as atiny ville grows i need more of you to witness the absolute insanity that is the DONT STOP MV. This is the mv fully gives us pirateez for 4mins. ((Hongjoong will wreck you))
It was released by UNIVERSE back in 2022, and since has been deleted but here is a reupload
Been working on a outfit for twice. I've decided all concerts and events i go to this year i'm going to make/thrift/support small buisnesses the parts too it.
Im obsessed with how its turning out. If anyone is interested in one, feel free to commision one. I'm gonna mark it £20 without charms, £25 with charms (plus postage)
I'm not surprised that brands keep reaching out to Wooyoung for partnerships, because he knows how to infuse their clothes with personality.
Wooyoung, for all that he is quite meticulous about his appearance, understands that what makes fashion so much fun is when models are not afraid to look weird or strange
He has great awareness of his own body and its lines, along with how to subvert those things for a more editorial shot
He has that thing that makes him pop on stage: a canny awareness of where the camera is and the ability to hold its attention.
The difference between what the official Prada reps posted (stiff, composed, emphasis on the clothes) and what Wooyoung posted (natural, interesting, emphasis on the wearer) demonstrates his knack for making a somewhat boring ensemble look desirable and cool.
warnings: fluff, brief mentions of self esteem issues, insecurity regarding physical appearance, self doubt, brief references to loneliness, fake dating to real lovers
small note: this idea has been eating the myelin in my brain so here’s a Yeosang fic for you<3
word count: 3.6k
————
The psychology department office always smelled faintly like coffee and printer ink.
You adjusted your headset and glanced at the laminated sheet taped to the desk in front of you.
Campus Connection Line Guidelines:
Practice active listening. Avoid giving direct advice. Encourage self-reflection. Maintain boundaries. Do not exchange personal information.
You’d read it so many times you could recite it backwards.
Across the small office, two other volunteers were mid-call, voices low and calm. The soft hum of the overhead lights filled the spaces between conversations.
Your screen blinked.
Incoming Call.
You straightened automatically, pressing the accept button.
“Campus Connection Line,” you said gently. “This is—” you gave your first name only, as instructed. “How can I help tonight?”
There was a pause.
You almost thought the line had dropped.
Then—
“…Hi.”
The voice was quiet. Male. Soft in a way that felt careful.
You smiled instinctively, even though he couldn’t see you.
“Hi,” you replied, matching his tone. “I’m glad you called.”
Another pause. A small exhale like he was gathering courage.
“I don’t… I don’t really know if this is the right place to call.”
“That’s okay,” you said. “You can start wherever you’re comfortable.”
Silence again.
Then, very quietly:
“I just think something’s wrong with me.”
Your posture shifted, grounding yourself the way your supervisor had taught you.
“What makes you feel that way?”
He let out a faint, embarrassed laugh. “That’s kind of dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Not if it feels real.”
The line went still for a second.
“…No one ever picks me,” he said finally.
Your chest softened.
“In what way?”
“In… any way.” He cleared his throat. “Group projects. Parties. Dating. I just—” he hesitated. “I don’t think I’m someone people look at and… choose.”
There it was.
Not dramatic.
Just lonely.
You twirled the pen between your fingers. “That sounds really painful.”
“It’s stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.”
Another quiet laugh, this one smaller.
“I think I’m just… not very attractive. And maybe people can tell I’m awkward. So they don’t bother.”
You resisted the instinct to immediately contradict him. That wasn’t your role here.
“What makes you believe that?” you asked instead.
There was shuffling on the other end—like he’d adjusted his phone against his ear.
“I’ve never been asked out,” he admitted. “Not once.”
Your heart did a little ache.
“Have you wanted to be?”
“…Yeah.”
That one came out barely audible.
You leaned forward slightly, as if it would help him feel heard through the line.
“What do you think would happen if someone did ask you?”
He hesitated.
“I’d probably think they were joking.”
Oh.
You swallowed softly.
“It sounds like you’re carrying a lot of assumptions about yourself,” you said gently. “Like you’ve already decided how other people see you.”
“Well,” he said, a hint of sheepishness creeping in, “no one’s exactly proven me wrong.”
The corner of your mouth lifted.
“Sometimes we don’t give people the chance to.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“You’re… really easy to talk to,” he said suddenly.
