cinnahoons

[cinnahoons]

Hii giirl one question, good luck babe is Discontinued or paused?

hi!!!! good question LOL for right now it’s only paused, not discontinued, because i still need to decide (once i get back from my vacation, which is in a couple days) whether or not i’m going to keep working on it!! i don’t wanna toss it just yet but smaus are a lot of work and i have to make sure im up for it this summer yk

[cinnahoons]

UR BACKKK 🩷🩷🩷

HIIII YES I AM😝😝

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐚𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃. ❜ 종성

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗍, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇 𝗍��� 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡⠀( 𝟪𝟣𝟤 ) ㅤㅤjay x fem!reader, fluff ✶ sunkissed knees, morning heat, the most gentle man ever ㅤ꒰⁠ 🍋⁠ᵕ⁠⸝⸝ᵕ ꒱ㅤ..ㅤi'm in italy this month and something took over me to write this, happy reading!

the sun is already cruel by eleven in the morning.

it melts against the tiled rooftops of sorrento, spilling down the ochre walls like honey and seeping into the skin of your collarbones as you sit on a windowsill with a spoon in your mouth and your legs dangling in the heat, blouse dipping low on your chest. you can hear the cicadas humming like static in the garden below, the smell of sun-warmed fruit and basil drifting up with the occasional lick of breeze. 

jay is lying on the floor behind you, one hand tucked under his head, the other curled lazily around a lemon he’d stolen from the basket on your aunt’s kitchen table. the hem of his white button-up is riding up. he’s not wearing socks, and his sunglasses are askew on his chest, almost like he forgot he was wearing them.

“you’re gonna fall out,” he murmurs, voice hoarse from sleep.

you glance down at him, at the golden sliver of tan skin peeking out from above the waistband of his trousers. “then catch me.”

“i’ll catch the yogurt cup,” he mutters, eyes closed. “you’ll be on your own.”

you roll your eyes and flick your spoon at him. a small dollop lands on his collarbone and he makes a sound of outrage, sitting up abruptly.

you only grin at him, and he huffs, plucking the spoon from your hand and licking the rest off with no hesitation. the movement is casual, all warm and lazy, and it makes your stomach flutter the way it always does when he does something careless and sweet and impossible not to fall in love with.

“what time is the market?” he asks, licking yogurt from the corner of his mouth.

“twelve. but it’s already hot as balls and i don’t wanna go.”

jay hums. his fingers drum against the lemon in his hand.

“you promised we’d get those little sugar apricots.”

“and you promised you’d cook dinner tonight.”

“i will,” he smiles, tilting his head against the sunlight, “if you wear that dress.”

you pause, shifting the gold bangles on your arms. they’ve become sticky with the heat. “which one?”

“the red one,” he says, eyes sliding over to meet yours. “the one that drives me crazy.”

heat blooms under your skin that has nothing to do with the sun. you hate him. you really, really hate him.

(you love him.)

you bring a hand up to your eyebrows, shielding your eyes from the sunlight as you attempt to stave off a grin. “you said that about the white one yesterday.”

“it’s a dress-per-day kind of week. not my fault you look beautiful in anything.”

you scoff, looking down. the windowsill is rough and warm against your palms, numbing them gently. “you’re insane.”

“you’re radiant,” he says simply, standing and stretching. you turn now, back facing the garden. the hem of his shirt lifts again, revealing another flash of tan skin and the shadow of where his necklace disappears beneath it. “and i’m right.”

he pads barefoot across the tile to stand in front of you, gently prying your thighs open so he can step between them. your legs dangle on either side of him, still warm from the open window. his palms cup your knees, thumbs stroking thoughtlessly over the sunburn blooming on one of them.

“you’re like a postcard,” he says, gaze lingering on your face. “the most gorgeous scenery in italy. everyone would want to come here.”

you blink, throat tightening. “jay.”

“what?”

“don’t say things like that.”

“why not?” he asks, quieter now, a smile teasing at his lips. “isn’t it true?”

you don’t answer. not really. you just reach up, brushing a thumb along his jaw where stubble has begun to show. he leans into your touch like it’s instinct. it probably is. the two of you have spent every day of this trip wrapped around each other like ivy. falling into rooms, falling into sun, falling into something stupid and golden and hard to name.

outside, you hear someone shout in italian. birds take off from a roof nearby. you glance out the window to see your aunt watering her potted plan, the garden hose writhing like a snake on the stone. 

jay doesn’t look away from you. “let’s skip the market.”

“we need food.” your head tilts against the hand of his that’s slipped into your hair, lulled by the gentle scratch.

“we have bread, and cheese.”

“jay. you’ll kill me.”

he grins. “i won’t. not if you wear the red dress.”

you groan, pulling him closer by the collar. “fine. but if we die of hunger, it’s on you.”

“i’ll make sure you die pretty,” he promises, forehead pressed against yours. “sundrenched. like now.”

you kiss him once, quick and messy.

then again, slower. tasting his smile.

the cicadas keep chirping their song.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

also anon with the jay ask in my inbox i swear im not ignoring u im gonna fulfill ur req i just wanna reply to the ask once i finish it 🙏🙏

[cinnahoons]

( 𝐬𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐁𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄. ❜ 희승

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 // 𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗄, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗄𝖾. 𝗌𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝖺𝗒.

𝗕𝗢𝗢𝗞𝗦𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗙｡ ( 𝟤,𝟪𝟧𝟢 )  ;; vampire!ㅤㅤheeseung x human fem!reader, angst, basically starved horny vampire feeds erotically IDFK, fluff if you squint, this is just unholy i fear, warnings blood bro lots of blood / 18+ go away minors & BAC THIS GOES OUT TO U (smut debut soon)

the first thing you notice when you enter is the light. not the absence of it, though the apartment is dark, save for a dim bulb flickering half-heartedly above the stove, but rather the quality of it. it’s the wrong kind of light for this hour: not the warm, syrupy amber that usually drips across the walls of heeseung’s kitchen. tonight, it’s pale and sterile, casting sharp, oblong shadows along the edges of his shelves; his counters. 

the second thing you notice is the smell. not immediately, not when you step into the hallway or even when your fingers first graze the doorknob—which, oddly, gives way without resistance, though he always insists on locking it three different ways—but a beat later, as the door creaks inward and the stillness of the apartment exhales forcefully onto you. the air is thick and suffocatingly still, but within it is the unmistakable tang of iron. faint, yes. but sharp and distinct, a smell you’d know anywhere by now.

blood.

you don’t call out, at least not yet. there’s something in the silence that holds you back, something too full to interrupt. you toe off your shoes with care and step inside, drifting through the apartment with ease. it’s etched into your brain by now, as familiar as the back of your hand. 

you find him in the kitchen, as you’d known you would. shirtless, turned away from you, braced against the sink in a way that makes it seem as though the ceramic is the only thing keeping him vertical. he’s got his back bowed, maybe not quite with pain but with something more resemblant of fatigue, turning his body inward. and then, finally, you see the blood.

it streaks across his side in sluggish, glistening arcs. dark where it’s dried and ruby red where it still seeps along a cruel, jagged gash. you stare for a moment too long, eyes caught on the flesh that pulls apart in a manner with which you almost can’t comprehend. this is the reality of a creature who, by all accounts, should not bleed like this. 

"heeseung," you say finally, the slight tremor to your voice slicing through the heavy air.

he doesn’t turn, instead stilling further, almost like he’d expected that this would happen. that you would show up, unannounced and uninvited, like you always do. something he has no defense against, for you and him are terribly different. you’re human. you have no obligation to be allowed inside. 

"i told you not to come here tonight."

his voice is low, rasping. you’d expected something more on edge, laden with the heat of anger that he no doubt feels at this moment. but it’s overshadowed by pure exhaustion. he sounds like he’s been awake for days, or like he’s trying not to use too much breath in case it pulls him apart further. you step closer, slowly, fearing he might startle, though that’s never been his way. even at his worst, heeseung is never startled. he simply endures.

