#and he starts caring for her the way he cares for people which i can only assume is by constantly asking her if she hates him

[no-144444]

confronting- o.piastri

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! Skyf1interviewer! reader

summary: a confrontation in a hotel room doesn't go so well thanks to Franco's loud mouth...

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

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Entertaining the idea of dating Oscar when you knew you’d be gone at the end of the season wasn’t fair. He deserved someone who’d be there for every race, be there for him. You weren’t that person. You weren’t the person anyone should want, you just weren’t like that. 

Qatar rolled around and Oscar won the Sprint, and he was P3 in the race. You were meant to do the interviews. He knew that. That’s why he frowned when he was met with Jenson’s face at the end of the race. 

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, not holding the microphone up to his mouth. 

Jenson smirked. “Missing her?”

Oscar nodded. 

“She’s with Franco, he was pretty upset after the crash.”

“Oh,” he nodded, and the interview began. 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

It’s not like you were trying to avoid him, it was just… easier that way. And Franco really was quite shaken after the crash, so that part wasn’t a lie either. You just didn’t want to deal with all of the shit the media and people online would give the two of you. You just wanted a nice, clean break from the world of F1, and the people online who shipped you and Oscar would never let that happen. It was upsetting, because he really was a good friend to you, and you thought you were a good friend to him. Maybe it could’ve been something else, if things were different. You sat with Franco, calming him down since he was pretty upset that his second last race of the season was fucked by a silly turn-one incident. 

“What’s going on with you and that model?” you asked. He chuckled. 

“Oh my, you saw it too? It’s so embarrassing,” he sighed. “Even my mother has been asking me about it.”

“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” you laughed at his reaction. “We can talk about anything you want.”

“What’s going on with you and Oscar?” he smirked and your face fell slightly. 

“Nothing,” you shook your head. “We’re friends.”

“Friends?” he pried. “You two seem like more than ‘friends’ to me.”

You rolled your eyes. “We’re not. We’re just friends,” you assured him. 

Franco sat up, leaning closer to you. He was so close his breath was on your cheek, his eyes staring longingly into yours. You knew what he was doing.  “So he wouldn’t mind it if someone kissed you, no?”

You laughed, pushing him back down to his previous position of lying down. “Stop being weird. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He shouldn’t care anyway.”

“Let’s test that,” Franco challenged. “Kiss me in front of him, and then we’ll know. I’ll ask Lando to tell me about it, they’re close, right?”

You sighed, something about it felt a little bit… manipulative. And it’s not like you were looking for Oscar to like you back, he didn’t. That’s what he’d said the last time, it was only a joke, a prank, a mistake. Which was fine with you, of course. It made sense. You couldn’t be there for him while you were supposed to be there for someone else. Someone else on his team. 

Ok, so maybe the move to Indycar isn’t just about Sky starting to cover it. Maybe, they need more European fans, and you have to go over there and sell it to them with a relationship with Pato O’Ward. Maybe McLaren is paying you a lot of money to do that. 

Just maybe though. 

“I can’t do that Franco,” you explained. “It’s not fair. And anyways, I’m kind of… seeing someone.”

“Is it Oscar?!” he questioned. You shook your head. “Lando? Lance? Zhou? Yuki? Who?” “He’s not in F1!” you giggled, watching as Franco freaked out. 

“Who is he?! You have to tell me right now!” he begged, taking your hands. 

“He’s in Indycar, that’s all I’ll tell you,” you smirked and his jaw dropped. 

“Is that why you’re leaving?!” he almost shouted. 

“No! Sky really is just branching out, but yes, it is nice that I’ll actually be able to watch his races,” you chuckled. 

“I’ll miss you,” he frowned. 

“I’ll miss you too,” you chuckled, pulling him in for a hug. “Now, I have to go do my post-race duties, so I’ll see you in Abu Dhabi, alright?”

He frowned even deeper. “Alright,” he mumbled. “I can’t believe you’re leaving me!”

You left the Williams garage with a smile on your face, very much amused by your conversation with Franco. 

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You pulled up to the media pen, really to meet with Jenson and Nico, your co-hosts this weekend, but they were nowhere to be seen. Regardless, you prepared yourself with the running order. 

Lance, Lando, Max, Checo, Zhou, and Fernando. That’s all you had to get through before you got on a flight to Abu Dhabi the next morning. After another few minutes of waiting, Nico and Jenson showed up, acting slightly strange. They weren't really speaking to you, only with each other. It’s not like they were excluding you, just… not asking for your input. They seemed guilty too. 

Lance, Lando, Max, and Checo were all fine, polite and out of there quickly. Oscar didn’t show up. Unsurprising, as you had been avoiding him. Zhou and Fernando went by in a flash, and you were back to your hotel by 2am. 

When you walked into your hotel, you were not expecting to see Oscar Piastri standing outside your door. 

Holy shit. You were so astronomically fucked. 

“What are you doing here?” you questioned. He turned to you. 

He cleared his throat. He’d been thinking of a response to that question since the second he’d started waiting outside for you. What was he doing? This was insane. His plan was to make you stay, but he was much too upset to talk rationally when he got the text from Franco about you seeing an Indycar driver. Honestly, it crushed him. He genuinely thought you’d liked him. “I wanted to… talk? Or something, just to gauge what the fuck is going on here,” he was getting heated, and you understood he was probably angry with you, and it’s not like he didn’t have a reason. 

“What do you mean?” you asked, opening your hotel room door and letting him inside. 

“You’re going to Indycar?” he questioned. “What the fuck?”  

You gulped, hard. “Yeah?” 

“Why?” he demanded. “What does Indycar have that F1 doesn’t? F1 is faster cars, faster drivers, more money, more races, more countries, more-”

“Oscar! Did it ever occur to you that this wasn’t my fucking choice?!” you shouted over him. Silence. “Indycar doesn’t have Sky coverage, but Europeans are interested in the sport and they need a known interviewer to go there and make it easier to sell it to people, and I got picked. That’s it.” 

“So it has nothing to do with whatever Indycar driver you’re fucking?” he scoffed. Your face fell. Your eyes fell to the hardwood floor beneath your feet. “Yeah, I know.”

Your face soured and you looked up again, offended. Who did he think he was? He had no say in your life at all. You’d hated him for 2 years, and you had no real reason to, now you had one. “I owe you nothing Oscar. I’m an adult in a consenting relationship, and yes he’s in Indycar, is that a crime?” 

“Is that why you’re going over there?” he asked, stepping closer to you. You could cut the atmosphere in the room with a knife. “Or are you running away from something here?” 

“Fuck you,” you pushed him back. This wasn't the Oscar you knew. He was different, angry, mean, and rude. You owed him nothing. “Get out.” 

He nodded, and left without another word. 

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mclaren masterlist

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[twstfanblog]

Heyyyyy so uhhhhh…

What if the mc back in their world was a slave? Not servant like jamil, just, straight up slave where their opinion didn’t matter :( n they r female, afab, pronounce she/they? Hopefully nothing bad happened but people who get slaves r bad people so :((( overblot boys pls 🙏🥺

I feel like they would all threaten crowley to absolutely NOT look for a way to send mc home n to stop making her do his things cause that reminds her of back home in a very bad way :(

N then they comfort n hold the mc cause they r safe n wont have to be treated like shit anymore :(

They will punch anyone who treats em like shit

Which practically everyone in school did when they arrived at NRC, and they just thought ‘this is normal’. :(

Overblot Boys React to Slave Reader

Overblot Boys x Reader

Riddle

Lowkey saw you as an ideal student. Polite, respectful, and mindful of the rules. So he wouldn't notice anything past a few odd ticks that he himself wouldn't fully question since his own upbringing was shitty.

It takes him and Ace having an argument, Riddle brings up that Ace can learn a thing or two from you on being a respectful student. And Ace fires back on you being a SLAVE. Of course, his overbearing ass would love that. And Riddle has to really think about what kinda person that makes him that he didn't even notice.

He talks to you, wanting personal confirmation on what Ace had blurted out. Once he gets the confirmation, his attitude gets much softer. You don't get as harsh treatment for rule-breaking, but he's still stern about them.

End game, he makes up a secondary set of rules for you only. Rules like 'We say something if we are uncomfortable' or 'We are allowed to say No'. He just gets much softer but remains true on rules being important. He just also stresses that you should have your own personal rules now.

Leona

Clocked immediately you came from a background of servitude, though he wasn't aware how severe it was.

He didn't plan on getting invovled but his little bleeding heart took Ruggie under his wing for a reason. It was one part pity and mostly annoyance seeing you getting bullied by his dorm everyday.

You basically get 'Leona's Servant' boot camp with Ruggie suddenly. He teaches you how Leona likes his laundry tended to and what snack flavors he prefers. It's a smooth transition from slave to servant until Ruggie tells you it's free game to steal from Leona.

Leona never brings it up, but he knows your old home was not a good environment. He also knows he can't just fling you into a healthier dynamic with those around you, so he'll do it slowly and sneakily. Ruggie is the perfect one to bridge the gap for him to start spoiling you.

Azul

Knew something was off but had no real frame of reference. He would make little theories and try to figure out why you act the way you do. He only started thinking you had come from a background of servitude when you follow orders so quickly.

Honestly doesn't know how to feel because he did do slavery in tricking the contracted students into working at the lounge against their will. He's not entirely sure how to save face with you after he's come across as a cruel and unfair slaver. Lowkey uses his overblot aftermath as an excuse for a fresh start with you.

He starts treating you kinder, making sure to address you properly and showing that he respects you. People from his dorm follow his lead, at least. The Tweels are part-time bodyguards, making your old bullies more hesitant to start anything because an eel might slip out of a crack or something.

Azul is a sneaky one too, slowly helping you raise your standard of how you should be treated by others. If you get him blabbing long enough, he'll slip into just stating how precious you are to him.

Jamil

I'm sorry, even with the English sanitation, Jamil’s situation can only come across as slavery to me. He's a very well cared for slave because Kalim adores him, but a slave none the less.

It's a little jarring to him to see someone who really could understand. But he's so used to keeping himself guarded he never reached out in a friendly sense. Treating you more like a new coworker; helpful but distant. It wasn't until you accidently broke something in Scarabia and nearly had a panic attack when Kalim looked at you does he realize how severe punishment was back in your world.

Gets much softer to you. It's sad because he does love and care about you, but he would not allow you to be with him long term. You've managed to come to a new world where your old masters can't reach you, you're free. Don't waste it following him back into a life of servitude.

Jamil would understand you the best so he'd be the one to really push and guide you to trying new experiences with your freedom. Wants you to be selfish and use your friends' kindness to make your life better. If he never gets his dream of being able to travel the world he wants you to be able to.

(Should the miracle happen and he and Kalim have the conversation finally, Jamil would go globe trotting with you. He legit has thoughts of just not going back and disappearing with you.)

Vil

I don't think he'd mean anything malicious by it. But he would end up treating you like a purse dog for a while.

Vil has a strong and cemented personality and sense of worth. Dealing with someone as passive as an abused slave, he would easily bulldoze over them and not really notice. Because he'd basically have you on the 'Betterment Plan' he has Epel.

He saw the potential and just kept going because you never said stop. Lots of beauty routines, he picks outfits for you for outings, basically has you as his shadow before either Rook or Epel bring up how he's running you ragged.

Vil never dealt with someone who's come from the situation you did. The very idea that 'No' wasn't a boundary you were ever allowed horrified him for a bit. But like the queen he is, he doesn't try to defend his misstep and goes right into correcting his behavior. The introduction of choices was the best start, but you slowly start saying no to events and choices and Vil couldn't be more delighted.

Idia

Lowkey, I'm not sure if he'd notice in any capacity until you told him point-blank. Idia is the one of the boys who sticks mostly to himself and he'd avoid you if he saw you constantly being hounded by other students.

But, if you managed to get close enough to him, he'd question why you always freeze up when your bullies call you? Why running isn't an option you take? And then you'd tell him about where you came from and how running never ended well for you or the other slaves...

He's not one I think would actively try to curb your behaviors but it would effect his own. Now when he sees you being bullied there's a high chance he'll use what power he has a housewarden to get them to leave. When he's sneaking around, he'll catch your eye and give the mental offer to come hide out in his room with him. He becomes a legit safe space for you to just breath since no one but Ortho really enters his room.

He's had to stop you multiple times from cleaning his room. Yes, it's a mess. No, you don't have to thank him by cleaning. Yes, he's aware you can also keep his stuff organized for him while you clean. You don't have to clean, you aren't his maid. (He is terrified he will ruin your friendship the second you find anything embarrassing under his piles of junk. Like a body pillow, or a 18+ comic, or a stray love note he wrote you-)

Malleus

Adorable you think the bonds of slavery from an unknown world matter to him. Malleus is...a prince, a crown prince at that. I don't think he has 'slaves' but with servants of royalty, I'm never really sure. But anyhow, this boy hasn't been told no enough in his life and it shows.

So when you try to back away from the friendship a bit under the fact of you being a slave and not...worthy of his princely company. He just decides you aren't a slave anymore. Just wills and speaks it into existence. There, it's fixed. You can continue being his beloved child of man, now come. He has a new gargoyle he wants to show you.

Fae to me have favorites, and they love to keep an eye on them. So god help some poor schmuck who tries to bully you into doing their work after Malleus has decided you don't do that anymore... You start saying No and leaving the situation with much more effectiveness because the other choice is Malleus making some poor student drop out for fear of their life.

Malleus canonically ignores the autonomy of others for his own gain. So it would be a really weird balance of him simply stating that you are your own being capable of choice and that your old-world status as a slave doesn't matter here. But with that new free status, you are also his best friend, who will come on night walks with him, talk with him, and make friendship bracelets.

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington, who has a very “in name only” relationship with his parents, the people who claim they love him lots but have simply given him cash for his last six birthdays without bothering to send a card. 

Steven Harrington, who lost his connection to the only adults in his life who actually parented him when he had his final fight with Tommy and Carol-- not that they ever really did that much. Having an adult put a bandaid on his knee and complimenting him for being tough was plenty enough. 

Steve Harrington, who drove Dustin and co. to the Byers house that one Christmas and was told by Hopper not to come in; that Joyce was still mad at him about the ‘demodog in the fridge’ and figured his exclusion was fair--it wasn’t like Hopper actually liked him. Joyce certainly had no reason to. It wasn’t like he was doing anything for Christmas anyways. 

Steve Harrington, who is fairly certain Robin’s parents have clocked her as queer but who still treats him in that careful way many parents do when he’s hanging around their daughter. There’s a barrier there, in the way of firm handshakes and “get her back safe”’s that keep things formal. (It’s never bothered him before, and he swears it doesn’t bother him now.) 

Steve Harrington, whose relationships with adults are defined by words like “networking”, “proper connections”, “favors”, and “finances”, who has at best been treated like a miniature version of his father and at worst as a spoilt moron, who encounters Wayne Munson and has no idea what to do with the man. 

Wayne Munson, who asks him actual questions about his life. Who asks him to watch the game with him. Who calls him “boy” and “son” in ways that sound affectionate and not frustrated. Wayne, who shoos him away from the dishes and compliments his cooking, who has invited Steve over when Eddie isn’t even home.

Steve Harrington, who keeps apologizing to Eddie because “I’m not trying to steal your Uncle man, I promise.” and doesn’t believe Eddie when the latter just laughs at him.

(“You can’t steal Wayne, Steve.” Eddie says with a snicker, when he finally figures out what Steve is apologizing for.  The guy apologizes a lot for things that make no sense, it’s a bad habit Eddie’s working on him with. “Though I do believe he has been trying to steal you.” 

“Oh.” This does not relieve Steve. In fact, this seems to make him more nervous looking, which Eddie does not want. 

“I uh. I don’t want to come between you guys so I guess we can just hang at my house…?” The voice he trails off with is downright painful for Eddie to hear, and he’s already slashing his hand in the air in a wild ‘No’ before Steve can even finish speaking.

“Dude you’re fine. I’m glad you guys are getting along! Wayne needs someone to talk sportsball with and clearly so do you because you keep trying to talk about it to anyone who will listen.”

“I guess if you’re alright with it…”) 

Steve Harrington, who allows himself to be adopted by the Munsons much in the way a feral cat lets itself become domesticated, and who starts looking at Wayne like the man hung the moon. 

Wayne Munson, who is referred to by Steve as “Dad” exactly once, and feels so fucking happy about it he misses the panic attack Eddie has to talk Steve through. 

He also misses that that is the moment when Steve accidentally confesses his feelings to Eddie in the Munson’s (new) cramped bathroom, on grounds that “I can’t date you and also call Wayne dad like that, that’s weird! Isn’t that weird!? It feels weird!” 

(“Sweetheart,” Eddie says, trying not to smile and failing entirely. “I get what you’re saying, but I think in your panic you missed something kinda key, there.”) 

Steve Harrington, who gets himself an entire family in the end (and gets to both call Wayne “dad” and Eddie as his boyfriend, without issue, because “we’re not related babe, you can call your inlaw whatever you want.” 

“Now who's skipping steps? When did we get married?”

“The very second it’s legal, that’s when.”) 

--and has never been happier in his life.

[clearancecreedwatersurvival]

‘It’s different from the books’ sure it’s different but are you judging elements based on how they fit within the new transformative narrative that the show adaptation is presenting? Or are you purely judging each element based on how different it is from the books?

Does the new narrative that the show is telling have cohesive arcs and structure that work within its specific logic? Do the elements present, intentionally different or inspired or lifted directly from the books, work together to tell a story that shares most of the same overall themes and important story beats as the entire book series? Are they setting up the long term development of character arcs well?

Or are you just mad your favorite character isn’t just saying all their lines from the book directly and we need to have the ‘characters aren’t people regardless of our parasocial attachment to them, they’re storytelling tools that fill roles within a narrative conflict’ conversation again? Like, neither the author(s) nor the book characters themselves are gonna fuck you, just so we’re clear.

Mat having a weakness for helping and protecting children, Perrin being traumatized about using the axe as a weapon and worried about harming people he loves, Rand wanting to help men who can channel, everything about Egwene’s late stage character arc, Nynaeve’s innate potential and her constant early struggle with her unconsciously blocking that immense power away from herself have all been set up extremely well in the show, and all by making some pretty distinct changes from the books.

And every wot fan agrees that the books are not perfect in various ways, rearranging and tightening of the plot was always going to be necessary in an adaptation, let alone in one that is only allowed to span 8 seasons. But the main beats of the story are all there, and individual changes to characterization and the specific roles that characters play for certain bits of the narrative are not bad just because they’re different and I simply can’t take any criticism of the show that doesn’t account for that seriously.

Also like. Can we stop blaming the writers for stuff that is fully the producers’ fault. Season 1 episode 1 and episode 8 both got fucked over on rewrites and/or covid restrictions during filming, so the pacing and execution is kinda fucky there, but that’s not on the writing team. The rest of season one the pacing is better and better yet in season two, which honestly was kind of a banger start to finish.

The development in s2 of all the themes around channelers losing access to the power or autonomy over their channeling and the griefs of outliving your loved ones were explored so well, and all those ideas are very important for the rest of the plot from later in the books. And the choice to introduce all the forsaken sooner and develop them more than is present in the early books was brilliant, they’re incredibly effective and engaging villains and the show is utilizing them to full effect. Shit rules. I’m stoked for s3 for a lot of reasons but especially for more forsaken shenanigans.

When I want to reread the books I’ll reread the books. I’m doing that right now and having a great time. But I’m glad the show is different in a lot of ways and I like the way they’re reading the original text, including by changing the stuff that makes wot one of those book series you can’t really recommend without an asterisk because RJ’s grasp on feminism and queerness and gender theory was. Loose at best.

Idk man, just treat adaptations of books you love as really high budget fanfiction produced by a team of people who all care about the original text but are also of course gonna put their spin on it, and you might have a more enjoyable time watching them.

Howl’s Moving Castle by Miyazaki? Fanfiction.

NBC Hannibal? Gay Fanfiction.

The Wheel of Time on Prime? That’s right, it’s increasingly higher budget fantasy fanfiction with less gender essentialism, extra emphasis on all the milfy magical politics, and queer subtext made text, hell yeah.

