htrhng

[htrhng]

　𝜗𝜚　my method for shifting every time i try　.

(　✶　)　there is no method !

okay, fine, there is a method, but it's going to disappoint everyone who thinks shifting requires some elaborate forest ritual and affirmations repeated exactly 111 times while facing magnetic north. here's my earth – shattering, revolutionary process ( /s ) :

first, i sometimes visualize — and i mean sometimes, because half the time i can't be bothered and it works anyway. i used to use alunir's adhd method as a guide for this, and while i don't follow it religiously anymore, it might be fun or helpful for those of you who need somewhere to start! when i do visualize, it's not some cinematic masterpiece playing in my head with perfect lighting and orchestral scoring. i'm not painting the sistine chapel of shifting scenarios. it's just enough sensory detail to make my desired reality feel more solid and immediate than whatever surface i'm lying on. the scent of coffee that isn't the tesco espresso capsules sitting in my kitchen. the weight and texture of clothes that fit my body differently. voices i want to hear calling my name. get a little delusional with it if you have to. imagine whatever you want. whatever works for you.

second, i assume i'm already there — not hope with desperate fingers crossed, not try with gritted teeth and white knuckles, not attempt to convince myself through sheer force of will. i assume it the way i assume the sun will rise tomorrow, with a bone – deep certainty that doesn't require proof, validation, or a peer review study. it's not a belief i have to maintain or a thought i have to think really hard — it's just a fact that exists in my reality now. don’t give yourself a headache.

third, i'm there, because i was never actually anywhere else to begin with.

that's it. that's the whole method. three steps that aren't really steps because they all happen simultaneously in the space between one breath and the next, like recognizing something that was always true. the visualization is purely optional — it's just training wheels for your assumption, something to help your mind grab onto the reality you know is yours. think of it like the ramp that helps you get onto the motorway, useful but not the destination itself. but the assumption? that's where the real work happens. that's where you stop negotiating with doubt. this is the part that breaks people's brains and sends them spiralling off into reddit comment sections: you don't shift to your desired reality. you realize you're already there and stop pretending you're somewhere else. you stop performing the exhausting theatre of being stuck. every time you worry about whether you've shifted yet, every time you check for symptoms like you're diagnosing yourself with a condition, every time you analyze your awareness like you're conducting a scientific experiment on your own consciousness, you're reinforcing the assumption that you're still stuck here, still separate from where you want to be.

i hope this is helpful, and i'd be happy to elaborate on anything here if needed <3 but seriously, go shift !

[htrhng]

TAKE A BITE OF THE BIG APPLE. HOGWARTS INTRO!

SO I CRY, ONLY IN THE RAIN!

I. BEFORE THE GIRL!

once upon a time, in the aristocratic house of black, cygnus and druella black brought a set of twins into the world; narcissa and cassian black. taught the philosophy of blood purity from a young age, cassian grew up empathetic of those who weren't pure bloods. so, when his favourite sister, andromeda, married a muggle-born, cassian, alongside his two other sisters, were forced into disowning her. however, he secretly made efforts to stay in brief contact with her.

unlike the rest of his family, who had all been sorted into slytherin, cassian was sorted into gryffindor during the sorting ceremony of '66. this came as a shock to his family, who were angered greatly as it showed his true nature; that his views had already diverged from the rest of his family.

cassian was the first of the black family to not be sorted into slytherin.

during his first year at hogwarts, cassian met liliane monet. born to muggle-parents, michel and colette monet, in bordeaux, france, they relocated to wales when liliane was six. at hogwarts, she was sorted into gryffindor and quickly distinguished herself as a talented potioneer. her skill caught the eye of professor horace slughorn, who invited her to join the exclusive slug club.

due to liliane being a muggle-born, and after witnessing the disownment of his elder sister, they married in secret and began their new life together in hiding. they settled in a small town on the outskirts of devon named ebonmere, where cassian stayed in limited contact with his relatives.