"you’re bleeding," you say, and it feels like the most menial sentence you’ve ever spoken. a laughable thing, really. a penny tossed at a beggar, a single useless and pitiful observation. he huffs softly. a breath that might be a laugh, if there were anything left in him for amusement. 

you wither, stepping around him. it’s only then that he lifts his head, and it makes you flinch. not because he looks monstrous, but because he doesn’t. there’s no violent red in his eyes, no sharpness in his features, but a strange, resigned kind of distance. his skin is far too pale, nearly grey beneath the flickering light, and there’s a tremor in his hand where it grips the counter. you try to reach for him, gently, just your fingertips brushing against his arm, but he pulls away. it’s weak, and he winces as he stabilizes himself against the sink.

“don’t touch me,” he grunts, voice low. a warning, maybe, but you’ve never been one to listen to him. 

it clicks at once why the wound hasn’t closed, why his voice sounds like it’s been scraped down to the marrow. it doesn’t really take much. there aren’t very many reasons as to  why a vampire would be incapable of healing.

"you haven’t fed," you murmur, quietly, because it’s not a question.

he doesn’t answer. doesn’t need to.

you reach for him, and this time he flinches; not away, but inward, like your touch registers as something painful. still, he lets you press your palm to his skin, fingers gentle around the edge of the injury. the blood is warm and thick against your skin.

"you’re not healing," you whisper. “that wound should have closed by now.”

“i know,” he finally says, his voice cracking. it’s the first time you’ve heard him do that. he sounds furious with himself. and you can’t help yourself—you lift your hand again, this time to his face, and he lets you. his skin is cold, fevered in reverse. his jaw tenses under your palm.

“who did this?”

he swallows, looking away from you. “someone i used to run with. one of them saw us.”

you pause, whatever thoughts that had been forming dissipating as quickly as they’d been firing through your head. “saw us?”

heeseung finally meets your eyes. round and glassy. you’d always, secretly, thought his eyes were his best feature. it was a marvel, that even in this terrible, monstrous reality, among the violence of his nature, that there could be a gentleness to him much deeper than deemed possible. sweet and dreamlike, a chasm so void of darkness he could charm anything into believing he was human.  

“they know you’re human,” he continues, lashes downcast. “they think i’m weak for keeping you close. i told them i wasn’t. so they gave me a reason to bleed.”

you stare at him wordlessly. there’s too much rushing through you at once—fear, guilt, fury—but underneath it all is the simplest, most dangerous thing: love. terrifying, blinding love, as real as the pounding in your ears.

"you should’ve told me," you whisper fiercely; angrily.

"and said what? i’m dragging you into something you never asked for."

you shake your head, frustrated. he never seems to get it—that he’s not the burden he thinks himself to be. “you’re not dragging me. i’m here of my own volition, aren’t i? i chose this.”

he’s silent for a long moment, one that feels much too charged for your comfort. his eyes flutter closed, weight more slackened against your frame. "i didn’t plan to feed again," he murmurs. "ever."

a lump settles in your throat. "what do you mean?"

he finally meets your gaze, and those same beautiful eyes—there’s something wild behind them now, though not in the predatory sense many have come to expect from stories and old folklore.  no, it’s in the way someone looks when they’ve been trapped in their own mind too long, like a feral thing begging not to be pitied. it shrivels your resolve, dries the saliva on your tongue. 

"if i don’t feed," he says slowly, "i don’t heal. and if i don’t heal…" he trails off, eyes sliding past you. "then maybe it’s over."

you can only stare at him, heart cracking open like fruit in the sun.

"i offered," you tell him weakly. "last week. i offered and you said no."

he closes his eyes again. "because you shouldn’t have to. that’s not what you are to me."

"i didn’t say i was," you snap. "i said i wanted to help."

god, he’s so frustrating. who is he to make these decisions for you? to draw the line between you as if you haven’t expressed, time and time again, that this is what you chose? and that you remain steadfast in that choice, regardless of the obstacles? 

"you don’t understand what it means to be wanted like this," he says, and his voice isn’t cruel. it’s pleading. "it’s—it’s more than love, or tenderness, or even lust. it’s desire."

you exhale shakily, eyes trained on his. "and i still trust you."

"you shouldn’t."

"too fucking late."

heeseung scoffs, short and pained. then, slowly, his hand lifts. it’s shaking, but he cups the side of your neck with the kind of reverence reserved for relics. you can feel the cold of his skin, the way his thumb presses softly just below your jaw.

"just this once," he breathes, and the words feel more like a warning to himself than a promise to you. "if i lose control—"

"you won’t."

"but if i do—"

"then i’ll come back tomorrow." you swallow. steady. sure. "and the next day. and the day after that."

there is a moment of stillness, a moment in which you think he might try again to convince you that you don’t want this, that what you feel for him is wrong. he studies you, and whatever he sees in your expression must undo something, because the mask falls. his hand drifts up, tracing the column of your throat like it’s glass. 

his lips brush your skin first, though not with the urgency you’d expected. it’s mournful, like he’s saying goodbye to the part of himself that still believes he can walk away from you. all useless. you’re the living embodiment of his deepest desires, his one and only kryptonite.

heeseung exhales shakily and leans in, his forehead resting against yours for a beat, a silent apology. your breathing stutters when he dips lower, mouth brushing the skin just below your jaw. instinctively, you tilt your head, allowing him access. only he doesn’t move for a second, just breathes you in like it’s the only nourishment he’ll let himself have. 

when his nose presses against your pulse point, it’s wondrous. an aching, fragmented moment. his tongue grazes your skin next, languid, a touch so starved and longing that you wonder if he’s been thinking about this moment for however long it's been since his last feed. when his lips part, the shape of his canines graze against you softly, but they’re deliberate in their restraint. just the promise of pain rather than the pain itself, and anticipation building in your lungs long before the bite comes. 

and then—

heat. not fire, but warmth, slow and encompassing, something coiling in your chest and blooming behind your eyes. you sag slightly into him, and he catches you easily, one arm banded around your waist, the other steadying the back of your head. he drinks in measured pulls, every swallow a rough breath of relief, and maybe also something like agony.

you don’t realize he’s crying until you feel his tears run down your neck.

a whimper builds deep in your throat, and his grip on your waist tightens. but he’s careful, always careful. even when his restraint starts to crack, even when his breathing comes fast, even when he lets himself take.

your fingers curl into the soft fabric of his sweatpants, knuckles white with tension, dually from the pain but also from the unbearable weight of intimacy; this strange, sacred offering of self. the kitchen is silent save for the flickering bulb and his soft, shuddering groans. the way your breath catches and the quiet exhale each time he pulls back to keep himself from going too far. it’s a rhythm, a slow, devastating kind of music. a prayer muttered in a dying cathedral.

there comes a point where his breath fans across your collarbone, humid and erratic, and you realize he’s no longer drinking. he’s breathing you in, his lips parted and warm against your skin, nose dragging up and down the bloodied column of your throat like he’s trying to drown in the scent of you.

your grip tightens, and his hand, which had been steadying the back of your head, drifts lower, his fingers weaving into your hair, anchoring you to him. you feel it when he presses closer, not possessive, not desperate, just there. solid and burning and almost entirely too much. you can feel his restraint against your body, the way his hips have locked in place to keep from pressing into you fully. the noise he makes against your throat when you shift against him ever so slightly. 

“don’t,” he breathes, though he doesn’t pull away. his voice is threadbare, wrecked. “don’t move. please.”

you go still, for his sake. for your sake. he stays where he is, trembling against your throat. his fingers are clenched in your hair, jaw tense against your skin like he’s barely holding himself inside his body. you can feel when he tries to breathe through it. his nose brushes the slope of your shoulder and he exhales through clenched teeth, like he’s in pain and he’s trying to ground himself in anything but this. but you want this. so you shift. not by much, just a singular breath, a tilt of your neck.

he draws in a breath that sounds like it might tear him in two, and you feel it—feel it—the second his restraint splinters. it’s in the way his mouth parts against your skin, hot and wet, how his fingers dig hard into your waist. his whole body shudders, and for the briefest moment, he hesitates.

then he sinks his teeth into you again.

you gasp, the air leaving your lungs in a broken stutter as the pain blooms hot and sharp and good, in the way lightning is good, in the way things are good when they are alive and too much and all at once. his mouth is deeper this time, hungrier, less careful. it’s not violence, it’s need. it’s desperation.

his hips press flush against yours as he groans low in his chest, something animal and helpless. for a moment your hands go slack, head tilting back against the cabinet, a breathless whimper breaking past your lips. heeseung’s grip tightens at your waist if it’s even possible, holding your listless body as it throbs in time with your pulse, your blood, his mouth—each beat a wave cresting between your legs, dizzying and warm. he drinks like he’s drowning, and you’re the light at the end of the tunnel. and when he finally pulls back, lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide, he doesn’t let go. he leans in close, resting his forehead against your temple, his breath ragged and open against your cheek. you can see it on his face, the dazed haze of hunger sated and something else breaking loose beneath it. there’s blood everywhere, smeared across his lips, his chin, glistening. he’s never looked more ruined, more beautiful.