[cripplecharacters]

Hello! Hi. Hope you guys are doing well. I wanted to ask about referring (pretty blatantly) to autistic characters before autism was a formal diagnosis. One of my characters is nonverbal and autistic and communicates primarily using a notepad (in the Victorian era). Her family (positively coded characters) doesn’t really care or like think negatively of her for being autistic, but they still recognize that she’s not neurotypical, however other characters who appear (not the villains necessarily but negatively coded characters) do care that she’s “abnormal”. Are there any words that really shouldn’t be used to describe her (I have been using ‘odd’ by both groups of characters) or that only one group should use (for example having the ‘mean’ characters use ‘abnormal’ but the ‘nice’ ones use ‘odd’) so I can clearly specify that she is autistic and that it’s not a big deal, while also making sure that the characters who think negatively are portrayed in a negative light (even though they’re not the main villains). While still, not offending anyone or accidentally referring to the character in a pejorative light.

Hi asker,

I'm including some extra context, not just for you the writer, about the Victorian era but also to anyone else reading this ask to learn a little more and maybe be able to apply information to their own characters as well.

The Victorian era is used to refer to the period roughly from 1820 to 1910 in the UK, and often the use of this word for the time is extended to the US as well. Sometimes people use it for other places in Europe, even though Queen Victoria herself only ruled the UK and from 1837 until 1901.

Your character might have been described as 'dumb' or 'mute,' at the time, since she does not speak; for both clarity and reason's sake I would avoid using 'dumb' and only use 'mute' instead. 'Dumb' is, these days, only used as an insult.

Other words people might use for her in the time to denote her as being 'strange' but not necessarily negative might have been (aside from 'strange' and 'odd' that you've already stated): peculiar, eccentric, or unusual. They might use 'queer' as well, as in behaving outside of the norm and not as in gay; that meaning was more by the 1920s.

'Weird' as in "off-puttingly strange" is a more modern word, but it started in the 1820s, so people could conceivably call her weird, especially if they mean to speak ill of her. 'Bizarre' might work, but earlier or in its usage it also had a connotation of unpredictability, too. These two would probably not be used by her family or those who think highly of her, but might be used by people who are fairly neutral on her.

A note on 'moron' and 'imbecile,' which were diagnoses in the early 19th century of intellectual disability but also applied to other people they didn't know how to categorize and could include autistic people: they are definitely used as insults now and were definitely used as insults then when they were diagnoses, but they wouldn't be used on your character because they were not used in that way until the 1910s and 1920s. 'Idiot' is an older word, but it usually was used to refer to people who had more severe intellectual disability; I don't think this would be used for your character much, nor would I recommend it. I don't think it would work to convey what you want the readers to get out of it. Not to mention, it's still very much an insult today.

Now, there's two people from a bit earlier in history who might have been diagnosed as autistic today: Henry Cavendish and Hugh Blair of Borgue. (Obviously we can't know for sure, they've been dead for 200+ years.)

Hugh Blair (wikipedia link) lived from 1708 to 1765. He was described as 'eccentric' and 'daft,' and his behaviors as 'unusual.' He was nicknamed "the daft lad of Borgue." He engaged in a lot of repetitive behaviors, seemed unaware of social norms, and had very strong interests. It's noted that despite being seen as strange, he was generally well-liked.

Henry Cavendish (wikipedia link) lived from 1731 to 1810, so a bit closer to the Victorian era. He was a scientist, a very wealthy man, and notably very shy. He was close basically only to his family, was very solitary, had trouble speaking to others and was noted as wearing old-fashioned clothes. Since he was so solitary, he had trouble publishing his findings, even though he put a lot of work into them. It seems people referred to him as 'solitary' and 'eccentric.'

Some people suggest Emily Dickinson (wikipedia link), who lived from 1830 to 1886, might have been autistic. I am less familiar with her than the above two, but am including her because she is directly in your time period so the way people in her lifetime described her can be relevant. She was very socially isolated, although she was also very affected by deaths around her during her life, and later often ill, which can also be reasons for isolation. She mostly communicated with others via letters in her adulthood. She was seen as an 'eccentric' by others.

I will note that all three of those people were wealthy, so their eccentricities were more tolerated by those around them. A poor person might not have been afforded that second thought.

Now that I've said... all that, I will add my final note:

I think more important than the words themselves is how other characters use the words to describe her.

"Elizabeth is such an odd woman, I should like to write to her and see what she thinks about this" is very different from "Elizabeth is such an odd woman, I can't stand to be around her when she's doing that!" So is "My cousin is a bit peculiar, she does not speak but she can understand you just fine; if you can be patient she will write out her answers" versus "My cousin is incredibly peculiar, she doesn't even speak for goodness's sake! Can you believe it? It's ridiculous."

The way your characters speak about her will not be entirely dependent on the specific words the use, but also in the way they describe her and refer to her. Especially in a time where many things are referred to with euphemisms or vague words (which 'odd' and 'strange' and 'peculiar' definitely are or can be), which the Victorian era absolutely was, both groups of characters can use the same words but their intent can come across due to what else they say about her.

Sorry this is super long, but I hope it helps!

mod sparrow

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Seeing that Luke post get thousands upon thousands notes is giving me hives. How does one become this fandom brained? I know the jokes are "don't mess with fans of X they don't even watch/read/listen to their own film/show/etc." and any fandom is going to cause some amount of ooc behaviour for the sake of jokes and memes and stuff, but surely at some point the character is so bent out of shape you stop to ponder what you're doing.

Who is this Luke Skywalker, collector of wayward orphans? Why would he want to be Reys dad? You get the feeling she might want it at the start of TLJ... And then the rest of the movie happens, going into great detail, at times in overly didactic ways, as to why that's a Bad Idea for her personal growth and the galaxy at large.

Even in older Legends material, where he ends up having actual kids, most of the lauded and beloved portrayals of his character are things like the original Thrawn trilogy, and in that he spends all three books struggling with if there's any place for him in the galaxy after the emperor died. The supposed definitive alternate sequel trilogy is, at least for Luke, largely about if he even should restart the jedi order, since his own training is incomplete and he has a deep fear any students he has are going to eventually succumb to the dark side, and how if they do it'll probably be a direct result of his incompetence. He does naturally, much like in TLJ, overcome these feelings of inadequacy and re-emerge as the definitive hero of the story, but spending a few years wallowing is just a very Luke way to deal with problems in life.

Like yeah I wonder why a bitter, self-isolating old man who views his life as a colossal failure wouldn't be jumping for joy when a younger, more naive version of himself shows up to his house uninvited.

For how desperate to venerate the Nostalgia the sequel trilogy project as a whole is, only TLJ really feels like it actually gives a shit about the story it's supposedly continuing. I didn't think you could look at Lukes death and not feel the overwhelming love and care for him specifically. I always shed a tear when binary sunset kicks in and I'm not even that into the originals. I was a prequel defender in 2010, Luke is the 20th character I think about when people mention SW.

Do people just not engage with the source material at all? Is this a product of the whole fandom tourism boom in the last 5-ish years? I genuinely don't want to be mean. After all, fandom is all of us playing with our toys, and you should always try to avoid a "old man yells at cloud" scenario, but like... It's a movie for 12 year olds that's very deliberately laying out all the cards. A slightly more nuanced and emotionally mature movie for 12 year olds than you might expect but... A child could get it, it's been focus grouped to hell and back so any given child on the planet should get it... How are you as an adult asking why the story had conflict?

I also broke out in hives a little bit when I found out that my addition (?) had made that thing go around. Or maybe it wasn't my addition, I'm actually not sure, but I worry that it was. The OP turned off reblogs, and I can only assume it was because people starting doing absurd bullshit discourse on the post which... hhhh I don't really like being part of inflicting that on anyone over something as unimportant as Star Wars opinions.

Also, the thing I was reacting against really wasn't the fact that people have headcanons about who and what kind of character Luke is - like, that's just normal and generally a good and fun part of fandom. I reacted against the idea of The Last Jedi being thoughtless about his character. It interprets Luke in a very specific way, but that interpretation is, I think objectively, deeply grounded in the history of his character and the thematic throughlines of the Skywalker-focused movies. So it annoyed me a bit to see people treat the depiction like it was some kind of failure to engage with the original material. I think that's not quite fair to what the movie was, and I think it leads to weak criticism of its flaws.

I think that the better angle for critique of the whole sequel trilogy and Rian Johnson's contribution is that obsesses far too much about the original trilogy, and is at its best in those few scant moments when it breaks away from it. If the sequel trilogy hadn't had the corporate mandate to be a kind of Frankenstein remake of the OT, perhaps a kindly old grandfatherly Luke could have been a fun and interesting interpretation of the character's future. Luke is what he is in TLJ because the trilogy absolutely fucking had to recreate the narrative beats of Dagobah, and therefore absolutely had to have Luke learn another lesson from Yoda about learning to let go of his attachments to and fears about the future and be present in the here-and-now.

Johnson is clearly a fucking nerd-ass Star Wars nerd, whose greatest mistake was assuming that other Star Wars nerds would engage with the material with good faith and an eye towards appreciation and discovery, rather than product-brained, screaming entitlement to their supremacy-affirming nostalgia security blanket.

To be clear, here I am talking about the culture war grifter assholes who poison the world, and not fandom people who have a cozy headcanon about Luke as a cheerful old community dad. I don't think it's fandom tourism to have a headcanon about a character, or a favored interpretation of them, even one which feels somewhat divorced from the original source-text. If I had to take a guess, the people on the original post developed that headcanon through fandom - by way of fanfics and fanposting and fanart, by way of fix-it fics and excited speculation. If I had to take a guess, they got their headcanon about Luke the same place everyone gets their headcanons about popular characters: from some combination of appreciation, projection, and a desire to see the thing you love tell a story that you need to hear. That's just human, and I don't think you can spend any significant amount of time in fandom without developing those attachments to certain stories or characters.

[geotjwrs]

Can I request a fanfic with Jenna and Male Reader, where Jenna is the most popular person in school that everyone is scared of, and reader is a shy nerd, and suddenly people aren't bullying him as much because Jenna told them not to, and when he confronts her about it she's really embarrassed and admits she likes him, a lot. If not that's fine, thank you.

Got it! I’ll rewrite it to hit 1500 words and keep it natural. Give me a bit.

out of your league

Pairings ; Jenna Ortega x Male!Reader

Warning/s ; none

It started slowly, so slowly that Y/N almost didn’t notice.

At first, he thought it was just a coincidence. Maybe the universe had finally decided to cut him some slack. Maybe people had grown bored of making his life miserable.

But the signs were there.

The usual snickers when he walked past? Gone. The whispers behind his back? Quieter. The shoves into lockers? Well, okay, those still happened sometimes, but a lot less than before. It was like people had just… stopped caring about bullying him.

Which, in theory, should’ve been a good thing.

But it made him suspicious instead.

Because people at this school? They didn’t just stop being cruel for no reason.

Then he noticed something else. Something even weirder.

Jenna was acting strange.

Not “strange” in a way that most people would notice, but he did. Jenna, the most popular girl in school, the one everyone either worshiped or feared kept looking at him. A lot. And every time he caught her staring, she’d either look away too fast or pretend she was totally doing something else.

The first time it happened, he thought he was imagining things. The second time? He started wondering if there was something on his face. The third time? He knew something was up.

And then came the lunchroom incident.

Y/N had been sitting in his usual spot, just minding his own business, when Hunter the guy who lived to make his life miserable walked by. Normally, Hunter wouldn’t miss a chance to shove his tray or make some snide comment.

But today?

Today, Hunter took one look at him, turned pale, and immediately sat back down at his own table.

That was when Y/N knew.

Someone had said something.

And he had a pretty good idea who.

Confronting Jenna was not something most people did.

She had this… presence. The kind that made people nervous, even when she wasn’t saying anything. She didn’t need to be loud to be intimidating one look from her was enough to shut people up.

But Y/N was desperate for answers.

So here he was, standing in front of her locker, heart pounding, regretting everything.

Jenna was rummaging through her bag when he cleared his throat. “Jenna.”

She glanced up, saw him, and instantly froze.

For a split second, something flashed across her face surprise, maybe even panic but then she crossed her arms and leaned against her locker, looking him up and down like she was sizing him up.

“What do you want, nerd?”

Okay. Rude. But at least she wasn’t ignoring him.

He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. “Did you… tell people to stop messing with me?”

Jenna blinked.

Then, in the most unconvincing tone ever, she said, “No.”

He just stared at her.

She shifted. Looked away. Clicked her tongue.

“Jenna.”

She groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. “Ugh, fine. Maybe I said something.”

He knew it.

“Why?” he asked.

At this, she hesitated.

It was weird seeing her hesitate. Jenna was the type to always have a comeback, always know what to say. But now? She looked almost… nervous.

She muttered something under her breath.

He frowned. “What?”

She rolled her eyes, but he could see the pink creeping up her ears.

“I said, I like you, okay?” she snapped. “A lot. And I got sick of people treating you like trash, so I told them to knock it off.”

Y/N.exe had stopped working.

Jenna. Liked him.

Jenna, the Jenna, the most feared, most popular, most out-of-his-league girl in school

His brain couldn’t process this information.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” he admitted.

Jenna groaned. “You’re so lucky you’re cute,” she mumbled.

His face exploded in heat. “JENNA—”

She just laughed, shoving his shoulder. “C’mon, nerd. I’m walking you to class.”

And just like that, his entire life changed.

But of course, things didn’t just end there.

Because if there was one thing about Jenna, it was that she didn’t do half-measures.

The next day, the entire school knew.

And suddenly, everyone was acting different around him.

People who had never spoken to him before were suddenly saying hi. Teachers were looking at him weird, like they were trying to figure out what kind of blackmail he had on Jenna to make her interested in him.

And the bullies? They weren’t just avoiding him now. They were terrified of him.

It was actually kind of hilarious.

Hunter, the same guy who used to trip him in the hall, now wouldn’t even look at him. At lunch, someone actually gave up their seat for him. And in class, when he dropped his pen, the guy sitting next to him practically dove to pick it up.

It was ridiculous.

It was also, admittedly, kind of awesome.

But there was one problem.

Jenna was acting weird around him now.

Not in a bad way, just… different.

She was still Jenna. still confident, still intimidating, still had everyone wrapped around her finger. But whenever they were alone, she got awkward. Fidgety. Like she wasn’t sure what to do with herself.

And it was really funny watching her be the nervous one for once.

So, naturally, he decided to mess with her.

“You know,” he said casually one afternoon, leaning against his locker, “you never actually asked me out."

Jenna, who had been scrolling through her phone, immediately stiffened.

“…Huh?”

He smirked. “You said you liked me. But you never asked me out.”

Jenna narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying you want me to ask you out?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe.”

She stared at him.

Then, very slowly, she smirked.

And suddenly, he was the nervous one.

Jenna took a step closer.

Then another.

And another.

Until she was right in front of him, looking up at him with that signature, cocky grin that made most people run in the opposite direction.

He swallowed.

“Y/N,” she purred, “do you wanna be my boyfriend?”

His brain short-circuited.

Jenna grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and walked away like she hadn’t just broken him.

He stood there, completely frozen, face burning.

A few feet away, he could hear someone whisper-screaming about what just happened.

Hunter looked like he was about to pass out.

And Y/N?

Well.

He was definitely out of his league.

But for some reason, Jenna didn’t seem to care.

[breathinginsulfur]

Hey guys, i know this rant is long enough but i wanna add some more.

Really trying to understand why stolas is genuinely despised, and it’s hard for me to understand. But I think i have something, and it may potentially be a hot take but these days even liking the show is a hot take /hj

I think (SOME) people, not all, just genuinely have a hard time believing that men can be victims of abuse. Especially if the abuser is a woman. Because yes, it is true that most domestic abusers are men, and men are more capable of getting away with abuse, but you cannot act like this is the only way it happens.

Stolas is an abuse victim. His father was emotionally unavailable and barely even remembered anything about Stolas. To Paimon, Stolas is just another one of his spawn. Nothing more.

While we are still lacking on Stella’s background (which we desperately need), what we know is that she never loved Stolas, the same way Stolas never loved her. they were never in love. They had one reason for their (forced) marriage. To birth a new heir. That’s it.

We can assume that they never got along. Judging by their personalities, Stolas is not an assertive person. He’s nervous, but intelligent, and passionate about his powers and interests. He did not at all try to overpower or dominate blitzo as a kid, despite being royalty. We saw him bow down to blitzo, to which Paimon got angry at. Stolas does not look down on people, he looks down on himself.

Based on the photo of Stella Paimon showed to Stolas, she seemed to be a more aggressive child, making it likely that she was also not parented properly. By this we can also assume that she took the more dominant role, taking advantage of Stolas’s anxiousness and taking control in relationship.

In photos she took with Via and Stolas, she looks like she doesn’t want to be there. She doesn’t appear to have any true care for Via. In Loo Loo Land, when Via calls for both of them, Stella refuses to acknowledge her, grumpily telling Stolas to deal with it. Again, i really, really hope they give us more background about her, because it will most likely make it so much easier for people to understand why Stolas is not the bad guy. One of my biggest issues with this show is the lack of background for the women in the show. But i trust that we will get it soon.

I believe Stella only truly cares for the title of being a Goetia. She doesn’t care about her daughter or her now ex-husband, she only wants the richness and glory of being a goetic demon. THIS is why she did not divorce Stolas. When she found out he cheated, did she appear personally, emotionally hurt? She was pissed off yes, but how she reacts is so important.

“I can’t believe you slept with an IMP.”

“You are a god damn EMBARRASSMENT”.

She never once tells Stolas that she feels betrayed, that she thought he loved her, etc. she only cares about the fact that Stolas disrespected the Goetia family name by sleeping with a lower class demon. The themes of hierarchy in this show are so important to the story.

Stolas and Stella hated each other. She constantly talked shit about him, and he just felt empty inside. Blitzo changed that for him. Stolas NEVER forced himself onto Blizo. I have genuinely seen people call Stolas a sex offender. I don’t know how you get it that wrong. He made a joke, saying “you’re here to rravish me aren’t you?” And then that’s it. He did not force Blitzo to have sex. Blitzo is the one who chose to seduce him. Once Stolas realized Blitz was doing that, he got shy and nervous once again. Then the two did their thing and that’s the start of the main plot.

For some reason, people headcanoning Stolas as autistic is controversial, even if autistic people do it. As an autistic person, i can definitely see autistic traits in Stolas whether intentional or not. The same way I see BPD symptoms in Blitzo as someone who is borderline. There is no harm in headcanoning a character as autistic, y’all just hate Stolas. And probably won’t listen to me.

I get that this show is popular to hate right now. I miss when it wasn’t. Hopefully some day they all just leave us alone😭

(Opinion) stolas hate is based on fandom misinterpretations and not the actual show because when the fuck does he act like a “baby”??

Stolas is probably the most over-hated character in all of helluva boss. And some of the downright incorrect statements i’ve seen about stolitz drive me insane

Despite his childhood abuse, neglect and forced marriage, stolas has always been privileged. He’s set for life with wealth, has butlers and staff who feed him and care for him, and can freely travel through the human realm with no legal issues. Obviously, he’s going to have a skewed perspective on life.

Because of his forced marriage and parental neglect, stolas has never really known what love is meant to be. His father didn’t know his name because he’s a king who has a shit ton of children. Stella never loved him, and he never loved stella. They were only married to have an heir. Stolas has an over-dramatized and romanticized interpretation of love, which i think is where the ‘baby’ misinterpretation roots from. Blitzo didn’t want to fuck him, all he wanted was the grimoire. But stolas didn’t realize this and genuinely believed that his first ever friend was the one who wanted him the most. Can you see how this would fuel his romantic dreams further?

Stolas, to me, was always in love with blitzo. And (hot take incoming) did not look down on him. “But charlie, what about when he said ___?” We can go through all the quotes that supposedly look down on blitzo and i can give my reasoning as to why i dont think he sees him as lesser. Stolas has grown up with imps his whole life (butlers), and it can be argued that these staff had a closer connection to him than his own family. He’s taught to view imps as lesser, as in the hierarchy they literally are, but stolas has no issue with interacting with imps and, of course, letting an imp have intercourse with him. If stolas truly looked down on imps the way people act like he does, he’d interact with blitzo in a COMPLETELY different way. As in, he wouldn’t even treat blitzo like a human. Stolas loves blitzo so much he want to be his partner.

