#𝓝𝐀𝐈𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐀 : oh goddess of the moon,save my wretched soul from ruin.
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missed nai so i wrote 1.1k words in one sitting 👍🏽
#no one is up rn but im physically vibrating over this piece#i’ve neglected this troubled girl for TOO long. i need to get back in the trenches
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cherries 🍒
#screaminfj at this#this is so naiyaera (naera? still working on it..) coded#fell to my knees just now
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if nai’s girl was an inbliss mmbr that would be so cool, like imagine a little psycho running around the idol industry, claiming she would kill for her loved ones but actually meaning it.. the mmbr could also have done some serious identity change but smth like comes out nn it expands into this giant scandal 😮💨
no imagine … ugh what an insane plot i might have to make her an npc under a company
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im eating ur brain wtf
cooking like a chef im a five star michelin
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┈─ 𖧷 MURDER, SHE WROTE PT. ONE ﹕ NAIYANA CHANTARANGSU. genre, angst. ( the ghost of someone you thought you knew lingers not. ) tw, murder ( and death, in the same vein ), self preservation in the form of being agreeable, reemergence of ghosts from the past. featuring, naiyana, jiho, and ████.
as a job well done ( or so she supposes ), she’s issued time off. the fans are told their beloved naisu is taking creative leave to come up with something even more dazzling that the last album and her near cult following eats the news up as if starved. her instagram post—a monochromatic picture of yesterday’s sunset—details a bit of a more personal side to her leave and thousands of comments are left in her wake wishing her well. the comments telling her to eat well! almost make her smile. almost.
jiho has missed four of her scheduled visits. four is an even number. divided in half, and then half once again. jiho never did things in halves. if she said she was coming, then she was going to be there. and with every day that ticked by without the older woman busting the door to her apartment down, she grew restless.
this was good, though. was it not? it proved that even jiho herself was not exempt from making mistakes. she, too, deviated from routine, but even that alone was not enough to make her feel better. jiho would have let her know that she would have rescheduled her visit. jiho made it a point to prove that she would still oversee that she wasn’t straying from her duties no matter how many miles stretched between them.
the message went unsaid. she was still a doll, even with the small liberties she had. but it was far better than being cooped up in that giant playhouse where everyone smiled even in the face of tragedy.
nahee. all searches of a jeong nahee lead to dead ends and brick walls, the world wide web scrubbed clean of any indication that the jeongs even had a daughter to begin with. but naiyana saw her. she had learned her name in the faint tally marks around door frames masked by paint and stray articles of clothing she knew couldn't have belonged to her. and then the scratched out name in corners on the floors and walls. nahee. she existed and that was proof but it wasn’t much. and the house helps never did like to gossip around her.
against all reason telling her not to, she packs a suitcase and returns to the place she could have called home, once upon a time. she’s torn between the burden of knowing and wishing she was oblivious.
the ride isn’t far. jiho did always like to say she was just a stone’s throw away from the bustling city of seoul, and the thirty minute commute to gangnam-gu humbles her. she tightens trembling hands around the handle of her suitcase and hails a taxi. the driver gives her a onceover that completely unravels her but doesn’t speak. she gives him the address and sinks into the seats as he pulls onto the road.
would she be mad if she visited? it’s not like she had anywhere else to go—she couldn’t be. jiho loved her, in a twisted way. she knew that. they’d sit and catch up like they always did. like mother and some semblance of a daughter.
she’s thrust out of her thoughts when the car makes an abrupt stop, lurching her body forward with a stunted gasp. naiyana grips the seat belt with wide eyes as her heartbeat accelerates.