II. MEET THE GIRL!

dear diary,

is that how i'm supposed to start this thing off? meh. it's now september 1st, 1993, and i start my first day of fifth year today. i guess i should give a little introduction on myself... just so you're aware for future reference.

okay, so, i, sorana lenore black, was born on february 14th, 1978. my mum, liliane monet-turned-black, was in labour for 12 hours!!! i know. insane. she said i was adorable as a baby and that she couldn't bring herself to care about the nine months of absolute torture i put her through, that's pretty privilege for you.

so basically... my family have a lot of errr history. specifically my dad's family. the black family aka a large group of stuck up pure blood cunts oops it'd be best if i scribbled that out. anyways. they hate muggle-borns, half-bloods.. ... anything that they're not; pure-blooded and rich. and well, my mother is a muggle-born witch.

i know, my dad is suchhh a rebel for going against his family!!!

anywho. my life has been pretty average if you block out the part where my dad's elder sister, bellatrix, found out about me and my brother and my mother and my dad's secret life and well.. came to kill us. she didn't succeed, clearly. the duel ended with no fatal casualties thankfully, but my dad was formally and officially disowned.

which is what he was avoiding because helloooo generational money!!!

but of course, they found out about us.

sooo we're not rich or anything. which sucks. but i guess we're kind of lucky because my dad has a decent job at the ministry and my mum is a potion archivist and magical flora specialist (pretty cool if you ask me!) so we're not poor to the point of struggling. my mum calls us "middle-class" whatever that means.

a few cool facts about me, now that we've discussed the elephant in the room...

1 . i'm president of the fashion club at hogwarts.

2 . i’ve memorised half the castle’s secret passages.

3 . i have a ferret named button.

andddd

4 . i'm a gryffindor like my parents.

anyway. gotta go now. mum's shouting at silas and i to get in the car.

don't worry. i'll pack you, keep your bloody knickers on.

[htrhng]

loa is your best friend, not your crush

tldr: stop seeking loa’s validation, trust in your friendship and the love you share

so we’re gonna need a bit of backstory for everyone as to how i reached this epiphany which i could only articulate this well thanks to @faeriemarie letting me ramble on discord thnx bby

anyway, backstory :

i have a wonderful best friend from high school and she is someone that i’ve scripted into many realities (she’s one of the members in my kpop girl group dr, i love her sm). but in my cr, as can be expected, life hasn’t been easy and we hadn’t talked for quite a while.

sometimes i’d remember her with so much warmth and fondness and reminisce in the times we’d shared, the love that was so real and so precious to me, the way i’d literally see her five days out of the week and still never feel tired of her presence because at a time where i was struggling (high school) she got me like no one else did

and afterwards, after losing so much time to life and university and careers and new friendships, most of which could never even hope to reach her level, i was pleasantly surprised when she reached out to me.

two text messages later and we’d slipped back into the same energy that we’d always shared, like nothing had changed, because nothing had changed

we very quickly organised a lunch, no fuss no rescheduling, nothing blocking our paths back to each other and right now, as i type this, i’m cuddled under a blanket after a lovely meal with her and a warmth in my soul.

because she single-handedly changed the way i view loa

something about me and her — in my eyes she was always perfection and me being the anxious fool that i am, sometimes i’d spiral and convince myself that i’m not worthy of being her friend

today, at lunch, sitting right across from me, she burned those burdens and alleviated each and every facet of fear i had about it, about us.

she said “you mean so much to me, i value us and our friendship so much. i know that we go a long time without speaking and i really miss you but at the same time, i just know that i can reach out whenever, for anything, and you’ll be there for me. because you’re so genuine and so authentic. this kind of friendship is something i’ll always cherish”.

aside from the fact that i’m getting teary eyed as i remember her words, i have a point with all of this rambling and exposition — as soon as she said this and helped me rid myself of all that stress, it felt like i’d just slipped into my better cr

a reality where i’ve always scripted this kind of energy, this kind of vibe, with her

at that moment, shifting wasn’t on my mind bcs i felt like i’d achieved it ?? i felt like i was there, in my better cr, getting lunch with one of my most cherished friends, just like those scenarios i’ve scripted

and her and i have even planned another meet up pretty soon with our extended group and i cannot explain how refreshing it is to feel zero social anxiety about this plan

usually i’d have inklings of fear and doubt but right now? nothing !! absolutely nothing

i am so at peace and i haven’t felt this way about a friendship in so long ???

having lunch with her and speaking with her affirmed to me that my fears of losing our friendship were unfounded, because how can you lose something so genuine and so real?