I will say, Hierarchy is a major theme in helluva boss with several callouts to how the ones who are higher up mistreat the lower class. Just look at mastermind. Satan doesn’t let blitzo speak. But andrealphus is allowed to talk as long as he wants. Blitzo would’ve been killed for using the grimoire, but stolas just gets a punishment. Because verbatim “your life has actual value!” It’s such an interesting theme that does not nearly get as much praise as it deserves

Another huge misinterpretation with helluva boss i see is that people think the show is trying to normalize cheating. And i’ll be honest, i can kind of see how this misinterpretation happens. As much as i adore this show, there are some writing flaws.

In my opinion, helluva boss is not trying to encourage cheating on your partners. It’s trying to show you that it’s okay to leave your abusive relationships to better your life. I may talk about this a different time because this post is mainly about stolas but god i love analyzing this show so much i just go on so many tangents.

Of course, stolas’ love for blitzo pisses of Stella. Not because stella actually loves stolas, but because she is proud to be a goetia and wants to uphold her royal, priviliged status and sees stolas as an insult to the goetic line. Her and Andrealphus’s motivation is to uphold goetia standards no matter how corrupt they truly are. They’re rich people. THEY are the ones who see imps as lesser.

THERE IS SO MUCH MORE I CAN GO INTO. How this affects Octavia and why she is justifiably upset at stolas, blitzo’s perspective, themes of the show, etc. if you wanna see my takes on these things LMK!!! I love this show dearly

If you want to counter my interpretation you’re welcome to do so, however please only do it if you’re wanting to do an actual discussion and not just trying to be rude. Some of y’all are so fucking rude to the people who like the show it’s crazy. Just be respectful and i’ll talk to you.

[elrielffs]

Do people forget that Gwyn can’t even leave the library yet? Like I’m trying to sound horrible but that is the truth.

I see them making theories about her saving Illyria, awakening dusk with Nesta, being Azriel’s mate but they never talk about the abyss between where Gwyn is now and where they want her… I never see them theorizing about how she is gonna overcome her fears and traumas.

I think it would be such a disservice to her character to rush everything… because how can we go from “I’m not even sure if I’m gonna attend my best friend’s mating ceremony” to saving Illyria and doing missions with the Valkyries (who lack training but still)

And not only that but also built an intimate relationship with Azriel? And deal with the Koschei, Illyrian, dusk plot? There is no time (especially since she is not tied to any plot)

It would need time for her to leave the library, feel safe in the outside world and be around men without feeling uncomfortable (and that is totally ok) and THEN starting missions

And SJM honestly wouldn’t write it because she isn’t good enough and this is kind of a delicate and sensitive subject, which if isn’t done right can cause lots of drama (rightfully so)

The thing about Gwyn is, she had her healing journey already...along with Emerie and Nesta. All of ACOSF was predominately Nesta's healing journey yes, but Emerie and Gwyn came along for the ride as needed friends for Nesta and their own trauma to overcome.

That's why the BR was about them winning instead of just Nesta, it was a culmination of their training and healing progress. You never hear about how Emerie needs a book for a "healing" journey.

And the thing about "well, Gwyn went back to the library so her story isn't over yet, she has more to overcome!" Yes...but so does every single character. Every single character can have a book about a personal "healing" journey. They are not static characters and like real life, constantly evolve and have new experiences.

But these books aren't just about personal healing journeys. There is an active plot and narrative and big bad that is uh...trying to destroy and or take over Prythian...a plot that has already been mostly stalled in ACOSF and needs to be progressed as we barely know anything about Koschei, his plans, even what he is trying to achieve.

And Gwyn is not connected to that. Sure, she could be artificially but that's not satisfying and other characters have naturally been connected to the plot would have to be shoved aside or replaced.

Gwyn is not built up as a love interest. Gwyn is not connected to the main plot. Gwyn was there to predominately be Nesta's friend and I say this as someone who likes Gwyn and loved the Valkyrie friendship in the book.

The only way Gwyn could have more significance to the plot is if she was a Lightsinger...but antis don't like this because they know what it means for their precious BC.

And even as a Lightsinger, I don't know how much that would even play into it tbh or if it would just bit a reveal in the book and come into play at a later point? (If I had to guess, I would think if her LS abilities played at all, it would be from Koschei/Merrill influence to keep Elain and Azriel apart? But I've come to really dislike that as I really just don't want Gwyn in an Elriel book at all and also, I think SJM might avoid it now due to the heavier backlash she would receive from the already backlash she will receive for the Elriel book in general.)

And Illyria? Gwyn isn't connected to Illyria. She doesn't even want to acknowledge her title and status as Carnythian (a point that antis forget and try to play up as a point for the ship). The only way she could be connected to Illyria is through Azriel. (Emerie where?? An actual Illyrian woman who has suffered because of her culture?? She's just off eating pussy I guess with nary a care in the world.)

And Azriel is connected to Illyria but that's as his B-plot. His main focus and plot is about Elain (like Rhysand was to Feyre, and Cassian to Nesta). Most of his interactions and words through all the books are about Elain. He doesn't like Illyrians, doesn't like their traditions, hates the BR. The only thing tying him to an Illyrian plot is the knife...which is also tied to Elain. I think if Azriel was going to have this BIG Illyrian plot, ACOSF would have been the perfect time for it. Not to hammer a point home but...the Blood Rite, which Azriel doesn't respect, and Gwyn, his supposed mate who already was SA'd and Cassian even mentions could be exposed to in the BR...what better way to kick off an Illyrian plot with Azriel and mate romance with Gwyn then having Azriel break all the rules and go absolutely feral to rescue her resulting in the fall out to be covered in the next book? It would have been so easy for SJM to set up not only this "Illyrian plot" but also Gwynriel romance if she wanted to. This is already long but I could basically add in short but important pivotal sentences and scenes in ACOSF for Gwynriel that SJM could have easily inserted into already existing scenes and not be in your face but speak volumes.

SJM is a veteran writer who excels at writing romance and has written and thought about this world for over 10+ years. I think if she wanted to do the things that antis theorize, she would have put in way more groundwork for it, either for a romance or just more narrative action for Gwyn and especially if she was an MC for the next book. She didn’t forget, she isn’t saving innocuous interactions for their book, she didn’t look at TOG and think,”well I gotta make a connection to music and mates so I’ll write about Cassian cumming and readers will be able to pick up that this means Gwynriel,” instead of…idk, actual interactions??

Too many antis characterize (and desperately hope) SJM as easily influenced and changeable and while yes, it's standard for an author to have wiggle room and change their mind on some things, I don't think 6 books deep SJM is going to drastically alter the narrative she's been building. This isn't her first foray into a long standing series or even in ship wars. (Chaol vs Rowan was big back when TOG was being written. SJM had a smaller fanbase and booktok wasn't a thing, but there was a shipping war on a slightly smaller scale with who Aelin would end up with.)

Can I see SJM doing something with the Valkyries as a unit? Yes. Can I see SJM doing more for Gwyn as an unexpectedly popular character? Yes but it won't be to basically shove Elain out of her role in the books and insert Gwyn.

[rei-ismyname]

Storm's 2nd dinner with DOOM

Doctor DOOM and Ororo have a weird relationship and seem to genuinely enjoy each other's company, kinda. They have had 1 on 1 dinner together thrice, and since DOOM just took over the world it feels topical to look into them.

For context, Mars has very recently been terraformed into Planet Arakko and the entire Arakki island and people rehomed there. As part of the Sol system joining galactic society a planet with unified leadership was required. Earth isn't that, so Ororo ended up Regent of the solar system.

As such, when DOOM requested a meeting it was a matter of astropolitics. Diplomatic forms were observed and dinner was served with a testament to mutant achievement and unity in the background. DOOM started prodding away, as he does, so Ororo reminded him of their first dinner where he behaved very poorly. He pivoted to negging her about her relationship with T'challa and Storm delicately pointed out his own recent marital humiliation.

DOOM is clearly over that, heh. His real reason for being here is because he's consolidating power for his takeover, even this far back. He set up the events of The Last Annihilation to buy goodwill, steal Dormammu's power, and either blame the mutants or bring them onside.

Obviously he loves a good flex, letting her know he knows what only they should know - where Mysterium came from and what it can do. Like any good magician he practices misdirection and snappy patter. There's a certain audacity in DOOM telling anyone to be careful with cosmic forces - there's nobody who's fucked with them for his own benefit more than DOOM.

DOOM offers with one hand while taking with the other. I daresay he would have been happy with an alliance if Ororo was interested, but mutants already have enough of a rogue state image without publicly aligning with Latveria. DOOM delivers vague warnings about a crisis he set up and will very publicly solve though there's another simpler reason for doing this - he likes it. He loves power, loves feeling smart, loves vendettas and playing games with people. There's enough truth in his warnings that they should be heeded, but mutants have more trustworthy magical allies they can rely on. They didn't, but that's beside the point. The game is enough for DOOM.

Storm doesn't feel like playing anymore, and feels no obligation to play along with DOOM's game or DOOM's rules. She doesn't harm him, but she does bruise his ego.

She basically tells him to fuck off. Not so crudely, of course, but the no and the reason for it are emphatic. DOOM has no regrets, totes ;). Interestingly, DOOM and his X-Men did pitch in against ORCHIS, though that plot thread wasn't linked to this. When Krakoa was about to leave this dimension forever, DOOM had Volta steal a seed, which I'd say is related to the patient accumulation of power that led to One World Under DOOM. He also called Krakoa 'the most unserious superpower on this world or any other.' Hilarious and accurate.

I'll cover their first dinner next time, all the way back in the 70s.

[quesocheeso]

Hot damn my guy, you pretty much hit the nail on most of the AU💃💃

The conversation between Xiaoxing and MK happens during season 2, mainly around a time where both of them are mentally drained, I would specifically say after the episode that MK is introduced to LBD, which in the Au both MK and Xiaoxing meet her at the same time which also leads to LBD finding out where her “champion” has been, more specifically who he has been doing lmaoo

I think it’s around this time that MK starts to really understand Xing, the insecurities that come from the positions given to them, one by birthright and the other by the want to become a hero without realizing what that entails, and what big shoes they have to fill, how easy it becomes to bottle up all these feelings and not let others help even when you start drowning in them.

I find this really interesting in the case of MK because no matter how loving his parents are, he still hides so many of his problems from them, really serious ones to boot, and yet they are none the wiser, which gives MK new insight on his mentors, that although all powerful and legendary, they aren’t omniscient, they don’t know everything, they are just parents trying their best to raise their children just like MK’s are.

Xiaoxing’s crashout is complicated in the way that he knows his dad loves him but his destiny is to “surpass” his father, like that’s the goal, that what everyone expects him to do, and somewhere along the way with his growing insecurities with his dad’s successor, he started to correlate succession with love. Which neither of his parents made him think like this, but people forget that he is the son of the six earned macaque and he can hear what people say, what they think of him, how his dad must be so disappointed. And he knows he shouldn't believe what other people say, but he's just a teenager and these types of comments by so many people can mess up people, even more a kid.

These guys really are about to bond over their crashouts fr😭😭

Season 3 is MK and Xiaoxing friendship montage while there is an impending doom in the horizon

Although admittedly Xiaoxing's animosity was kinda gone by season 1, and season 2 was him trying to follow along with MK's adventures to "prove" himself, taking advantage that his Dad is gone and his Baba had to take care of a nuisance. He's just a sassy teenager about the whole thing lol

"You could never be Shadow the Hedgehog" IS A WICKED LINE, especially coming from a kid who's mom is literally your hero and mentor's Shadow(the Hedgehog)! Also unlike MK, this kid isn't running around with "motherless" behavior like a HOOLIGAN LMAO. Fr tho MK do you own no other clothing? You dress in the same thing every day, even train, work, and chill in the same outfit, like a damn cartoon character. 🙄

Wonder how he'll react when he finds out MK actually comes from a loving home with two dad's. Is free noodles actually married in this au? That'd be the Icing on the fucking cake. "Motherless² ass nerd" or more jealousy bc his dad's can't get their shit together.

I feel a potential child of divorce crash out stewing. "You already have your dad's. Why are you stealing mine!? Why are you ripping them apart more! Papa doesn't love us anymore, and it's all YOUR FAULT!(because if it's not, then we're not good enough- I'm just not good enough)"

Monkey in the middle ass kid

That last paragraph really did hit me like oh god what have I done to this poor kid😭

I was gonna say they can all have complicated dads who should be in a relationship but are not, but bro those last liners? They changed my mind real quick

Yes free noodles are married and happy, MK has a happy family

Now let’s have him watch this 13 year old crash out with the impending sense of guilt that he helped that happen

(Don’t mind me as I write down that dialogue,,, anon on what crack were you when you wrote that good job fr😭😭)

Can you imagine MK trying hard to convince this crying kid that his dad definitely, full heartedly loves him, that his dads may not be together but they’re not together because they’re dumbasses who everyone can tell love each other but are too stubborn to see it

And above everything this kid, this kid who keeps curling in on himself making him look even more smaller and vulnerable, IS GOOD ENOUGH, no matter what anyone thinks, he has always been enough and his worth is not dictated whether someone loves him or not, but just him being here and alive makes him enough.

I’m crying at the club gang

Also

I’m definitely using Motherless^2 ass nerd at some point😭

[panlight]

Something that's bothered me is how the imprintees are pretty much ordinary people. They're mortal and can just die long before the wolf even does unless they make themselves stop phasing (which apparently is hard to do) and the gene is hereditary, so it's not like they can be turned. In fact, the whole "imprinting = higher chance of more wolves" theory gets rendered useless if the imprintee can easily be turned into a vampire and killed just as well.

In the House of Night series (enjoyed it when I was younger, but re-reading it in recent years, ugh the writing is just Not Good), imprinting is also a thing there, but they make it so the imprintee's blood doesn't really appeal to the vampires (or "vampyres", as they're called) other than the one who imprinted. (At one point, the vampyres try to feed on the imprinted human's blood, but complain that it "smells/tastes wrong".) Also, at least in this imprinting there's no loss of free will....

I would've loved for something similar in Twilight's take on imprinting. At least let them have some edge to maybe get any vampires that might feed on/turn them to back off or avoid them (kinda to parallel how the werewolves' existence is connected with the vampires). Heck, they could even just be poisoned by venom instead of turned just like the wolves! It's weird just how..."helpless" the imprintee is; they're just regular people but with a wolf who's head over heels for them.

I've often wondered what would happen if one of the imprintees were turned into a vampire. Would it break the bond or is it so unbreakable that the wolf wouldn't care? Pre-BD I thought for sure it would ruin it, but now that Jacob imprinted on someone who was BORN half-vampire I'm not so sure.

It genuinely makes me worried that if any of the unimpirinted wolf pack members were to meet Nahuel's sisters they might imprint. I hesitate even to speak this into existence. But all the other imprintees are descended from or related to past shifters except Nessie, but as a hybrid Nessie also has the same number of chromosome pairs as the shapeshifters do, which SM went out of her way to tell us. She seems to imply it makes them genetically compatible and if that's desirable to imprinting magic then there are other female hybrids out there.

(Of course, there's also Leah and Nahuel but as far as we know Leah is infertile and they presumably crossed paths when he was there at the end of BD and she apparently didn't imprint).

On the one hand I do kind of like the other imprints are just normal people; one of the ways imprinting makes the most sense to me if it's to help ground the shapeshifters to the real world. They are functionally immortal and invincible as long as they keep phasing; it would be easy for that knowledge and power to corrupt someone just as it corrupts vampires. They start seeing non-shifting humans as inferior, as less than, they lose focus of their role as protectors and let the power go to their head. But if they've imprinted on a regular human, if that human is the center of their world and their #1 priority, it keeps them from straying too far into supernatural land.

(but again . . . not a factor with Jacob and Nessie!)

But on the other hand, I agree that it's frustrating they are so vulnerable. When someone has that kind of power over someone else (the center of their entire universe with no free will), it makes them a target. The Volturi, for example, know all about this now, since Aro touched Edward and Nessie at the confrontation. So if Aro wanted to try and force the shapeshifters to do pretty much anything, all he has to do is threaten or kidnap or whatever the imprintees. What wouldn't Sam do for Emily? Jared for Kim? Paul for Rachel? Quil for Claire? They wouldn't even have a CHOICE about it! The WHOLE PACK tolerated a dozen vampires visiting Forks the sake of Jacob's imprint, after all. The girls are helpless against vampires. It really puts them in a dangerous spot, so even something like "they smell unappealing to vampires" or "their blood is also poisonous like the shifter's" or "like Bella immune to all vampire powers" would help protect them a little bit.

[teenag3z0mbi3]

The tuplar crew reacting to their s/o being a former model.

Mouthwashing: Reacting To You Being A Former Model

Masterlist & Request Rules

Pairing: Tulpar Crew x Female Reader Author's Note: I just assumed you meant a fashion model. Also, sorry if this isn't good; I know absolutely nothing about modeling, and this was kinda rushed.

Anya

ᯓ☆ She thought you were STUNNING! When you told her you used to be a model, it explained everything. Your good looks, your ability to always look good with minimal effort, and how you were able to style any piece of clothing. She found it admirable.

ᯓ☆ Even though you are no longer in the modeling industry, you still keep your old habits of how you carry yourself, and she makes

ᯓ☆ She was never really the type to care about dressing up; she’s always been happy with her sweaters, but since being with you, she’s started to broaden her wardrobe and asks you for advice all the time.

ᯓ☆ As much as she admires the work you used to do and doesn’t see why you would ever be insecure, she knows the high and unrealistic expectations and beauty standards the modeling industry can set, so she makes sure to let you know how beautiful you are.

Curly

ᯓ☆ When you first told him about your past modeling experiences, he had a hard time picturing it. Not that he didn’t find you attractive, but he never saw you as the type to put yourself out there like that.

ᯓ☆ When you showed him pictures and magazines you’d been in, he was speechless, in a good way. 

ᯓ☆ He couldn’t understand why you would want to leave that life behind because, in his mind, no other model could compare to you.

Daisuke

ᯓ☆ As someone who likes to have his own unique style, he finds your past modeling career so cool. He thinks you look so good, and he wants to look good with you. 

ᯓ☆ He loves to dress up with you and likes to help you with your makeup and nails. Even if his skills don’t compare to yours, he still finds it fun and wants to learn from you. 

ᯓ☆ He sometimes wishes you would have stayed a model because you had such a unique look and wonders what it would be like to be with you while you were in the industry.

Swansea

ᯓ☆ You and him are solar opposites when it comes to how you carry yourselves, but it creates an interesting dynamic. Overdressed Wife vs. Underdressed Husband. He’s never really cared about his appearance, but he likes the effort you put into yours.

ᯓ☆ He’s quite proud of himself for being able to pull someone like you, but still doesn’t understand why you would go for him and not someone more like you.

ᯓ☆ He doesn't entirely understand the whole model thing and doesn’t often ask you about it, but he is still proud of your achievements and appreciates someone who can be successful.

Jimmy

ᯓ☆ When you told him, and he came to the realization that he was able to pull a hot model of all things, his ego was through the roof. 

ᯓ☆ Trust that he is bragging about it to impress his guy friends, which can be a little overwhelming at times.

ᯓ☆ Despite him bragging about you, he’s glad you’re no longer modeling. He’s the jealous type but claims he’s just being protective. He hates the thought of people ogling you, especially when it’s other men. It’s a bit confusing the way he wants to show you off but then gets bothered by other people looking at you.

[igwb]

First Love.

“though we are putting an end to our relationship, dont ever feel sorry to me, i will get to meet you again no matter what form, greet me happily then”

pairing: min yoongi x reader (pianoteacher!yg x pianist!oc)

genre: strangers to friends to lovers (?), angst + fluff

summary: for as long as you can remember, the piano has been your entire world. music runs through your veins, but what happens when you start to feel like you’re losing that passion? in the midst of your uncertainty, the only source of hope comes from a stranger—min yoongi, a musician who shares the same deep connection to music, and might just help you find your way back.

word count: 21K (one shot)

warnings: angst, anxiety, self-degrading, fear of losing a passion, age gap! (yoongi is 29 and oc is 22), music talk, min yoongi is a sweetheart ♡, no explicit romance, open-ending

It was almost laughable how you ended up here in the first place. The morning had already started on the wrong foot—you had one of the most important performances of the year ahead of you, and your piano teacher had made it painfully clear that you weren’t ready.

Deep down, you know she was right. And yet, you had to play.