“is something the matter?” her voice comes out small and frail. “what ha—”
she’s interrupted by the sudden movement in her peripheral, but when she turns to see what she’d missed, she’s only greeted with rows of elevated modern houses. the driver’s door slams open, making her jump, and before she can register what the hell is even happening, she finds herself being bodily hauled out of the car along with her suitcase.
naiyana can’t even speak. all the while, the driver’s actions become more and more frantic, all but throwing her handbag at her before hurrying back to his car. the only thing she catches before he backs up and out of view is a jumbled mess of words, just barely.
bad omen, bad energy. bad omen, bad spirits.
naiyana smooths her hair and clothes down with shaking hands. jiho hated wrinkles.
her hair is plastered to her face when she finally makes it to the front door. she hadn’t anticipated the possibility that it could have rained but when did it not? memories of cold fingertips and red cherries tended to resurface when it rained.
her heart lodges in her throat at the idea of dripping water onto the indoor carpet, but no one rushes to greet her when she pushes the front door open. the foyer is dimly lit, and the overhead chandelier in the parlor isn’t on. natural light streams through the open windows in angular strips that run jaggedly across the floor.
naiyana leans against the closed door and releases a breath. not a soul seems to be in the house at the moment, but that was fine. jiho had always talked about cutting staff for the smallest of reasons. maybe she’d finally reached her breaking point.
toeing her shoes off, she sheds her jacket and hangs it on a nearby hook to dry off, pattering in the direction of the kitchen. maybe she’d make something small and surprise her? she had been honing in her cooking skills to impress the miss. maybe something with rice, or—
something clatters against the marble flooring, sounding further inside the house. naiyana freezes in reaching for a pot, slowly standing up to her full height to listen with rapt attention for another sound. her heartbeat thrums against her ribcage once again. fear. she doesn’t dare announce herself. she’d watched more than enough television to know how poorly that went.
instead, she moves to arm herself with the very same pan she’d just been reaching before, but rethinks her decisions and reaches for a knife instead. the cameras outside of the house had seen her coming inside. she could argue self defense if she did end up killing an intruder.
would you truly be able to kill someone if it really came down to it? she had no idea. but if jiho was in the house with an intruder, she could be in danger. the guilt would weigh on her even more than if she killed someone with her bare hands.
slowly, she inches out of the kitchen and down the hall, her grip tight on the knife. fear heightens tenfold when she hears a hissed curse followed by frantic steps once she nears the staircase leading to the upper floor, swallowing nervously before she makes her ascent. slowly.
the cursing stops when she reaches the top step. as she walks down the hall, most of the rooms are closed with no noticeable shadows moving behind them. had jiho fired all of her staff? surely she would have kept some. jiho was not the kind of woman who did trivial things like cook by herself, especially growing old with age. the lack of human presence only served to scare naiyana even more, and she nearly drops the knife when she turns around.
the door to her room is wide open.
visibly trembling—from fear or the cold, she didn’t know—she inches her way towards her old room. the more she nears, the more she can hear slight scuffling, labored breathing. disorganization in a house that ran on routine. it prickles at her skin.
the first thing she sees when she reaches the entrance is dark red. stained against the pretty pink of her carpet in droplets that balloon into hurried smears. bloodied fingertips swipe against the white floors, the walls, her pristine sheets.
jiho’s body lies a few feet away from her. her eyes are unfocused, her tweed blazer-and-skirt set drenched in crimson. her heels are missing. her hair frames her face in a frenzied manner. she’s every bit the mess she prided herself not being.
she drops the knife in shock.
the clatter makes the hunched figure in the room startle, drawing her attention as it crawls out into the center of the room.
the bleak lighting frames onyx colored hair.
the bleak lighting frames bloodied skin.
the bleak lighting frames a gaze heavy with knowing. recognition sparks a flame between the two of them.
the bleak lighting frames—
“naiyana.” a voice she hasn’t heard in ten years. not that she’d been counting, not that she’d been given the liberty to—
“naiyana.” her body stumbles backwards in a mixture of disbelief and despair, a strangled sound the only thing her throat can muster. she doesn’t know what to say. what could she say?
“nai?” a tear slips down her cheek, hot against her cold skin. bile rises in her throat when she feels gentle fingertips brush the surface of her skin, dizzy in knowing red is left behind.