i’ve finally learned to trust in our friendship and the love we share and dismiss my irrational fears that are baseless and are a result of my own overthinking

i don’t think you guys understand how incredible this is for me because i am without a doubt one of the most anxious people in existence it is disgustingly debilitating

but i’ve won this battle and there are gonna be more battles that i’m gonna win (anxiety-wise ahdhdhsh)

and i know i’m gonna win those because meeting up with her affirmed me of my own capabilities and my own manifestations

i’ve learned to dismiss unfounded fear and trust in my friendship with this person

why don’t we think the same way about loa???

we need to trust in your friendship with loa, one of the most genuine friendships you can ever have

the universe can throw as much at you as it wants but loa always has your back

we need to stop thinking of loa as this unresponsive crush, always seeking its validation, in need of constant attention and interaction and hoping to “run into them” to “share a moment”

stop. stand up.

loa is not your crush, for fuck’s sake, loa is your life long soulmate friendship

a friend like loa? you don’t need to talk to them 24/7 to know they love you and value you and care about you and will provide for you

that’s what loa should be, a true genuine friend who you can hit up for whatever you want (manifestation) and they’ll follow through (materialisation)

[htrhng]

C'MON KEEP UP! ₊ university au 𐙚

𐙚 𓈒 𓈒 SYNOPSIS ) ; after a throwaway statement from heeseung, you can't help but notice your best friend jake in ways you've never noticed before. even worse, things get complicated when sunghoon gets added to the mix

PAIRING ) — college!jake x fem!reader ₊ fluff, humor

WC ) — 2.2k+

INCOMING MSG ) — ding ! i took a mini hiatus but i'm back !! i can't wait to post more this summer >< if anyone has any requests, feel free to drop them through asks ♡ 

“cute necklace, y/n.” heeseung drops into the seat next to you and you slide your bag over to the left to accommodate him. you lean your bag against jake who is sitting to your left, and he uses the opportunity to steal a sip from your drink. 

with the professor already rambling away about quantum mechanics, you struggle to pay any sliver of attention to heeseung’s words as he continues to yap. “where did you get them from?”

muffling a yawn, you absentmindedly reach up to caress the star dangling from your neck. the sharp indents prick you back into a memory. “oh, these. they were a gift from a friend.” 

“oh, a friend? or do you mean your boyfriend?” 

you faintly hear jake choking on the drink but your attention is quickly stolen by heeseung’s words. 

they’re throwaway, that much is obvious from his wandering eyes to his wide yawn as he pulls out his laptop. they shouldn’t mean anything yet your face warms despite yourself. shaking your head furiously, you exclaim, “a friend! just a friend."

he hums, raising an eyebrow as he spares you a quick glance. his gaze flickers somewhere behind you for a second and you would have looked too if his next words didn’t pull you back. “come to think of it, i don’t think you’ve ever told me what your type was.”

“my type?” your mind blanks. 

“like what you look for in a person.”

“i know what a type is.” you quip back, hoping the playful hostility can hide your sudden surprise. 

“then why do you look so disgruntled?” he turns on his laptop, ignoring the loud whirring that blares. “don’t tell me it’s someone like me?” 

that causes you to scoff. “definitely not, i’ve known you since you were five.” 

heesung continues to stare at you, pressing you wordlessly and you give in, finally surrendering more thought to his question. 

"i mean, i guess, maybe someone good-looking? someone who’s… not boring? and now that we're talking about it, someone who is fit and athletic too. they’d have to be smart but not in a i-don’t-have-fun kind of way. like in a cute way." the more you think of it, the more words seem to spill from your mouth. "and someone who has a good sense of humor, someone who will make me laugh.”

“someone good looking, interesting, sporty, smart and funny? that’s too greedy.”

you chuckle quietly, muffling the sound as the professor spins around to glare at someone else talking. “you’re right, there’s no way there’s anyone that perfect. i guess i’ll have to be single forever.”

“you'll always have me.” heeseung says, grinning.

“don’t be stupid.”

“or—hear me out—your type kinda sounds like jake.” 

“okay, now i know you’re actually stupid.”

“come on, you two—”

your voice is a harsh whisper when you chide, “will you shut up already? he’s sitting right there!”