And she was right. You weren’t ready—not because you didn’t know which keys to press, or how to press them, or at what speed. You had all of that down. But for people like Ms. Kim—and for you—that was never enough. The audience was captivated, their applause enthusiastic, but the moment your eyes met hers, you knew.

It wasn’t good enough.

She didn’t hold back. She told you that even a three-year-old could play with more feeling than you. And after throwing that in your face, she made it clear—she never wanted to see you in her conservatory again.

And that’s how you ended up here, at this university, with a teacher said to be the best around.

The only piano in the classroom stands alone, its dark wood worn from years of use, a small but sturdy instrument that carries the weight of time. It looks old, yet when its notes fill the air, the sound is anything but dull—it’s rich, full of life, resonating through the quiet space like a secret being whispered to those who care to listen.

Your gaze shifts from the instrument to the figure seated before it. His back is straight, posture effortless yet disciplined, the kind that comes from years of practice rather than conscious thought. His hands move over the keys with a quiet reverence, fingertips barely pressing yet commanding the sound with a grace that speaks of deep familiarity.

You can’t see his face, only the slight tilt of his head as he listens to the notes, adjusting ever so slightly, lost in the music. But even without seeing his expression, you can tell—whoever he is, he’s great. Not just technically skilled, but something beyond that. There’s emotion in the way he plays, something personal.

And suddenly, you find yourself unable to look away.

For a moment, you feel like you don’t belong there—like you’ve stumbled upon something too intimate to interrupt. The music seeps into your skin, quieting the restless thoughts in your mind, and you almost want to stay in this moment forever, unnoticed, just listening.

But then, without warning, the music stops.

His fingers still on the keys, a breath of silence stretching between the last note and reality. He turns his head slightly, eyes meeting yours from across the room.

And just like that, the calm shatters.

All the thoughts that had momentarily faded—the uncertainty, the hesitation, the weight pressing on your chest—come rushing back, crashing over you in full force. You shift under his gaze, suddenly aware of your presence, of the way your hands feel too stiff at your sides, of the way your heartbeat stumbles against your ribs.

Without a hint of discomfort or hesitation, he smiles at you—a soft, knowing smile. It doesn’t quite reach his cat-like eyes, hidden behind the thin frames of his glasses, but it’s there nonetheless. A quiet acknowledgment. An invitation rather than an intrusion.

There’s no irritation in his gaze, no sign that your presence is unwelcome.

“Hello?” you said hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper. You let your eyes wander around the music room, taking in every detail—anything to avoid meeting the gaze of another musician. Ms. Kim’s words were still too fresh, echoing in your mind like a melody you couldn’t shake.

The pianist watched you carefully, his gaze steady yet unreadable, while you did everything in your power to avoid meeting it. Instead, you focused on the details of the room—how everything was perfectly arranged, the simple monochrome décor giving it an air of quiet serenity. It felt calm. Simple.

So different from the practice rooms back at the conservatory, where the ceilings stretched impossibly high, like something you could never quite reach no matter how hard you tried. Even the air here felt different—lighter, easier to breathe. There was no weight pressing down on your shoulders, no invisible expectation suffocating you. Just the sound of the piano lingering in the silence between you.

His body was angled toward you as he remained seated on the bench, not even bothering to stand. Yet, his warm smile—quiet and unforced—spoke volumes of acknowledgment. That simple gesture was enough to bridge the silence between you both. After a brief pause, he finally spoke; his voice was deep and calm, each word measured and deliberate, as if carefully calculated to convey exactly what he meant.

“Good morning. How can I help you?” he asked gently, his gaze drifting over your face with quiet curiosity, as if he were reading you like an open book. And perhaps he could. Your body language betrayed you—stiff shoulders, fingers nervously gripping the strap of your bag, eyes darting between him and the piano.

You knew you looked hesitant, maybe even out of place. Scared. Ashamed. And yet, there was no judgment in his tone, only patience.

Your fingers absentmindedly reached for the bow in your hair, a small anchor in the whirlwind of doubt still lingering from this morning. It was barely hanging on—much like you.

The outfit from your disastrous performance was still clinging to your body, stiff and suffocating. The black skirt that once felt elegant now felt like a weight dragging you down. The crisp white shirt, the neatly buttoned cardigan—once symbols of discipline and refinement—now felt like a cruel reminder of everything that had slipped through your fingers. Here, in this university, in this modest, sunlit room, your attire felt out of place. Too formal. Too extravagant. Too much of what you used to be.

“I want to take piano lessons,” you finally said, the words escaping in a quiet breath. They felt heavier than they should, settling between the two of you like something unspoken, something deeper.

He nodded like he knew. Like he could see the weight pressing down on your shoulders, the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly at your sides. Like he understood—without you having to say it—just how hard you had fought, how many years you had spent chasing a dream that always slipped away the moment it grazed your fingertips. Again and again.

Then, he finally stood up.

Without the piano behind him, he looked different. Less like the formidable musician Ms. Kim had spoken about in hushed, almost regretful tones—“a talent wasted,” she had once said—and more like an ordinary teacher. Just a man, standing in front of you, waiting. There was something almost comforting about that.

In a deep, soft tone, he asks if you’ve played the piano before—as if urging you to reveal the truth. He seems to expect an honest confession: that you’ve been playing for as long as you can remember, that you once honed your skills at a prestigious conservatory before being cast aside as if you weren’t enough. Admitting that truth—after nearly twenty years of pouring your life into the piano—would feel unbearably humiliating.

So, you chose to lie. You downplayed the instrument’s role in your life, as though the piano had never truly occupied your thoughts or your heart with unwavering consistency.

“I played a long time ago,” you say flatly, the lie slipping from your lips without even a flicker of hesitation, masking the depths of your true, unspoken history.

He watched you carefully, his dark eyes unwavering, like he could pick apart the truth from the spaces between your words. Maybe he could. Maybe he already knew you were lying.

But if he did, he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he hummed, a deep sound in the back of his throat, considering your words as if they were a puzzle he was willing to piece together himself. “A long time ago,” he repeated softly, his voice neither questioning nor doubtful. Just accepting.

The musician himself wasn’t unfamiliar with this world—you didn’t need to tell him to make him see it. He knew the weight of those formal, dark outfits, the kind meant to impress and intimidate all at once. He recognized the elegance in the way you carried yourself, in the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly, like they were drawn to the piano behind him against your own will. That kind of muscle memory wasn’t born from casual practice.

He knew. A long time ago wasn’t the truth. Not entirely.

Before your eyes could linger any longer on the piano behind him, betraying your words and the unbearable urge to sit down and play, you forced your gaze to focus on him. He was already watching you intently, his deep eyes seeming to read the turmoil within you.

“I heard you were one of the best teachers in town,” you admitted, your voice careful and measured.

Ms. Kim herself had once spoken of him with rare admiration, praising his skill and dedication. Now, here you were, hoping he could teach you something she believed you would never grasp.

His expression shifted subtly, betraying a flicker of emotion beyond the calm demeanor he had maintained. His brows furrowed slightly, as if questioning his own abilities. Min Yoongi was well aware of his talent; he had been born with a gift for music, effortlessly weaving notes together to create melodies that resonated deeply. Yet, the recognition of his skill had waned over time, especially after he chose a path that led him away from the grand stages he once aspired to conquer.

Leaving the conservatory to embrace a humble teaching role was a decision that garnered respect but also subjected him to the judgments of others. The world often measured success by fame and grandeur, and by those standards, his choice might have seemed like a step back. However, in his heart, he knew it was the right path—a path that allowed him to share his passion and knowledge with others, even if it meant sacrificing personal acclaim.

His face softened into a proud grin, clearly appreciative of your words, and he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. Glancing at his watch, he informed you that other students would be arriving soon and suggested you take a seat. Choosing a spot not too far from the piano yet angled so you wouldn’t have to face it directly, you hoped another student might sit closer, obscuring the instrument that stirred such turmoil within you.

As you gracefully lowered yourself into the seat, the years of disciplined practice evident in your poised movements, Mr. Min’s gaze lingered on you, his curiosity piqued. There was an intriguing blend of confidence and underlying nervousness in your demeanor—a subtle contradiction that didn’t escape his notice.

Your eyes, almost instinctively, reached toward the piano behind him, betraying your composed exterior and revealing a deep-seated connection to the instrument. Yet, your eyes told a different story. They shimmered not with the eagerness to learn, but with a silent plea to let your guard down, to allow yourself the vulnerability of emotion.

As other students began to fill the room, their voices creating a gentle hum, Mr. Min turned his attention back to the piano. His fingers brushed over the keys lightly, the familiar touch grounding him as he prepared for the session ahead.

As Mr. Min’s fingers danced effortlessly over the piano keys, it became immediately evident why Ms. Kim held him in such high regard. His playing was a masterful blend of softness and power, gentleness and sharpness—a delicate balance that showcased both his technical prowess and deep emotional connection to the music.

His unwavering focus on the keys, eyes wide open as if peering beyond them, contrasted sharply with your own approach. You often closed your eyes while playing, seeking refuge from external distractions and allowing the music to guide you inward.

Mr. Min’s fingers continued to dance across the keys with the same fluidity and grace, each note falling into place like a carefully crafted sentence. But as the music swirled around the room, his attention remained anchored on you. While the others were rapt, completely consumed by the performance, you stood out.

He could see the way your eyes drifted from the piano to the space around you, the way your gaze seemed to wander into something deeper, as if you were lost in a world of your own thoughts. It wasn’t disinterest, though—it was something else, something he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the vulnerability in your expression, the subtle tension in your body, like you were holding something back.

He found himself intrigued. What was it that made you seem so distant, even when the music flowed around you? He had an inkling that the music wasn’t just an escape for you, but rather a confrontation—a challenge you weren’t ready to face. And that made him wonder: who were you when you weren’t in front of the piano? What did the music mean to you when it wasn’t the thing that defined you?

As the last note lingered in the air, Mr. Min’s fingers finally came to a slow, deliberate stop.

When he finished playing, the room filled with applause, but he quickly waved it off with a soft laugh, his cheeks flushing slightly as though he was unaccustomed to such attention. It was clear he didn’t want to linger in the spotlight for too long. To shift the focus, he began explaining concepts that you were sure you had mastered long ago—fundamental techniques that felt almost too simple to be revisited.

The room was filled with beginners, judging by the hesitant and awkward way they approached the exercises. Their uncertainty was evident, and in that moment, you felt painfully out of place. Just that morning, you had been on a prestigious stage, performing before a captivated audience. Now, you sat in a classroom full of students who were just beginning their journey.

Your talent, though impressive—at least, it had been—for this room, but it still wasn’t enough for there. It was a strange and humbling contrast, the gap between where you were and where you wanted to be, painfully obvious in that moment.

The urge to run, to leave it all behind, gnawed at you. But you couldn’t walk away from the piano—not now, not after everything. It had been your constant companion, the one thing you had known your entire life. And yet, the pull to reach for the piano in front of you, so close to Mr. Min, was undeniable. Your fingers ached to play, to express something, anything, to release the pressure building inside you. But you couldn’t move. You were paralyzed, torn between the desire to escape and the need to prove something—to yourself, perhaps—to stay and face the silence that demanded so much.

His question snapped you back to the present. He asked if anyone recognized the piece, and without hesitation, your hand shot up. If Ms. Kim had ever doubted your abilities, she couldn’t ignore the depth of your knowledge when it came to music and its composers. You may have faltered during your performance, but here, in the realm of theory and history, you still had a solid grasp. It was one constant in a world full of uncertainties.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, by Ryuichi Sakamoto,” you said, your voice unwavering. The title flowed easily from your lips, as though it had always been there, embedded in your memory. For a brief moment, you felt a surge of confidence—a reminder that despite everything, you still knew what you were talking about.

Music was where you still had control. While your hands might have faltered on the keys earlier, the knowledge you held about music, the composers, the intricacies of each piece—it was still yours. It was still part of you.

His eyes widened when he heard the answer—said so confidently. But as he looked toward where the voice had come from, he knew. You weren’t just throwing out a random title; you were speaking with a sense of relief, something that you genuinely understood. It was clear this was something you could hold onto.

“Correct,” he nodded, a subtle smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You clearly know Ryuichi Sakamoto’s work well.”

You simply nodded, your expression carefully neutral. You didn’t trust your own words at the moment, afraid that if you spoke, something raw would slip out—something you weren’t ready to share. You didn’t want to admit that Ryuichi Sakamoto had been the first composer to make you cry when you were only eight years old. That memory was too intimate, too vulnerable to expose, especially in front of a room full of strangers and under the scrutinizing gaze of someone like Mr. Min.

He didn’t press you further, recognizing the way you had withdrawn into yourself after that brief moment. His gaze lingered for a moment, analyzing your quiet shift, but he understood that some questions, no matter how much he wanted to ask, might never have an answer.

The rest of the class continued as it had before, students asking questions, working through exercises, and Mr. Min offering thoughtful advice and gentle guidance. But you remained in your seat, an observer more than a participant. The urge to step forward, to show them the finer details, to share your knowledge and help them improve, pulsed within you. Yet, you stayed still. It wasn’t your place—not here, not now. You were here because you hadn’t lived up to the expectations of the broader music world, and that bitter reality weighed heavily on your chest.

As you packed up your things and began walking toward the door, your movements were automatic, like you were on autopilot. You didn’t look back at Mr. Min, avoiding the weight of the moment that lingered in the room. The soft click of the door behind you was like the sound of another chapter closing, though you didn’t feel like you had finished reading it yet.

You wandered aimlessly, your feet carrying you down the hallway until you found yourself in the university theater. It was almost unrecognizable compared to the grandeur of the place you had performed in earlier that day. The theater here was modest, a far cry from the polished, high-end venue you once felt so comfortable in. The piano on stage was small, worn, and simple—nothing like the sleek, dark grand pianos that had been the backdrop of your dreams. It felt like a strange irony that the only piano you were now allowed to play was the one that symbolized everything you’d lost.

It was almost too easy to think that this was what you deserved—this humble, forgotten place, with its empty seats and quiet walls. It felt like a reminder of how far you had fallen from the dream you once chased so tirelessly, and how far you still had to go to climb back to something resembling the life you had once hoped for.

Your fingers, however, had a mind of their own. As you sat down on the worn bench in front of the humble piano, your hands found the familiar keys of Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence without you even realizing it. It was as if the piece had woven itself into your soul, impossible to shake off no matter how hard you tried. Each note was a soft lament, a reflection of the struggle that was still so fresh in your heart. You didn’t know why you played it, but in that moment, it felt like the only thing that could anchor you amidst everything that was swirling around you.

The world around you faded as the music took over, each note soothing the chaos inside your mind. The piano became your refuge, your sanctuary from everything that had been weighing you down. You let the melody flow, losing track of time, your fingers dancing across the keys as if they were telling a story you had yet to understand.

You didn’t notice the quiet presence in the doorway, the way Mr. Min had slipped in, drawn to the sound of a familiar melody echoing through the empty theater. His gaze was fixed on you, taking in the way your body seemed to meld with the music, how your hands moved with such natural grace. He stood there, unnoticed, allowing you to remain lost in the moment.But even as you played, there was a quiet awareness that kept you from fully surrendering.

Somewhere deep inside, you knew that if you opened your eyes and saw him watching, everything would come crashing down. The raw vulnerability you allowed yourself to show in your music would suddenly feel exposed, like standing in front of a mirror with nothing left to hide. And that thought, the idea of facing him with all your broken pieces laid bare, was almost too much to bear. So you kept playing, hoping the music could shield you from the reality waiting outside of it.

The final note hung in the air, weighted with an intensity you hadn’t meant to create, and you lingered on it longer than expected. As the sound faded, doubts crept in, unraveling the calm the music had offered you. Restlessness overtook you, and you struck the keys again and again, each press more urgent than the last, until all that filled the room was a harsh, discordant noise that reverberated through the stillness. It was as if the turmoil inside your mind had escaped through your hands, refusing to be quieted.

Frustration bubbled up, and without thinking, your eyes snapped open, locking onto the keys in front of you. In a burst of anger, you slammed both hands down on the piano, the sound violent and chaotic, letting all the pent-up emotions spill out in a frantic explosion. You held the notes for a few seconds, breathing heavily, before slowly releasing them, sinking back into a heavy, oppressive silence.

For a brief moment, the urge to destroy it all was still there, but it dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving you feeling exposed. You couldn’t bring yourself to play again, not after that. Not after what had just spilled out of you. The music, which had once been a refuge, now felt like an unbearable reminder of everything you couldn’t fix, everything you couldn’t control.

In the distance, you could feel Mr. Min’s presence, a weight in the room that made the silence feel even more oppressive. You didn’t have to look to know he was still there, watching, waiting for you to either rise or break. But you didn’t want to face him. Not now. Not after what had just happened.

Instead, you let your hands rest on the keys, unmoving, your fingers pressing lightly against the worn ivory. The softest sound, the faintest breath of music, came from the piano—a gentle reminder of the way things once were, when the instrument had been your ally, not your battleground. And you stayed there, caught in the silence, wondering if you’d ever find your way back to the peace the music used to give you.

Mr. Min stood in the doorway, frozen, caught between admiration and worry. The way you played had been nothing short of breathtaking—so smooth. But then, without warning, it all shattered into chaos. The dissonant chords, sharp and relentless, filled the space like a violent storm. It was as if you were battling your own emotions, a war within you where the music was both the weapon and the victim.

When you slammed your hands down on the keys, the sound stung him. It was jarring, furious—like a scream left unheard. He could feel the weight of everything you were trying to express but couldn’t find the words for. The tension in the room thickened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure whether to step forward or to give you the space you clearly needed.

His voice cut through the silence, pulling you back from the whirlwind of your emotions. The sound of it, gentle yet commanding, made the warmth of the music and the anger melt away, leaving behind the sharp sting of humiliation. You hadn’t meant for it to spiral like that, but now, as his presence loomed in the room, it felt as though you had been caught in a fragile moment, raw and unguarded, with no way to hide from what you had just unleashed.

As he made his way to the stage, the shift in your demeanor was immediate. The fire of anger that had flared up moments before seemed to dissipate, replaced by a deep sense of shame that washed over you. The music, your outburst, everything felt too raw now, too exposed.

He approached the piano but kept a respectful distance, his movements careful and measured, almost as though he understood how fragile this moment was. His gaze softened as it settled on you, aware of the dark thoughts you were lost in.

“That was quite a performance,” he said, his voice gentle, “for someone who quit piano a long time ago.” He added the words with a light chuckle, but there was no judgment in his tone—only a quiet understanding. It wasn’t a reprimand for your lie; rather, it felt like an acknowledgment of the depth you carried, something he could see beneath your carefully constructed façade.

You let out a scoff, frustration bubbling up inside you again, but still, you didn’t leave. Your body felt stuck, anchored in place by something you couldn’t quite name. Your fingers, seemingly on their own, drifted to the piano, pressing the keys softly, like they were searching for something to hold onto. Each note was a tentative attempt to take back control, but the weight of the moment—of your own thoughts—kept pulling you deeper into a tangled mess.

Finally, you spoke, the words tumbling out as if they had been waiting to be freed.

“I lied,” you murmured, the admission quiet but heavy, like a burden you could no longer carry. He could’ve answered, could’ve told you that he knew the moment you walked into the room, that your eyes gave away more than your words ever could. But he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence stretch between you, acknowledging the weight of what you had just admitted without needing to say it aloud.

You hesitated, then, the truth finally spilling out as you whispered it into the silence.

“I never stopped playing piano. It’s been twenty years since I first touched the keys.”

Mr. Min’s face stayed calm, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes at the unexpected confession. He hadn’t anticipated you’d reveal so much, but perhaps this was the moment you were finally ready to open up—and he was ready to listen.

“So, why the lie?” he asked softly, his tone gentle. He could sense there was more beneath the surface, a reason behind your guardedness, the conflict in your words. He needed to understand.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a weight you had been carrying for so long finally finding its release.

“My teacher told me I was bad and that I should quit,” you said, the confession hanging in the air like a stone. You didn’t mention how, since joining the conservatory, every step felt like a competition, where your passion for the music was overshadowed by the constant comparisons to others. How the mentor you had once looked up to always made you feel like you weren’t good enough. If she couldn’t believe in you, how could you believe in yourself?

The beautiful walls, the polished floors, the golden moldings—all of it, so ornate and perfect, but they had slowly stolen your passion. Without realizing it, the grandeur of it all had crushed your love for the music, squeezing it between the layers of perfection and expectation.