“you killed her.” she manages to say, and the figure only smiles. there’s so much blood. “you killed her—”
“for you.” she hum softly. naiyana smells rain and cherries when her lips brush just shy of her skin. her stomach turns. “for you, because i love you.”
the girl smiles. “she won’t be able to separate us anymore.”
naiyana blinks and she’s fifteen again, begging, pleading for mercy. the last she’d seen of her, she’d given her a smile like naiyana’s life hadn’t crumbled to pieces in front of her.
she’d done everything correctly. she got good grades, was on top of her class, and her teachers liked her. she’d gone by the book. she was supposed to be happy something like this had happened. she was never happy when jiho was around, fear palpable enough to taste.
so why was she still frozen? her mother—notyourmothernotyourmother—dead a few feet away from her, her killer a face she thought had been dead, too?
“you still love me, right?” the girl pouts, her eyes searching her fear-stricken face with ease. “every day i missed you. every day i went over how this moment would go..”
jiho’s body twitches behind her. she suddenly feels very, very faint.
“you still love me, don’t you, nai? don’t you?”
focusing back at the girl—killer—before her, naiyana musters up a smile she hopes is convincing. she is not the girl you once felt love for. she is not the girl you once felt love for.
“of course i love you, aera.”
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omg did u name nai’s mystery grl aera on purpose bc doesn’t that name mean love 😦
:)
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’m starting to wonder if nai’s mystery girl is one of the inbliss members 🫣 or just a rndm
that would be so cool if my characters were connected like that but sadly she’s just an npc 😭
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┈─ 𖧷 MURDER, SHE WROTE PT. ONE ﹕ NAIYANA CHANTARANGSU. genre, angst. ( the ghost of someone you thought you knew lingers not. ) tw, murder ( and death, in the same vein ), self preservation in the form of being agreeable, reemergence of ghosts from the past. featuring, naiyana, jiho, and ████.
as a job well done ( or so she supposes ), she’s issued time off. the fans are told their beloved naisu is taking creative leave to come up with something even more dazzling that the last album and her near cult following eats the news up as if starved. her instagram post—a monochromatic picture of yesterday’s sunset—details a bit of a more personal side to her leave and thousands of comments are left in her wake wishing her well. the comments telling her to eat well! almost make her smile. almost.
jiho has missed four of her scheduled visits. four is an even number. divided in half, and then half once again. jiho never did things in halves. if she said she was coming, then she was going to be there. and with every day that ticked by without the older woman busting the door to her apartment down, she grew restless.
this was good, though. was it not? it proved that even jiho herself was not exempt from making mistakes. she, too, deviated from routine, but even that alone was not enough to make her feel better. jiho would have let her know that she would have rescheduled her visit. jiho made it a point to prove that she would still oversee that she wasn’t straying from her duties no matter how many miles stretched between them.
the message went unsaid. she was still a doll, even with the small liberties she had. but it was far better than being cooped up in that giant playhouse where everyone smiled even in the face of tragedy.
nahee. all searches of a jeong nahee lead to dead ends and brick walls, the world wide web scrubbed clean of any indication that the jeongs even had a daughter to begin with. but naiyana saw her. she had learned her name in the faint tally marks around door frames masked by paint and stray articles of clothing she knew couldn't have belonged to her. and then the scratched out name in corners on the floors and walls. nahee. she existed and that was proof but it wasn’t much. and the house helps never did like to gossip around her.
against all reason telling her not to, she packs a suitcase and returns to the place she could have called home, once upon a time. she’s torn between the burden of knowing and wishing she was oblivious.
the ride isn’t far. jiho did always like to say she was just a stone’s throw away from the bustling city of seoul, and the thirty minute commute to gangnam-gu humbles her. she tightens trembling hands around the handle of her suitcase and hails a taxi. the driver gives her a onceover that completely unravels her but doesn’t speak. she gives him the address and sinks into the seats as he pulls onto the road.
would she be mad if she visited? it’s not like she had anywhere else to go—she couldn’t be. jiho loved her, in a twisted way. she knew that. they’d sit and catch up like they always did. like mother and some semblance of a daughter.
she’s thrust out of her thoughts when the car makes an abrupt stop, lurching her body forward with a stunted gasp. naiyana grips the seat belt with wide eyes as her heartbeat accelerates.
