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the rae who wrote kisses for an angel can u come back pls

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MEGAN AND LARA HELLOO????

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OMG?? I JUMPED FOR JOY THANK U FOR RECOMMENDIN IRL LODI!!

do u have any smau recommendations preferably ones that are completed? Love mamma mia keep it up ☺️

completed smaus... scratches head so far i only know like one katseye author whos finished an smau bc i fear i dont read too much on here anymore

love me like a friend - @cineatros (completed)

iwh2bmx - @yvesismywife

love on a wire - @ninguitar

ready, set, spike - @aijunbi

oh my god - @jenscx

perhaps, even this @edamameimei

two steps behind - @rosiehrs

off the record - @kiiwiola

irl! - @xdanisgfx

be my baby - @lascvitae

definitely missed more (theres so many works out there now im so happy) but here r the ones on the forefront of my mind❤️

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— ✩♬ ₊˚. you get me so high ⭑ D.A

˚⟡˖⋆ synopsis during a livestream, dani plays it cool when a comment hints at something between you two, but later it’s clear things aren’t as simple as she lets on.

disclaimer daniela avanzini x 7th member!fem!reader, secret relationship (but there’s actually no relationship), closeted dani, slight angst

currently playing: you get me so high - the neighbourhood

it’s not a relationship, well, not officially. it’s not something either of you ever said out loud.

not when she kisses you in dressing rooms and pretends nothing happened two hours later. just reapplies her lip gloss in the mirror and smiles at the others like her mouth wasn’t just on yours.

not when you wake up with her legs tangled in yours, her head on your chest, and her voice sleepy and low as she mumbles, “this doesn’t count, right?” against your collarbone.

not when she lets you touch her like she belongs to you, but walks three feet ahead of you in the airport.

not when she tells you she thinks she’d fall apart without you, but won’t say a word if anyone else walks into the room.

but you know better.

you feel it. you feel it when her hand finds yours under the table, small and quiet like it means nothing, but her pinky always hooks with yours like it remembers the way your spine arches when she kisses you slow.

you feel it when she waits for everyone to fall asleep and then slips into your bed, curls into your side like it’s instinct.

you feel it when she watches you during rehearsals instead of the mirror.

you feel it when she smiles like she’s memorizing you, like it’s the last time. like she’s always afraid she’ll have to forget.

no one talks about it, but the others know.

manon figured it out first. of course she did. she watches everything. she caught the way daniela looks at you when she thinks no one’s paying attention. like she’s trying not to want something she already has.

lara picked up on it soon after. she doesn't say anything, but her eyes follow the way you shift when dani enters a room, how your shoulders ease when her laugh finds you.

you don’t bring it up. none of them do. you don’t want to ruin whatever it is that’s been building between you and dani. quiet. hidden. careful.

something sacred, maybe.

something no one else is supposed to see.

something that doesn’t survive daylight.

—

the livestream is meant to be fun. it's just the four of you tonight. manon, lara, daniela, and you. you’re on the hotel couch in sweats and oversized hoodies, bare-faced and glowing from the stage high.

the lights are warm. the mood is easy. a bowl of popcorn rests between crossed legs. dani’s thigh presses lightly against yours, like she doesn’t even realize it.

manon’s holding the phone. scrolling through comments. laughing. lara’s leaning into her side, chiming in with answers.

'who’s the messiest member?' “lara, 100%,” dani says immediately. lara shrugs like she can’t even deny it. “i contain multitudes.”

daniela leans into you a little more when she laughs, and you swear no one else notices the way her pinky curls around yours for just a second. it’s featherlight. subconscious. maybe. but it happens every time she’s near.

‘who’s the clingiest?’ manon reads. “oh, that’s you, dani.”

“shut up!” dani laughs, tossing a pillow at her. “i’m not clingy!”

"you literally follow her around like a puppy," lara says, tilting her chin toward you, her tone casual, like she’s talking about the weather.

daniela’s cheeks flush. rosy-pink. she glances at you, but doesn’t say anything. you try not to smile. try not to look too much like you want to press your mouth to her flushed skin.

and then, manon snorts, squinting at another comment. "wait, this one, ‘my favourite lesbians 🙏’"

you don’t even get the chance to smile. don’t get the chance to laugh it off or lean your head into dani’s shoulder like you want to.

daniela cuts in too fast. too sharp. “pause. pause, pause.”

she waves her hand, grinning like she’s playing around, like it’s lighthearted. "i’m straight."

silence.

it lands like a brick.

manon freezes mid-smile. lara’s shoulders stiffen. both of them glance between the two of you.

you can feel the blood drain from your face, but you don’t move. you blink too fast, like that’ll keep your eyes from shining. your throat dries up before you can even think of something to say.

daniela doesn’t look at you. not once.

she stays facing the camera, still wearing that half-smile like she didn’t just gut you with five small words. like she didn’t call your hands home last night.

you laugh, or something like it. a breath through your nose, short and fake. you don’t trust your voice. you don’t trust anything right now.

you shift just barely to the side. enough that your knees don’t touch anymore. you fold your hands in your lap so she can’t reach for them again.

you feel manon’s eyes on you. lara’s too.

they don’t say anything. but you can feel it, they know.

they all do.

but daniela keeps smiling for the camera like it never meant anything.

—

after the stream, you don’t speak. you get up first. slip away without a goodnight.

you go to your room and close the door. you press your forehead to it and breathe like you’re trying to hold the pieces of yourself together.

you don’t cry. you’re used to this. this game. this silence. this pretending it doesn’t hurt when she disappears the second someone’s watching.

twenty minutes later, there’s a knock.

soft. like she doesn’t want to be heard.

you open it just enough to see her standing there in her hoodie, sleeves covering her hands, eyes tired. guilty.

“you know i didn’t mean it like that,” she says quietly.

your heart clenches. “didn’t mean it, or didn’t mean to say it out loud?”

she flinches. your voice doesn’t even rise, but it hits like a slap.

“i panicked,” she whispers.

you stare at her. the girl who’s kissed you like you’re the only thing that makes her feel alive. the girl who touches your skin like she’s trying to stay on this earth. “you panicked and said that?”

her eyes drop to the floor. “i didn’t want it to become a thing. you know how people are.”

your voice sharpens. “yeah. i do.”

you pause and watch her. the hoodie sleeves. the hands fidgeting with the hem. the mouth that knows every inch of your neck, now too scared to even say your name.

she looks up finally. her eyes are soft. watery. she opens her mouth. closes it.