You blinked, caught off guard.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. I almost hung up three times before saying anything.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
There was a faint smile in his voice now. You could hear it.
“Me too.”
You glanced at the timer on your screen. Twenty-three minutes. It hadn’t felt that long.
“Can I ask,” you said carefully, “what made you call tonight specifically?”
Another pause.
“There’s this spring festival next week,” he said. “Everyone keeps talking about going with someone.”
Your stomach did a small flip.
“And I just thought…” He exhaled softly. “It would be nice to not feel invisible for one day.”
Something about the way he said it—so simple, so honest—settled heavy and warm in your chest.
“You’re not invisible,” you said before you could stop yourself.
Silence.
You caught yourself, softening your tone. “At least… you’re not right now.”
He didn’t speak for a few seconds.
When he did, his voice was quieter than before.
“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”
The call lasted forty-one minutes.
By the time you said goodbye, you’d learned that he was a second-year student. That he liked photography but never posted his work. That he always stood at the edge of group conversations because he didn’t know how to enter them.
You hadn’t learned his name.
The line didn’t require it.
But as you took off your headset and logged the call summary, you wrote:
Caller expressed feelings of social invisibility and low self-perception. Responded well to reflective listening. Mild increase in verbal confidence by end of call.
You hesitated.
Then added:
Not as invisible as he thinks.
You told yourself it was clinical observation.
Nothing more.
The next evening, your screen blinked again.
Incoming Call.
You pressed accept.
“Campus Connection Line. This is—”
“Hi.”
You froze.
You recognized that voice instantly.
Soft. Careful. Almost apologetic.
“Hi,” you said, warmth creeping into your tone before you could filter it. “I’m glad you called back.”
There was a tiny pause.
“…I kind of hoped it would be you.”
And just like that, your shift didn’t feel like work anymore.
——
By the fourth night he called, you stopped pretending you didn’t recognize the pattern.
Same time. Same soft inhale before he spoke.
“Campus Connection Line,” you greeted.
A beat.
“…Hi.”
You smiled.
“Hi.”
There was something different in his voice tonight. Less hesitant. Still gentle, but steadier.
“You remembered me, didn’t you?”
You tapped your pen against the desk. “Am I allowed to confirm that?”
He huffed a quiet laugh.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
You didn’t deny it.
“So,” you said, settling back in your chair. “How was today’s assignment?”
A pause.
Then, almost sheepish, “I made eye contact with the barista.”
Your eyebrows lifted even though he couldn’t see you. “That’s progress.”
“I panicked after three seconds.”
“That’s still three seconds longer than zero.”
He was smiling. You could hear it clearly now.
“I also didn’t apologize when someone bumped into me.”
“That’s huge.”
“I felt kind of powerful,” he admitted. “For like… five minutes.”
You softened.
“What happened after five minutes?”
“I remembered I have the spring festival this weekend.”
Ah.
There it was again.
The thing sitting quietly in the background of every call.
“You’re still thinking about going?” you asked gently.
“I don’t know.” He hesitated. “Everyone’s talking about it like it’s some big romantic event.”
“Does it have to be romantic?”
He thought about that.
“…I guess not.”
“What would you want it to be?”
Silence.
Then, quieter:
“I just don’t want to look like I’m waiting for someone who’s not coming.”
Your chest tightened in that familiar, tender way.
“You wouldn’t look like that,” you said carefully.
“You don’t know what I look like.”
The words came out light, almost teasing.
You smiled. “That’s true.”
There was a pause.
“…What do you think I look like?”
You laughed softly. “That’s not fair. I’m not supposed to build imaginary profiles.”
“Hypothetically.”
You pretended to consider it. “Okay. Hypothetically.”
He went quiet, waiting.
“I think,” you began slowly, “you probably slouch a little when you walk. Not because you’re tall. Just because you’re trying to take up less space.”
The line went completely still.
“…That’s creepy,” he breathed.
“Was I wrong?”
A tiny sigh.
“No.”
You swallowed a smile.
“I think you tug at your sleeves when you’re nervous.”
Silence again.
“…Maybe.”
“And I think,” you continued gently, “you’re a lot kinder than you give yourself credit for.”
He didn’t respond right away.
When he did, his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.
“You make me sound better than I am.”
“I’m just repeating what you’ve shown me.”
A long pause stretched between you.