“i’m sorry,” he says hoarsely. “i didn’t mean to—i shouldn’t have—”

“heeseung,” you interrupt, your voice weak but so undeniably sure. “it’s okay.”

“no,” he whispers, and when he leans back, his eyes are wide. glassy. terrified. “it’s not.”

you reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing over smears of blood like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i wanted it,” you tell him quietly.

he stares at you, his lips still parted. his breathing is uneven, shaky, and when he kisses you, because of course he kisses you, it’s no longer desperate. 

it’s reverent.

“did i hurt you?” he asks hoarsely, his voice gravel-thick with guilt. you shake your head, still dizzy. you keep having to blink until his face comes back into focus. his lips are stained a gorgeous red, the wound at his side already beginning to seal. there’s color returning to his cheeks, albeit faintly. he looks more alive like this, at least. not fully, but enough. 

“no,” you whisper, eventually. “you didn’t.”

heeseung swallows hard. his eyes—they’re blood-red, a twisted reminder of what he is, what he’s done. what he will do, again and again. they flicker down to the pulse still fluttering at your throat, and then back up. he has guilt written over his face, clear-as-day. but underneath it is wonder. as if he still can’t believe that you would ever let him do this, as if he doesn’t know you’d do it again.

you shift slightly, just enough to wipe your sleeve across your neck. when the fabric comes away, it’s streaked heavily with red. heeseung watches you through all of it and doesn’t say a word.

“better?” you ask him, voice low.

he only blinks at you. “no.”

you huff, more breath than laugh, and lean your head back against the cabinet behind you. your pulse is still hammering. heeseung’s still too close. neither of you moves away.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t mean for it to be like that.”

his eyes have returned to their usual color, round and wet like rich soil. 

“i know.”

he works his jaw, like there’s more he wants to say but no clean way to say it. instead, his hand flexes once against your waist. you let it linger.

“just…” you murmur, not really sure where you’re going with it. “next time, ask. please.”

he nods, slowly, and you stay like that for a while. no apology. no promise. just this stillness. it’s perfectly enough.

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

i have no words for this cb except that i WILL be writing bc the album is driving me crazy

[cinnahoons]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐘𝐍‎𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; " 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! "

// 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 ��𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’ 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 ✧

ㅤ( 𝟤𝟣𝟨𝟣 ) fluff, f!reader, established relationships, flirting, lots of offended boyfriends lol ── 𝖡𝖮𝖮𝖪𝖲𝖧𝖤𝖫𝖥 ｡⠀

✶ LEE HEESEUNG 

it’s late, and you’re both sprawled out across heeseung’s bed, legs tangled somewhere in the sheets. the glow of your phone screen keeps casting soft shadows across his face. he’s got his arm resting loosely over your stomach, his thumb tracing thoughtless circles just above the hem of your shirt. the soft scent of detergent fills your senses, and you fight the urge to burrow your face into his skin. 

heeseung’s half-awake. he scrolls with one hand, his lashes low and mouth parted slightly as you shift beside him and prop your phone up against a pillow. you hit record without ceremony, turning just enough to smile at the camera.

“just winding down with my current boyfriend,” you murmur, light and easy.

there’s a pause, in which he blinks a couple times and then turns his head toward you: eyes soft, expression unreadable, his thumb still idly moving against your side.

“…current?” he repeats, voice rough with sleep.

you hum. he holds your gaze for a long moment; not offended, not jealous, just faintly amused. then he lets out a breathy laugh, shifting to rest on one elbow. the blanket falls slightly off his shoulder.

“huh,” he says. “current’s a weird word for someone who keeps stealing my clothes.”

you grin at him. “they’re comfy.”

“mm.” he pauses like he’s considering something. “so is exclusivity.”

you laugh, nudging his shoulder, and he’s still watching you with a lazy, half-lidded look, the kind  he gets when he’s on the edge of falling asleep and still doesn’t want to miss anything.

“you want me to say last boyfriend?” you ask.

he shrugs, but his fingers tap twice against your wrist, all soft and rhythmic. “you don’t have to.”

“but you’d like it.”

“...i’d like it,” he says, simple and sure.

your smile softens. heeseung shifts closer again, pressing a kiss just under your jaw before settling back into the pillow, his voice quiet as he adds:

“just in case you forget where home is.”

✶ PARK JONGSEONG 

you’re leaning against the kitchen island while jay finishes plating up dinner, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and gold ring glinting on his hand as he reaches for the pepper grinder.

your phone is already recording before he glances up, catching your eye.

“filming again?” he asks, amused.

“mhm,” you hum. “just getting a clip with my current boyfriend.”

he freezes. not just a little pause—a full on, blank stare. he doesn’t even blink.

you watch, holding back a laugh, as his expression flickers through at least five emotions.

then, very seriously: “you mean husband.”

“husband?” you laugh, incredulous. “you’re my current boyfriend.”

jay sets the pepper grinder down with surgical precision, walking over to you like a man on a mission.

“say it with me,” he starts, holding up one finger. “H.”

“jay—”

“U.”

you’re giggling now, but he’s persistent, stepping closer, one hand bracing on the counter beside your waist.

“come on. you wanna do this on camera? let’s do it right. say: husband. i’ll even do the dishes.”

you raise a brow. “just for that?”

he leans in, voice low against your ear. “also because i love you more than anyone on earth and your mom already likes me. but mostly the dishes.”

✶ SIM JAKE 

it’s golden hour, the sky split open in orange and peach, and jake’s standing barefoot on the patio with one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a pair of tongs like a weapon. he’s got an apron on and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearm. the air is filled with the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and seasoning, a light breeze fluttering your hair.

you’re sitting on a cooler, filming him from behind your lemonade.

“just grilling with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, zooming in on the way he flips a burger. he glances over his shoulder, unblinking.

“yep,” jake says, cool as ever. “me and my girlfriend at the moment.”

you pause, and he flashes an innocent smile at the camera. “she’s on a trial run. depends on how these burgers turn out.”

“oh my god.”

“what?” he shrugs, teasing.

you try to act annoyed,  but he’s already walking over with a plate of food, nudging your knee with his hip so you’ll make room for him. he sits beside you, setting a plate down in front of you. “you get the first one. for old time’s sake.”

you stare at him, unimpressed. “we’re still dating.”

“for now,” he says, ignoring his own words and biting into your burger.

“you’re insufferable.”

he wipes his mouth with a paper towel, grin crooked. “but still your boyfriend… currently.”

✶ PARK SUNGHOON 

you’re both in the bathroom getting ready to go out. the mirror lights are on full blast, hair tools scattered across the counter, and the air smells like his cologne and your perfume layered on top of each other. he’s standing behind you in a crisp button-down, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with impeccable focus.

you set your phone up on the edge of the sink, press record, and lean slightly into the frame with a small smile.

“filming a quick ootd with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, tilting the camera to catch both of you in the mirror.

you’re smiling. he’s not. his fingers pause on the second cuff, gaze flicking up to the mirror. not at the camera, not at you, just a slow, almost imperceptible blink like he’s just been personally wronged by god.

you try to stifle a laugh. “hoon?”

no answer. he inhales slowly through his nose, finishes the cuff, and then continues his routine like nothing happened. except now, he’s noticeably quieter and calmer, almost eerily composed.