"you get me so high." her voice cracks. "no one else does that to me."

your heart stumbles. because you believe her.

you always believe her.

and maybe that’s the problem.

you close your eyes, grounding yourself. “you said you were straight.”

she breathes out slowly, like it hurts. “i have to be.”

you meet her eyes again. tired. aching. “no, you chose to be. right then. in front of everyone.”

the silence is louder than anything she could say.

you wait.

you wait for her to do something. reach out., pull you close, tell you she’s scared, but not enough to keep hurting you. tell you this means more.

but she doesn’t.

she never does.

and that’s what breaks you.

you shut the door. slow. soft. final.

you don’t cry. not yet. you just crawl into bed and stare up at the ceiling.

you try not to think about how many times she’s held you here. how many times she’s kissed your wrist and whispered things she never says with the lights on.

you try not to wonder if she’s still on the other side of the door, hands trembling, too afraid to love you where someone might see.

she gets you so high. but the fall,

the fall is always yours to survive alone.

a/n: ngl…i thought billie bossa nova or twenties would win…oh how i was wrong

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"this show is more chaotic than a katseye live" IM SCREAMING HELP OMG??

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In my mind Sae Byeok is still alive

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sneaking around.

⊹ synopsis. in which your girlfriend sneaks over to your hotel room after she spots you in the crowd of one of her concerts.

⊹ content warnings. fluff, drabble, fem!reader

⊹ pairing. daniela avanzini x reader

⊹ side note. haven't had a seizure in a few nights... praying they're done

You were taking off your makeup after the Katseye concert you had just attended, getting ready to wind down for the night. You wiped off all the glitter and foundation and all other products you had on your face. You had already changed into some comfy clothes.

As you continue washing off your face and doing skincare, you hear a knock sound at your hotel room door. You put down the product you had been holding, heading to answer the door. When you opened it, a wide smile immediately bloomed on your face, seeing your girlfriend standing in front of you.

"You were so good on stage," you told her, wrapping your arms tightly around her waist.

"Thanks, I performed better knowing you were in the crowd watching me," she playfully replied, making her way into the hotel room as you still hugged her. She shut the door behind her before embracing you back, now giving you her full attention.

"I missed you," you say, still clinging onto the warmth of her body. You were practically melting into her at this point.

"I've missed you too, my schedule has been so hectic lately," she groaned softly, rolling her eyes at the mere thought of how busy she had been.

"At least I have your full attention now," you grin before pulling her onto your hotel room bed, cuddling up to her side.

Taglist - @justmylvr @lwcedribbons @im0nsaturn @dvartefox @failurewater @f0reverfaded @t0asty1 @iv-vee @mp3nai @straows @grenadehearts @hecate-frenchfries @imagine-all-the-imagines

ⓒ luvseraph 6/11/25

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u will always be a baddie even w/o updeets IM OBSESSED WITH IRL PO

glad u like it that's all that matters 🫶 reread it recently and the humor is! oh!!

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BOUT MINE ✵ LARA RAJ.

❀ ༉ ‧ ₊ ˚ alt. I BET YOU KNOW I

DON’T PLAY ABOUT MINE .ᐟ

ᝰ.ᐟ during katseye’s calvin klein shoot, a guy asks for a photo with you — and lara shuts it down before you can give a proper answer.

ᝰ.ᐟ pairing. lara x 7th member of katseye!reader ᝰ.ᐟ genre. fluff ᝰ.ᐟ warnings/tags. jealous && pouty lara, kissing

ᝰ.ᐟ wc 2.9k

ᝰ.ᐟ katty katseye x calvin klein when... also requested by anon

(🎧) now playing — bout mine by mariah the scientist.

masterlist.

THE AIR IN THE STUDIO IS THICK. you can feel the heat from the lights, hear the buzz of cameras clicking, and someone calling for more gloss. you’re standing in front of a white backdrop in calvin klein briefs and a white tank top, and the hem of the shirt just barely covers anything. it clings to your body like it knows who’s watching.

and you know who’s watching.

lara hasn’t taken her eyes off you once.

she’s off to the side, still in her solo set outfit: jeans and a calvin sports bra with one arm slung over the back of a metal stool. there’s a bottle of water in her hand she hasn’t touched. she’s just sat there the whole time, gaze fixed on you like she’s not in a studio surrounded by stylists, lighting techs, and your bandmates.

you flick your eyes toward her mid pose. she doesn’t flinch or look away. she smirks.

“lift your arms just a little. perfect. chin down, eyes right here.” the photographer says.

you hold the pose and let your mouth fall open just slightly. and still, somewhere behind all of the heat coming down onto you, you can feel lara’s stare dragging down your legs.

it’s not the first time she’s seen you in this outfit, but it’s the first time anyone else has.

you’re toweling off sweat and oil near the monitor when someone taps your shoulder.

“hey.” he says while grinning. it’s one of the male models from the joint campaign. you’ve spoken, like, twice.

“you killed it. wanna get a shot together?” he adds.

you raise an eyebrow. “a photo?”

“yeah. just us. for the campaign. you looked… insane.” he glances down your body slowly, running a hand through his hair afterwards.

then he laughs like it’s a compliment. like lara isn’t standing ten feet away.

you glance down at yourself — tank still sticking to every curve, briefs showing just enough — then back up at him.

“insane, huh?”

he smiles again. “yeah. you’ve got good chemistry. we’d kill a frame.”

your lips twitch. you’re two seconds from saying something unserious — maybe “you couldn’t handle it” — when a voice cuts in coming from just behind him.

“she said no.”

he turns slightly.

lara’s standing now.

she must’ve moved while he was talking, because she’s right there, still in her calvin sports bra and jeans, arms crossed under her chest, not smiling. her eyes flick from his face to yours and back, slow and sharp, and her expression is unreadable.

the kind of unreadable that makes people nervous.

“she didn’t say anything yet.” the model says, trying to keep it light.

“she doesn’t need to.”

he laughs. awkward. “didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

her jaw ticks. “then don’t.”

you press your lips together to hide the smile threatening to break out onto your face. you love this version of her — cool, protective, and intimidating.

the guy mumbles something like “got it” and backs off without another word.

only once he’s fully gone and out of view does lara finally exhale. her arms drop from her chest and she moves toward you with a sigh.

you tilt your head. “you good?”

she frowns at your water bottle. “you let him stand too close.”

you laugh. “you were right there.”

“he was flirting with you.” she says, voice quiet but pouty.

you smile a little. “maybe. you were watching?”

she rolls her eyes. “i always watch.”

you lean closer, hand brushing her wrist. “and?”

lara’s lips purse dramatically. “and he was touching his hair. who even does that?”

you laugh and she frowns even more, bottom lip stuck out just a bit. she shifts her weight like she’s still a little annoyed. it’s like she’s trying to be mad but barely holding the pout back.