“is something the matter?” her voice comes out small and frail. “what ha—”
she’s interrupted by the sudden movement in her peripheral, but when she turns to see what she’d missed, she’s only greeted with rows of elevated modern houses. the driver’s door slams open, making her jump, and before she can register what the hell is even happening, she finds herself being bodily hauled out of the car along with her suitcase.
naiyana can’t even speak. all the while, the driver’s actions become more and more frantic, all but throwing her handbag at her before hurrying back to his car. the only thing she catches before he backs up and out of view is a jumbled mess of words, just barely.
bad omen, bad energy. bad omen, bad spirits.
naiyana smooths her hair and clothes down with shaking hands. jiho hated wrinkles.
her hair is plastered to her face when she finally makes it to the front door. she hadn’t anticipated the possibility that it could have rained but when did it not? memories of cold fingertips and red cherries tended to resurface when it rained.
her heart lodges in her throat at the idea of dripping water onto the indoor carpet, but no one rushes to greet her when she pushes the front door open. the foyer is dimly lit, and the overhead chandelier in the parlor isn’t on. natural light streams through the open windows in angular strips that run jaggedly across the floor.
naiyana leans against the closed door and releases a breath. not a soul seems to be in the house at the moment, but that was fine. jiho had always talked about cutting staff for the smallest of reasons. maybe she’d finally reached her breaking point.
toeing her shoes off, she sheds her jacket and hangs it on a nearby hook to dry off, pattering in the direction of the kitchen. maybe she’d make something small and surprise her? she had been honing in her cooking skills to impress the miss. maybe something with rice, or—
something clatters against the marble flooring, sounding further inside the house. naiyana freezes in reaching for a pot, slowly standing up to her full height to listen with rapt attention for another sound. her heartbeat thrums against her ribcage once again. fear. she doesn’t dare announce herself. she’d watched more than enough television to know how poorly that went.
instead, she moves to arm herself with the very same pan she’d just been reaching before, but rethinks her decisions and reaches for a knife instead. the cameras outside of the house had seen her coming inside. she could argue self defense if she did end up killing an intruder.
would you truly be able to kill someone if it really came down to it? she had no idea. but if jiho was in the house with an intruder, she could be in danger. the guilt would weigh on her even more than if she killed someone with her bare hands.
slowly, she inches out of the kitchen and down the hall, her grip tight on the knife. fear heightens tenfold when she hears a hissed curse followed by frantic steps once she nears the staircase leading to the upper floor, swallowing nervously before she makes her ascent. slowly.
the cursing stops when she reaches the top step. as she walks down the hall, most of the rooms are closed with no noticeable shadows moving behind them. had jiho fired all of her staff? surely she would have kept some. jiho was not the kind of woman who did trivial things like cook by herself, especially growing old with age. the lack of human presence only served to scare naiyana even more, and she nearly drops the knife when she turns around.
the door to her room is wide open.
visibly trembling—from fear or the cold, she didn’t know—she inches her way towards her old room. the more she nears, the more she can hear slight scuffling, labored breathing. disorganization in a house that ran on routine. it prickles at her skin.
the first thing she sees when she reaches the entrance is dark red. stained against the pretty pink of her carpet in droplets that balloon into hurried smears. bloodied fingertips swipe against the white floors, the walls, her pristine sheets.
jiho’s body lies a few feet away from her. her eyes are unfocused, her tweed blazer-and-skirt set drenched in crimson. her heels are missing. her hair frames her face in a frenzied manner. she’s every bit the mess she prided herself not being.