Then—
“What if,” he said slowly, “someone went with me?”
You blinked.
“As a friend?” you asked.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Or. You know. Just… someone.”
“Is there someone you’d want to ask?”
He hesitated. “No.”
You shifted in your chair. “What’s stopping you from going alone?”
“I don’t want to feel invisible,” he said simply.
The words settled heavy in the quiet room. You stared at the guideline sheet taped to the desk. Maintain boundaries. Do not exchange personal information. Encourage self-reflection.
You inhaled slowly.
“What if,” you began carefully, “the point wasn’t whether people see you… but whether you let yourself be seen?”
He didn’t answer.
“Hypothetically,” you added, heart beating a little faster than it should have, “what if you practiced?”
“…Practiced?”
“Yeah.”
“How do you practice being seen?”
You hesitated. Then—
“Pretend.”
The word hung between you.
“Pretend?” he echoed.
“Exposure therapy works best in gradual steps,” you said, slipping into your academic tone to steady yourself. “Low-stakes situations. Controlled environments.”
“Are you suggesting I… fake date someone?”
You tried not to smile.
“I’m suggesting you imagine what that would feel like.”
He was quiet.
“Okay,” he said finally. “What would it feel like?”
You hadn’t thought that far.
“Maybe…” you said slowly, “like having someone stand next to you instead of behind you.”
His breathing shifted.
“Like not worrying about whether you look awkward.”
“Like not needing to apologize for existing,” you added.
Silence.
Then, very softly:
“What if the person standing next to me didn’t think I was awkward?”
Your pulse stuttered. “Then,” you said gently, “you wouldn’t be.”
Another long pause. And then—
“Would you?” he asked.
Your fingers tightened around your pen.
“Would I what?”
“Stand next to me.”
The room felt suddenly smaller. You stared at the guideline sheet again.
Maintain boundaries.
Your supervisor’s voice echoed faintly in your mind.
This is a listening service. Not a dating app.
But he wasn’t asking for your number. He wasn’t asking for your name. He was asking a hypothetical.
“…If this were purely an exposure exercise,” you said slowly, carefully, “and clearly defined as such…”
He made a quiet, hopeful sound.
“Then maybe,” you continued, “for a limited amount of time, in a public setting…”
“You would?”
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
The word left you before you could pull it back. There was complete silence on the other end of the line. And then—
“You don’t even know what I look like,” he whispered.
“I know how you speak,” you replied softly.
Another pause.
“…What if you’re disappointed?”
Your chest ached a little.
“I won’t be.”
He didn’t respond immediately.
When he did, his voice was small. Careful.
“Okay.”
You glanced at the timer on the screen. Fifty-two minutes.
“Okay,” you repeated.
Neither of you moved to hang up.
“So,” he said after a moment, “hypothetically… how does this work?”
You let out a nervous breath.
“We’d need a way to recognize each other.”
“…I tug at my sleeves.”
You smiled. “I know.”
“And you?”
You hesitated.
“I’ll be the one pretending not to be nervous.”
He laughed—quiet, warm, real.
“Okay.”
The word felt different this time. Less hypothetical.
——
The spring festival was louder than you expected.
Music drifted from the center lawn where student bands were setting up. Booths lined the walkways — handmade bracelets, caramel popcorn, cheap ring toss games. Couples were already filtering in, some coordinated, some awkwardly matching in ways that felt suspiciously last-minute.
You adjusted the strap of your bag and checked your phone.
I’m here.
His message from five minutes ago sat unread by anyone but you.
You typed back.
By the fountain?
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Yeah. I’m the one pretending not to be nervous.
Your heart skipped.
You stepped onto the path leading toward the fountain at the center of campus — the one everyone joked was cursed for midterm breakdowns and accidental confessions.
Your eyes scanned the crowd.
You didn’t know what you were looking for.
You hadn’t let yourself imagine too much. A blur of vague features. A voice with no face.
Then you saw him.
He was standing slightly off to the side of the fountain, not directly in front of it. Like he didn’t want to block anyone’s view. Hands tucked into the sleeves of a soft gray cardigan.
And he was tugging at them.
Your breath caught.
It was small — the movement. Subtle. But it was exactly how you’d pictured it.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, glancing down at his shoes. Hair falling neatly over his forehead. Sharp lines softened by the way he held himself, almost folded inward.