The shame that had been buried deep within you for so long began to surface, raw and uncomfortable. The sting of those words, the rejection, still hurt—saying them out loud now felt like finally acknowledging an unspoken truth that had been kept in the dark for too long.

“I was ashamed of that, after playing piano my whole life,” you admitted, your voice quivering slightly. “So I didn’t want to admit I wasn’t a beginner. Because I feel like I am.”

The vulnerability in your voice caught you off guard. For a moment, you felt exposed—like the walls you had spent years building were falling down. The truth was out, and there was no running from it anymore.

Mr. Min’s gaze remained steady, his eyes not leaving yours as you spoke. He could hear the weight of your words, the burden of what you’d carried for so long. He knew well how one harsh judgment could bury the brightest spark, suffocating it with doubt and fear.

He understood how easily passion could be crushed under the weight of someone else’s expectations, someone else’s words.

“One person’s opinion doesn’t define you,” he said softly, his voice reassuring but firm. He took a slow step forward, his presence steady and grounded.

“You’re not bad. I heard you play. You have talent—real talent. It’s a gift you should never hide.”

“She called me a rock, said I play with my head, not my heart,” you murmured, the bite of her words still stinging. The memory of Ms. Kim’s harsh judgment lingered, a shadow over your thoughts.

“But I know what I feel inside,” you continued, your voice steady but soft. “I just can’t figure out how to show it.” The confession felt raw, something you’d been holding back for far too long.

Mr. Min listened intently, his expression softening as you spoke. He could feel the depth of your frustration, the way you had been carrying those words with you, the weight of someone else’s judgment that had slowly built a wall around your music.

He took a deep breath, considering his next words carefully.

“It’s not about playing with your heart or head. It’s about finding a balance,” he said, his voice gentle but steady. “You can feel the music, but you also need to let go of the fear of how it’s supposed to sound. You don’t have to force it or make it perfect. Just let it flow, and let yourself be part of it. Your music, your emotions—just let them be one.”

He paused, his gaze meeting yours, as if trying to convey everything he had learned over the years with just that look.

“Let go,” he whispered softly, his gaze steady on you. “Stop trying to control everything. Let yourself feel. Let the music take over. Trust your instincts.”

You had heard this before—Ms. Kim’s words, though delivered more sharply. The message was the same, but you couldn’t bring yourself to follow it. No matter how hard you tried, the link between your emotions and the music felt impossible to reach. The pressure, the expectations—they were like a heavy weight, pushing you further from the connection you desperately sought.

“It’s scary,” you confessed quietly, the rawness of your vulnerability settling in the silence.

Mr. Min’s expression softened as he watched you, his eyes reflecting a quiet understanding. He could feel the weight of your fear and anxiety, the kind of barrier that he, too, had struggled with in the past. He could almost see himself in your struggle, driven by the same anger, unable to let anything else in.

“I know it is,” he said softly, his tone warm and steady. “It’s terrifying to let your emotions show, to trust the music to carry what you’re feeling. But the piano doesn’t judge you. It’s here to help you.”

He took a step closer, his presence gentle yet steady. “Sometimes, the most beautiful music comes from the most vulnerable places.”

Mr. Min’s passion for music was undeniable. It wasn’t just in the way he played, but in the way he spoke about it—how his eyes seemed to light up whenever he discussed a piece or a feeling. It came so naturally to him, the connection between heart and instrument, and it was hard not to admire that effortless bond. Watching him, you couldn’t help but wonder if you would ever feel that same depth of understanding, that same fluid connection.

“What if I’m just not cut out for this?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, quiet and almost fearful. The doubt that had been building inside you for some time now felt too heavy to carry any longer. “I keep fighting for something that maybe I’m just not meant for.”

“Asking yourself if you’re made for it shows you are,” he said softly but with conviction, a subtle determination in his voice. “There’s no such thing as not being made for music. And even if there were, I don’t see it in you. You have something special. You just need to find a way to reach it.”

“I’m scared that one day I just won’t love music like I did,” you whispered, your voice soft but heavy with the weight of the admission. Music had always been your anchor, the one thing that made everything feel right. But now, the fear crept in—what if that love faded? What if one day, it all just slipped away, leaving you with only the echo of a distant memory? The thought of losing that connection, that passion, gripped you in a way nothing else could.

“I’m already falling out of love with it,” you murmured, the words tasting like a betrayal. It was a truth you’d buried deep inside, one you hadn’t wanted to face. But now it was out there, undeniable and raw.

Your eyes finally met his, wide and vulnerable, the weight of your emotions threatening to spill over. The tears that had been on the verge of falling held back for now, but the hope that lingered in them was undeniable. Without thinking, you spoke from your heart, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “Make me love it again, please. I need your help.” The plea was quiet but desperate, fragile yet genuine, as if you were reaching out for something—anything—that could bring back the music you once knew so well.

Mr. Min’s heart tightened at the raw honesty in your voice, and he could feel the weight of your plea. He knew the pain you were carrying, the fear of losing something that had always been a part of you. His gaze was unwavering, full of quiet intensity, but his expression softened as he spoke.

“I will,” he said, his voice steady yet filled with an unspoken promise. “I’ll help you rediscover that love for music. I’ll guide you through it. But you have to trust me.”

His words hung in the air, both an invitation and a challenge, as if offering you the chance to find your way back to something that had always been yours, waiting to be found again.

Your gaze remained fixed on his face, searching for something—an answer, a sign, anything. There was a certainty about him, a quiet confidence that you had never known. And yet, you couldn’t fully understand why you were turning to him for help. You didn’t know him. Before this moment, he had been nothing more than a name, a fleeting mention from other pianists. You had never cared to listen to his work, too consumed by Ms. Kim’s world.

To you, she had always been the best—the only mentor, the only guide you needed. The path she had shown you had seemed like the only way forward.

At least, that’s what you had believed all this time.

“I want to prove her wrong,” you said, the words coming out with more conviction than you expected. You didn’t need to explain who she was—you were certain he would understand.

“I need to show her that I was meant for this,” you added, gripping the edge of the piano bench as if it were the only thing keeping you grounded. “Music is the only thing I’ve ever truly known.”

The words felt like both an admission and a plea. It wasn’t just about proving her wrong—it was about proving something to yourself. That all those years hadn’t been in vain. That you were as deserving of music as anyone else.

He could already feel it—this pull toward you, the inexplicable urge to help you reclaim what had been taken. To prove your former teacher wrong. To bring back the love for music that had once shone so brightly in your eyes. It wasn’t just about technique or talent; it was about something deeper, something that had been buried under years of doubt and criticism.

His hand found the edge of the piano, just inches from yours, a quiet gesture of support.

“Then we’ll show her,” he said, his voice steady, carrying a quiet conviction. “We’ll show her that you were always meant for this. That music belongs to you just as much as you belong to it.”

You smiled at him, quiet yet resolute, a newfound determination settling within you. You didn’t know why it had to be Min Yoongi—why, out of all people, he was the one you wanted to guide you back to music. Maybe it was the way he played, the way every note seemed to carry emotion so effortlessly. Maybe it was how, even in the short time you had known him, his words had stirred something in you. Or maybe it was simply because, despite everything, you trusted him.

Because underneath all the doubt and fear, there was one truth you couldn’t deny—you shared the same unshakable love for music. And maybe, just maybe, he could help you find your way back to it.

Mr. Min loved teaching. He loved the way his students’ eyes lit up when they pressed a key and it rang out just right, the quiet but persistent determination they carried when they finally mastered a piece. That was why he loved music—not just for the sound, not just for the technique, but because it was meant to be shared. A language that could reach people in ways words never could.

But in his five years of teaching and twenty-four years of playing, he had never encountered someone quite like you. Never had he met a musician who had spent their whole life devoted to music, only to wake up one day and feel as though it was slipping away. Someone who wasn’t a beginner, but who had lost something far more important than skill—their passion.

It unsettled him, the thought of it. He had never imagined a life where music didn’t feel like home. How could something so deeply ingrained in a person suddenly feel so distant? How could music—the one thing that had always been his anchor—become a stranger to someone who had once breathed it as deeply as he did?

But he was ready to take on the challenge. Because if it were him—if he ever lost music—he wasn’t sure he would survive it.

And perhaps that was what truly made a musician great—not just skill, not just talent, but the ability to pass on that love, to spark something in another person. To make them feel music the way he did.

For the first time, Mr. Min wasn’t just teaching someone how to play.

He was teaching someone how to love music again.

For the first time in a long while, he felt challenged. Not by the music itself, but by you—the girl sitting before him, struggling to find herself again.

He took a quiet breath, steadying himself before speaking. His voice was soft, patient, but unwavering.

“So… we start from here. From the very beginning. From what you do feel when you play.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, the sound lighter than anything you had felt all day—maybe even since the moment piano became more than just a hobby. Since the first time you stepped onto the stage of that grand theater, carrying the weight of expectations, the relentless need to prove yourself.

But now, for the first time in a long while, you felt something close to relief. Like maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to the reason you had fallen in love with music in the first place.

Your eyes flickered to your watch—almost 6 PM. As much as you wanted to stay, to let your fingers linger on the keys a little longer, you knew you couldn’t. And you couldn’t ask Mr. Min to stay either. He probably had somewhere else to be, a life outside of this dimly lit theater, someone waiting for him.

“Right now?”

You laughed softly, glancing at him through your lashes before shaking your head. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to,” you said, your tone laced with teasing. “But I think I need to prepare myself.”

The words settled between you—an easy excuse, a carefully crafted delay. Because the truth was, you were scared. Scared of having another teacher, of learning under someone who wasn’t Ms. Kim. She had been your only mentor since you were seven, the only guide you had ever known. The thought of starting over, of trusting someone new with something so deeply personal, sent a shiver of doubt through you.

Mr. Min’s smirk didn’t waver, his gaze steady as he studied you. He saw through your words easily, past the teasing tone to the hesitation beneath. The fear. The doubt.

“Of course,” he murmured, accepting your excuse without pressing further. He knew patience was key—rushing you wouldn’t work. But still, a part of him, fueled by curiosity and something else he couldn’t quite name, wanted to stay. To see more of this version of you—the one stripped of pretenses, standing on the edge of something new.

He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Maybe tomorrow?”

You rose from the bench, putting distance between yourself and the instrument that held too much power over you—power to unearth emotions you weren’t sure you were ready to face. Turning to Mr. Min, you forced a smile, the same well-practiced mask you had worn countless times before. A shield against the uncertainty twisting in your chest.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” you said, your voice light, almost casual—an attempt to ignore the way doubt already clawed at the edges of your resolve. The fear of failure, of not being enough, lingered just beneath the surface, but you pushed it down. For now.

Because you had taken the first step. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.

That night, when you got home, you rushed to your bedroom without a second glance at the small white electric piano in the corner. It had been your companion for years, yet tonight, it felt foreign—like a relic from a version of yourself you were no longer certain existed.

Instead, your fingers moved instinctively to your laptop, typing in his name. Min Yoongi. You had never searched for him before, never felt the need to. But now, you wanted to understand. A musician like him—someone who played with such effortless emotion—had to have left something behind. Something that could tell you more about the man who had just become your teacher.

The moment the first notes filled your room, you felt it. Relief. Like something inside you finally exhaled. His music wasn’t just precise or skillful—it was alive. Raw. Honest. And for the first time in longer than you could remember, you felt at ease.

The video was simple, unpolished. Just him and a piano. No grand stage, no theatrics, just music. Just feeling. The camera only captured his hands, gliding effortlessly over the keys, and a faint glimpse of his chin. But it was enough. You didn’t need to see his face to know what he was expressing.

And that’s what unsettled you the most.

Because if you sat in front of a piano, alone, no audience, no expectations—would you be able to feel the way he did? Could you let go of the calculations, the precision, and just exist within the music?

You doubted it. And that doubt pressed against your chest, heavy and unrelenting.

Because the difference between you was clear.

It was in the eyes.

His were open, focused, following his fingers as they danced over the keys, occasionally lifting to acknowledge the audience—as if he wanted to share every note, every emotion. As if music, to him, was something meant to be given.

Yours? Yours were always closed. As if you were hiding. As if you needed to shut out the world, to build a barrier between yourself and the music—afraid that if you opened your eyes, it would all slip away.

He played with presence. You played like you were trying to disappear.

The day after, you didn’t go to his class.

Instead, you found yourself in the university theater, alone. Not beside the piano, not near it at all. You sat in an uncomfortable chair in the audience, arms crossed tightly over your chest as you stared at the empty stage.

From this distance, it looked different. Without the lights, the hushed expectations of a performance, it was just… a platform. A piece of wood resting in an empty room. It didn’t look grand. It didn’t look like much at all.

What made it something, what made it important, was the way it could transform—how a musician could breathe life into it, how silence could be turned into something worth listening to.

You didn’t know if he would come.

Maybe he thought you were backing out, that you had decided to run after all. And maybe, deep down, a part of you was trying to hide. The anxiousness gnawed at you, tugging at your chest, making it impossible to sit still. Your fingers twitched against your lap, your thoughts scattered, racing in all directions.

But just as the doubt started to settle in, the curtains on the stage shifted. And there he was.

Mr. Min stepped onto the stage, his eyes sweeping the empty space before landing on you. He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t seem angry that you had skipped his class. He just looked at you.

And somehow, that was even more terrifying.

“The piano was waiting for you,” you said, your voice trying to sound casual, lighthearted—as though this wasn’t something big, as though he was the one who was expected to be there, not you.

But the words didn’t come out the way you intended. The anxiousness still clung to you, a weight in your stomach, twisting the sound of your voice into something more fragile than you wanted it to be.

Mr. Min took in your words, his expression unreadable as he moved across the stage, sitting at the bench, his body turning to face you. His gaze locked on yours, unwavering, as if he were studying you in a way that made you feel both seen and exposed at the same time.

He sat there for a few moments in silence, the stillness stretching out longer than you expected before he finally spoke.

“I suppose the audience was waiting for me too,” he said, his voice carrying a subtle dryness, a hint of humor tucked beneath his words.

And in that moment, you hated how right he was. The only audience here was you, sitting alone in the empty seats, feeling exposed and uncertain. The silence between you both seemed to echo louder than anything else in the room.

But his face softened little, the humor disappearing as his gaze remained steady.

“Why the front row?” he asked, his voice serious, probing, as if the answer held more weight than you were ready to admit.

You stayed still in your chair, leaning back as if you were completely at ease—though you knew that was far from the truth. Your gaze remained fixed on the stage, tracing the edges of the wooden platform, the empty space where performers usually stood.

“I always wanted to know what it felt like to look at the stage from here,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Wanted to see if it felt just as impressive as looking at the audience from up there.”

You lifted a hand, pointing to where he stood, your fingers tracing an invisible line across the air. It was strange—how different it all looked from this perspective. The stage that once felt huge beneath your feet now seemed almost… small. Almost ordinary.

But maybe that was the point. Maybe it wasn’t about the stage itself. Maybe it was about who stood on it.

Without warning, you abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the unpolished floor, sending a sharp noise through the silence of the theater.

“Turns out it didn’t look like much,” you laughed, the sound shaky, but it felt almost freeing. You hesitated, almost as if you were deciding whether to speak the thought bubbling up inside you. “But now that you’re there…”

Your gaze lingered on him, sitting so effortlessly at the bench. It was strange—the way he blended into the space. The dark navy sweater clinging to his body, his messy hair falling just enough to give him a look of unpolished calm. He wasn’t extravagant. There was nothing overly special about him, not in the way the world expected performers to be. But somehow, with the dim lights softly haloing his figure, he became one with the piano, the scene somehow more impressive now that he was a part of it. The simplicity of it, the ease with which he fit in, left you speechless.

The soft dim light of the theater reflected off his glasses, catching every detail of his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his soft cheeks, the way his thin, plump lips were slightly pursed in concentration. His brows were furrowed, his eyes focused on the keys, lost in thought.

You exhaled, unable to finish your sentence as you found yourself watching him closely, unable to look away from the way he seemed to embody the music in ways you hadn’t yet been able to. It made you wonder if, maybe, you were starting to understand a little more about what it meant to truly belong on that stage.

Because despite the most beautiful dress you could wear, the bow in your hair—your signature style—the necklaces glinting against your neck in the stage lights, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d never come close to him. No matter how much you dressed up, no matter how much you tried to present yourself with grace and poise, you realized that it wasn’t about the outer appearance. It wasn’t about how perfect you looked or how much you tried to shine in the light.

It was about something deeper. Something he carried without effort. How he embodied music in a way that you could only dream of. His presence at the piano was effortless, natural—like the music was inside him, flowing through his every move. And in that moment, you understood that it wasn’t about what you wore or how you looked. It was about being one with the music, about letting it consume you in the most real, unpretentious way. And somehow, despite everything you’d tried to do, you felt far from that connection.

And that thought left a bitter taste in your mouth as you stared at him, wondering if you could ever be more than just the costume you wore—more than the image you tried to create.

He remained quiet at first, simply watching you with a steady gaze. When your laugh—soft and uncertain—broke the silence, he couldn’t help but chuckle quietly in response.

“Come here,” he said, his voice calm but firm.

From where you stood, you saw him in a way you hadn’t before. Behind the piano, he exuded an undeniable presence. The soft glow of the theater light reflected off his glasses, highlighting every angle of his face—the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his cheeks, the way his lips, slightly parted, were focused in concentration. His brows were furrowed, eyes glued to the keys, lost in the music.

In that moment, under the spotlight, he seemed powerful—like the piano and the music weren’t just things he played, but things he became.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. A thought crossed your mind—that maybe, just maybe, you could feel that way too. That, in time, you might belong in this space, just as he did.

“I think I want to watch first,” you confessed, your voice quieter now, almost as if the weight of your admission was finally sinking in.

You weren’t entirely sure why you said it, but it felt right. Maybe you needed to understand it from his perspective—to see how he approached the piano, the ease with which he made it look effortless. Perhaps that was the key to rediscovering what you’d lost along the way.

You weren’t quite ready to jump in, but the urge to learn, to observe, was growing stronger.

Without a word, he shifted slightly on the bench, his movements effortless, as if the piano were an extension of himself, as natural as breathing.

He placed his hands on the keys, and the sound that filled the room was soft—gentle, almost like a lullaby. Each note felt delicate, tender, as though it were caressing the air, each one lingering in the quiet of the theater like a whisper meant only for you.

The notes he played wrapped around you, unfamiliar yet oddly familiar. It was like the music itself recognized something within you—something buried beneath layers of doubt and distance. You couldn’t explain why, but it felt like a voice that had been missing for so long had finally spoken to you.

It wasn’t anything like the pieces you had listened to online the night before. No polished, calculated notes. No grand technique. This was raw, real, and deeply personal. Every note carried emotion, like he was reaching inside of you with the very sound of the piano. It felt intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, like he was sharing a piece of his soul through the music.

You couldn’t move. The world seemed to pause around you as his fingers worked over the keys, the sound filling the room with a kind of quiet reverence. There was a weight to it, a stillness that demanded your full attention.

And when the music stopped, you felt it—this strange emptiness, like a breath had been held for too long and finally released. You didn’t want to be the first to break the silence, so you sat there, frozen, eyes fixed on him as if afraid to move in case the moment dissolved.

The question lingered in your mind, almost unspoken but impossible to ignore: Why had you held onto Ms. Kim for so long? Why had you believed she was the only one who could teach you?

In front of you now stood someone who understood music in a way that transcended technique or rules. Someone who wasn’t just playing a song, but telling a story. And for the first time in a long while, you realized that maybe it wasn’t about who you had been following—it was about who you were willing to learn from now.

And just like that, it felt like a door had opened in front of you—one you hadn’t even realized was there.

You cleared your throat, hesitant, feeling almost as if the silence left in the wake of his playing was something fragile, something you didn’t want to disturb. It hung in the air, delicate, as though his music was still woven into the very fabric of the space between you.

His music. His creation.

In that moment, the stage and the piano felt entirely his, and somehow, you felt as if you didn’t belong to this place—not yet, anyway.

“What’s it called?” you asked, your voice softer than usual, careful as if you might break something just by speaking too loudly.

You took a tentative step forward, walking onto the stage. It felt heavier beneath you now, like something you had to earn the right to stand on. It seemed absurd, the way the stage made you feel like an outsider.