she drops the knife in shock.
the clatter makes the hunched figure in the room startle, drawing her attention as it crawls out into the center of the room.
the bleak lighting frames onyx colored hair.
the bleak lighting frames bloodied skin.
the bleak lighting frames a gaze heavy with knowing. recognition sparks a flame between the two of them.
the bleak lighting frames—
“naiyana.” a voice she hasn’t heard in ten years. not that she’d been counting, not that she’d been given the liberty to—
“naiyana.” her body stumbles backwards in a mixture of disbelief and despair, a strangled sound the only thing her throat can muster. she doesn’t know what to say. what could she say?
“nai?” a tear slips down her cheek, hot against her cold skin. bile rises in her throat when she feels gentle fingertips brush the surface of her skin, dizzy in knowing red is left behind.
“you killed her.” she manages to say, and the figure only smiles. there’s so much blood. “you killed her—”
“for you.” she hum softly. naiyana smells rain and cherries when her lips brush just shy of her skin. her stomach turns. “for you, because i love you.”
the girl smiles. “she won’t be able to separate us anymore.”
naiyana blinks and she’s fifteen again, begging, pleading for mercy. the last she’d seen of her, she’d given her a smile like naiyana’s life hadn’t crumbled to pieces in front of her.
she’d done everything correctly. she got good grades, was on top of her class, and her teachers liked her. she’d gone by the book. she was supposed to be happy something like this had happened. she was never happy when jiho was around, fear palpable enough to taste.
so why was she still frozen? her mother—notyourmothernotyourmother—dead a few feet away from her, her killer a face she thought had been dead, too?
“you still love me, right?” the girl pouts, her eyes searching her fear-stricken face with ease. “every day i missed you. every day i went over how this moment would go..”
jiho’s body twitches behind her. she suddenly feels very, very faint.
“you still love me, don’t you, nai? don’t you?”
focusing back at the girl—killer—before her, naiyana musters up a smile she hopes is convincing. she is not the girl you once felt love for. she is not the girl you once felt love for.
“of course i love you, aera.”
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┈─ 𖧷 MURDER, SHE WROTE PT. ONE ﹕ NAIYANA CHANTARANGSU. genre, angst. ( the ghost of someone you thought you knew lingers not. ) tw, murder ( and death, in the same vein ), self preservation in the form of being agreeable, reemergence of ghosts from the past. featuring, naiyana, jiho, and ████.
as a job well done ( or so she supposes ), she’s issued time off. the fans are told their beloved naisu is taking creative leave to come up with something even more dazzling that the last album and her near cult following eats the news up as if starved. her instagram post—a monochromatic picture of yesterday’s sunset—details a bit of a more personal side to her leave and thousands of comments are left in her wake wishing her well. the comments telling her to eat well! almost make her smile. almost.
jiho has missed four of her scheduled visits. four is an even number. divided in half, and then half once again. jiho never did things in halves. if she said she was coming, then she was going to be there. and with every day that ticked by without the older woman busting the door to her apartment down, she grew restless.
this was good, though. was it not? it proved that even jiho herself was not exempt from making mistakes. she, too, deviated from routine, but even that alone was not enough to make her feel better. jiho would have let her know that she would have rescheduled her visit. jiho made it a point to prove that she would still oversee that she wasn’t straying from her duties no matter how many miles stretched between them.
the message went unsaid. she was still a doll, even with the small liberties she had. but it was far better than being cooped up in that giant playhouse where everyone smiled even in the face of tragedy.
nahee. all searches of a jeong nahee lead to dead ends and brick walls, the world wide web scrubbed clean of any indication that the jeongs even had a daughter to begin with. but naiyana saw her. she had learned her name in the faint tally marks around door frames masked by paint and stray articles of clothing she knew couldn't have belonged to her. and then the scratched out name in corners on the floors and walls. nahee. she existed and that was proof but it wasn’t much. and the house helps never did like to gossip around her.