He was—
You stopped walking.
Because he wasn’t just cute.
He was unfair.
Clear skin catching the late afternoon light. A light birthmark blooming from the corner of one of his eyes, almost like it was painted there. Features delicate but defined. The kind of face people would double take at in a hallway. The kind of face that did not match the insecurity you’d heard through a phone line.
You felt something flutter nervously in your stomach.
He glanced up.
And froze.
For a second, neither of you moved.
His eyes widened just slightly — like he hadn’t prepared for this either or whatever he’d imagined, it hadn’t been you.
You realized you were staring.
He realized he was staring.
And yet neither of you looked away.
You took one step forward. He swallowed.
“…Hi,” he said.
The voice.
It was the same. Softer in person. Less filtered by static. But unmistakably his. You felt your chest warm.
“Hi.”
You watched recognition settle across his features — the way his shoulders relaxed half an inch at the sound of your voice.
“You’re…” He blinked, almost dazed. “You’re real.”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out.
“So are you.”
He huffed a breath, like he’d forgotten how to breathe properly for a second.
“I—” He ran a hand through his hair quickly, then dropped it. “I didn’t know what I was expecting.”
“Me neither.”
Silence again.
Not awkward.
Just full.
His gaze flickered over you once — quick, almost shy — before dropping to the ground like he’d looked too long.
“You don’t look disappointed,” he said quietly.
Your brows knit together.
“Why would I be?”
He shrugged one shoulder, fingers curling deeper into his sleeves. “I don’t know. I just thought maybe you’d see me and realize I exaggerated my problems.”
Your heart squeezed.
“You did exaggerate,” you said gently.
He blinked at you.
“About being unattractive.”
For a second, he just stared. Then the faintest flush crept across his cheeks.
“You don’t have to say that,” he mumbled.
“I know.”
He looked like he didn’t know where to put his hands. Or his eyes. Or himself.
“You’re not what I pictured either,” he admitted.
“Oh?” You tilted your head slightly.
“I mean—” He flushed deeper. “Not in a bad way. I just… I think I made you smaller in my head.”
“Smaller?”
“Yeah.” His voice softened. “You sound confident on the phone.”
You smiled faintly. “I was nervous.”
He looked up sharply. “You were?”
“Very.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not confidence—relief. Like the ground had leveled out between you. A group of students brushed past, laughing loudly. The music from the stage swelled briefly.
He glanced toward the crowd, then back at you.
“So,” he said, quieter again. “I should probably introduce myself. Since I already know your name.”
You let out a soft breath.
“Right.”
He hesitated. “I’m Kang Yeosang. I… probably should have led with that.”
You laugh gently and his eyes soften a fraction.
“Are you still… okay with this?”
You stepped closer — just enough that you were standing beside him now instead of across from him.
“Yes.”
His throat bobbed slightly.
“Okay.”
Neither of you moved for a second.
Then he carefully, slowly, extended his hand. Not grabbing or bold. Just offering.
“Is this…” He swallowed. “Part of it?”
Your chest warmed and you slid your hand into his. His fingers were a little cool but they tightened gently once they wrapped around yours.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”
He glanced down at your joined hands like he couldn’t quite believe it. Then, almost shyly:
“Hi,” he said again.
You smiled.
“Hi.”
And for the first time since you’d started volunteering at the Campus Connection Line, the world outside of it felt just as gentle as the voice on the other end.
——
At first, he walked half a step behind you.
Not intentionally.
Just habit.
You felt it after a few minutes — the gentle pull of his hand in yours as he adjusted his pace to match yours but never quite aligned beside you.
So you slowed.
And subtly shifted.
Until you were shoulder to shoulder.
He noticed.
You felt it in the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours.
The festival buzzed around you — music, laughter, the smell of kettle corn drifting through the air.
“Okay,” you said lightly, glancing at him. “First activity. We need something low-risk.”
He looked down at you, visibly trying not to look down at your joined hands instead.
“Low-risk?”
“Ring toss. No emotional damage if we lose.”
He huffed softly. “You don’t know that.”
“Oh?” You raised a brow.
“I take carnival games very seriously.”
You blinked at him.
And then you laughed.
It startled him — not in a bad way. Just like he hadn’t expected to be funny.
“You’re competitive?” you asked.
“A little,” he admitted. “Quietly.”