“...what?” you prompt again, already giggling. “you’re not gonna say anything?”

he finally speaks, his voice polite: “you’re gonna want to run that back.”

you lose it.

cut to a second clip.

same mirror, same lighting. but this time, sunghoon’s standing closer, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one brow lifted at the camera. you hold the phone up properly now, barely containing your smile. “filming a quick ootd with my husband,” you say sweetly.

he nods once, solemnly. you turn the camera toward him. “anything you want to say?”

he looks directly into the lens, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

“just that i accept your apology. and that i’ll be changing the dinner reservation name to mr. and mrs. park.”

✶ KIM SUNOO 

you’re curled up together on the couch in your usual configuration: legs tangled under a shared blanket, your foot tucked beneath his thigh, his head propped up on a throw pillow that he fluffed to perfection before sitting down. the TV is playing something you’ve both already seen three times, which means sunoo is only half paying attention, scrolling his phone with idle little pouts at whatever he’s reading, his fingertips occasionally brushing yours like he just wants to make sure you’re still there.

he looks peaceful, relaxed, and completely unsuspecting. it’s perfect. 

you smile to yourself and lean over slightly, propping your phone up against the base of a candle on the coffee table. you clear your throat just enough to get his attention.

“just relaxing with my current boyfriend!” you coo.

you don’t even get to blink before sunoo’s head snaps up so fast you swear you almost get second-hand whiplash. “current boyfriend?”

you nod. he lets out an indignant gasp so dramatic it startles the cat lounging on the arm of your couch.

“current?”

“yeah,” you say sweetly. “just for now.”

he yanks your phone from where it’s sitting and stares into the camera like he’s on a reality show. “for the record, i’d like to say i’m being emotionally manipulated.”

“sunoo—”

“no. no. because i have done nothing but love her. i let her wear my moisturizer. my laneige. the expensive one. i call her pretty every day.” he turns to you now, eyes wide with betrayal. “do you know how many people want to be me?”

you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch. he reluctantly lets you pull him back, though not before delivering one final glance at the phone and whispering:

“delete it. or caption it current boyfriend who deserves better.” 

✶ YANG JUNGWON 

your room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of notebook pages and the occasional scratch of your highlighter dragging across text. the two of you are camped out on the floor, your legs draped over his as he leans back on one hand, casually quizzing you on terms you definitely should’ve memorized three days ago.

he’s halfway through peeling the corner of a granola bar wrapper when you set your phone on the edge of your nightstand, screen angled just barely toward the two of you. it’s subtle. he clocks it, but doesn’t say anything. you click record.

“study night with my current boyfriend,” you announce softly, eyes still on your notes.

jungwon doesn’t miss a beat. he finishes unwrapping the granola bar, breaks it in half, and offers you the bigger piece without looking up.

“hmm,” he hums. “temporary. that’s new.”

you glance at him. he’s still reading over your notes, impassive, like you didn’t just call him disposable to the internet.

“nothing to say about that?” you tease, poking at his knee with your foot.

he finally looks up, entirely unaffected, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“should i be worried?” he asks, tone light, eyes sharp. “is this the part where you trade me in for someone who doesn’t double check your citations?”

you laugh, but he’s already pulling a highlighter from the pile and uncapping it for you.

“no, really,” he continues, gesturing toward your notes. “write that down. that’s good. current boyfriend. sounds professional. clinical. a little sterile, but i’m sure devon will love it.”

“who the hell is devon?”

“your next boyfriend,” he replies easily. “hopefully he likes sour gummies. i just trained you out of the orange ones.”

you’re already losing it, giggling into your sleeve, and he just shakes his head, flipping back to your vocab list like this is all part of a recurring bit he’s well-versed in.

“let me know if he needs my login for the quizlet,” he adds absently. “seems rude to leave him hanging.”

you reach for his arm, pulling him toward you with a laugh, and he lets you, leaning in close with that same unbothered grin.

“mm,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “current boyfriend, huh?”

you grin at him. “maybe.”

he leans in, tapping his pen lightly against your forehead.

“then i guess i better make you fall in love with me again tonight.”

✶ NISHIMURA RIKI 

he’s deep into a match when you come in, his legs folded pretzel-style in his desk chair, controller balanced loosely between his hands. he’s got his headset pushed down around his neck so you can hear both the game audio and his occasional muttered commentary. the screen casts a glow across his face, all cool blues and blinking reds, but he still looks impossibly pretty like this. focused, relaxed, and completely in his element.

you snake your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek to the side of his head. he doesn’t startle, just shifts slightly to let you in closer before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, tapping something on the controller with the practiced ease of someone who could do this with his eyes closed.

“say hi,” you whisper near his ear, already angling your phone to catch both of you in the shot. “this is my current boyfriend.”

he glances at the screen, grinning without missing a beat. “yo.”

you snort, turning to look at him. he catches your movement in the corner of his eye.

“what? you think you’re slick?”

you hum innocently. he turns his head a little more now, squinting at you. “fine. run that back. say final.”

you laugh, already shaking your head. “final?”

“i’m not getting replaced,” he murmurs, mock-offended.

you try to answer, but the laughter bubbles up too fast to stop. he clicks something on his controller, dies instantly in-game, and turns to face you immediately. he points a finger at your phone camera, which is still recording.

“hey. first and final.”

you laugh. “riki—” 

“no, no. it’s fine.” he leans back dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “i’ll just reinvent myself real quick. learn french or something. start doing pilates. maybe become emotionally unavailable and change my name to something mysterious like... lucien.”

you snort, forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. “you already dye your hair every six weeks. you don’t need to be more mysterious.”

“exactly,” he says, with the kind of confident shrug that suggests this was his point all along. “i’m the final boyfriend. nobody’s falling for your little prank.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐘𝐍‎𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; " 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! "

// 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’ 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 ✧

ㅤ( 𝟤𝟣𝟨𝟣 ) fluff, f!reader, established relationships, flirting, lots of offended boyfriends lol ── 𝖡𝖮𝖮𝖪𝖲𝖧𝖤𝖫𝖥 ｡⠀

✶ LEE HEESEUNG 

it’s late, and you’re both sprawled out across heeseung’s bed, legs tangled somewhere in the sheets. the glow of your phone screen keeps casting soft shadows across his face. he’s got his arm resting loosely over your stomach, his thumb tracing thoughtless circles just above the hem of your shirt. the soft scent of detergent fills your senses, and you fight the urge to burrow your face into his skin. 

heeseung’s half-awake. he scrolls with one hand, his lashes low and mouth parted slightly as you shift beside him and prop your phone up against a pillow. you hit record without ceremony, turning just enough to smile at the camera.

“just winding down with my current boyfriend,” you murmur, light and easy.

there’s a pause, in which he blinks a couple times and then turns his head toward you: eyes soft, expression unreadable, his thumb still idly moving against your side.

“…current?” he repeats, voice rough with sleep.

you hum. he holds your gaze for a long moment; not offended, not jealous, just faintly amused. then he lets out a breathy laugh, shifting to rest on one elbow. the blanket falls slightly off his shoulder.

“huh,” he says. “current’s a weird word for someone who keeps stealing my clothes.”

you grin at him. “they’re comfy.”

“mm.” he pauses like he’s considering something. “so is exclusivity.”

you laugh, nudging his shoulder, and he’s still watching you with a lazy, half-lidded look, the kind  he gets when he’s on the edge of falling asleep and still doesn’t want to miss anything.

“you want me to say last boyfriend?” you ask.

he shrugs, but his fingers tap twice against your wrist, all soft and rhythmic. “you don’t have to.”

“but you’d like it.”

“...i’d like it,” he says, simple and sure.

your smile softens. heeseung shifts closer again, pressing a kiss just under your jaw before settling back into the pillow, his voice quiet as he adds:

“just in case you forget where home is.”

✶ PARK JONGSEONG 

you’re leaning against the kitchen island while jay finishes plating up dinner, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and gold ring glinting on his hand as he reaches for the pepper grinder.

your phone is already recording before he glances up, catching your eye.

“filming again?” he asks, amused.