against all reason telling her not to, she packs a suitcase and returns to the place she could have called home, once upon a time. she’s torn between the burden of knowing and wishing she was oblivious.
the ride isn’t far. jiho did always like to say she was just a stone’s throw away from the bustling city of seoul, and the thirty minute commute to gangnam-gu humbles her. she tightens trembling hands around the handle of her suitcase and hails a taxi. the driver gives her a onceover that completely unravels her but doesn’t speak. she gives him the address and sinks into the seats as he pulls onto the road.
would she be mad if she visited? it’s not like she had anywhere else to go—she couldn’t be. jiho loved her, in a twisted way. she knew that. they’d sit and catch up like they always did. like mother and some semblance of a daughter.
she’s thrust out of her thoughts when the car makes an abrupt stop, lurching her body forward with a stunted gasp. naiyana grips the seat belt with wide eyes as her heartbeat accelerates.
“is something the matter?” her voice comes out small and frail. “what ha—”
she’s interrupted by the sudden movement in her peripheral, but when she turns to see what she’d missed, she’s only greeted with rows of elevated modern houses. the driver’s door slams open, making her jump, and before she can register what the hell is even happening, she finds herself being bodily hauled out of the car along with her suitcase.
naiyana can’t even speak. all the while, the driver’s actions become more and more frantic, all but throwing her handbag at her before hurrying back to his car. the only thing she catches before he backs up and out of view is a jumbled mess of words, just barely.
bad omen, bad energy. bad omen, bad spirits.
naiyana smooths her hair and clothes down with shaking hands. jiho hated wrinkles.
her hair is plastered to her face when she finally makes it to the front door. she hadn’t anticipated the possibility that it could have rained but when did it not? memories of cold fingertips and red cherries tended to resurface when it rained.
her heart lodges in her throat at the idea of dripping water onto the indoor carpet, but no one rushes to greet her when she pushes the front door open. the foyer is dimly lit, and the overhead chandelier in the parlor isn’t on. natural light streams through the open windows in angular strips that run jaggedly across the floor.
naiyana leans against the closed door and releases a breath. not a soul seems to be in the house at the moment, but that was fine. jiho had always talked about cutting staff for the smallest of reasons. maybe she’d finally reached her breaking point.
toeing her shoes off, she sheds her jacket and hangs it on a nearby hook to dry off, pattering in the direction of the kitchen. maybe she’d make something small and surprise her? she had been honing in her cooking skills to impress the miss. maybe something with rice, or—
something clatters against the marble flooring, sounding further inside the house. naiyana freezes in reaching for a pot, slowly standing up to her full height to listen with rapt attention for another sound. her heartbeat thrums against her ribcage once again. fear. she doesn’t dare announce herself. she’d watched more than enough television to know how poorly that went.
instead, she moves to arm herself with the very same pan she’d just been reaching before, but rethinks her decisions and reaches for a knife instead. the cameras outside of the house had seen her coming inside. she could argue self defense if she did end up killing an intruder.
would you truly be able to kill someone if it really came down to it? she had no idea. but if jiho was in the house with an intruder, she could be in danger. the guilt would weigh on her even more than if she killed someone with her bare hands.
slowly, she inches out of the kitchen and down the hall, her grip tight on the knife. fear heightens tenfold when she hears a hissed curse followed by frantic steps once she nears the staircase leading to the upper floor, swallowing nervously before she makes her ascent. slowly.
the cursing stops when she reaches the top step. as she walks down the hall, most of the rooms are closed with no noticeable shadows moving behind them. had jiho fired all of her staff? surely she would have kept some. jiho was not the kind of woman who did trivial things like cook by herself, especially growing old with age. the lack of human presence only served to scare naiyana even more, and she nearly drops the knife when she turns around.
the door to her room is wide open.
visibly trembling—from fear or the cold, she didn’t know—she inches her way towards her old room. the more she nears, the more she can hear slight scuffling, labored breathing. disorganization in a house that ran on routine. it prickles at her skin.