“you two have been friends for years.” he matches your volume this time, to your relief. “you’re telling me you’re friends with your exact type and haven’t felt any sort of way about him?”

you make a face and shove him playfully. you open your mouth to say more—a jab at heeseung’s own lovelife instead—when a piece of chalk cuts through the air and faintly skims past your nose. you turn back with a start and make eye contact with a very angry professor, his bald head shining in the light. 

“is there something you’d like to share with the class?” 

you let out a strangled squeak, sinking into your seat as heeseung chuckles beside you. 

“no, sir.” 

when the lecture hall finally moves on from your show of embarrassment, you turn away to pretend to busy yourself with your bag. when you come back up, positive that your face has cooled off such that you can almost look presentable again, your eyes accidentally meet with jake’s. 

there’s an unreadable expression on his face, eyes wide and unfocused as he stares at you. feeling uncomfortable under his gaze, you quickly look away and sink down into your chair yet you struggle to completely ignore him. you watch from your peripherals as he looks away, sunghoon whispering something into his ear and chuckling though he seems to not be having it, swatting him away like a fly.

seeing his face made you think. maybe heeseung was right, didn’t jake match your type criteria? someone attractive, interesting, athletic and smart? 

with a start, you look back at heeseung. “and someone calm. someone with manners.”

“well-mannered and calm. what insane preferences.” heeseung chuckles. “are there any more?"

the professor slams his hand on the table a few times, reluctantly drawing your attention back to the front.

your previous conversation dies and twiddles away into the background, overtaken by droning lectures and forced groupwork. your conversation with heeseung quickly slips from mind as you’re lost in the mountain of work. 

when you enter the lecture hall the next day, you’re surprised to find jake already there and seated at the same spot. it seems like you’re the only two people there and you awkwardly take your seat next to him. you had arrived early to avoid the early morning rush but you wondered what his excuse was.

“good morning.” you mumble, flashing him a small smile. you take the chance to observe him, frowning slightly when you watch him push up his glasses as he continues to read a heavy chemistry textbook. 

since when did he wear glasses?

his eyes flicker to yours as you unpack. “good morning.”

“what’s with you?”

jake clears his throat. “what ever do you mean?”

your frown transitions to a grimace. “why are you talking like that? did you break something of mine? was it my DS, jake i told you to take good care of it!”

“i am taking care of it! it’s fine!” he exclaims before pausing uncharacteristically. he sits back in his chair and turns back to his book. “i mean, it’s fine.”

“you sure?”

“i am.”

you narrow your eyes before looking away, turning on your laptop. “it better be. i need to run pokemon black on that. when are you going to finish using it?”

“soon. i’m almost finished with the elite four. my party is basically set, i was just waiting to finish an assessment before i grind it and…” he trails off suddenly, the animated look on his face fading. he clears his throat, pushing up his glasses somewhat clumsily. “i mean, if that’s what you wish i shall return it to you as soon as possible.” 

you turn to him horrified. “so you did break my DS!”

“i said it’s not broken!” jake bursts. another pause. he clears his throat, adjusting his glasses. “i’m simply being considerate.”

you stare at him and watch as he fidgets under your gaze. “are you feeling sick? did you eat something wrong? why are you talking like that?”

“i’m not sick. what part of me looks sick?"

“hey, no need to get defensive. i’m just saying you’re usually not this…” you watch him as you wrack your brain, trying to find a word to describe this situation. “c…”

jake leans forward. “yes?”

“crazy.”

he falls back in his chair, groaning, textbook forgotten and placed harshly down on the table with a thud.

you tilt your head. “where's hoon? you guys didn’t come to class together? don’t tell me you fought.”

jake peers up and frowns. “no, can i not show up to class early just because i feel like it?”

“it would be extremely out of character, yeah.” you rest your chin on your hand as you watch jake mutter to himself, his jaw jutted out and his nose scrunched.

he was clearly unhappy, it didn’t take a scholar to know. it might take a genius to figure out why though.

you had time to kill, might as well take up the challenge. maybe he hadn’t had his morning dose of sugar yet, or maybe his favorite anime had delayed its upcoming episode. maybe he didn't save properly on the new game he was playing, or maybe he simply didn't sleep well last night. or maybe he had lied to you and he had fought with sunghoon, leading to this strange attitude.

the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. the way he was acting now was like a mockery to sunghoon’s usual behavior.