“mhm,” you hum. “just getting a clip with my current boyfriend.”

he freezes. not just a little pause—a full on, blank stare. he doesn’t even blink.

you watch, holding back a laugh, as his expression flickers through at least five emotions.

then, very seriously: “you mean husband.”

“husband?” you laugh, incredulous. “you’re my current boyfriend.”

jay sets the pepper grinder down with surgical precision, walking over to you like a man on a mission.

“say it with me,” he starts, holding up one finger. “H.”

“jay—”

“U.”

you’re giggling now, but he’s persistent, stepping closer, one hand bracing on the counter beside your waist.

“come on. you wanna do this on camera? let’s do it right. say: husband. i’ll even do the dishes.”

you raise a brow. “just for that?”

he leans in, voice low against your ear. “also because i love you more than anyone on earth and your mom already likes me. but mostly the dishes.”

✶ SIM JAKE 

it’s golden hour, the sky split open in orange and peach, and jake’s standing barefoot on the patio with one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a pair of tongs like a weapon. he’s got an apron on and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearm. the air is filled with the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and seasoning, a light breeze fluttering your hair.

you’re sitting on a cooler, filming him from behind your lemonade.

“just grilling with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, zooming in on the way he flips a burger. he glances over his shoulder, unblinking.

“yep,” jake says, cool as ever. “me and my girlfriend at the moment.”

you pause, and he flashes an innocent smile at the camera. “she’s on a trial run. depends on how these burgers turn out.”

“oh my god.”

“what?” he shrugs, teasing.

you try to act annoyed,  but he’s already walking over with a plate of food, nudging your knee with his hip so you’ll make room for him. he sits beside you, setting a plate down in front of you. “you get the first one. for old time’s sake.”

you stare at him, unimpressed. “we’re still dating.”

“for now,” he says, ignoring his own words and biting into your burger.

“you’re insufferable.”

he wipes his mouth with a paper towel, grin crooked. “but still your boyfriend… currently.”

✶ PARK SUNGHOON 

you’re both in the bathroom getting ready to go out. the mirror lights are on full blast, hair tools scattered across the counter, and the air smells like his cologne and your perfume layered on top of each other. he’s standing behind you in a crisp button-down, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with impeccable focus.

you set your phone up on the edge of the sink, press record, and lean slightly into the frame with a small smile.

“filming a quick ootd with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, tilting the camera to catch both of you in the mirror.

you’re smiling. he’s not. his fingers pause on the second cuff, gaze flicking up to the mirror. not at the camera, not at you, just a slow, almost imperceptible blink like he’s just been personally wronged by god.

you try to stifle a laugh. “hoon?”

no answer. he inhales slowly through his nose, finishes the cuff, and then continues his routine like nothing happened. except now, he’s noticeably quieter and calmer, almost eerily composed.

“...what?” you prompt again, already giggling. “you’re not gonna say anything?”

he finally speaks, his voice polite: “you’re gonna want to run that back.”

you lose it.

cut to a second clip.

same mirror, same lighting. but this time, sunghoon’s standing closer, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one brow lifted at the camera. you hold the phone up properly now, barely containing your smile. “filming a quick ootd with my husband,” you say sweetly.

he nods once, solemnly. you turn the camera toward him. “anything you want to say?”

he looks directly into the lens, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

“just that i accept your apology. and that i’ll be changing the dinner reservation name to mr. and mrs. park.”

✶ KIM SUNOO 

you’re curled up together on the couch in your usual configuration: legs tangled under a shared blanket, your foot tucked beneath his thigh, his head propped up on a throw pillow that he fluffed to perfection before sitting down. the TV is playing something you’ve both already seen three times, which means sunoo is only half paying attention, scrolling his phone with idle little pouts at whatever he’s reading, his fingertips occasionally brushing yours like he just wants to make sure you’re still there.

he looks peaceful, relaxed, and completely unsuspecting. it’s perfect. 

you smile to yourself and lean over slightly, propping your phone up against the base of a candle on the coffee table. you clear your throat just enough to get his attention.

“just relaxing with my current boyfriend!” you coo.

you don’t even get to blink before sunoo’s head snaps up so fast you swear you almost get second-hand whiplash. “current boyfriend?”

you nod. he lets out an indignant gasp so dramatic it startles the cat lounging on the arm of your couch.

“current?”

“yeah,” you say sweetly. “just for now.”

he yanks your phone from where it’s sitting and stares into the camera like he’s on a reality show. “for the record, i’d like to say i’m being emotionally manipulated.”

“sunoo—”

“no. no. because i have done nothing but love her. i let her wear my moisturizer. my laneige. the expensive one. i call her pretty every day.” he turns to you now, eyes wide with betrayal. “do you know how many people want to be me?”

you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch. he reluctantly lets you pull him back, though not before delivering one final glance at the phone and whispering:

“delete it. or caption it current boyfriend who deserves better.” 

✶ YANG JUNGWON 

your room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of notebook pages and the occasional scratch of your highlighter dragging across text. the two of you are camped out on the floor, your legs draped over his as he leans back on one hand, casually quizzing you on terms you definitely should’ve memorized three days ago.

he’s halfway through peeling the corner of a granola bar wrapper when you set your phone on the edge of your nightstand, screen angled just barely toward the two of you. it’s subtle. he clocks it, but doesn’t say anything. you click record.

“study night with my current boyfriend,” you announce softly, eyes still on your notes.

jungwon doesn’t miss a beat. he finishes unwrapping the granola bar, breaks it in half, and offers you the bigger piece without looking up.

“hmm,” he hums. “temporary. that’s new.”

you glance at him. he’s still reading over your notes, impassive, like you didn’t just call him disposable to the internet.

“nothing to say about that?” you tease, poking at his knee with your foot.

he finally looks up, entirely unaffected, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“should i be worried?” he asks, tone light, eyes sharp. “is this the part where you trade me in for someone who doesn’t double check your citations?”

you laugh, but he’s already pulling a highlighter from the pile and uncapping it for you.

“no, really,” he continues, gesturing toward your notes. “write that down. that’s good. current boyfriend. sounds professional. clinical. a little sterile, but i’m sure devon will love it.”

“who the hell is devon?”

“your next boyfriend,” he replies easily. “hopefully he likes sour gummies. i just trained you out of the orange ones.”

you’re already losing it, giggling into your sleeve, and he just shakes his head, flipping back to your vocab list like this is all part of a recurring bit he’s well-versed in.

“let me know if he needs my login for the quizlet,” he adds absently. “seems rude to leave him hanging.”

you reach for his arm, pulling him toward you with a laugh, and he lets you, leaning in close with that same unbothered grin.

“mm,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “current boyfriend, huh?”

you grin at him. “maybe.”

he leans in, tapping his pen lightly against your forehead.

“then i guess i better make you fall in love with me again tonight.”

✶ NISHIMURA RIKI 

he’s deep into a match when you come in, his legs folded pretzel-style in his desk chair, controller balanced loosely between his hands. he’s got his headset pushed down around his neck so you can hear both the game audio and his occasional muttered commentary. the screen casts a glow across his face, all cool blues and blinking reds, but he still looks impossibly pretty like this. focused, relaxed, and completely in his element.

you snake your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek to the side of his head. he doesn’t startle, just shifts slightly to let you in closer before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, tapping something on the controller with the practiced ease of someone who could do this with his eyes closed.

“say hi,” you whisper near his ear, already angling your phone to catch both of you in the shot. “this is my current boyfriend.”

he glances at the screen, grinning without missing a beat. “yo.”

you snort, turning to look at him. he catches your movement in the corner of his eye.

“what? you think you’re slick?”

you hum innocently. he turns his head a little more now, squinting at you. “fine. run that back. say final.”

you laugh, already shaking your head. “final?”

“i’m not getting replaced,” he murmurs, mock-offended.

you try to answer, but the laughter bubbles up too fast to stop. he clicks something on his controller, dies instantly in-game, and turns to face you immediately. he points a finger at your phone camera, which is still recording.