the first thing she sees when she reaches the entrance is dark red. stained against the pretty pink of her carpet in droplets that balloon into hurried smears. bloodied fingertips swipe against the white floors, the walls, her pristine sheets.
jiho’s body lies a few feet away from her. her eyes are unfocused, her tweed blazer-and-skirt set drenched in crimson. her heels are missing. her hair frames her face in a frenzied manner. she’s every bit the mess she prided herself not being.
she drops the knife in shock.
the clatter makes the hunched figure in the room startle, drawing her attention as it crawls out into the center of the room.
the bleak lighting frames onyx colored hair.
the bleak lighting frames bloodied skin.
the bleak lighting frames a gaze heavy with knowing. recognition sparks a flame between the two of them.
the bleak lighting frames—
“naiyana.” a voice she hasn’t heard in ten years. not that she’d been counting, not that she’d been given the liberty to—
“naiyana.” her body stumbles backwards in a mixture of disbelief and despair, a strangled sound the only thing her throat can muster. she doesn’t know what to say. what could she say?
“nai?” a tear slips down her cheek, hot against her cold skin. bile rises in her throat when she feels gentle fingertips brush the surface of her skin, dizzy in knowing red is left behind.
“you killed her.” she manages to say, and the figure only smiles. there’s so much blood. “you killed her—”
“for you.” she hum softly. naiyana smells rain and cherries when her lips brush just shy of her skin. her stomach turns. “for you, because i love you.”
the girl smiles. “she won’t be able to separate us anymore.”
naiyana blinks and she’s fifteen again, begging, pleading for mercy. the last she’d seen of her, she’d given her a smile like naiyana’s life hadn’t crumbled to pieces in front of her.
she’d done everything correctly. she got good grades, was on top of her class, and her teachers liked her. she’d gone by the book. she was supposed to be happy something like this had happened. she was never happy when jiho was around, fear palpable enough to taste.
so why was she still frozen? her mother—notyourmothernotyourmother—dead a few feet away from her, her killer a face she thought had been dead, too?
“you still love me, right?” the girl pouts, her eyes searching her fear-stricken face with ease. “every day i missed you. every day i went over how this moment would go..”
jiho’s body twitches behind her. she suddenly feels very, very faint.
“you still love me, don’t you, nai? don’t you?”
focusing back at the girl—killer—before her, naiyana musters up a smile she hopes is convincing. she is not the girl you once felt love for. she is not the girl you once felt love for.
“of course i love you, aera.”
#glasshouseinc#character seasoning :3c#fictional idol community#fictional idol company#fictional idol oc#fictional kpop idol#fictional kpop oc#fictional kpop soloist#fake idol community#fake idol oc#fake idol soloist#fake kpop idol
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this is pure art
Ana Takahashi (makeup artist)
Alana Champion (model)
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to the person in the bell jar...
Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath’ / Vilhelm Hammershøi / Nicole Krauss, from ‘The History of Love’ / Ramon Casas / Joy Harjo, from ‘Speaking Tree’ / D S (saatchiart) / Fyodor Dostoevsky, from ‘The Idiot’ / Aleardo Terzi / Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Bell Jar’
buy me a coffee
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loving the doomed lesbian representation here keep up the good work
did u just gold star me for traumatizing a character
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WEIRDLY SPECIFIC BUT HELPFUL CHARACTER BUILDING QUESTIONS
What’s the lie your character says most often?
How loosely or strictly do they use the word ‘friend’?
How often do they show their genuine emotions to others versus just the audience knowing?
What’s a hobby they used to have that they miss?
Can they cry on command? If so, what do they think about to make it happen?
What’s their favorite [insert anything] that they’ve never recommended to anyone before?
What would you (mun) yell in the middle of a crowd to find them? What would their best friend and/or romantic partner yell?
How loose is their use of the phrase ‘I love you’?
Do they give tough love or gentle love most often? Which do they prefer to receive?