“I need to see this.”
He glanced at the booth, then back at you.
And for the first time since you’d met in person, you saw it — not confidence exactly, but curiosity winning over fear.
“Okay,” he said.
He paid for the rings before you could reach for your wallet.
“That wasn’t part of the exercise,” you murmured.
He flushed faintly. “It’s… gentleman code.”
You smiled softly.
He focused hard when he aimed — brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together.
Missed the first ring.
Missed the second.
Landed the third.
He froze, staring at the bottle it circled like he couldn’t believe it worked.
You squeezed his hand instinctively.
“That counts!” you grinned.
He looked at you instead of the prize.
And smiled.
Not shy.
Not small.
Just bright.
It changed his whole face.
You had a sudden, very unprofessional thought:
How does he think he’s unattractive?
The booth attendant handed him a tiny stuffed bear.
He stared at it like it was a trophy.
Then, after a second of hesitation, he held it out to you.
“For… authenticity,” he said.
“Authenticity?”
“Couples win each other things.”
Your chest did something warm and fluttery.
You took it carefully. “Thank you.”
He ducked his head slightly, but he didn’t look away this time.
Progress.
By the time you’d wandered to the food stalls, he wasn’t walking behind you anymore.
He was beside you.
Sometimes even guiding you gently through the crowd with a light pressure of his fingers.
Not possessive.
Just steady.
You were mid-conversation about photography — about how he liked taking pictures of people when they weren’t looking — when a voice interrupted you.
“Oh my god.”
You both turned.
A girl around your age stood in front of you, smiling like she’d just witnessed something precious.
“You guys are literally relationship goals,” she said, gesturing vaguely between you. “How long have you been together?”
You felt his hand tense slightly in yours. There it was. The moment. You didn’t give him time to overthink.
“Since high school,” you said smoothly.
He blinked.
The girl gasped.
“Shut up. High school sweethearts?”
You nodded like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Yeah. We survived senior year calculus together.”
The girl put a hand over her heart. “That is so cute. I love that for you.”
He was very quiet beside you, statue still.
“Okay, sorry,” she laughed. “I just had to say something. You guys are adorable.”
And then she disappeared back into the crowd.
Silence.
You didn’t let go of his hand. You glanced up at him carefully. His ears were red.
“…Calculus?” he repeated softly.
“You look like you’re good at math.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh.”
A pause.
“But I would’ve tried,” he added quietly.
Your heart skipped and you tilted your head slightly.
“You would’ve?”
He nodded once.
“For you,” he said, so softly it almost got swallowed by the music.
You stopped walking. He noticed immediately.
“Was that—” he started, flustered. “Was that too much?”
“No,” you said quickly.
His eyes searched your face.
“You didn’t hesitate,” he said.
“About what?”
“When she asked.”
You shrugged lightly, though your pulse was definitely not light.
“I panicked before you could.”
He studied you for a second.
“High school sweethearts,” he repeated under his breath.
You smiled. “It sold the image.”
He looked down at your joined hands.
“…It didn’t feel fake.”
The words landed gently between you.
You didn’t joke this time.
“It didn’t,” you agreed.
A beat passed.
Then he did something small but significant.
He adjusted his grip on your hand.
Not tighter.
Not looser.
Just… more confident.
And when he looked back up at you, the shy-sweet expression was still there —
But it wasn’t hiding anymore.
The music shifts to something slower near the main stage.
Couples start gathering.
You feel it before he says anything.
That hesitation.
That courage building.
“Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.
“Always.”
His thumb brushes faintly against your sleeve.
“When today’s over… can we go on a real date?”
Oh.
He’s looking at you like he expects rejection. Like he’s bracing for it.
Like this is still pretend.
You don’t even let him spiral.
“Yes.”
He blinks.
“Yes?” he repeats.
“Yes,” you smile. “A real one.”
The way his entire face lights up should be illegal.
And this time—when the music swells and people around you start swaying—he hesitates. Then, softly:
“Can I…?”
You nod before he finishes. His hand slides into yours—warm and careful like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You squeeze gently.
And this time, when he smiles?
It’s not shy.
It’s hopeful.
——
anywayssss i had to get this off of my chest because i thought it was cute i hope you think so too<3
amandla
areudirty
titsay
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
2087
vaporwave
ellievsbear
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