“hey. first and final.”

you laugh. “riki—” 

“no, no. it’s fine.” he leans back dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “i’ll just reinvent myself real quick. learn french or something. start doing pilates. maybe become emotionally unavailable and change my name to something mysterious like... lucien.”

you snort, forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. “you already dye your hair every six weeks. you don’t need to be more mysterious.”

“exactly,” he says, with the kind of confident shrug that suggests this was his point all along. “i’m the final boyfriend. nobody’s falling for your little prank.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐘𝐍‎𝐃𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐄 ;; " 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 ! "

// 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 ‘𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽’ 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗇 ✧

ㅤ( 𝟤𝟣𝟨𝟣 ) fluff, f!reader, established relationships, flirting, lots of offended boyfriends lol ── 𝖡𝖮𝖮𝖪𝖲𝖧𝖤𝖫𝖥 ｡⠀

✶ LEE HEESEUNG 

it’s late, and you’re both sprawled out across heeseung’s bed, legs tangled somewhere in the sheets. the glow of your phone screen keeps casting soft shadows across his face. he’s got his arm resting loosely over your stomach, his thumb tracing thoughtless circles just above the hem of your shirt. the soft scent of detergent fills your senses, and you fight the urge to burrow your face into his skin. 

heeseung’s half-awake. he scrolls with one hand, his lashes low and mouth parted slightly as you shift beside him and prop your phone up against a pillow. you hit record without ceremony, turning just enough to smile at the camera.

“just winding down with my current boyfriend,” you murmur, light and easy.

there’s a pause, in which he blinks a couple times and then turns his head toward you: eyes soft, expression unreadable, his thumb still idly moving against your side.

“…current?” he repeats, voice rough with sleep.

you hum. he holds your gaze for a long moment; not offended, not jealous, just faintly amused. then he lets out a breathy laugh, shifting to rest on one elbow. the blanket falls slightly off his shoulder.

“huh,” he says. “current’s a weird word for someone who keeps stealing my clothes.”

you grin at him. “they’re comfy.”

“mm.” he pauses like he’s considering something. “so is exclusivity.”

you laugh, nudging his shoulder, and he’s still watching you with a lazy, half-lidded look, the kind  he gets when he’s on the edge of falling asleep and still doesn’t want to miss anything.

“you want me to say last boyfriend?” you ask.

he shrugs, but his fingers tap twice against your wrist, all soft and rhythmic. “you don’t have to.”

“but you’d like it.”

“...i’d like it,” he says, simple and sure.

your smile softens. heeseung shifts closer again, pressing a kiss just under your jaw before settling back into the pillow, his voice quiet as he adds:

“just in case you forget where home is.”

✶ PARK JONGSEONG 

you’re leaning against the kitchen island while jay finishes plating up dinner, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and gold ring glinting on his hand as he reaches for the pepper grinder.

your phone is already recording before he glances up, catching your eye.

“filming again?” he asks, amused.

“mhm,” you hum. “just getting a clip with my current boyfriend.”

he freezes. not just a little pause—a full on, blank stare. he doesn’t even blink.

you watch, holding back a laugh, as his expression flickers through at least five emotions.

then, very seriously: “you mean husband.”

“husband?” you laugh, incredulous. “you’re my current boyfriend.”

jay sets the pepper grinder down with surgical precision, walking over to you like a man on a mission.

“say it with me,” he starts, holding up one finger. “H.”

“jay—”

“U.”

you’re giggling now, but he’s persistent, stepping closer, one hand bracing on the counter beside your waist.

“come on. you wanna do this on camera? let’s do it right. say: husband. i’ll even do the dishes.”

you raise a brow. “just for that?”

he leans in, voice low against your ear. “also because i love you more than anyone on earth and your mom already likes me. but mostly the dishes.”

✶ SIM JAKE 

it’s golden hour, the sky split open in orange and peach, and jake’s standing barefoot on the patio with one hand on his hip and the other brandishing a pair of tongs like a weapon. he’s got an apron on and his sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the veins on his forearm. the air is filled with the tantalizing scent of grilled meat and seasoning, a light breeze fluttering your hair.

you’re sitting on a cooler, filming him from behind your lemonade.

“just grilling with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, zooming in on the way he flips a burger. he glances over his shoulder, unblinking.

“yep,” jake says, cool as ever. “me and my girlfriend at the moment.”

you pause, and he flashes an innocent smile at the camera. “she’s on a trial run. depends on how these burgers turn out.”

“oh my god.”

“what?” he shrugs, teasing.

you try to act annoyed,  but he’s already walking over with a plate of food, nudging your knee with his hip so you’ll make room for him. he sits beside you, setting a plate down in front of you. “you get the first one. for old time’s sake.”

you stare at him, unimpressed. “we’re still dating.”

“for now,” he says, ignoring his own words and biting into your burger.

“you’re insufferable.”

he wipes his mouth with a paper towel, grin crooked. “but still your boyfriend… currently.”

✶ PARK SUNGHOON 

you’re both in the bathroom getting ready to go out. the mirror lights are on full blast, hair tools scattered across the counter, and the air smells like his cologne and your perfume layered on top of each other. he’s standing behind you in a crisp button-down, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with impeccable focus.

you set your phone up on the edge of the sink, press record, and lean slightly into the frame with a small smile.

“filming a quick ootd with my current boyfriend,” you say casually, tilting the camera to catch both of you in the mirror.

you’re smiling. he’s not. his fingers pause on the second cuff, gaze flicking up to the mirror. not at the camera, not at you, just a slow, almost imperceptible blink like he’s just been personally wronged by god.

you try to stifle a laugh. “hoon?”

no answer. he inhales slowly through his nose, finishes the cuff, and then continues his routine like nothing happened. except now, he’s noticeably quieter and calmer, almost eerily composed.

“...what?” you prompt again, already giggling. “you’re not gonna say anything?”

he finally speaks, his voice polite: “you’re gonna want to run that back.”

you lose it.

cut to a second clip.

same mirror, same lighting. but this time, sunghoon’s standing closer, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one brow lifted at the camera. you hold the phone up properly now, barely containing your smile. “filming a quick ootd with my husband,” you say sweetly.

he nods once, solemnly. you turn the camera toward him. “anything you want to say?”

he looks directly into the lens, a satisfied smile gracing his lips.

“just that i accept your apology. and that i’ll be changing the dinner reservation name to mr. and mrs. park.”

✶ KIM SUNOO 

you’re curled up together on the couch in your usual configuration: legs tangled under a shared blanket, your foot tucked beneath his thigh, his head propped up on a throw pillow that he fluffed to perfection before sitting down. the TV is playing something you’ve both already seen three times, which means sunoo is only half paying attention, scrolling his phone with idle little pouts at whatever he’s reading, his fingertips occasionally brushing yours like he just wants to make sure you’re still there.

he looks peaceful, relaxed, and completely unsuspecting. it’s perfect. 

you smile to yourself and lean over slightly, propping your phone up against the base of a candle on the coffee table. you clear your throat just enough to get his attention.

“just relaxing with my current boyfriend!” you coo.

you don’t even get to blink before sunoo’s head snaps up so fast you swear you almost get second-hand whiplash. “current boyfriend?”

you nod. he lets out an indignant gasp so dramatic it startles the cat lounging on the arm of your couch.

“current?”

“yeah,” you say sweetly. “just for now.”

he yanks your phone from where it’s sitting and stares into the camera like he’s on a reality show. “for the record, i’d like to say i’m being emotionally manipulated.”

“sunoo—”

“no. no. because i have done nothing but love her. i let her wear my moisturizer. my laneige. the expensive one. i call her pretty every day.” he turns to you now, eyes wide with betrayal. “do you know how many people want to be me?”

you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall off the couch. he reluctantly lets you pull him back, though not before delivering one final glance at the phone and whispering:

“delete it. or caption it current boyfriend who deserves better.” 

✶ YANG JUNGWON 

your room is quiet except for the soft shuffle of notebook pages and the occasional scratch of your highlighter dragging across text. the two of you are camped out on the floor, your legs draped over his as he leans back on one hand, casually quizzing you on terms you definitely should’ve memorized three days ago.

he’s halfway through peeling the corner of a granola bar wrapper when you set your phone on the edge of your nightstand, screen angled just barely toward the two of you. it’s subtle. he clocks it, but doesn’t say anything. you click record.