“i didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“i liked the way you looked at me.”

her breath hitches and you squeeze her hand. “cmere.”

she steps closer automatically and you lean in to press a kiss, soft, short, and sweet, right to her mouth.

her eyes flutter closed for just a second.

and when you pull back, her lip gloss is on your mouth and her face is just a little less tense.

“still mad?” you whisper.

lara shrugs, but it’s useless. she’s already leaning into you again.

“you’re so dramatic.” you murmur, tugging her hand.

“he was annoying.”

“you’re jealous.”

“not jealous. i just don’t like sharing.” she says, eyes flicking down your tank top like she’s lying.

you smile wider. “you don’t have to. i’m all yours, remember?”

she hums, lashes fluttering. “say it again.”

you say it softer. “i’m yours.”

she tugs the hem of your tank a little lower, like it suddenly bothers her how much skin is showing. “good. then don’t let anyone else look at you like that.”

and even though it’s barely above a whisper, you feel it all over.

taglist — @saysirhc @m00nqvv @yuyuy90

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too curious, too oblivious

pairing: cheerleader!megan x spidey!reader 🕷

about: Megan never meant to fall for the quiet girl in the windblown hair and ripped hoodie—the one who seemed to vanish faster than a blink. But when a rain-soaked near-accident brings them face to face, Megan finds herself pulled into a world of late-night disappearances, suspicious bruises, and a masked vigilante who bleeds familiarity.

genre: fluff. fluff. fluff

cw: kissing. bruises. injuries. oblivious megan. careless reader.

wc: 3081 words

a/n: gonna post fluff first before the angst cause im still writing it lol

🕷: sunflower - swae lee, post malone

Megan didn’t even know why she signed up for Environmental Science.

Maybe it was the pretty lab coats. Maybe she was just bored. Or maybe, probably, it was you.

You weren’t exactly popular—or unpopular either. You were more of a background blur. But not to Megan. To Megan, you were the girl in every hallway, the one she saw darting through the parking lot with your camera bag slung around one shoulder and skateboard tucked under your arm. You were the girl who showed up to class with smudged knuckles and hair that looked like it had just been caught in a wind tunnel. The girl who never really talked to anyone, not even in the group projects, who left the second the bell rang, like there was somewhere—someone—waiting for you.

And God, that only made Megan more curious.

She saw you more than she should’ve. Always in her periphery: at lunch, in the bleachers after school, across the quad. While she practiced with the cheer team, you were usually skating lazily in the parking lot, earbuds in, like the world didn’t know how to keep up with you. It was like you were chasing something she couldn’t see.

She wanted to talk to you. Desperately.

But every time she tried, you’d vanish before her hand could even reach out. Like she was a ghost. Or worse, like you were scared of her.

Then came the rain.

It was one of those mornings where everything went wrong. Megan was already late, hair slightly damp, books half-wrapped in her jacket, and her parking spot nowhere in sight. She circled around twice before settling on some sketchy side street a block away. With a groan, she gathered her stuff, slammed the door shut, and double-checked the locks.

She was halfway across the pedestrian lane when it happened.

The sound of tires screeching. A blur of metal coming way too fast. Her heart paused. She froze.

She didn’t even scream.

But then—nothing.

No impact. No pain. Just air. Cold, harsh air, whipping against her skin as if she were yanked out of reality.

And then the rain again. And you.

You stood there, soaked to the bone, skateboard in one hand, your other hand on her arm as if you were still anchoring her to the earth. Your eyes were wide, wild with adrenaline.

“You okay?”

It was the first time she’d heard your voice. It was rough. Breathless. Real.

Megan blinked like she’d just snapped out of a daze. “I—I’m fine,” she said, barely above a whisper.

You nodded, like you didn’t quite believe it, and gestured toward the nearby bus shed. You both made a run for it, rain soaking through every inch of fabric. You sat beside each other, both panting slightly, water dripping from your eyelashes.

Megan couldn’t help the way her heart pounded.

You saved her.

And then you talked. Tentatively at first—awkward apologies, half-smiles. She joked about you always vanishing like you had something to save. You scratched your nape and muttered something about family emergencies. You smiled. Really smiled. And that alone was enough to make her want to memorize it.

Then your phone buzzed.

You pulled it out, glanced down, and Megan saw something flicker behind your eyes. A sudden seriousness.

“There’s, uh—something came up,” you said, already half-standing. “I gotta go.”

Disappointment stung in her chest, sharp and unkind.

“Oh. Okay.” She tried not to sound like it mattered, but it did. She barely knew you and it mattered.

And you ran. Into the rain. Like something was calling you.

Megan stayed behind, staring after you like she was watching a dream slip through her fingers.

The rest of the day, she kept replaying it. Your voice. Your timing. The way you held her like it wasn’t your first time saving someone. She waited for you in every shared class after that. Most days, she didn’t see you at all. But on the rare ones she did, it was enough.

The final class of the day was Chemistry, the bane of her existence. But you were there.

Sketching.

Megan smiled so wide it felt silly. She slid into the seat beside you and greeted you like it was the most casual thing in the world—even though she was nervous. And to her surprise, you talked. Really talked. About the class, about your photos, about her routines. She told you she had practice the next day and made you promise to come watch.

You did.

The next afternoon, Megan caught glimpses of you from the field. You were skating again, circling the lot, earbuds in. And every time she got lifted into the air, your blurry outline was there—like a lighthouse.

Until the fall.

Megan’s foot slipped, balance disappearing. She felt herself tilt, falling back-first toward the pavement. Her eyes squeezed shut.

And then—nothing.

Again.

You were there. Arms around her. Solid. Like it was nothing.

Megan blinked up at you, wide-eyed and stunned. “How?” she asked breathlessly, arms still around your shoulders. “How did you get here so fast?”

You set her down, not quite meeting her eyes. “Saw you about to fall. Ran for my life,” you said casually, like it made perfect sense.

It didn’t.

But she let it go. For now.

Still, something in her chest started ticking.

After that day, Megan started watching you closer. Not in a creepy way. Just…observant.

You always had some new injury. A limp. A scrape. Bandages around your fingers. Some days you were completely absent from school, others you looked like you hadn’t slept. And then there were your reflexes—way too fast for someone who claimed to be “bad at dodgeball.”

The dots didn’t connect immediately.

It was a week later when it happened. Another late practice, another storm rolling in over the skyline. Megan’s legs ached from the repeated lifts, her voice hoarse from shouting. Most of the girls had gone home already, but Megan stayed behind, too stubborn to leave until the routine felt right.

Megan didn’t plan on seeing Spider-Woman that night. It was supposed to be a normal walk back to her car, just a little later than usual after practice ran over. She hadn’t even taken out her earbuds yet, music still faint in one ear as the echo of sirens danced with the distant rumble of city traffic. But then came the pop of gunfire. Sharp and real and way too close. Something in her chest twisted with instinct, her feet moving before her brain caught up. Maybe she was reckless, maybe she was just curious, but her legs carried her toward the flashing lights before logic could pull her back.