“I binge-watched all your videos on your channel yesterday,” you confessed, the words carrying an awkward blend of admiration and mild embarrassment. “And I’m pretty sure I haven’t heard this one before.”

Mr. Min’s gaze never left you as you stepped closer, his attention fully on you. There was something about seeing you on the stage, in this place that had always felt like his, that somehow felt right—like you belonged there, too, even if just for a moment.

“It’s about the fear of losing a passion,” he said, his voice steady, but there was something more beneath the surface, something personal he was sharing with you, something he wanted you to understand.

“Black Swan.”

The title hit you like a punch to the chest, your breath catching in your throat.

“You’re not the only one who feels that fear,” he continued, his eyes still locked on you, searching for something in your reaction. His words were firm, but there was an underlying understanding in his tone, a silent reassurance. “That fear is part of what makes you a musician. Don’t ever doubt that.”

His words wrapped themselves around your heart, heavy yet grounding, like a truth you had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“If you’re not scared of losing your passion,” he added, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips, “then what are you really passionate about?”

It was a simple question, but it landed with the force of a revelation, making everything inside you shift, the weight of it settling into your soul.

His music hung in the air, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. It was the kind of sound you had been waiting for, the kind that spoke when words failed. It was everything you had longed for, a language you hadn’t realized you needed until that moment.

“Have you had this terrible fear?”

The question left your lips quietly, almost as if you were afraid to hear the answer, as though voicing it might make it all too real. For the first time in a long while, you let go of the armor you’d built up—no jokes, no distractions—just the raw vulnerability of a question that had been pressing on your chest for so long.

You needed to know. You needed to hear that someone like him, someone who seemed so certain in their art, had felt that same suffocating fear.

And maybe, just maybe, if he had felt it too, it meant you weren’t as broken as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, you weren’t alone.

Mr. Min noticed the tremor in your voice, the vulnerability creeping through. Yet, he also saw the way you kept your composure, your eyes unwavering, like you were doing your best to hold everything together.

His face remained unreadable, but there was a quiet warmth in his gaze, a silent understanding.

“Of course I have,” he said softly, his voice almost tender. “Fear is something that shapes us as musicians. It’s what tells us we might be losing something precious, something we can’t afford to let go.”

He didn’t want to admit that he had spent the entire night composing this piece. Not because it had been difficult—it had come to him effortlessly, because it was honest, because it was something he had felt and still felt.

But more than that, he had written it for you.

It wasn’t just music—it was a message, a reminder, a lifeline. He wanted you to hear it and understand—you’re not alone. What you’re feeling, what every musician feels at some point, is real and unavoidable.

Min Yoongi wasn’t someone who could always find the right words. He knew that. He could teach you how to play, but you already knew how. That wasn’t the problem. And words, he understood, wouldn’t reignite what you were losing inside.

Only music could do that.

And therein lay the cruel irony—the very thing that could save you was the same thing that terrified you.

This was what he had tried to communicate in Black Swan. And as he watched you take it in, the weight of his music settling in you, he knew you understood. You had really heard it.

“I want you to try it,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.

Almost mechanically, you tucked your trembling hands away, instinctively reaching up to adjust the bow in your hair. It was a small motion, something to ground you, to stop the tremor that exposed the fear bubbling beneath the surface.

You had played pieces before that resonated deeply with you, music that touched you, shaped you in ways you couldn’t always explain. But never had a musician—someone so alive, so real—given you their work like this. Not just to listen to, not just to admire, but for you to make your own.

And that terrified you.

Terrified you that you would ruin it. That your hands wouldn’t be able to carry it the way it deserved. That the sound you made wouldn’t match the beauty he had created. That when he heard you, he’d feel the same disappointment Ms. Kim did. That he might take it away.

Min Yoongi was your only hope.

And if you failed now, you weren’t sure if you could keep going. Maybe after this, the piano would just be a memory, a part of your past, something you once loved but could never find your way back to.

His voice was steady, a quiet command that cut through the storm of doubt inside you. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his gaze unwavering, almost like he was willing you to believe him. “Just play. Just play the notes. That’s all you need to do. Don’t think about anything else.”

You nodded slowly, though the knot in your chest remained tight, and slowly, cautiously, you reached for the piano keys. But this time, you weren’t doing it alone.

You moved toward the bench where he sat, and when he shifted to make space for you, his quiet confidence eased something within you.

This space is yours, too.

You lowered yourself onto the bench beside him, your heartbeat racing as he placed the sheet music in front of you.

His handwriting was neat, careful, but still undeniably personal. There were notes crossed out, revisions, and scribbled thoughts filling the margins. It was raw, imperfect—a window into his mind, into the moment this piece was brought to life.

And, for the first time in what felt like ages, you remembered something important.

You had spent so many years playing from flawless, printed scores—neat, sterile, impersonal. You’d become so focused on precision, on getting everything right, that you had forgotten something essential.

Music is never about perfection.

It was about this. The smudged ink, the crossed-out mistakes, the honest struggle to channel feeling into something as rigid as musical notation.

And suddenly, you understood.

Imperfection wasn’t a flaw. It was a reflection of being human.

And perhaps, that was the very thing you’d been searching for all along.

Min Yoongi watched the way your eyes lingered on the sheet music, how they seemed to trace each note with a mixture of awe and reverence.

It made something in his chest tighten. An unfamiliar ache, one he hadn’t felt in years. He remembered that feeling once—how it felt to look at a blank page, to hold the weight of possibility in his hands, the excitement of knowing that it was his music waiting to be born.

It was the kind of anticipation that made everything else fade away. That sense of limitless potential—the world, and all its noise, felt far away, and all that mattered was the music in front of him.

Now, watching you, he realized how rare it was to see that spark in someone else’s eyes. The way you were looking at it—the same way he used to—was like seeing something he thought he’d lost forever, now reflected in you.

You glanced at the sheet music once, then pressed your fingers to the keys, letting the pull of his composition guide you.

Your eyes closed on their own, shutting out the world, shutting out him. You didn’t know the piece by heart, not yet, but the brief glance had been enough. Your hands moved almost instinctively, finding their way through the notes, trusting what felt right.

But as the melody unfolded, you could feel it again—the weight, the hesitation. Your body instinctively curled inward, shoulders slumping as though you were trying to retreat into yourself, to avoid fully inhabiting the moment.

You recognized it instantly.

The way you played like you didn’t deserve to take up space. How doubt seeped into your bones, twisting its way into your music. The way you hid—from the notes, from the audience, from yourself.

He watched you closely, his gaze unwavering as you played, a quiet intensity in his eyes. He could see it, clear as day—the way you were pulling away, the way you let fear shape your every movement. It hurt him to see someone so gifted stifle themselves like this. But underneath the pain, there was something else: frustration and a deep, unspoken fascination.

He felt angry—not at you, but at the world, for teaching you to shrink, for making you believe you didn’t deserve to take up space.

Without a word, he rose from his spot, moving around the piano like a painter stepping back from his work, trying to see the larger picture, searching for the hidden layers.

He didn’t interrupt. He couldn’t.

Instead, he settled into the front row—the same chair you had sat in earlier, the one that had felt so distant. Now, from this vantage point, he saw what you hadn’t let yourself feel. He saw how effortlessly your fingers danced across the keys, how the music poured from you with such fluidity, with such grace. From where he sat, you looked almost confident, as if the stage were truly yours.

But he wasn’t fooled by the outward performance.

He noticed the subtle things—the slight tension in your shoulders, the fraction of a second your fingers faltered before the notes fell perfectly into place, the way your body seemed to shrink inward, hesitant to claim the space around you.

You were playing beautifully, no question.

But you were still holding back.

When you opened your eyes, the spot beside you was empty. A flash of panic shot through your chest, your gaze frantically scanning the room, searching for him. The vulnerability of the moment felt crushing, making the space beside you feel impossibly wide.

Your heartbeat drummed loudly in your ears, erratic and out of sync, like an instrument you couldn’t quite control. But then his voice broke through the silence, pulling you back to the present.

“I thought you ran away because it sucked,” you joked, trying to inject some humor into your voice, even if it felt hollow.

But beneath the words was something deeper, something more honest—a quiet, persistent fear. That no matter how much you played, no matter how hard you tried, the audience would see through the act. That it wouldn’t be enough. And they’d leave.

“How was it?” you asked, attempting a smirk, though the tremble in your fingers betrayed you. “Do you think it can be saved, or should I just go burn every piano I come across?”

His gaze flicked up to you, sharp and calculating, as you attempted to brush off the tension with humor. He wanted to smile, maybe even laugh with you. But something about the way you tensed, how you refused to meet his eyes, kept him grounded, serious.

“Don’t you dare burn this old piece of wood,” he said, his tone carrying a mix of exasperation and something softer—admiration, perhaps, or a quiet affection that betrayed the edge in his voice.

He stood, stepping back to lean against the piano, a casual yet deliberate posture. Min Yoongi was always calm, measured, taking his time before speaking. His words were never rushed—carefully chosen, never too harsh but never too gentle either. It was like he knew you needed more than just a quick fix. He crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing in thought before he spoke again.

“I need you to explain something to me,” he began, his voice steady but open, as if he was trying to tap into something deeper within you. “How and why did you start learning piano?”

It had been years since you last stopped to consider why you had chosen this instrument. For so long, you’d been too consumed with perfecting your craft, with memorizing every note, that you buried the young girl who had once played piano for the pure joy of it—left her forgotten in the same dusty corner of your childhood room.

If you tried to recall how it all started, there was nothing particularly special about it. You grew up in a house where your parents needed something to keep you occupied while they worked, something that would keep a young girl entertained. So, at a very early age, you began lessons. Your first teacher called you a prodigy, a label that your parents eagerly passed down to you as you grew older.

But if you were to explain why you loved music, it wasn’t because of talent or praise. It was because music was the one constant in your life, the one thing that had always been there. It had followed you through your childhood, through the lonely years when the people you needed most couldn’t be there. When words failed you, and presence wasn’t enough, the familiar keys of the small electric piano in your room gave you solace. It never left.

“It says things I can’t,” you said softly, avoiding the deeper truth you couldn’t bear to speak. The loneliness you’d buried deep inside, the solitude that still lingered. “Like a friend, a mother, or a lover… I feel like I can talk to it, and somehow, it responds.”

His gaze softened as you spoke, sensing the tremble in your voice, and it was almost as if he could see that younger version of you—small, fragile, tucked away in the quiet of your room, seeking refuge in the notes of the piano. It was in that moment that he felt the weight of your loneliness, the quiet ache that still clung to you, revealed in the way you avoided his gaze, the way your hands stayed still in your lap, a silent barrier between you and the world.

But he knew music wasn’t a shield. It wasn’t meant to protect you. It was meant to strip you bare, to expose what was hidden, to make you feel every raw, unguarded truth.

His own journey with music had been similar. He didn’t play because someone told him to, but because something inside him pulled him toward it. Even now, he couldn’t fully explain it—the constant longing for a piano, for the chance to play. It was just something he needed, something that lived inside him.

He had begged for one, almost obsessively, and his parents, recognizing that it wasn’t just a passing fancy, finally relented. They weren’t ones to spoil him, but seeing how deeply he desired it, they scraped together their resources and brought him his first piano—a humble, worn-out instrument, much like the one sitting in the university theater.

He’d played grand pianos in luxurious spaces, in concert halls filled with applause, but it was here, in this makeshift theater, this imperfect place, that he felt the most at home.

It was in this raw, unpolished environment that he could truly connect to his passion, to the fire that burned inside him. There was something about its simplicity, its honesty, that grounded him in ways nothing else could.

Maybe that was what you needed too—to let go of the expectations, to return to that place where it all began. To let go of perfection and simply allow the fire to burn again.

“But somewhere along the way, I lost myself,” you say quietly, your voice steady but carrying a weight that makes your chest ache, your heart exposed to him in a way you hadn’t intended.

“I didn’t even notice it happening. It just turned into something I had to do, not because I wanted to, but because I was expected to. Slowly, I began to resent the piano—the one thing I thought I could always turn to. And over time, it started slipping away from me too.”

Your vision blurred as the vulnerability overwhelmed you, a feeling you used to run from. In moments like these, when you felt raw and open, you would turn to the piano, hoping to find solace, to find comfort in the music. But now… it wasn’t the same.

The keys no longer gave you the peace they once had. The connection was gone, leaving an empty space inside you, as if the music itself had evaporated, slipping away with the passing years.

His expression was unwavering—he wasn’t going to let you hide, not this time.

“It happens,” he said, his voice direct, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the piano with a quiet authority. “When your passion turns into something you have to do, when you start obsessing over results instead of embracing the process, you lose sight of why you began in the first place.”

He paused, taking a steadying breath, his chest rising and falling in sync with your own shaky breaths.

“Music shouldn’t feel like a chore. Art shouldn’t feel like a chore,” he continued, his voice sharpening with conviction, a weight behind every word. “And I hate the people who make you believe it is.”

His eyes locked onto yours, his words like a quiet fury, as though he had been fighting this battle for far longer than he cared to admit.

“They don’t deserve the admiration you give them. They’re not musicians. Not the kind that matter, not the ones worthy of your time, your talent. If we can even call them musicians.” He exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and understanding in his tone, as if he’d been down this road himself, had known this feeling all too well.

You finally turn your gaze toward him, your eyes still heavy with unshed tears, though none manage to fall. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, soften just a little, and his furrowed brow deepens in contemplation as he meets your gaze. His expression is more intense than you anticipated.

For a moment, a question nags at you, something that lingers despite the weight of everything you’ve just shared. You wonder if someone like him, so gifted in his music, has ever faced the same struggles you have—if he’s ever walked that thorny path of doubt and frustration that seems to follow every note you play.

“Why are you teaching at this university?” you ask, your voice soft, yet filled with genuine curiosity.

It’s not judgment, not at all. You’ve witnessed his talent, the way his music seems to demand to be heard. His pieces are alive with raw emotion and complexity, and for a moment, you can’t help but wonder if he doesn’t belong somewhere bigger, somewhere more fitting for someone with his gifts.

The world outside seems to call for him, a place where his work could reach more people, could have a wider impact. You wonder why he stays in this small, quiet corner of the world, offering his talent to a few instead of taking the stage that seems to be his destiny.

A complex mix of emotions flickers in his eyes, like a reflection of the chaotic music that churns within him. The words he wants to speak seem trapped, just out of reach, and you can see the conflict in his gaze as if he’s struggling to find the right way to express the swirling thoughts inside his mind.

He pauses, his eyes lowering to the floor, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest, as though he’s trying to contain the flood of feelings inside him. He’s not a man of many words, preferring to let his music do the talking instead.

“Just like you, I was scared of losing my passion,” he finally admits, his voice low and contemplative, his gaze shifting toward the piano as if it holds the answer to his own uncertainty. “Teaching it every day, though… it makes me fall in love with it again and again.” He allows the faintest smile to pull at the corners of his lips, a quiet acknowledgment of the truth in his words, as if sharing what he loves with others is the key to keeping that fire burning within him.

His words linger between you, and suddenly, you feel an understanding between the two of you, a shared recognition of the delicate balance between love and fear, passion and doubt. It isn’t just the music itself he holds dear—it’s the act of sharing it, of passing it on to others, that keeps him grounded, that keeps the passion alive.

In just one day, it felt like you had learned more than in all the years spent at the conservatory, surrounded by people who wore their talent like a mask. Now, as you sat down at your small electric piano in your room, there was a quiet sense of clarity. The dust that had gathered over time was quickly swept away with a motion of your sleeve, as though you were brushing away all the weight of self-doubt that had settled on you.

For the first time in a long while, the piano no longer felt like a tool for perfection, for meeting expectations. It was simply there, inviting you to reconnect. You placed your fingers on the keys, taking a breath as you closed your eyes, letting the music find its way to the surface.

You had always dreamed of creating something of your own, letting the music inside of you flow freely, sharing it with the world. But it always seemed out of reach. Ms. Kim had given you pieces to learn, pieces that demanded flawless execution. There was no room for your voice, no space for your own thoughts. People, she said, weren’t there to hear the musings of a twenty-two-year-old. They wanted the great works, the classics. It was the standard—the expectation.

But now, with your fingers resting on the keys, something inside you had shifted. Perhaps it was the presence of someone like Mr. Min, who understood the value of creating, of bringing something from your soul into the world. You didn’t have to play to impress or meet someone else’s measure. You could play because you needed to, because it was your story, your voice. And in that moment, it felt like a new beginning.

And then it clicked: how could she ever expect you to pour genuine emotion into your playing when the music wasn’t even your own, when it didn’t come from your heart? You needed something raw and personal, something that spoke to the truth buried deep inside you.

That night, you sat at your piano, fingers trembling but steady with intent. The keys felt different beneath your hands—alive, as if they were inviting you to tell your own story. You no longer worried about perfection or the judgments of others. You just played. Each note became a word, each chord a sentence. And for the first time in years, you weren’t playing someone else’s music—you were speaking your own truth.

Before parting ways earlier that day, Mr. Min had given you his phone number, telling you that you could reach out whenever you needed, and that he’d always respond. You had never had someone like him in your life—someone who truly seemed to understand you, who not only listened but wanted to understand your thoughts. He had become a reflection of the very connection you sought through music, close and accessible, like an instrument you could now play with ease.

He was the first to reach out to you through text, sending only an address and a time, telling you he wanted you there tomorrow. Of course, you replied without hesitation, agreeing to be there even though it was a Saturday. Something about his message stirred something inside you—like you couldn’t possibly turn it down, no matter the day.

You weren’t sure why you were standing there in the middle of the street, phone in hand, staring at it before glancing around at the busy crowd. It was the same address he had given you, but something about it felt off, like it didn’t quite belong. People bustled by, caught in their own rush, yet you remained frozen, suspended between the confusion in your mind and the rapid rhythm of your heartbeat.

Just as you were about to pull your phone out again to text him that you couldn’t come, you saw him. He emerged from the crowd, his dark hair a little tousled, glasses still perched on his nose. The sunlight, bright and harsh, illuminated him this time, casting a different kind of warmth on his face. He didn’t look the same as he did under the soft theater lights—he felt almost like a stranger, and for a moment, you simply stood there, watching him, trying to understand why he felt so… unfamiliar.

This wasn’t the musician you’d grown to admire over the past few days. No, he looked more like someone else—like an old friend. A friend who might meet you in the street to share a coffee, reminisce about the past. It was the kind of connection you had never allowed yourself to have, always too focused on practice, perfection, and the pressure of the performance. But seeing him like this, so effortlessly familiar, it felt as though a weight had been lifted, as though there was room now for something more than just the music.

He spotted you amidst the busy street, your figure barely noticeable as you stood still, eyes locked on him, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and anticipation. A smile tugged at his lips, amused and almost fond at the way you seemed lost in your own thoughts, unaware of the world around you.

He made his way toward you, each step sure and steady, his gaze never leaving your face. When he reached you, he stopped just a few feet away, his voice smooth and calm as he spoke.

“I thought I might have seen you turning back,” he says with a light chuckle, a playful warmth in his tone as if trying to defuse the nervous energy surrounding you. His smile fades a little when he notices how tense your body is, how your shoulders remain rigid, despite the teasing words.

You take in your surroundings, feeling out of place amidst the rush of the bustling street. It’s not at all what you had envisioned. The noise, the hurried footsteps of pedestrians, the constant honking of cars—it all feels foreign. The energy of the crowd overwhelms you, making your chest tighten. You’re not used to this chaos, this endless stream of people rushing past, each heading somewhere with purpose. A creeping anxiety starts to take hold, the fear that you might lose yourself in it all, or that you’re too small in this vast, unyielding world. For a moment, everything feels like it’s moving too quickly, and you can’t seem to keep up.

Your eyes move around again, still trying to make sense of it all. “What are we doing here, in the middle of the street?” you ask, your voice laced with confusion. There’s a part of you that wonders why you’re not back in the space you know so well, the one where everything feels clear. The piano, the stage—it feels so distant now, replaced by the chaotic hum of the city. You can’t shake the discomfort of being out of your element.

It’s not that you don’t want to be here, it’s just… so different. You never imagined finding yourself standing on a busy street in the middle of the afternoon, surrounded by strangers and drowned in the noise. Without the structure of the piano or the comforting familiarity of the stage, you feel uncertain. You can’t help but wonder why things feel so out of place. You hesitate, trying to make sense of the moment. “Why aren’t we back at the theater? Where’s the piano?”