“study night with my current boyfriend,” you announce softly, eyes still on your notes.

jungwon doesn’t miss a beat. he finishes unwrapping the granola bar, breaks it in half, and offers you the bigger piece without looking up.

“hmm,” he hums. “temporary. that’s new.”

you glance at him. he’s still reading over your notes, impassive, like you didn’t just call him disposable to the internet.

“nothing to say about that?” you tease, poking at his knee with your foot.

he finally looks up, entirely unaffected, the corners of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“should i be worried?” he asks, tone light, eyes sharp. “is this the part where you trade me in for someone who doesn’t double check your citations?”

you laugh, but he’s already pulling a highlighter from the pile and uncapping it for you.

“no, really,” he continues, gesturing toward your notes. “write that down. that’s good. current boyfriend. sounds professional. clinical. a little sterile, but i’m sure devon will love it.”

“who the hell is devon?”

“your next boyfriend,” he replies easily. “hopefully he likes sour gummies. i just trained you out of the orange ones.”

you’re already losing it, giggling into your sleeve, and he just shakes his head, flipping back to your vocab list like this is all part of a recurring bit he’s well-versed in.

“let me know if he needs my login for the quizlet,” he adds absently. “seems rude to leave him hanging.”

you reach for his arm, pulling him toward you with a laugh, and he lets you, leaning in close with that same unbothered grin.

“mm,” he murmurs, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “current boyfriend, huh?”

you grin at him. “maybe.”

he leans in, tapping his pen lightly against your forehead.

“then i guess i better make you fall in love with me again tonight.”

✶ NISHIMURA RIKI 

he’s deep into a match when you come in, his legs folded pretzel-style in his desk chair, controller balanced loosely between his hands. he’s got his headset pushed down around his neck so you can hear both the game audio and his occasional muttered commentary. the screen casts a glow across his face, all cool blues and blinking reds, but he still looks impossibly pretty like this. focused, relaxed, and completely in his element.

you snake your arms around his shoulders from behind, pressing your cheek to the side of his head. he doesn’t startle, just shifts slightly to let you in closer before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, tapping something on the controller with the practiced ease of someone who could do this with his eyes closed.

“say hi,” you whisper near his ear, already angling your phone to catch both of you in the shot. “this is my current boyfriend.”

he glances at the screen, grinning without missing a beat. “yo.”

you snort, turning to look at him. he catches your movement in the corner of his eye.

“what? you think you’re slick?”

you hum innocently. he turns his head a little more now, squinting at you. “fine. run that back. say final.”

you laugh, already shaking your head. “final?”

“i’m not getting replaced,” he murmurs, mock-offended.

you try to answer, but the laughter bubbles up too fast to stop. he clicks something on his controller, dies instantly in-game, and turns to face you immediately. he points a finger at your phone camera, which is still recording.

“hey. first and final.”

you laugh. “riki—” 

“no, no. it’s fine.” he leans back dramatically, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “i’ll just reinvent myself real quick. learn french or something. start doing pilates. maybe become emotionally unavailable and change my name to something mysterious like... lucien.”

you snort, forehead pressing into the curve of his shoulder. “you already dye your hair every six weeks. you don’t need to be more mysterious.”

“exactly,” he says, with the kind of confident shrug that suggests this was his point all along. “i’m the final boyfriend. nobody’s falling for your little prank.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

[cinnahoons]

i just realized my carrd says 17 when i’m 18 turning 19 in 2 months bruh time flies

[cinnahoons]

this sexy ass theme

oh it better be sexy i panicked over it for like two hours this shit is so hard TOO MANY LAYOUT SWEATS DAWG. anyway can we talk abt URS i was so torn between doing this one or a desire unleash theme

[cinnahoons]

hi twt ommfie i am here and back on twt I MISSED U

HELLO RI MY QUEEN!!!! I MISSED U TOO! i have yet to make my twt return but its coming trust…..HOW HAVE U BEEN ARE U EXCITED FOR ENHA CB

[cinnahoons]

STICK AROUND !

( 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐅 ) . ;; your superhero boyfriend stops in for a late-night visit. what could possibly go wrong?

리키 (743) fluff, spiderman!riki, shameless boy antics (i need him), no warnings notes the idea of spider riki has haunted me for TOO long i folded

“psst.” you freeze mid-page, eyes darting around your dimly lit room. it’s almost midnight—you’re sure of it—because you’ve been rewriting the same sentence for the past thirty minutes in a sleep deprived haze. “psst. baby.”

you glance towards your window. the curtains flutter, disturbed by the night breeze. and there, crouched casually against the glass like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is spiderman. or, more specifically, your spiderman.

“riki, oh my god,” you whisper-yell, scrambling up. “what are you doing?”

he taps the window with a gloved finger. “letting my girl know i’m alive and well,” he says, mask half-rolled up to reveal a grin that makes your stomach somersault. “city’s quiet. figured i’d drop in.”

“you nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hiss, unlatching the window so he can swing inside. riki lands soundlessly, graceful despite the suit, and immediately snakes his arms around your waist.

“i missed you.” his breath is warm against your temple. “also, i may or may not have gotten mildly electrocuted earlier. needed a kiss for recovery purposes.”

you swat his chest. “that’s not how first aid works.”

“it does if you’re me.” he leans in closer, the remaining edge of his mask brushing your cheek. “doctor’s orders.”

you glance nervously at your door. “riki, my dad’s home. seriously. if he finds you in here—”

“then i guess i’ll have to marry you to make it respectable,” riki teases, soft lips ghosting over yours.

“not funny,” you mumble, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling him in. the kiss is soft and unhurried, like you both have all the time in the world. the two of you work in a gentle push and pull, your thumb skimming over the mole on his chin, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. his hands stay gentle at your waist, even as the kiss deepens and your knees go a little weak.

riki pulls back first, eyes sparkling. “see? feeling better already.”

“you’re impossible.”

“you love me.”

it’s hard to stop yourself from doing something embarrassing, like jumping into his arms to make him stay. that’s just not an option tonight, not with your dad home. so you push him back toward the window instead. “uh huh. time to go.”

before he can respond, there’s a loud creak from the hallway. both your heads snap toward the door.

riki swears under his breath, tugging his mask down. “okaybye!” he whispers, shooting a web to the ceiling and attempting to swing quickly out the window. only, you close it behind him too early. there’s a strange snapping sound, but you’re too preoccupied with drawing the curtains and whirling around to face the sleep-addled form of your dad in the doorway to contemplate the source of the noise.

“everything all right?” he yawns, rubbing at his eyes. you smile sheepishly, eyeing the bunny slippers peeking out from under his pajama pants.

“yes. yeah. don’t worry. i was just on call, you can go back to bed.”

it doesn’t take much to convince him at this time of night, and so as soon as he’s shut your door you turn back to the window. drawing the curtains aside, you can still make out riki’s smiling face. you slide the window open an inch. “riki. go. we almost got caught.”

riki just grins wider. “what if i said i’m stuck?”

you blink. “…what.”

“the web snapped when you shut the window,” he says, sheepish. “i’m actually—uh—hanging here by pure willpower.”

“are you serious.”

“super serious. life or death serious.”

you groan, eyes flitting around your room once more before you slide the window fully open. he grabs onto a curtain, and cold air floods in. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i prefer heroic.”

“i prefer idiot.”

you grab his face and pull him in for a quick, exasperated kiss anyway. y’know. since there’s time for it. he hums happily into it.

but the moment breaks when the rod of your curtain gives a loud, suspicious creak.

riki’s eyes widen. “uh-oh.”

“don’t you uh-oh me—”

SNAP.

he drops like a rock onto your floor, knocking over a pile of your cameras. the room fills with the sound of plastic clattering everywhere.

without missing a beat, riki throws a blanket over himself and whispers, “i’m a pile of laundry. act natural.”

you stare down at him, unimpressed.

he peeks up, one eye shut and a boyish smile dancing on his lips. “still worth it for the kiss.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @tyunni

[cinnahoons]

STICK AROUND !