What fact do they excitedly tell everyone about at every opportunity?
If someone was impersonating them, what would friends / family ask or do to tell the difference?
What’s something that makes them laugh every single time? Be specific!
When do they fake a smile? How often?
How do they put out a candle?
What’s the most obvious difference between their behavior at home, at work, at school, with friends, and when they’re alone?
What kinds of people do they have arguments with in their head?
What do they notice first in the mirror versus what most people first notice looking at them?
Who do they love truly, 100% unconditionally (if anyone)?
What would they do if stuck in a room with the person they’ve been avoiding?
Who do they like as a person but hate their work? Vice versa, whose work do they like but don’t like the person?
What common etiquette do they disagree with? Do they still follow it?
What simple activity that most people do / can do scares your character?
What do they feel guilty for that the other person(s) doesn’t / don’t even remember?
Did they take a cookie from the cookie jar? What kind of cookie was it?
What subject / topic do they know a lot about that’s completely useless to the direct plot?
How would they respond to being fired by a good boss?
What’s the worst gift they ever received? How did they respond?
What do they tell people they want? What do they actually want?
How do they respond when someone doesn’t believe them?
When they make a mistake and feel bad, does the guilt differ when it’s personal versus when it’s professional?
When do they feel the most guilt? How do they respond to it?
If they committed one petty crime / misdemeanor, what would it be? Why?
How do they greet someone they dislike / hate?
How do they greet someone they like / love?
What is the smallest, morally questionable choice they’ve made?
Who do they keep in their life for professional gain? Is it for malicious intent?
What’s a secret they haven’t told serious romantic partners and don’t plan to tell?
What hobby are they good at in private, but bad at in front of others? Why?
Would they rather be invited to an event to feel included or be excluded from an event if they were not genuinely wanted there?
How do they respond to a loose handshake? What goes through their head?
What phrases, pronunciations, or mannerisms did they pick up from someone / somewhere else?
If invited to a TED Talk, what topic would they present on? What would the title of their presentation be?
What do they commonly misinterpret because of their own upbringing / environment / biases? How do they respond when realizing the misunderstanding?
What language would be easiest for them to learn? Why?
What’s something unimportant / frivolous that they hate passionately?
Are they a listener or a talker? If they’re a listener, what makes them talk? If they’re a talker, what makes them listen?
Who have they forgotten about that remembers them very well?
Who would they say ‘yes’ to if invited to do something they abhorred / strongly didn’t want to do?
Would they eat something they find gross to be polite?
What belief / moral / personality trait do they stand by that you (mun) personally don’t agree with?
What’s a phrase they say a lot?
Do they act on their immediate emotions, or do they wait for the facts before acting?
Who would / do they believe without question?
What’s their instinct in a fight / flight / freeze / fawn situation?
What’s something they’re expected to enjoy based on their hobbies / profession that they actually dislike / hate?
If they’re scared, who do they want comfort from? Does this answer change depending on the type of fear?
What’s a simple daily activity / motion that they mess up often?
How many hobbies have they attempted to have over their lifetime? Is there a common theme?
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another question, this one a bit more... unhinged- but if she got an opportunity for it, would she kill jiho?
if you had asked her in the heat of the moment, she would have said yes. without hesitation. she deserved — still does — to feel the pain she’d inflicted on her since she was fifteen. now? she’d tell you no for the sake of her image, that she would never hurt the miss, but if you knew how to read her, some of that hurt would flash briefly in her expression before being expertly withdrawn. she might not do it with her bare hands, but she’s definitely imagined the feeling of it.
#sent. ˖ ࣪ ୨୧#when i tell you i gasped audibly .. 🫢#and u just gave me several ideas. i’m abt to start cooking ..#fictional idol community#fictional idol company#fictional idol oc#fictional kpop idol#fictional kpop oc#fictional kpop soloist#fake idol community#fake idol oc#fake idol soloist#fake kpop idol
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