He smiles gently, stepping a little closer, as if offering a silent reassurance that the chaos doesn’t need to consume you. His voice, when he speaks, is calm and steady, almost as if trying to ground you in this moment.

“Sometimes, you need to step away from what feels safe,” he says, his tone thoughtful, as if he’s reflecting on the same thoughts that must be running through your mind. “Not everything happens on stage, and not everything needs to make sense right away.”

With a light chuckle, noticing your lingering anxiety, he adds, “The university’s closed on Saturdays.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “But don’t worry, we’ll find a piano,” he reassures you, his voice casual yet confident.

He gestures for you to follow him, leading you through the throngs of people on the busy street. As you walk behind him, something shifts inside you. Despite the unfamiliarity of it all, a quiet sense of hope begins to grow. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

He strides ahead of you with a natural confidence, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets, his posture relaxed as if the chaos of the street doesn’t bother him in the least. You can’t help but wish you could embody that same calm, flow with the rhythm of the city the way he does. But your fingers betray you, fidgeting nervously against your skin, a silent battle against the anxiety crawling up your spine.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” you ask, the teasing tone in your voice a little forced, more of a distraction than a genuine question. Anything to redirect your attention from the nervous pressure building in your palms.

He glances over his shoulder at you, a sly grin tugging at his lips as he picks up on the subtle undertone of your question. He lets out a soft chuckle, clearly amused by the way you try to mask your nerves with playful banter.

Yoongi shoots you a quick look from the corner of his eye, his smirk widening just a bit. “Would you believe me if I said no?” he responds, his voice teasing but laid-back, as if getting lost in the crowd wouldn’t faze him one bit.

You let out a small huff and roll your eyes, but the light exchange has its effect—your shoulders drop a little, and your grip on your palms loosens.

Even if he didn’t know where he was headed, you think you’d follow him anyway. Right now, he was the only steady thing in a world that felt like it was constantly shifting beneath your feet.

It was strange, how quickly he’d become something familiar. Not demanding or rushing, but just there—quietly, consistently beside you, letting you take your time to navigate through it all. Maybe that’s why you trusted him. Not just because he understood music, but because he seemed to understand you too—the parts of yourself you were still figuring out.

“Today, we’re going busking,” he announces with an easy grin, one you hadn’t seen before—unguarded, his gums on full display, like he was truly at ease.

You blink at him, trying to wrap your mind around what he just said. Busking. Playing on the streets, with no stage, no rehearsed performance, and no safety net. Your stomach knots at the thought.

“You’re joking,” you say, though the doubt in your voice betrays you. His grin only grows wider, and you can’t help but feel a chill settle in your chest.

You’ve always played for an audience, but it was always the kind that sought you out. They came because they wanted music, because they expected something polished and refined. You never had to pull them in, never had to stop them in their tracks to get them to listen. You knew how to perform for people who wanted to hear you, who were there for you.

But this? This was different. And the thought of it unsettles you deeply.

“What if no one stops?” you mutter under your breath, half to him, half to yourself.

The fear creeps in—the one that has always haunted you. The idea of playing in front of an empty crowd, not because there weren’t people, but because they didn’t care enough to listen. You’d be exposed, no stage lights to hide behind, no grand piano as a barrier between you and the world. Just you, alone with your music, and anyone who happened to pass by. It felt terrifying in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

He looks at your face, noting the tension in your features, the hesitation that grips you as the weight of uncertainty presses down. He can see it—the familiar worry, the fear of being judged, the self-doubt creeping in. But instead of pushing, he lets the silence between you stretch for a moment, allowing you the space to settle.

Yoongi, still walking confidently, shrugs nonchalantly. “Then we play for ourselves,” he says simply, his voice light, as though the idea of playing for no one but yourself was the most natural thing in the world. “And maybe for the one person who does stop.”

He doesn’t seem rattled, and the calmness in his tone is contagious. You feel a small shift in your chest as you try to breathe through the nerves.

“An audience isn’t just a sea of faces,” he continues thoughtfully, his gaze not leaving the path ahead as he speaks. “It’s about drawing them in, creating something that makes them want to listen, even if just for a moment. You’ve got to create that pull.”

He pauses, and you follow his line of sight, watching him as he stops in front of an old, weathered piano placed in the middle of the bustling street. The piano seems out of place among the crowd—an invitation to the brave souls who dare to share their music in the open air.

“There’s nothing more humbling than playing right here, exposed to the world,” he says, a touch of challenge in his voice, but also a hint of something deeper. Encouragement, perhaps, or something more personal that you can’t quite grasp just yet.

You stare at the piano, the worn keys under your fingers telling stories of countless previous players, each one leaving a mark in their own way. It wasn’t a polished grand on a pristine stage, nor was it your familiar electric keyboard at home. This piano was exposed, vulnerable, much like you would be if you sat down and played.

His words echo in your mind: having an audience isn’t just about the faces in front of you; it’s about pulling them in.

The idea of that, though, shakes you. In concert halls, people come expecting music. They sit in silence, already open to the experience, ready to be swept into the performance. But here? In the chaos of the street, no one expects you. No one has to stop and listen. You have to make them want to.

You let out a quiet, almost embarrassed sigh as you sit down on the bench. The worn wood beneath you, the slight unevenness of the surface, feels out of place—but not as much as the vulnerability you can feel creeping in.

“Why does it feel like I’ve never touched a piano before?” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you gaze at the keys. The weight of the moment presses down on you—heavy and unfamiliar.

Mr. Min leans casually against the piano, arms crossed, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push, simply watching you as if he’s waiting for you to find your own rhythm.

You narrow your eyes at him, your playful tone slipping back in as a defense mechanism, a shield against the wave of insecurity rising within you. “And why are you smiling like a cruel man?”

Soft chuckle dances in the air, his grin widening as his eyes flicker with amusement and something more playful.

He shakes his head lightly, clearly entertained by your unease. “I’m not cruel,” he says, though the twinkle in his gaze suggests he’s enjoying the moment just a bit too much. “I just think it’s funny how nervous you look.”

You scoff, trying to shake off the tension in your shoulders, but he catches the flicker of doubt in your eyes. He always does. And yet, he doesn’t press, doesn’t call you out for it. Instead, he steps a little closer, his tone shifting to something softer, more reassuring.

“You’ll be fine,” he assures, his voice calm and steady. “Just play, and remember—you’re not aiming for perfection here,” he continues, understanding the hesitation written all over your face. “You’re playing to be heard.”

Your eyes meet his, searching for something to hold onto—reassurance, maybe, or some kind of understanding. But all he offers is a simple nod, one that says everything you need to hear. No rush. No pressure. Just… when you’re ready.

You begin with something familiar—safe. A piece from long ago, one that’s embedded in your hands through years of repetition, a melody that flows without thought, devoid of the rawness you wish it had. It’s easy, comfortable, and predictable. Nothing challenging, nothing risky. Just a smooth, reliable tune.

Yoongi doesn’t interrupt. He stays quiet, arms crossed, his face neutral. But the silence presses down on you, heavy and still. It’s not critical, not exactly, but it doesn’t feel like praise either.

As the last note lingers, swallowed up by the bustling sounds of the city, he finally speaks, his words simple: “It was nice.” And somehow, that doesn’t feel like enough.

You glance around, catching the fleeting glances of pedestrians who stop briefly, offering polite smiles, then continue on their way. Their interest is momentary, replaced quickly by the noise of the street. You can almost feel the indifference settling around you, as if your music is just another fleeting distraction in the chaos of their day.

For a moment, you wonder if you’re nothing more than a passing blip in their world, unimportant, unnoticed. The thought tightens your chest, and you feel the familiar pressure of needing to prove something, to matter.

Without thinking, the words slip out. “I can’t do that,” you murmur, your hands falling to your lap, as if the weight of everything you were trying to avoid had suddenly landed squarely there.

Min Yoongi’s words slice through the stillness of the moment, his voice calm and steady, grounding you in the chaos of the street.

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” he says softly but with conviction. “You need to make them stop. Not because they think they should, but because they can’t help it.”

He uncrosses his arms slowly, leaning in just a little, his focus shifting from you to the piano. The sounds of the city fade slightly, the words he speaks weaving through the noise with an ease that makes them impossible to ignore.

“Those people… they have their own lives, their own stories, their own struggles.” His voice is measured, thoughtful, but resolute. “They’re not looking for perfection. They’re just living their day—heading to work, running errands, lost in their own worlds. But when they hear music in the street, something makes them stop. It’s not about hearing a flawless performance or a piece from a symphony. It’s about something deeper—a feeling they’re craving, a moment of connection, something that breaks through their routine. They won’t turn away from it. Not when it’s right there, unexpected, raw.”

His gaze locks onto yours, dark and steady. There’s a change in the way he looks at you, something more than just words. You feel the weight of his belief in you, even if you’re not sure you can carry it.

“They’re not looking for the classics,” he continues, the faintest of smiles on his lips. “Not the things you’ve been playing. They don’t know the theory, the technicalities, the history like we do. And they don’t care about it either. For them, it’s not about perfect scales or the next flawless arpeggio. It’s about what moves them in the moment. What they care about is the music itself. It’s about what it makes them feel. The realness of it. The way it catches them off guard, makes them feel alive for a moment.”

He steps closer, his presence steady, grounding you even more. “You don’t need to be perfect. You need to be you. And if you can do that, if you can play with your heart instead of your hands… then you’ll see. They’ll stop. They’ll listen. They’ll be drawn to you.”

You bite your lip, fighting to keep the tears at bay, the weight of his words and the shift in your perspective overwhelming you. Slowly, your trembling hands move toward the piano, curling into tight fists as if bracing against the rush of emotions inside you. But despite the chaos within, you try to steady yourself.

For a moment, your hands hover above the keys, hesitant, as though afraid of what might unfold if you press down. But then, with a shaky breath, you release the tension, letting your palms gently settle against the cool ivory.

The first note is tentative, unsure, almost alien in its unfamiliarity. But as your fingers settle into their rhythm, it begins to transform, becoming something more intimate—something uniquely yours. The melody you had written just the night before, born from the deepest part of you, begins to flow effortlessly, as if it had always been waiting for this moment.

Each note falls into place, like pieces of a puzzle you’ve been unknowingly putting together. The sound is raw, unpolished, but it feels more authentic than anything you’ve ever played. The doubt and hesitation start to fade, replaced by a quiet understanding—a deeper connection to the music and to yourself that you hadn’t even known you were seeking.

With your eyes still closed, the tears you’ve been holding back spill over, warm and unbidden, but you don’t want to stop. You want to let it all out, let the music guide you through the mess of it all. You almost reach up to wipe them away, to regain control, but before you can, his hand is there, gently brushing the tears from your cheek with a tenderness that surprises you.

His touch is soft, almost reverent, as if he’s offering you the space to feel everything without needing to stop or apologize for it. It’s a quiet reassurance, a way of telling you that this moment is yours to keep, that you don’t have to hide or break it.

You hesitate for a second, then, with a deep breath, let your hands return to the keys, the music flowing once more as you pour yourself into every note, letting it carry you through the unspoken depths of everything you’ve been holding in.

He watches as the crowd gradually begins to form, their movements slowing, as if the music has gently pulled them from their routines. But he doesn’t focus on them.

His eyes are fixed on you.

Your gaze sweeps over the people gathered around you, but it’s different now. There’s a softness, a clarity to your eyes—like you’re finally seeing the world outside of the tension that once held you back. With each note you play, you become more immersed in the music, the rhythm lifting you as though you’ve stepped into something bigger than yourself.

Then your eyes meet Yoongi’s. Just for a second, but it feels longer. Neither of you moves, frozen in that brief, unspoken exchange. He feels something stir deep in his chest—an unexpected warmth, a mix of heaviness and lightness. The way you smile at him, with tears still glistening on your skin, catches him off guard. It’s a smile he’s never seen before—genuine, full of warmth, and quietly profound in a way he didn’t know you could express.

In that moment, as your smile reaches him, Yoongi knows it’s not just the music that has changed you—it’s the way you’ve let it all go, the way you’ve let yourself be seen. And in a way, that simple smile feels like a victory, something earned, something beautiful, more than either of you could’ve imagined.

The final note fades into the air, its echo lingering like a soft breath. Before you can even fully absorb it, the applause begins, surrounding you like a comforting embrace. For a moment, you stand still, frozen, letting the sound wash over you.

You bow your head reflexively, the gesture one you’ve made countless times before, but this time it feels different. The applause isn’t just for your technique or the notes you played—it’s for you, for the story you’ve shared, for the raw emotion you’ve poured into the music. It’s a recognition of who you are, not just as a musician, but as a person.

He's clapping too, a grin spread across his face from the first note you played. His approval is clear, but there’s something deeper in the way he watches you, something that suggests he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have. It’s a quiet understanding, a shared connection that you can’t ignore.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s not the kind of embrace that comes from wild joy or a long-awaited reunion. It’s quiet, fragile yet intense—like you’re afraid if you don’t hold him just a little longer, he might slip away. It’s not desperation, but a silent acknowledgment of something rare, something precious that’s unfolded between you.

His arms wrap around you slowly, carefully, but there’s no hesitation in the way he holds you. It’s soft, an embrace full of unspoken emotions neither of you are ready to articulate. It’s a moment suspended in time, where everything feels both fleeting and eternal.

His heart raced as you pulled him into a hug, surprise surging through him. Min Yoongi wasn’t one for outward displays of emotion, especially not in public. He preferred the quiet, hidden moments—those stolen glances in secluded places where things felt simpler.

But here, in this moment, something inside him shifted.

It felt strangely familiar, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d held you like this—like the way you clung to him was something his body recognized, a feeling he hadn’t known he missed. The softness of the moment, the way your chest pressed against his, felt almost like a memory, one that had somehow slipped through time and landed here, in this fleeting, tender instant.

Before he could linger on the odd sensation, Yoongi gently pulled away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. His movements were hesitant, as if the vulnerability of the moment had caught him off guard.

He cleared his throat, his gaze shifting away from yours, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t the usual confident grin he wore—it was softer, uncertain in a way that seemed new.

“People stopped,” he says, as though to reaffirm something you already knew. His voice is quieter now, like he’s still finding his balance in the unexpected closeness between you.

“They did,” you reply, your voice sounding foreign, lighter, almost freer than you’re used to. It’s a strange feeling—happiness, maybe even relief—but you can’t quite explain it. It’s as if, for a moment, the world opened up and you were finally allowed to be a part of it.

“I feel like I almost died, but… damn, I did it,” you laugh, the sound almost unsure but full of genuine disbelief. The laughter is light, filled with a kind of innocence and joy that feels completely new, yet strangely comforting.

The tension in your body begins to melt away—your shoulders less tight, your chest not as heavy. Whether it’s the adrenaline or something else, you don’t know, but for the first time in a long time, you feel like you can actually breathe. The weight you’ve carried for so long is easing, and you realize you’re no longer hiding behind the music—you’re letting it lead you. That feeling, in itself, feels like a victory.

“I’m craving something sweet,” you announce, your voice light and spontaneous as you reach for his hand. Without waiting for a response, you pull him along, your steps filled with newfound freedom.

You guide him to a small café tucked away in a corner, the scent of freshly baked pastries greeting you as you draw near. There’s a sense of warmth and comfort here, the simple joy of a quiet moment far removed from the chaos of the performance. Everything else is behind you now, and all that matters is sharing this with someone who’s seen you at your most vulnerable.

With your hand still in his, you glance at him, a smile playing at your lips. “How about this?” you ask, your voice playful, betraying the calm that has settled inside you.

He allows himself to be swept along, a small chuckle of surprise slipping from him as you take the reins of the moment.

His hand remains in yours without him even realizing it, the warmth of your touch sending a subtle jolt through him, something he can’t quite grasp. The moment you tug him forward, he feels it, though it’s not something he can easily put into words. His cheeks betray him, turning a soft shade of red.

He nods in agreement to everything you suggest—what to eat, where to go—even if he’s not sure if he likes it. It’s not hesitation, but the rhythm of this moment feels too important to disrupt.

His mind is a whirlwind, thoughts flying in all directions, trying to catch up with what’s happening in this strange, surreal moment. His heart isn’t faring much better—pounding furiously against his chest, as though it’s struggling to keep up. Yet, amidst the chaos in his mind and chest, there’s a soft warmth he can’t deny.

He wants to be close to you. He wants to understand why everything feels so new, so different now, but for the moment, he’s content to follow you, letting your presence lead him through this unfamiliar terrain. And maybe, he doesn’t need all the answers right now. Not when everything feels like it’s starting to come together, in its own quiet way.

You led him to a quiet booth in the corner, your hands full with the assortment of treats you’d decided to indulge in. You slid into the booth, setting everything down, and the silence that followed stretched between you both.

Finally, you broke the stillness, your voice quiet but genuine. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just for the food, or for him being there with you—it was for something deeper. For the way he’d helped you see yourself differently, and for the unspoken understanding that now hung between you two like an invisible thread.

You took a steadying breath, as though the words had been waiting for this moment to come out. “I think I finally get it now. I forgot what it felt like to play for myself… to play because I needed to, not because I was trying to impress anyone.”

The realization settled inside you, not as a burden, but as a kind of release. It was a lightness in your chest that hadn’t been there in so long, a part of you that had been lost beneath the weight of expectations. And now, it was resurfacing, like a memory that had been waiting to be reclaimed.

You met his eyes then, your own softer, a little more vulnerable, but full of hope. “I don’t think I’ll forget again.”

You handed him a piece of something sweet, smiling as he took it, his cheeks puffing out like a child experiencing a treat for the first time. You watched him eat, waiting for something, anything, that might break the quiet between you two in a way that felt meaningful. The warmth from earlier still lingered, unspoken but understood.

It didn’t take long before he finally broke the silence, his voice calm but filled with curiosity. “The piece you played… was it yours?”

The question hung in the air, even though he already knew the answer—he could feel how deeply it belonged to you. Yet, the need to ask it still burned in his chest. His gaze didn’t leave yours, trying to decipher your expression, searching for some acknowledgment of the truth in the music you’d shared. There was something raw in the way your fingers had moved, how the notes seemed to resonate through you, not just in your hands but in your very soul.

He wanted to understand. He wanted to know what had made you open up so fully, what had made you play as though everything else had disappeared, leaving only you and your music.

You nodded eagerly, the joy inside you bubbling up uncontrollably. A laugh slipped from your lips—light and unguarded—and in that instant, Yoongi felt something stir within him. He had always been drawn to the piano, to how it spoke, sang, and carried emotions that words often failed to capture. But as he heard your laughter, it felt like something even more precious, than any note played. It felt like a sound that was uniquely yours, a sound that, in that moment, might just become his favorite.

“Yeah,” you said between bites, your voice warm and full of that familiar comfort. “I made it last night. But… it’s like I’ve always had it in me, I just wasn’t ready to let it out. I wasn’t ready to create something of my own.”

You paused, locking eyes with him for a moment, the weight of gratitude filling your chest. Words had never felt sufficient, especially when trying to convey something as deep as this—how much his presence, his guidance, had meant to you. But you couldn’t help yourself. You had to say it again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice softer now, filled with sincerity. “I don’t think words can truly express how much this means to me… but thank you. For everything.”

There was no grand gesture, no grand speech—just the simple truth that your heart was full, and you wanted him to know how deeply his support had impacted you. How his belief in you, when you hadn’t believed in yourself, had been the catalyst, the spark that reignited your passion.

You spoke slowly, carefully, your voice carrying the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. “When I walked into your classroom, I felt like I was burning from the inside. Like the fire within me was only there to consume me, to burn me down until there was nothing left.”

Your gaze drifted to your hands, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table, grounding yourself as you spoke. The words felt strange, yet freeing, as if finally giving voice to them allowed some of the heat inside you to fade away.

“But you,” you continued, your eyes meeting his, “you showed me that fire wasn’t meant to destroy me. You helped me see that fire could be used to light something else—something I thought I’d lost. My passion.”

The weight of your words settled in the space between you, and for the first time, it felt like you weren’t just speaking to him but finally comprehending the journey you’d been on. The fire inside you no longer felt like an enemy but a wellspring of strength, something to mold, to nurture, to keep alive. And he—more than anyone—had been the one to help you see that.