( 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐅 ) . ;; your superhero boyfriend stops in for a late-night visit. what could possibly go wrong?

리키 (743) fluff, spiderman!riki, shameless boy antics (i need him), no warnings notes the idea of spider riki has haunted me for TOO long i folded

“psst.” you freeze mid-page, eyes darting around your dimly lit room. it’s almost midnight—you’re sure of it—because you’ve been rewriting the same sentence for the past thirty minutes in a sleep deprived haze. “psst. baby.”

you glance towards your window. the curtains flutter, disturbed by the night breeze. and there, crouched casually against the glass like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is spiderman. or, more specifically, your spiderman.

“riki, oh my god,” you whisper-yell, scrambling up. “what are you doing?”

he taps the window with a gloved finger. “letting my girl know i’m alive and well,” he says, mask half-rolled up to reveal a grin that makes your stomach somersault. “city’s quiet. figured i’d drop in.”

“you nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hiss, unlatching the window so he can swing inside. riki lands soundlessly, graceful despite the suit, and immediately snakes his arms around your waist.

“i missed you.” his breath is warm against your temple. “also, i may or may not have gotten mildly electrocuted earlier. needed a kiss for recovery purposes.”

you swat his chest. “that’s not how first aid works.”

“it does if you’re me.” he leans in closer, the remaining edge of his mask brushing your cheek. “doctor’s orders.”

you glance nervously at your door. “riki, my dad’s home. seriously. if he finds you in here—”

“then i guess i’ll have to marry you to make it respectable,” riki teases, soft lips ghosting over yours.

“not funny,” you mumble, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling him in. the kiss is soft and unhurried, like you both have all the time in the world. the two of you work in a gentle push and pull, your thumb skimming over the mole on his chin, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. his hands stay gentle at your waist, even as the kiss deepens and your knees go a little weak.

riki pulls back first, eyes sparkling. “see? feeling better already.”

“you’re impossible.”

“you love me.”

it’s hard to stop yourself from doing something embarrassing, like jumping into his arms to make him stay. that’s just not an option tonight, not with your dad home. so you push him back toward the window instead. “uh huh. time to go.”

before he can respond, there’s a loud creak from the hallway. both your heads snap toward the door.

riki swears under his breath, tugging his mask down. “okaybye!” he whispers, shooting a web to the ceiling and attempting to swing quickly out the window. only, you close it behind him too early. there’s a strange snapping sound, but you’re too preoccupied with drawing the curtains and whirling around to face the sleep-addled form of your dad in the doorway to contemplate the source of the noise.

“everything all right?” he yawns, rubbing at his eyes. you smile sheepishly, eyeing the bunny slippers peeking out from under his pajama pants.

“yes. yeah. don’t worry. i was just on call, you can go back to bed.”

it doesn’t take much to convince him at this time of night, and so as soon as he’s shut your door you turn back to the window. drawing the curtains aside, you can still make out riki’s smiling face. you slide the window open an inch. “riki. go. we almost got caught.”

riki just grins wider. “what if i said i’m stuck?”

you blink. “…what.”

“the web snapped when you shut the window,” he says, sheepish. “i’m actually—uh—hanging here by pure willpower.”

“are you serious.”

“super serious. life or death serious.”

you groan, eyes flitting around your room once more before you slide the window fully open. he grabs onto a curtain, and cold air floods in. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i prefer heroic.”

“i prefer idiot.”

you grab his face and pull him in for a quick, exasperated kiss anyway. y’know. since there’s time for it. he hums happily into it.

but the moment breaks when the rod of your curtain gives a loud, suspicious creak.

riki’s eyes widen. “uh-oh.”

“don’t you uh-oh me—”

SNAP.

he drops like a rock onto your floor, knocking over a pile of your cameras. the room fills with the sound of plastic clattering everywhere.

without missing a beat, riki throws a blanket over himself and whispers, “i’m a pile of laundry. act natural.”

you stare down at him, unimpressed.

he peeks up, one eye shut and a boyish smile dancing on his lips. “still worth it for the kiss.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @tyunni

[cinnahoons]

STICK AROUND !

( 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐅 ) . ;; your superhero boyfriend stops in for a late-night visit. what could possibly go wrong?

리키 (743) fluff, spiderman!riki, shameless boy antics (i need him), no warnings notes the idea of spider riki has haunted me for TOO long i folded

“psst.” you freeze mid-page, eyes darting around your dimly lit room. it’s almost midnight—you’re sure of it—because you’ve been rewriting the same sentence for the past thirty minutes in a sleep deprived haze. “psst. baby.”

you glance towards your window. the curtains flutter, disturbed by the night breeze. and there, crouched casually against the glass like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is spiderman. or, more specifically, your spiderman.

“riki, oh my god,” you whisper-yell, scrambling up. “what are you doing?”

he taps the window with a gloved finger. “letting my girl know i’m alive and well,” he says, mask half-rolled up to reveal a grin that makes your stomach somersault. “city’s quiet. figured i’d drop in.”

“you nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hiss, unlatching the window so he can swing inside. riki lands soundlessly, graceful despite the suit, and immediately snakes his arms around your waist.

“i missed you.” his breath is warm against your temple. “also, i may or may not have gotten mildly electrocuted earlier. needed a kiss for recovery purposes.”

you swat his chest. “that’s not how first aid works.”

“it does if you’re me.” he leans in closer, the remaining edge of his mask brushing your cheek. “doctor’s orders.”

you glance nervously at your door. “riki, my dad’s home. seriously. if he finds you in here—”

“then i guess i’ll have to marry you to make it respectable,” riki teases, soft lips ghosting over yours.

“not funny,” you mumble, but you’re already cupping his face, pulling him in. the kiss is soft and unhurried, like you both have all the time in the world. the two of you work in a gentle push and pull, your thumb skimming over the mole on his chin, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. his hands stay gentle at your waist, even as the kiss deepens and your knees go a little weak.

riki pulls back first, eyes sparkling. “see? feeling better already.”

“you’re impossible.”

“you love me.”

it’s hard to stop yourself from doing something embarrassing, like jumping into his arms to make him stay. that’s just not an option tonight, not with your dad home. so you push him back toward the window instead. “uh huh. time to go.”

before he can respond, there’s a loud creak from the hallway. both your heads snap toward the door.

riki swears under his breath, tugging his mask down. “okaybye!” he whispers, shooting a web to the ceiling and attempting to swing quickly out the window. only, you close it behind him too early. there’s a strange snapping sound, but you’re too preoccupied with drawing the curtains and whirling around to face the sleep-addled form of your dad in the doorway to contemplate the source of the noise.

“everything all right?” he yawns, rubbing at his eyes. you smile sheepishly, eyeing the bunny slippers peeking out from under his pajama pants.

“yes. yeah. don’t worry. i was just on call, you can go back to bed.”

it doesn’t take much to convince him at this time of night, and so as soon as he’s shut your door you turn back to the window. drawing the curtains aside, you can still make out riki’s smiling face. you slide the window open an inch. “riki. go. we almost got caught.”

riki just grins wider. “what if i said i’m stuck?”

you blink. “…what.”

“the web snapped when you shut the window,” he says, sheepish. “i’m actually—uh—hanging here by pure willpower.”

“are you serious.”

“super serious. life or death serious.”

you groan, eyes flitting around your room once more before you slide the window fully open. he grabs onto a curtain, and cold air floods in. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i prefer heroic.”

“i prefer idiot.”

you grab his face and pull him in for a quick, exasperated kiss anyway. y’know. since there’s time for it. he hums happily into it.

but the moment breaks when the rod of your curtain gives a loud, suspicious creak.

riki’s eyes widen. “uh-oh.”

“don’t you uh-oh me—”

SNAP.

he drops like a rock onto your floor, knocking over a pile of your cameras. the room fills with the sound of plastic clattering everywhere.

without missing a beat, riki throws a blanket over himself and whispers, “i’m a pile of laundry. act natural.”

you stare down at him, unimpressed.

he peeks up, one eye shut and a boyish smile dancing on his lips. “still worth it for the kiss.”

© cinnahoons please do not steal, plagiarize, or reupload my work.

tags! @junityy @tyunni