She wasn’t expecting to actually see her—the Spider-Woman. Real and terrifying and graceful in the most unearthly way. The masked figure moved like she was born in the air, flipping and weaving through bullets like a thread in a storm. Megan stood frozen in place at the edge of the alley, heart hammering against her ribs, eyes wide as if watching a movie she couldn’t look away from. She thought maybe it was just some stranger in a suit, a daredevil in a costume pretending to play hero. But then Spider-Woman turned—and their eyes met for the briefest moment across the chaos.

That was when everything slowed. Megan’s breath caught in her throat. There was something in the way her shoulders stiffened mid-swing, the way her whole frame locked for half a second—like she hadn’t expected to see her either. In that split-second distraction, the last bullet clipped Spider-Woman’s arm. She hissed, stumbling mid-landing before she shook it off, pushing the pain down with a grunt and throwing herself back into the fight.

But as she swung past Megan—close enough to feel the wind from her movement—Megan caught something she didn’t expect: a scent. Familiar, subtle, and so incredibly specific it made her stomach flip. Your perfume. The same one Megan always noticed when you sat next to her in chem, or when your hoodie brushed her shoulder in the hallway. She blinked hard, trying to convince herself it was just a coincidence. Plenty of people wore that scent. Dozens, maybe. But her gut didn’t believe it.

She checked her phone. Way later than she thought. Her mom had already texted twice, asking when she’d be home. Megan finally turned away, feet dragging as she tried to untangle the knot in her thoughts. She cut through a quieter street near the school, the buzz of her thoughts drowning out the distant sirens now fading behind her.

That was when she saw it.

A backpack, half-hidden beside a dumpster in a side alley. Megan slowed, brows knitting. Something about it looked so familiar. Same rip near the front pocket, same faded charcoal color. She stepped closer, heart beginning to race again. Hanging off one of the zippers was a plastic strawberry milk keychain—goofy and pink, the exact one she had given you as a joke after realizing you had the same bag. No way. No way.

She crouched, fingers hovering over the zipper like it was about to bite her. Maybe someone had stolen it. Maybe someone dumped your things and ran. Maybe there was an explanation for all of this. She was just about to open it when she felt a presence behind her—sharp, heavy, electric in the air. Her body tensed, breath caught in her chest. She turned.

There she was. Spider-Woman.

Cuts ran along her legs, fresh and angry. Her arms were scraped, the left one soaked in dark blood from where the bullet had grazed it. Her chest was heaving beneath the suit, one hand clutched to her side while the other reached forward—and Megan swore she could smell it again. That perfume. Faint under the sweat and rain and grime, but still there. Exactly the same. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Her lips parted to speak, to ask something, but the masked figure didn’t give her time. She stepped past Megan without a word, grabbed the backpack with a trembling hand, and took off into the air like a whisper before a storm.

Megan stood in the alley, alone with the echo of her thoughts and the undeniable buzz of her heart telling her what she already knew. 

And suddenly, it didn’t feel like curiosity anymore.

It felt like a truth unraveling.

The next day, Megan found you on campus, limping down the hallway with your arm clutched tightly to your side. You tried to move like nothing was wrong, tried to walk like each step didn’t make you wince—but she saw through it immediately. Without hesitation, Megan crossed the quad and stopped in front of you, concern blooming on her face like clockwork. 

“What happened?” she asked, voice low and sharp with worry. 

But you, ever the expert at deflection, shrugged and offered her the kind of excuse she was getting tired of hearing—something about a skating trick gone wrong, a stupid fall, you being careless again. You even threw in a sheepish laugh like it would make the pain in your eyes disappear. Megan didn’t believe you—not really—but when her gaze flicked to the way you were pressing into your ribs like you were barely holding yourself together, she swallowed her suspicion and nodded. She let it go. Or at least, she pretended to.

She didn’t leave your side after that. Not for the rest of the day. She sat beside you on the bleachers during free period, telling stories, asking you questions, making observations with just enough weight behind them to see if you’d flinch. 

You tried, really—you nodded at the right parts, even smiled when she needed you to—but the buzz of your phone kept breaking through, dragging your focus elsewhere. 

Another emergency. Another excuse. 

When you finally stood up and shouldered your backpack, Megan reached out instinctively, fingers gripping your hoodie like an anchor. 

“Where are you going now?” she asked, voice firmer this time, eyes flicking to the clock on her phone. 

“It’s almost third period.” You hesitated, glancing at the message on your screen before meeting her eyes. 

“Another emergency, Megs,” you said, casually enough that it almost sounded normal. She didn’t want to let go—but you were already slipping through her fingers like you always did. With a breath caught between hurt and frustration, Megan let the fabric fall from her grip and watched you jog toward the parking lot.

But Megan wasn’t going to let it end like that. Not this time.

She followed you. Quietly. Determined. She stayed far enough back not to get caught, but close enough to see you duck into the city and slip into a shadowed alleyway. She was about to call your name when someone else stepped out—Spider-Woman. Megan froze behind a parked van, her heart hammering in her chest. She didn’t move as the suited figure swung into the sky, disappearing across rooftops with impossible speed. When she finally emerged from hiding and darted to the alleyway, you were gone. Of course you were. But the bag was there again. 

Your bag. Same rip. Same keychain. And this time, she didn’t hesitate.

She grabbed it. Opened it. Dug through the contents with shaking hands. And then she saw them—your clothes. The same ones you’d been wearing earlier that day. The truth hit like a punch to the stomach.

Oh.

Oh.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her knees buckled a little under her. 

You? Spider-Woman? She let out a shaky chuckle, a disbelieving sound that held too many emotions at once. 

It couldn’t be. 

Except it was. It was. 

She let the bag fall back where she’d found it, her head spinning as she stumbled out of the alley like she’d just stepped out of someone else’s dream. She didn’t go back to school. She couldn’t. Instead, she walked all the way home, her thoughts circling in frantic loops as she played every moment with you back in her head. Every bruise. Every rushed goodbye. Every moment she looked for you and found a headline instead.

Have you ever planned to tell her?

Of course not. You never really let her in, not fully. She was just… someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe not even that. Just someone you talked to on quieter days. Someone who sat next to you during free periods and made you laugh without knowing why you always looked so tired. Megan turned off her phone notifications and curled up in bed, facing the wall. She didn’t want to deal with anyone. Not yet. Not when her chest felt this heavy.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw you in that suit. Dodging bullets. Bleeding. Disappearing. 

And not once, not once, telling her who you really were.

The next day, she hunted you down like a bloodhound.