He waved it off with a modest gesture, his hand hovering near yours as if offering comfort without words. “I really didn’t do much,” he said quietly, his tone soft yet certain. He wanted to reach out, to still the restless movement of your hands, but he hesitated, pulling back just enough to respect the space between you.

“You just needed a little push,” he added, his gaze steady and searching, an understanding settling in his eyes. “But I could see it from the moment I met you—that your passion was still there, even if you hadn’t realized it yet.”

His words, though simple, carried a warmth that made your heart ache with something unspoken—a quiet reassurance that he had seen something in you that you hadn’t seen in yourself. The spark was still there, hidden beneath everything else, waiting for the right moment to burn again. And somehow, despite his humbleness, he had played a part in fanning that flame.

You smiled at him, the warmth of his words still lingering in the air, but your thoughts began to drift once more. A quiet unease crept in as your mind wandered, unsure of what to do next. The truth you had been avoiding was undeniable now—the conservatory, Ms. Kim, that whole world of structured perfection—it no longer had a place in your heart. The image of the grand stage, the glaring lights, the polished piano, it all felt distant now, like a dream you once chased but that had faded into something you could no longer recognize.

You realized, with a clarity you hadn’t had before, that you didn’t want that anymore. The world of perfection, of expectations, of constant performance—it felt empty now. You longed for something more, something grounded, something raw. You needed to find the music that was truly yours—not a meticulously crafted piece to please others, but a song that came from your heart, unpolished, unrefined, but real. Something human. Something that made you feel alive, not for the applause, but because it was yours. Something real.

“I don’t think I can go back to the conservatory,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. It was as though you were finally admitting the truth to yourself, the weight of it settling heavily in the air. “I don’t think I want it anymore.” You met Yoongi’s eyes, uncertain of the next step, but knowing that this new path was leading you somewhere different, somewhere true. And it felt like the right choice.

Min Yoongi listened intently, his gaze softening as you spoke. He couldn’t bring himself to judge you—he had been in your place not too long ago, when he was a little younger than you. He too had dreams of performing on grand stages, of conquering the classical music world. But somewhere along the way, he’d realized his heart wasn’t in it anymore. Letting go of those dreams wasn’t because they lacked value, but because they no longer resonated with his soul. And he had no regrets about it.

In fact, those decisions had brought him to this point—at twenty-nine, standing before you with a sense of fulfillment few ever experience. He had become what he had always imagined inside—a mentor, a guide for those who shared the same love for music, the same fire in their hearts. He hadn’t just found traditional success; he had discovered something far more meaningful. He’d found a way to share his passion and truly help someone. And that, to him, was everything.

He didn’t feel bitterness toward the times he had fought alone. He embraced them. Those moments, those struggles, had shaped him into the person he was now—the one who understood the weight of loneliness in the pursuit of a dream, and the one who could help others rise from that place.

His smile was sincere, free from regret or resentment. “I get it,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his own journey. “It’s not about going big or following a path that everyone expects of you. It’s about finding where your heart truly belongs.” He paused, locking eyes with you. “And I’m glad you’re figuring that out now.”

His words weren’t just comforting—they were a reminder that growth didn’t always follow the script others had written for you. You could still carve your own path. And for him, watching you do that was just as fulfilling as anything he had ever done for himself.

As you reflected on it, you realized that the piano had been your world, your constant, for as long as you could remember. It shaped everything about you, and you had never really known life outside of it. You had missed out on those typical moments of youth—carefree nights, spontaneous adventures, or the simple joys of growing up. Instead, you’d poured all of yourself into the piano, always focusing on it so intensely that you somehow overlooked everything else.

It wasn’t that you desperately craved those experiences, but in quiet moments like this, you couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to do something completely ordinary. To go to a party and not worry about how your performance would be judged, to be reckless without considering practice or perfection, or even to have friends who weren’t also musicians, always viewing life through a lens of competition. The friendships you had at the conservatory were always tinged with that unspoken tension—constantly measuring who was better, who had more talent.

You longed for something as simple and human as being in love. Not just with music, but with someone—someone who could see you for who you were beyond the notes and the keys. It felt almost ridiculous, but the thought had settled deep within you, something you couldn’t ignore anymore. It was something you had forgotten to explore in the midst of all the music.

It felt strange, wanting something so ordinary, but as you thought about it, you realized you were allowed to want it. To want to live and feel like everyone else. You were still young, still learning, and maybe that was okay. Maybe it was time to let yourself experience the other side of being human.

“I think I’m ready to look for something else,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. The words feel strange, yet liberating as they leave your mouth. You hesitate, unsure of how they’ll sound, but there’s a sense of peace in finally saying it out loud. “Piano is my whole life, my first love, and I know that for sure. But I think I’m ready to let it be a part of me, not the only thing that defines me anymore.”

The words linger in the air, and for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel like a betrayal. You feel lighter, as though a weight you hadn’t realized you were carrying has been gently lifted. It’s not that you’re giving up the piano—it will always be a part of you. But now, you’re choosing to live for more than just the keys and the music. You’re choosing to let yourself grow in ways you hadn’t allowed before, to live outside of that narrow measure of success and start experiencing the full depth of life.

Min Yoongi nodded, his smile gentle but filled with pride as he listened to you. There was something about the way you were allowing yourself to be more than just the music that came from your fingers. He admired that—how you were beginning to realize you didn’t have to be confined to the expectations of others.

“You’re incredibly talented,” he said, his voice low but sincere, wanting to make sure you truly heard him. “Don’t ever doubt that.” His words lingered in the space between you both, firm and full of meaning. He knew how easy it could be to fall into the trap of self-doubt, how easy it was to let the pressure of your own or others’ expectations weigh you down. He didn’t want you to fall back into that place, again.

The conversation flowed softly, warm and comforting, but there was something underneath it all—a subtle undercurrent that neither of you could ignore. The air between you felt lighter, freer, yet there was a quiet realization that this moment, this connection, was reaching its natural end. It wasn’t that either of you wanted it to be over, but more that its purpose had been fulfilled. The path you had shared for this brief moment was starting to branch off in different directions.

You had found the courage to break away from the conservatory’s confines, to reclaim your music as something personal and free from others’ expectations. Yoongi had helped you reignite that inner spark, the fire you had almost forgotten was there. But even as that quiet understanding settled between you, there was a quiet, bittersweet edge to it. The unspoken knowledge that this connection—this shared journey—might not last forever. That the space between you would inevitably widen, as all things do.

Neither of you said it aloud, but there was an unspoken acknowledgment that it was time to let go. Not because you didn’t care, but because you had found what you needed in one another, and now it was time to walk your separate paths, carrying those lessons and memories with you.

You weren’t ready to let him go—not yet. Min Yoongi wasn’t just a teacher or a talented musician who had guided you when everything felt lost. He had become something more—a friend, someone who truly saw you. For the first time, you had someone who understood you in a way no one else had. He didn’t just offer advice; he made you feel like your passion truly mattered again. He had become a constant, a presence you could lean on when everything else felt uncertain.

It wasn’t just about music anymore. He had become someone who, without even trying, made you feel heard and valued. Someone who didn’t judge your doubts, your fears, or your insecurities. He understood them because he had walked through them himself, and that made all the difference.

You felt a weight settle in your chest, realizing that you couldn’t simply walk away from this. You couldn’t just let him fade into the background, a fleeting presence in your life. No, you weren’t ready for that. The thought of losing him felt like one more regret you might never be able to shake—leaving behind something important that you hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

You had to say something. Anything. You couldn’t let this moment slip by, not after everything he’d done for you. Not after how much he had helped you rediscover who you were, who you could be, when you weren’t shackled by expectations.

After a long pause, with the silence stretching between you, you finally spoke up, your voice steady yet carrying a hint of vulnerability. “I want to really know you,” you said, your words soft but genuine. “Not just as the musician, not as the teacher—just you. The person behind all of that. I want to understand you, like you’ve understood me.”

There was a quiet intensity in your voice, more than just curiosity. It was a longing to break past the roles and titles, to see the person beneath the surface, to connect with the side of him no one else saw. You weren’t asking for answers or advice. You were asking for him. The real him.

He gives a small, knowing grin, his lips curving into a smile that feels like a secret shared between the two of you. “You already know me,” he says, his voice warm, almost intimate. “More than anyone, I think.”

There’s a sincerity in his words, and the weight of them settles between you. In the quiet exchange, you can feel it—his belief in your understanding of him. It’s in the way he speaks, the way his gaze softens when it meets yours. He doesn’t think anyone has truly comprehended his bond with music the way you do. You share something rare—a connection that goes beyond the notes, beyond the applause, something deeper and more personal.

In just a few days, it feels as though you’ve mirrored his very essence. His history with music, the struggles, the joys—they resonate with you as if you’re living parallel lives. The way it consumed you both, the way it shaped you, and how, at times, it almost broke you.

For a moment, he’s not just the mentor, the teacher. He’s someone who sees himself reflected in your eyes, and the realization catches him off guard, though it’s also comforting. He hadn’t expected to find such a connection so quickly, but here, in the brief time you’ve spent together, he feels like he’s met someone who truly understands him.

You shake your head gently, trying to brush off the weight of your words as if that might make them easier to say. Your fingers idly pick at the crumbs from the cupcake, a way to keep your hands busy and distract yourself from the growing vulnerability inside. But you know, deep down, you can’t avoid it any longer. The truth has been building, and now it’s finally demanding to be spoken.

“No,” you begin, your voice soft but steady, though the honesty still surprises you. “I want to start from the beginning. I want to know you for who you are, without seeing the musician first. Just you.” You lift your gaze to meet his then, the intensity of the moment settling between you as your eyes lock. Your heart skips a beat, but you hold his stare, unwilling to look away. “And I want you to know me for who I am, too. Not just as the pianist.”

The words hang in the air between you both—fragile, yet undeniable. The tension shifts, as if you’ve both stepped into new territory, where it’s not just about the music anymore. It’s about knowing each other without the roles you’ve both worn, without the expectations tied to them. You’re asking to be seen beyond your talents, beyond the stage.

It’s a quiet request, but it feels like everything. You’re not just asking to be noticed for more than the music; you’re asking for real connection. For the first time, you realize you’re ready to have someone truly see you—not as the pianist, not as the performer, but as you, just you.

Yoongi’s silence stretches on, but it’s not awkward. It’s a silence that holds the weight of shared understanding, a quiet that speaks volumes. He’s taken aback by your words—not in a negative way, but in a way that makes him reflect on something he hadn’t really considered before you came into his life.

For so long, he’s been defined by his music, by the role of the pianist, the teacher, the performer—by the roles others saw him in. But never by who he truly is. And as your request lingers in his mind, something stirs within him. Maybe, for once, it would be nice to be seen as more than the musician, more than the teacher, and to be understood for who he really is.

He thinks of all the people who’ve admired his talent, his skill, his performances, but never asked to know him as the person behind it all. The man who has always been more than the persona he’s built. He realizes, too, that he’s never truly been able to simply exist with someone—not because of what he does, but just because of who he is.

He takes a breath, steadying himself before a soft, genuine smile forms on his lips. It’s a smile that feels like a small offering, one that says more than words ever could. Then, in a simple, quiet gesture, he raises his hand towards your face—an unspoken invitation to truly begin anew.

“Let’s start as strangers,” he says, his voice calm, but there’s something different in it, something new and uncharted. “Hi. My name is Min Yoongi.”

And in that moment, it’s as if everything shifts. It’s no longer about titles or expectations, no longer about the roles you’ve both played. It’s just two people, meeting for the first time—not as the musician or the teacher, but simply as who they are.

And somehow, it feels like the beginning of something real, something that could change everything.

‎‎‎ ───────୨ৎ───────

[ihaznoclue]

Are your requests still open? 👀👀👀

Can I ask for TFP headcanons for Bumblebee, optimus and Arcee?? With a reader based on Jinx from arcane? (Jinx reader as a Decepticon that eventually joined team prime(??)

I just had this idea in my head and I can't stop thinking about it

Jinx is a really complex character and has so much potential, I love her

Pairings -> Bumblee, Optimus Prime, Arcee x Reader

Warnings -> Mental health Issues

Note -> Reader is based on Jinx from Arcane and switched from Decepticon to the prime team

Genre -> Fluff

Bumblebee

You relationship with Bumblebee is a bit complex

Meaning that you have no idea what he is saying as all you heard is beep and boops

You remembered when you were on the side of the Decepticons, Megatron talked about the scout of the autobot team and how he ripped his audio box out

Meaning that he has no voice

I mean you were feeling bad for the poor guy but you just didn't really care that much as you had your own problems to deal with

But being in the autobots team for a while now you started to realise that they never yelled at you for something, they never told you off or did anything to you

Bee respected your privacy and personal space as you told that you didn't like to be touched

Bee wanted to get closer to you, so he tried some stuff that he thought you would like

Maybe some parts that he found from a mission for you to do your inventions

He heard from Miko that you like to create and fix stuff

You appreciated it, thanking him and then went your own way

You felt like you found a family

A family that you hoped you wouldn't mess up on

Optimus Prime

Ever since you came to the autobots teams

Optimus always welcomed you in open arms even though you didn't some horrible stuff in the past when you were with the Decepticons

Optimus knows that you didn't mean to do any of that since Megatron is very manipulative towards his colleagues

Spite you being a 'criminal' he knows that you were kind of messed up int he head

He knows your past, he knows how your past was when you were younger and he is willing to help

But for now he is going to respect you and your boundaries

Optimus will often tell his friends they should keep a safe distance from you as he was told you didn't like to be touch because of 'reasons'

You felt like Optimsu was becoming a father figure to you

He was gentle and never disrespected you

He sort of pulled out your other personality which was rare of people to see

Whenever you are doing something, like fixing or making your inventions

He will always tell the others that you are busy and need some space on your own for a bit

Optimus doesn't want you to feel like your on your own

He wants you to feel like you are wanted

Arcee

Okay you know when Smokescreen was like coming to earth in a decepticon pod and Arcee had to take a while to warm up to him

Yeah I feel like she would be like towards you after being on the Decepticon warship and all

Thinking that you were a spy or something that would get information from the autobot team and then spread it out to the cons to defeat the autobots

But instantly she notices nothing from you

You were a distant sometimes loud and chaotic person

But she decided to keep an eye on you for a while until she knows your not working for the cons

When she does warm up to you, she would try to keep a conversation but if she knows that you are not int he mood to talk she would leave you be

Sometimes she would catch you fixing your gun or your machine gun

She would be tense about that but would ask you if you are use to guns

You were very talented when you were little always getting the target so you decided to show her some of your skills of your own

You and Arcee would be quite close in my opinion

-A<3

[itsnesss]

Hello, I have a request if it's ok with you 🙌🏻 I would like you to write a sensei wolf x reader fic, I don't have details but the moment where he fights Johnny and he has to be on his knees to wait to continue the fight, it doesn't leave my mind 👁️👄👁️ ​​so, could you write something with that? (smut obviously) And thank youuuu ❤️

𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | sensei wolf × fem!reader

summary | during an intense training session, the tension between you and wolf reaches its peak. challenging him with an unexpected move, you manage to bring him to his knees, showcasing your power and control, while he, surprised, begins to see in you a strength he didn’t anticipate

warnings | smut, explicit content, power dynamics, sub!wolf, dom!reader, intense physicality, fingering, oral (reader!receives)

word count | 1.1 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You were in the dojo, as always, training hard, but this time something was different. The tension in the air was palpable. The training had ended, and you could still feel their eyes on you, watching every movement, every breath.

"You're getting better," said Wolf, his voice deep and authoritative, though there was something else in it this time. Something that made you feel as if you were under his control.

You turned around to pick up your backpack, but immediately felt his hand on your shoulder, stopping you. His touch was firm, almost like a silent command. "Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked, with a defiant smile on your face, without turning to confront him.

"Because you intrigue me," he replied, and your heart skipped a beat.

You turned slowly to face him, and the proximity between you became clearer. You could feel his heat, his strength, his power. Your heart was pounding, but you remained calm, challenging him with your eyes.

"Would you dare to put into practice what I've taught you?" he asked, as if it were a joke, but you knew it wasn't.

A moment of silence, and then you approached him, step by step. You could see the uncertainty in his gaze, the internal struggle. Finally, you stopped in front of him, almost brushing his chest with yours.

"Yes, I would dare," you said with a playful smile, and before he could react, you pushed him back with all your strength. I didn't expect you, I wasn't prepared for that move. He almost lost his balance, but you stood firm. The power was on your side, and you knew it.

A glimmer of surprise crossed his eyes, followed by something else. Something that overflowed with authority and desire.

At that moment, without thinking any further, you advanced quickly, making him fall to his knees before you. The sound of his knees hitting the ground echoed in the dojo, but it was not a sound of defeat, but of acceptance.

You looked at him with a triumphant smile, enjoying the feeling of having him at your feet. But, in his gaze, there was a spark of respect, of admiration.

"Stay there," you took his chin while ordering him to remain kneeling before you. You moved closer, brushing your fingers against his lips. "Don't move."

And with that, you started to undress. First it was your belt, which you tossed aside. Then it was your pants, which slid down your legs until your feet kicked them off.

Wolf had seen your body before. Many times. But it wasn't her gaze that mattered. It was the power and authority in your gaze.

Wolf seemed to not care, but you knew he was excited. You could see it in his eyes. In the way he breathed.

"Strip," you ordered, without taking your eyes off him, but Wolf seemed to hesitate. "Strip now," you repeated, a little louder.

And he took off his shirt, then his pants. His body was strong, muscular. He didn't need to tell you he was ready.

"That's it," you said, with a smile. "Now, let's see if you can please me."

And you pulled down your panties, showing it to him. You could feel the cold air against your skin. You couldn't wait any longer. You felt it, you needed it, you desired it.

You took his hand and brought it to your panties. "Touch me," you whispered. And he did, without a moment's hesitation. His touch was firm, strong, as if you were his.

Involuntarily, your hips moved back and forth, seeking more. And Wolf began to slide his fingers in slowly. You could feel his pulse throbbing in your panties.

"You're so wet," he said, with a little smile.

"Why do you think I came?" you asked mischievously. Wolf smiled, as if everything that was happening was amusing to him. As if it didn't matter.

But you knew it did matter.

The touch of his fingers inside you was exquisite. You couldn't help but move your hips to seek more. But just when you were about to reach climax, Wolf stopped abruptly.

"No," you scolded him. "Don't stop, don't stop."

Wolf seemed amused. "No, no," you said, and you started moving your hips back and forth. "I want more."

And he gave you more, he started pushing his fingers into you harder. You could feel them moving inside you, you can feel his fingers squeezing your inner walls, you can feel yourself about to reach climax.

And you reached the climax. With a loud scream, your body trembled in an intense orgasm that shook your entire body. Wolf seemed to enjoy it, smiling as if he had won the jackpot.

When you regained your composure, you approached him. You took him by the neck and looked him in the eyes. "That was very good," you whispered, smiling, and I began to kiss your lips.

With that, Wolf seemed to lose all control. He lifted one of your legs, placing it on his shoulder, without moving from where he was kneeling, on his knees before you.

Then, he took your other thigh and placed it over his other shoulder. Now, you were completely exposed to him, at his disposal. Your body trembled with excitement.

Wolf took a second, looking at you with a lustful expression on his face. Then, he buried his head between your thighs, diving into your pussy with his tongue.

You moaned loudly when he did it. His touch on your skin was electric, like a lightning bolt coursing through your muscles. He moved with fury, kissing your pussy and clitoris. His lips moved slowly over you, as if savoring something delicious.

You could feel the drops of sweat sliding down your body. Your muscles were tense. Every part of you was asking for more.

And Wolf gave you more. Kissing your clitoris hard, increasing the pressure, increasing the speed. And just when you thought you couldn't take it anymore, you reached orgasm. With a scream that echoed throughout the dojo, you collapsed into his arms.

Wolf didn't stop, he kept kissing you, savoring your drops of pleasure. He continued with his mouth between your thighs until you were sure he had collected every drop of your sex. Then he pulled away from you, with a satisfied smile, as if he had done something important.

And so it was. He had done it. He had given you what you wanted and had taken what he wanted too.

When you recovered, you got down from his shoulders. You looked at him with a mischievous smile and said, "Thank you." And that was it. You don't need more. Wolf got up from his knees, leaping with a strange glint in his eyes. You knew that the control you had over him had not gone unnoticed.

That you had liked having him at your feet, on his knees before you.