“are you trying to be like hoon?” you try.

jake whirs around to face you. “what?”

“well, you’re trying to be all, what was that word you used earlier? more considerate.” he keeps staring at you and you clear your throat. “like more well-mannered. more calm.”

jake remains silent but you watch as his jaw drops. you think that he might say something but then his mouth closes, only to open again.

jake’s speechless, what a sight. but as good of a sight as it was, you were beginning to feel concerned.

“are you sure you’re alright? what did you eat yesterday?”

he doesn’t register your question. “you think sunghoon is well-mannered?”

“well, yes?”

“and calm?”

you nod. “at least more than you.”

“do you think he’s interesting too? sporty? smart? funny?” he pauses. “good-looking?”

the questions throw you off guard and you sit up. “what? where is this coming from?”

“oh my god, you do.”

“no? i mean, i think hoon’s great and everything—”

“you think sunghoon’s great?”

“don’t you?”

“you think sunghoon’s hot.” he concludes. “and you think sunghoon’s great.”

"i didn’t say all of that! why are you putting words in my mouth?"

"i don't know. why don't you tell me?"

flushing, you flail for words. “are you… are you jealous of sunghoon? i thought you guys were past things like that!”

jake grits his teeth and looks away. with a pout, he says, “i am not jealous of sunghoon.”

the door to the lecture room is thrown open and sunghoon steps through, rubbing the back of his neck. he yawns on his way to his chair and it wakes him up, looking between you and jake as you both watch him enter.

“what did you guys do?” he asks with a sigh.

“nothing!”

“nothing.” jake says and glares at him.

sunghoon blinks.

“okay.” he says slowly, sliding out his chair and sitting. “what did i do then? why are you both looking at me like that?”

“jake’s being weird.” you snitch. “are you guys fighting?”

“how should i know? i thought we were doing okay. jake, if i did something, use your words and tell me.”

"i'll use my words to tell you to suck my dick instead."

"so i did do something. you're so predictable, jake."

you snicker as jake huffs and glances away, intent on ignoring sunghoon’s pestering.

subconsciously, you drown sunghoon out too, your traitorous mind observing jake’s eyes. you had always thought it was just a neutral brown, but looking at it now, it seemed more like amber dripping like honey, the chocolate hue sparkling and dimming as the lights flickered overhead, and you watched the light dance through his eyes.

something shifts and it’s not just the aircon suddenly turning on. something like realisation dawns on you though you have no time to come to terms with your new thought when jake turns to look at you. startled, you hold his gaze and he holds it too, just long enough for your lungs to run out of air.

you look away hastily and inhale.

jake glances to the front, oddly fidgety.

sunghoon looks between the two of you. “what the fuck was that?”

“nothing.” jake says.

sunghoon clearly doesn't buy it but though he tries to get an answer out of you, you don't give him one. cupping your cheeks, your thoughts mirror his question. what was that? it was embarrassing, that's what it was, and your realization is only heightened as a silence fills all four corners of the classroom.

jake clears his throat. “for me, i like someone who i'm already comfortable with. someone i already know.”

at his words, you look over at him and find him already staring. he frowns when you don't give him any other reaction.

your professor saves you from addressing his statement as he walks into the room. unlike every other day, you have no snarky comment to make about his radiant bald spot. your mind fails to work as you turn over jake’s words, thinking them through. what did they mean? what was he talking about? did this weird confession have something to do with why he was acting so strange?

slowly, you draw connections between your conversation with jake and the talk you had with heeseung yesterday morning. an epiphany shoots through you and you cover your mouth to hide a gasp.

did that mean…?

someone he knew? acting strange? getting mad when you said you liked sunghoon?

you watch jake’s side profile, hoping he’d turn around. if what you thought was right, he’d turn.

seconds tick past. your professor’s monotonous voice drawls on and yet jake doesn't even spare you a glance.

no, maybe you were wrong after all.

just as you were about to face your professor again, jake’s head shifts and his eye flicks over to yours. they widen when he finds you, and you’re sure you’re in a similar shocked state.

oh my god, you think, eyes darting between him and the other boy in the room.

jake has a crush on sunghoon.