You showed up to school late—again—with wet hair and a slightly hunched posture like you were sore in ten different places. Megan saw the bruising on your collarbone when you bent to tie your shoe.

"Where were you last night?" she asked you, casual voice. Too casual. She leaned against your locker, arms crossed.

You blinked at her, lips twitching nervously. “Uh, home. Studying.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure? You didn’t like, I dunno…fight crime or something?”

You coughed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Megan said, feigning innocence, her voice just a touch too casual to be convincing. “Just weird how you’re always mysteriously gone during those Spider-Woman sightings.”

Your jaw twitched, a silent betrayal of the composure you were trying to hold. Megan’s eyes narrowed, catching it immediately. “Do you wanna tell me something?” she asked, her tone gentle but pointed, like she already knew the answer and just wanted to hear it from your lips.

But you didn’t tell her—not then.

Later, after the bell had rung and the campus had begun to empty out, she found you alone on a bench beneath the old oak tree in the quad, tucking your things back into your bag like you hadn’t been avoiding everything all day. She walked up quietly, without show, and dropped something into your lap. Your sketchbook. The one you thought you’d lost. The one with drawings too personal to explain.

You froze. “Oh, hey—I was looking for—”

“Were you ever going to tell me?” Megan asked, her voice low and even, not angry—just broken at the edges, just small in a way that made your stomach twist. “Or were you just gonna keep lying to me?”

You stared at her, mouth half-open, like you were suddenly seeing someone you hadn’t prepared for—like all your careful plans were unraveling in real time. “I didn’t want to,” you whispered, the words thin and cracked. “I didn’t want to lie to you. But I didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t want you to get hurt.”

She sat beside you, quiet and steady, the way she always was when you needed grounding. Your hands trembled in your lap, your body folding in on itself like the truth was too heavy to carry upright.

“You saved me,” she said, her voice softer now. “Twice. And you’re scared of me finding out?”

You nodded, eyes distant. “Because…if you knew the truth, and something happened to you because of me…”

“You think I’d be safer if I didn’t know?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you?” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

And then Megan reached for your hand. You flinched out of habit, but she didn’t let go. Her grip was warm, solid, grounding. She held on tighter, like letting go wasn’t even an option. “Even if you’re the villain here, I’ll still like you,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your head jerked toward her. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, already leaning in.

And then she kissed you—not with fire or urgency, but with something gentler, something that said I see you and I still choose you. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. It was soft. Real. Everything you hadn’t let yourself hope for.

You melted into it like you’d been holding your breath for months and finally exhaled.

When you pulled away, she was grinning at you, her forehead against yours. “You’re a fucking idiot,” she said.

You laughed, the kind of laugh that came from someplace deeper than joy—relief, maybe. Forgiveness. “Yeah,” you breathed, your eyes shining with something brighter than fear. “But I’m your idiot.”

[xdanisgfx]

"which other group song would you like to cover" and ryuryeong immediately dancing gnarly 😭 oh my midzy eyekon heart 🙏

[xdanisgfx]

OFF THE RECORD | SOPHIA LAFORTEZA

SYNOPSIS— You were supposed to be invisible just another staff member on KATSEYE’s team for their comeback promotions. You’ve worked with idols before. You know the rules: be professional, stay out of photos, don’t get attached. Sophia didn’t get the memo. She’s annoyingly charming, way too pretty, and for some reason keeps finding excuses to sit next to you, ask about your lunch, or call you her favorite in front of cameras. Everyone says that’s just how she is. You try to believe that. You’re not sure what’s worse, the fact that you’re starting to fall for her, or the fear that she’s only playing a game you’ll never be allowed to win.

PAIRINGS— idol!Sophia x non-idol!f!reader

STATUS— ongoing

TAGS— smau, fluff, crack (?), idol x make up artist, written chapters

FT.— Katseye, OC, maybe more ?

DISCLAIMER— cursing, kys/kms jokes….more to be added ?

A/N— saw a Sophia smau and got motivated 🤭, promise to lock in 🤞I’m very free this week soooo, and I’m almost done with the profiles once I’m done the smau is going to start

PROFILES

ONE. Girl in pink hoodie

TWO.

TAGLIST— @fruityg0rl @skz-xii @yeetaberry127 @reey0w @yoursweetdeception @kristalag @oishiiiz @iluvyuandme

[xdanisgfx]

— ✩♬ ₊˚. forget her ⭑ M.B

˚⟡˖⋆ synopsis you let go of manon thinking forgetting her would mean healing, but love doesn’t vanish with memory — it lingers in the gaps, in the ache you can’t name, in the places your mind avoids but your heart won’t.

disclaimer : manon bannerman x fem!reader. i recently watched esotsm for the first time and it has yet to leave my brain and i kinda wanted to make a fic based off the movie. angst…ofc. esotsm spoilers…kind of- just the basis stuff (memory erasing...lol) idk chat..they were just toxic

currently playing: forget her - jeff buckley

you met her on a tuesday.

not that tuesdays are particularly magical or memorable, but this one stuck. it was cold and rainy, and you were in line at a hole-in-the-wall bookstore-slash-café, the kind that smelled like old paper and espresso beans. you were tired, burnt out from work, and had just finished your conversation, ranting to your friends about how you were probably going to die alone watching netflix while your dirty pile of laundry stares at you untouched. but then you saw her again.

she was standing in front of you, hair a beautiful shade of brown, wet curls sticking to the sides of her face. she was humming to herself — something you vaguely recognized from a french indie playlist — and tapping the heel of one foot like she was too big for the space her body occupied. her coat looked thrifted and covered in enamel pins. she smelled like strawberries and something artificial, maybe candy.

when she turned around, it was because you sneezed. violently.

she blinked at you. "bless you."

you offered a half-smile. "thanks. sorry."

she tilted her head. "don't apologize for being allergic to the universe. it's not your fault."

you blinked. and maybe that was the first moment she had you.

she stepped aside in line. "order with me. i can't decide if i want coffee or tea and i need someone to force a decision."

you hesitated.

she looked you dead in the eye. "c'mon. it's just caffeine, not marriage."

so you ordered with her. she got an espresso and jasmine tea. you went with black coffee, no room for cream. she winced dramatically when you said that. "you're definitely a taurus or something," she said.

you weren't, but you didn't correct her.

the place was crowded, so she said, "let's share a table. if you try to murder me, i will throw this scalding tea in your face and scream. deal?"

you laughed before you could stop yourself. "deal."

you don't remember most of what you talked about — not in detail. you remember the rhythm of it. how fast she spoke. how fast she made you forget to be guarded. how she asked you questions with her whole body, like everything you said was the most interesting thing she'd ever heard.

