too many liberties, and other fan translations seem to miss expressions, double meanings, or true meanings. This translation attempts to convey accurate meanings, not to flow.) original lyrics here

---------------------------------------------------

my life is bleak, dull as dust

my inner demon grants me no respite

[curses/malicious words] leave deep scars that stay open

what else can i do?

my life can be summed up as being subjected to contempt/disdain

and as surviving in suffering

why is it up to me to take the blame when i'm not even at fault?

whether you're born rich or poor comes down to luck

what will be my choice between the path of thorns and that of roses?

and at the toss of this coin, i could give in or i could resist

if i'm nothing but my fate's puppet,

what is my role in this tale where hope is pointless?

life or death, i own my fate

life or death, i own my fate

my life is nothing but suffering

am i worthy enough of a fleeting moment of warmth and happiness?

life abuses poor souls violently

but sometimes offers [bits and pieces/coins](1) out of mercy

(i shouldn't exist)

what will be my choice between the path of thorns and that of roses?

and at the toss of this coin, i could give in or i could resist

breaking free of its strings is nothing but a utopian dream for a puppet

following your heart and Ravenlock blood will bring you the answer

i refuse to hear the [tolling bells of doom](2)

i want [my negative thoughts] to turn [and listen] to me

i believe in myself, i'll be my own master

i leave it to fate,

for it manifests my will

what will be my choice between the path of thorns and that of roses?

and at the toss of this coin, i could give in or i could resist

to hell with all these [pretentious precepts/pompous ideals](3)

i've turned and torn the page of my past

what will be my choice between the path of thorns and that of roses?

and at the toss of this coin, i could give in or i could resist

my fate will bend to my will

as for me, from now on, i'm my own master

life or death, i own my fate

life or death, i set my fate

---------------------------------------------------

(1) — “des pièces” means something like “bits and pieces” in this context, but it doubles as a pun, with “pièce” literally meaning “coin”.

(2) — “le son du glas” lit = “the sound of the bells”, also refers to “the toll of death’s knell”. in this song, could refer to his supposed inevitable, doomed fate.

(3) — this is likely referring to the pompous, self-righteous, holier-than-thou ideals that others want him to conform to. after all, he will be blamed/scorned/judged (including by himself) no matter what he does or doesn’t do, so he might as well walk the path he has chosen for himself based on his beliefs.

[cripplecharacters]

Hi - I’m a writer and one of my characters has congenital limb difference in both of his arms (I’m not entirely sure what specific kind of limb difference yet but it fits into the subcategory of complete/partial absence of a limb if that helps). He typically doesn’t use prosthetics just as a personal preference but sometimes wears prosthetic arms at work. It might be a silly question so I’m sorry if it is but since both of his arms are affected by limb difference would he always need assistance with fitting them or is there a way he could put on the prosthetic independently? Thank you 😁

Hey!

It would probably depend on if he specifically is able to (e.g. if he's elderly or has other disabilities it might be very difficult), but in general it's very much possible. How he puts them on will depend on how much residual limbs he has, but even if he doesn't have any nubs he could still manage it, just with some assistive technology. Here's a video (has captions) of two men with higher level amputations showing how they do it with a bit of external help (also, if your character has one limb longer than the other he would likely prefer to use the prosthetic on that one, if at all). This video (no dialogue) is by Jason Kroger and his amputations are below the elbow, he puts his on without any kind of assistance.

What's important to remember is that a lot of people with congenital amputation will simply learn to do things in different ways, including whatever line of work they are in. So try to think of whether he would need the prosthetics at all, or if he would be more comfortable using his feet.

I hope this helps,

mod Sasza