[htrhng]

‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ❤︎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⊹　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ͏͏✧

Jay’s hands…

you don’t remember exactly when the obsession started. maybe it was the first time you saw him play guitar, veins along his forearms flexing, his long, elegant fingers pressing against the strings with such confident ease. they were veiny, just the right amount of rough, and the way his knuckles flexed as he changed chords had you swallowing hard. he was wearing silver rings that day—your favorite—and your eyes kept darting to them every time they glinted under the soft lamp light.

“they’re so pretty…” you whispered with soft, dreamy voice.

he stopped playing and looked at you, one eyebrow raised. “my hands?”

“they’re just so perfect, Jay. is not fair.” you traced a finger down his wrist, trailing over the veins with a soft gasp. “do you even know what you do to me?”

his jaw tightened the smugness faltering as your touch lingered.

“you like them that much, princess?” he teased, but there was heat behind it now. he set the guitar aside, tilting your chin up. “should i show you what else they can do?”

or maybe it was when he first touched you.

because Jay doesn’t just touch, he handles. gently. like you’re precious. like if he pressed just a little harder, you’d bruise, and he’d never forgive himself. his hands always find you. on your thigh when he’s driving, thumb lazily brushing your skin like he needs to remind you that you’re his. on your waist at parties, when someone else’s gaze lingers too long and his grip subtly tightens, never rough, but enough. enough for you to feel it. enough for him to make a point. under tables at dinner with the guys, his fingers resting on your bare skin while he talks like nothing’s happening, all casual and composed while you try not to shift too obviously in your seat.

you’re the one who asked, shy and breathless, for his fingers in your mouth one night, unable to stop staring. he hesitated at first, always afraid of crossing a line, of hurting you, but he gave in when you begged. and fuck, he groaned, low and quiet, letting you pull two of his fingers past your lips.

now you always do it.

your mouth is so warm, your tongue swirling around them immediately, like you’ve been waiting for this all day. you suck slow, messy, eyes fluttering shut as you moan softly around them. and Jay is mesmerized, watching you absolutely fall apart from something so simple. he tightens his arm around your waist, other hand twitching at his side. “you’re really doing this just from my fingers, huh?” he murmurs, voice lower now, strained. “you’re such a dirty little thing.”

you whimper around him, drool starting to slip from the corners of your mouth as you bob your head slightly, like you need more. he watches the spit string between your lips and his knuckles, and it drives him crazy.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, tugging you closer, voice rough in your ear. “my messy girl.”

then came the night you asked for more.

“put your hand around my throat?”

he’d blinked, startled, like you’d just spoken another language. you felt his breath catch before he even answered.

“you’re serious?”

and when you nodded, flushed, needy, voice small, he listened. his fingers came up slow, wrapped so carefully around your neck like he thought you might break. the pressure wasn’t hard. just present. your body’s response was immediate. back arching, thighs tightening, eyes fluttering.

and that’s when he changed.

“fuck,” he groaned, voice low and ruined, “you like this. you—you really like this.”

and now? he can’t stop. it’s never too much. never careless. just perfect. like everything he does to you.

like the way he curls his fingers when they’re inside you, hitting just the right spot, soft and slow and purposeful like he’s more focused on making you fall apart than getting off himself. he always knows what you need, when to tease, when to press deeper, when to go still and just hold you.

in quiet moments, he takes your hand. always. never just grabbing it, no, he locks fingers. pulls it close. holds it tight. sometimes he lifts them to compare, palm to palm, brow furrowed like he can’t get over the size difference. “look at this,” he’ll whisper, tracing your fingers with his. “mine cover yours completely.”

he lives for it.

because you were obsessed with his hands from the start. but nothing compares to the way he looks at yours, like they belong in his. like the only place you should ever be is right next to him, hand in hand, thigh under his palm, jaw in his touch, body under his control.

he’s so soft and gentle with you, and you are completely sure that his hands were made just for you.