her name was manon. "like 'manon of the spring,' but more annoying," she said, sipping her tea. "i do art. and other things. i get bored easily."

you told her you worked in design. you didn't tell her how lonely it felt. how most days you went to bed feeling like you'd sleepwalked through your own life.

she leaned forward and said, "you feel sad. not like... right now, but like, in general. you carry it around."

you blinked. "you always this blunt?"

she smiled, unbothered. "yeah. sorry. it scares people sometimes. but i'm not trying to scare you."

you weren't scared. you didn't leave. you didn't want to.

she wrote her number on a napkin with a heart beside it.

you texted her that night.

the beginning was chaos and thrill. manon didn't just walk into your life — she burst in, electric and too bright, like a song turned up too loud. she was spontaneous and unpredictable. she'd show up at your place at 11pm with a bottle of sake and a stolen traffic cone. she'd disappear for three days and then come back with three new tattoos and a story about a drag show in queens.

you never knew what to expect with her. but for a while, that was the whole point.

she made you feel alive. she made you feel like something was happening.

you first kissed in the middle of an empty street at 2am, both of you half-drunk and laughing, the snow falling around your shoulders. she told you she was a terrible girlfriend. "just a warning," she said. "i'm messy. and loud. and i change my hair every two weeks. and sometimes i say things i don't mean."

you said, "i don't care."

you meant it.

but love wasn't enough.

not when she came home exhausted and refused to talk. not when you sat at the edge of the bed, waiting for her to say something, and all she did was sigh and bury herself under the covers like you didn't exist.

not when she accused you of not listening, of holding things in, of being cold. "you never let me in," she said once, curled up on the couch, eyes rimmed with red. "it's like you've already decided i'll leave, so you're trying to get ahead of it."

you didn't answer.

"say something," she begged.

and you said, quietly, "i don't know how to love you the way you want me to."

she stood up, shoved on her boots, and left. no jacket. just fury and heartbreak, storming into the street like the night could swallow her whole.

she came back hours later, drenched and shivering, cheeks raw from the wind. you helped her out of her soaked clothes. she let you. she let you wrap her in blankets and press kisses into her hair while she cried silently into your chest.

other times, it was louder.

like the time she found your old journal. read the part where you questioned everything — whether you were happy, whether you were safe with her, whether you'd made a mistake letting her in.

"you don't trust me," she said, standing in the doorway, journal clutched in her hands. "you've never trusted me."

you tried to explain. "that was months ago. i was scared—"

"you still are."

she threw the journal on the ground like it burned her. "why do you even keep it if you're not going to tell me these things to my face?"

"i don't say everything out loud. that doesn't mean i don't feel it."

"that's the problem! you never say anything until i'm already drowning in it."

the fight lasted hours. you cried. she cried. you screamed. she left again — always leaving, like pain was a revolving door she had to walk through to make sense of things.

but then came the soft moments, too.

she'd come home with groceries and cook your favorite meal. "you need to eat something that doesn't come in a box," she'd say, handing you a bowl, eyes tired but gentle. you'd sit together on the floor, eating in silence, knees touching.

or the time she stayed up with you until 4am, talking you through an anxiety spiral. you couldn't breathe. she got in the shower with you fully clothed, let the hot water run over both of you. "you're okay," she whispered, over and over. "i've got you."

and maybe that was the worst part — the way you kept surviving the breaking.

it always ended in some fragile apology, some middle-of-the-night confession under shared blankets. "i'm trying," she'd whisper.

"i know," you'd say. "me too."

you'd kiss her then, slow and exhausted, both of you already knowing it wouldn't last. but the softness made you stay anyway.

there was always another fight. another snap. another silence that lasted too long.

like the one over her friend you never liked — someone who texted her at 2am and sent hearts too often. you didn't accuse her of cheating. you didn't have to.

"you don't trust me," she said again.

"because you keep putting me second."

"i can't make the world disappear just to make you feel secure."

you told her to sleep somewhere else that night. she didn't. she curled up on the floor, crying quietly, refusing the bed. you watched her from the doorway, arms crossed, and hated how much it hurt to see her hurt.

she moved back to the bed eventually. you held her while she shook.

"i'm sorry i don't know how to be softer," she said, voice cracking.

"i'm sorry i make you feel like you have to be," you whispered back.

but the apologies were wearing thin.

you accused her of turning everything into a game, of never taking anything seriously, of loving the version of you that smiled more than the version that shut down. she told you she couldn't read your mind, that she wasn't a mind-reader, a therapist, a punching bag.

you told her she made everything too loud. too sharp. that she didn't know how to sit still with things, how to let silence be a comfort instead of a weapon.

"i don't think you actually like who i am," she said once, during a fight that started over dishes and ended in catastrophe.

"that's not fair."

"you want me to be simpler. quieter. someone you can manage. that's not me."

"you want drama," you snapped. "you create it. you can't go five minutes without chaos."

she flinched like you hit her. "at least i am able to feel things."

that night, she didn't sleep in your bed.

you laid there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of her breathing on the couch. the distance between you felt endless.

a week later, she left.

no dramatic speech. no closure. just a note on the counter in her handwriting:

‘i think we broke each other. maybe that's all we were ever going to do.’

you wanted to scream. you wanted to chase her. say you could fix it, again.

instead, you sat on the floor of your apartment for hours, holding a hoodie she left behind, breathing her in like oxygen.

you didn't see her for two weeks after she left.

there were no texts. no calls. no breadcrumb trail. just silence — thick, total, deliberate.

it was almost worse than a fight.

you went through the motions of life like someone underwater. work, home, sleep, cry. you deleted the photos. then re-downloaded them from the cloud. you opened her favourite book to find the underlines she made in the margins. you told yourself you were fine.

then the envelope came.

plain. unmarked. just your name on the front in stark block letters — no return address. you slit it open with a key, half expecting it to be a letter from her.

but it wasn't a letter. it was a form. a cover sheet. clinical. cold.

lacuna, inc.

our clients thank you for respecting their right to privacy, comfort, and mental wellness. the following individual has undergone a memory erasure procedure and has specifically requested that you do not contact them or attempt to rekindle any prior relationship:

manon bannerman.

you read her name twice before it fully landed.

there was a line below it. your name, typed in sharp black font.

you flipped through the rest of the packet, hands trembling. it was a list of instructions, like you were contagious — don't approach, don't call, don't attempt to remind them. for the sake of her emotional well-being, you were to pretend she never knew you. like you never happened.

the paper crumpled in your grip. your ears rang. you felt sick.

she erased you.

not blocked. not ghosted. not pushed away in the heat of an argument. she deleted you from her brain. like it would make things easier.

you called the number on the bottom of the page.

you don't even remember what you said. something about an appointment. something about making the pain stop.

—

you went in on a tuesday.

the office looked like a dentist's waiting room. pleasant. generic. you sat in a stiff chair beneath a framed painting of a meadow. the girl at the front desk offered you tea. she wore blue glasses and smiled like she wasn't telling people how to forget each other all day long.

then someone called your name.

dr. mierzwiak was older than you expected. soft-spoken. polite. with a tiredness behind his eyes like he'd seen people make the same mistake too many times.

"we'll need a few things," he said, handing you a clipboard. "anything and everything that reminds you of her. gifts. pictures. notes. clothes. audio recordings. we use those to map the memories."

you stared at the form. "how long does it take?"

"the mapping takes a couple hours. the procedure itself is overnight. you won't remember the session. you'll go to sleep and wake up, and she'll be gone."

gone.

it echoed in your chest.

you came back the next day with a box. it felt like a betrayal — giving her things away like they were evidence in a case you were losing.

inside was the hoodie she left. the journal with her handwriting. a playlist burned onto a cd. photos. receipts from your first trip together. a birthday card. her hair tie.

you left out the ring she gave you — a cheap, silver one from a flea market that didn't fit either of you right. that one stayed in your coat pocket.

dr. mierzwiak didn't ask.

that night, they put a cap on your head — wires connected to a computer, a screen flickering with dots and lines you didn't understand. you stared at a monitor while someone asked you to describe her.

her face. her voice. her smell after the rain. the way she licked her thumb before flipping pages in books. how she always said your name twice when she was drunk.

"start from the beginning," the technician said. "we'll move through the memories one by one. try to let yourself fall into them."

you closed your eyes.

manon's laugh. her teeth against your neck. the fight about the dishes. her eyeliner smudged after crying. your hands clutching her hoodie in bed the first time she left. the way she kissed your knuckles when she thought you were asleep. that look she gave you from across the subway platform.

the technician typed something. "okay. we're good."

you laid down on the recliner. a blanket was tucked over you. they dimmed the lights.

"sleep well," the woman said gently. "when you wake up, it'll be like she was never there."

and maybe that was the worst part.

because you didn't want to forget her.

but you already felt her slipping.

the memories began to disappear one by one.

you were inside them — literally inside them — watching yourself move through old moments like a dream you couldn't control. there was no linear order. they came at you like waves during a storm — some soft, some furious, some you didn't even realize you still remembered.

the first time you met.

you were sitting alone in a coffee shop, reading something you'd later pretend to love just to impress her. she walked in wearing a green coat and silver hoops, her hair a messy halo of red and copper, like she had sprinted there from another life. she ordered something absurd — matcha with oat milk and cinnamon — and when the barista gave her a look, she winked. then she saw you.

"is that any good?" she asked, nodding to your book.

you blinked, startled. "not really."

she grinned. "at least you're honest."

that was it. then when you saw her again, you knew that was the beginning of something unforgettable.

you watched it fold in on itself — the smile fading from her face, the ambient coffee shop sounds muting into a soft hiss. you tried to hold the chair she sat in, tried to keep the way she bit her straw when she was nervous, but it slipped through your fingers like water.

the memory collapsed.

the park in spring.

manon in a yellow sundress, her knees scraped from falling after trying to climb a tree because she wanted a better view of the sunset. you had laughed. she had pouted dramatically, holding her scraped hand out to you like a child needing a band-aid. you kissed her palm. she blinked, stunned for half a second, then pulled you in by the collar.

that kiss lasted forever. until now. now it was nothing.

gone.

another memory surged up, violent and raw — the fight in your bedroom at 3am. you were both screaming over something stupid. dishes? plans you'd canceled? it didn't matter. she had tears in her eyes and mascara streaked down her face. you had said something cruel. you didn't even mean it. her lip had trembled before she slammed the door behind her. you chased her down the hallway. apologized in a broken whisper. she had folded into your arms like paper.

you tried to hold that too. but it faded.

the next memory hit like a knife.

you were both lying in bed in total silence. one of those nights after a fight where no one knew what to say. the room was dark, your backs to each other, but you had reached out — your pinky finger brushing hers, just enough. she turned, barely, and murmured, "i don't know why we keep hurting each other."

you whispered, "because i'm scared of losing you."

she turned all the way, her voice soft. "then stop pushing me away."

you didn't answer. you never did. and now you never would.

gone.

another memory.

the night she got drunk and started crying about her mother. you hadn't seen that version of her before — the one that unraveled like thread. you held her in the kitchen, the smell of tequila and salt and grapefruit sharp in your nose. she told you, slurring, that sometimes she felt like she wasn't real. that maybe she was just a storm pretending to be a girl.

you had whispered, "you're the most real thing in my life."

she had kissed you then like it was a promise.

gone.

the memory of you bringing her soup when she was sick. of her groaning dramatically under blankets and calling you her "nurse" in a fake british accent. of feeding her strawberries and rubbing her back while she sniffled. of her half-laughing, half-coughing and whispering, "don't fall in love with me, okay? i'm too much."

too late, you'd said. and meant it.

gone.

the memory of your birthday.

she'd filled your entire apartment with string lights and old records and tiny photos of the two of you stuck to the wall like constellations. she gave you a ring — a cheap, silver one that turned your finger green, but you wore it anyway. she looked scared when you opened it, like she thought you'd say no.

"i just wanted you to have something of me," she'd said.

you had kissed her slow and deep and whispered, "i already do."

gone.

gone.

gone.

you started to panic.

the memories were unraveling faster now, fraying at the edges before you could even feel them fully. you started running — through doors that no longer led anywhere, past places that no longer had names.

the fights. the nights apart. the quiet moments. her sleeping on your chest. her dancing barefoot in your kitchen. the way she always said "i hate you" before kissing you senseless.

the night she said "i think we're doomed" and you laughed until you realized she meant it.

her crying into your coat at the train station. her voice shaking as she said, "i don't know how to stop loving you, but i also don't know how to keep doing this."

your hand reaching for hers. her stepping back.

then — in the middle of it — she was there.

not the memory version. her.

manon.

or some figment of her your brain was clinging to with everything it had left.

she looked different here. blurry. soft around the edges. but her eyes were the same.

she looked at you like she'd just woken up from a nightmare.

"why are you here?" she whispered. "you're not supposed to be here."

you reached for her. "you left. you erased me."

she looked down. "i didn't think you'd do it too."

you grabbed her wrist. "i didn't want to."

"then why did you?"

you swallowed. "because i couldn't keep waking up without you."

her eyes glistened. "i was scared."

"i was too."

she leaned into your touch. "we can hide. we can stay in the memories. think of something. there are still places they won't look."

you followed her.

you buried yourselves inside the cracks.

a made-up apartment with walls you painted together. a childhood treehouse. a drive through a city you never visited. the night sky from her hometown. a room filled with books you never read, but she swore you'd love.

each time, the walls collapsed around you like paper burning at the edges.

you clutched her tighter.

"i don't want to forget you," you choked out.

she looked at you, eyes glassy. "then remember me now."

"tell me something only i would know."

she leaned in close. "you cried after i kissed your shoulder for the first time. but you said it was because of the movie we were watching."

you laughed, even as you cried.

"tell me again."

she kissed your cheek. "i loved you."

the room faded.

"say it again."

"i love y—"

gone.

you woke up gasping.

and the ache in your chest was enormous. like something had been torn out without anesthetic. you didn't remember her name. her face. her voice. but you missed her.

you missed her so much it felt like drowning in a dream you couldn't quite remember.

—

it was snowing again.

not the heavy kind — not a storm — just a slow, drifting fall, like the sky was emptying itself in the gentlest way it knew how. the kind of snow that softened the city, blanketed the world in hush. traffic moved slower. voices grew quieter. every sound was absorbed into white.

you walked down 7th street with your hands in your coat pockets, scarf drawn up to your nose. you didn't have a destination. just movement. sometimes it helped. sometimes it didn't.

today, everything ached without explanation.

your fingers were cold. your chest was heavier than usual. there was something playing on your phone through your earbuds — lo-fi, wordless, the kind of music you always chose when you didn't want to think too hard. and still, something stirred.

a memory that didn't feel like a memory.

a girl laughing in a kitchen.

cigarette smoke on a balcony.

a fight in a hallway that ended with someone saying, "don't walk away again."

but no name. no image. just static where something important used to be.

you pulled your coat tighter. turned the corner by a bookstore you used to like but didn't remember why. that feeling was happening more often now — small places or objects or sounds tugging at something you couldn't quite grab. you figured it was just déjà vu. or anxiety.

the wind blew past.

and then—

you saw her.

walking toward you on the opposite side of the sidewalk. the crowd parted like a trick of fate, just long enough for your eyes to find her.

she wasn't looking up at first — she was pulling something out of her bag, her pace quick, her hair short, auburn maybe, with streaks of gold like it had once been bleached and grown out. she wore a navy coat and brown boots, and she had a small tear in her scarf, right near the collar.

you stopped.

your breath caught in your throat before your brain could catch up.

then she looked up too.

for one unbearable second, her eyes met yours.

and the world stopped.

not metaphorically. not just in your head. it truly stopped.

the wind stilled. the snowflakes froze mid-air. a bus idled in the street but didn't move. your heartbeat thundered in your ears — not fast, just loud, like it was echoing off of something deep and hollow. the shape of her face, the tilt of her head, the slope of her mouth — none of it felt new.

but you couldn't place her.

she looked at you like she was trying to solve a riddle. her eyes scanned your face, then flickered down to your hand, where you were clenching something without knowing — the corner of a wrinkled paper, sticking out from your pocket. you hadn't noticed it before.

you didn't know where it came from.

she didn't say anything.

you didn't either.

but something passed between you. a heaviness. a pull. a gravitational echo of a thousand things left unsaid. her mouth parted like she might speak — but didn't. instead, she gave the smallest smile. polite. cautious.

familiar.

and then she walked.

right past you.

you turned, just a beat too late, just in time to see her disappear into the crowd. you could've called out. could've said, excuse me, have we met? but you didn't.

because how do you ask a stranger if they once held your heart in both hands?

you kept walking.

and the snow kept falling.

you didn't notice you were holding the paper until the wind almost stole it.

you pulled it from your pocket and opened it. there was no return address, no letter — just a page, yellowed and creased, torn from a notebook. on it, in handwriting that looked an awful lot like yours, were the words:

"remember her anyway."

you stared at it for a long time.

then folded it and tucked it back into your pocket.

you didn't know who she was. or what she meant. but tonight, you'd dream of someone dancing barefoot in your kitchen. you wouldn't know why it hurt.

you wouldn't know why it mattered.

you'd forget again.

but something would always stay.

a/n: in my head, this was supposed to be longer ☹️ i fear i might not have done the movie justice... getting back into my angst era. the season is changing and i’m sad

[xdanisgfx]

manon honey... what does this mean

[xdanisgfx]

i love it when a baddie (you 🫶) spoil us w chaps

let's hope it keeps coming so i can stay a baddie 🙂‍↕️🙏

[xdanisgfx]

ʚɞ IRL — 32 they wont find us here !

daniela doesn't say anything when she steps into y/n's car. doesn't utter a word when y/n asks if she's comfortable, lets only a hint of a smile show when she cracks a joke, keeps her eyes trained harshly on the road.

y/n can't handle any of it. the air around them was too forced, like being friendly was an act to keep up. but it wasn't hostile either — just unnatural, tense.

y/n brakes abruptly when the red light comes on. she stares at daniela, who still wouldn't spare her a glance. "okay, enough of this. what's wrong?"

no answer. someone crosses on the pedestrian lane in front of them.

the taller of the two sighs, running both hands over her face. "dani, i know we're not close, but seriously. your texts. last night. you're never — never — this quiet."

"green light," daniela mutters.

y/n hits the steering wheel. hard. the latina flinches, head whipping to finally look at her, alarm plastered over her expression. "what the fuck?"

"i don't want to pry but i want to help you," the black haired girl says, hands flying around as she drives. voice gentle although she's frustrated. "daniela, i want to know, i want to make you feel better, and i can't if you won't talk to me or even look at me — we're not best friends but i'm your friend now and i want. to. help."

daniela watches her. hesitant, but genuinely touched that y/n considers them friends even after how daniela acted up with her.

"we're good now, right?" y/n continues, glancing at her. "i'm sorry i missed your text. but you can tell me now, we can hang out, i promise. just... what's going on?"

the half-blonde turns her gaze back to the road, fiddling with her sleeves. "my ex boyfriend found me last night."

silence ensues as y/n lets her words sink in.

"he was really drunk, he- he was yelling at me, on the street, i couldn't understand but he wouldn't let me go and i-" her voice cracks as she explains, tears slipping over her waterline. "i was so scared," daniela whispers. "i didn't end things well with him. y/n, i'm scared he's going to find me and he'll do something, and i-"

"hey, hey, hey," y/n panics, reaching out to pull a tissue from the dashboard. she hands it to the girl, attention flitting between her and the road. "nothing's gonna happen dani. not now. not ever. i'm here, okay?"

lets her blow her nose quietly. calm down. rubs her arm comfortingly.

y/n comes to a decision. "you shouldn't go to work today."

daniela laughs wetly. "we're already on the way."

"no. we're going somewhere else. who cares if one cafe in new york is closed for the day?"

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