[htrhng]

MOVING TOGETHER ☆ 박종성

staring. boyfriend!park jongseong & female!oc

wc. 1.4k | genre. fluff, soft, cute, etc. | warnings. moving, being overwhelmed, next step, cute moments, established relationship, etc.

iovestuck's notes. I have had this one shot in my drafts for months and haven't finished it until now. I also have this dream of me, but not me at the same time moved in with Jay long back, so I decided to write the dream but changed a few small details. I hope this is to your liking! As always, thank you for supporting and reading my fics!

masterlist

The apartment was a mess of chaos, and cardboard—half-open boxes spilled their contents across the hardwood floor like forgotten memories, and towers of taped ones leans precariously against the walls. In the center of it all, a woman knelt with her head buried inside one of the many boxes, her hair falling over her shoulder in strands as she dug furiously through its contents.

“Where is the freaking other piece?” she muttered, her voice edged with irritation.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the elusive furniture part lying innocently a few feet away, as if mocking her. She shot it a glare like it had personally betrayed her, then turned her focus back to the mess in front of her, refusing to admit defeat.

From another room filled with neatly stacked boxes labeled in a much more organized manner—his boxes—her boyfriend appeared, stretching slightly as he stepped out into the cluttered hallway. He glanced at her with mild amusement.

“What are you looking for now?” he asked, watching her dig like a determined archaeologist searching for a priceless relic.

She let out a triumphant noise and rose from the box, holding up a curved piece of wood like a trophy. “This. The other part to this cursed thing.” Her tone was both victorious and utterly fed up.

Jongseong walked toward her slowly, navigating around boxes with the grace of someone who hadn’t already almost tripped five times. “You’ve been at it all morning. Maybe it’s time for a break?”

“But the other piece—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said gently, cutting her off before she could spiral.

“We still have so much to do,” she shot back, the volume of her voice rising just a notch. “The living room’s barely touched. The bathroom’s a disaster. And the bedroom—don’t even get me started.”

“Hana.” His voice came from the other room now, calm and unbothered. “Take a deep breath. It’s not going anywhere.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, that’s the problem. Nothing is going anywhere if we don’t unpack!”

Frustrated, Hana stormed toward another corner of the room, stepping over stray bits of hardware and almost stumbling twice. Her movements were sharp, her patience running dangerously low. “There are pieces everywhere!” she snapped, flinging open another box with little care.

Jongseong reappeared behind her. Without saying a word, he reached out and placed both hands gently on her shoulders, grounding her.

“Hey.” His voice was soft, patient. “My love, Hana—breathe with me, okay?”

She stood still for a moment, letting his calm presence anchor her. Then, finally, she inhaled deeply.

“There you go.” He smiled as her shoulders slowly dropped from their tensed state. “Why don’t you take a second and put your clothes away in the closet? I’ll finish up in the office and then help you out here. Deal?”

She opened her mouth to argue. “But—”

His gaze met hers, steady and unrelenting in the most loving way. The look said please without needing to.

She sighed, knowing she’d lost. “Alright,” she muttered in surrender.

“Good.” He pressed a quick kiss to her temple. “We’ll survive the cardboard jungle. Together.”

Hana gently set the wooden piece down on the floor with a frustrated sigh. Without saying a word, she turned and walked into the bedroom, her footsteps heavy from exhaustion. The closet door creaked softly as she opened it, scanning the room for the box labeled with her clothes. 

Once she found it tucked beside the dresser, she pulled it open and began unpacking, carefully organizing her things piece by piece. Folding, hanging, rearranging—she focused on the task until the weight of the day finally caught up to her. Eventually, she decided to call it a night.

The morning sunlight streamed into the bedroom, warm and golden, casting shadows across the sheets. Hana stirred, blinking against the brightness. She turned to the other side of the bed—empty.

He must’ve gone to work already, she thought, rubbing her eyes. He’d only taken the day before and yesterday off to help with the move. Now that things were semi-settled, he was probably back to his usual schedule.

After getting ready, Hana stepped out of the bedroom—and froze. Her eyes widened. There were fewer boxes. Way fewer. Everything was organized. “What the—” she mumbled under her breath.

A familiar voice broke through her shock. “Good morning, Hana.” A smile stretched across Jake’s face as he turned around from where he was crouched near the TV stand. “Jay hyung had a schedule this morning, so he already left. But he made breakfast before heading out.”

She blinked once. Twice. Still processing. “When did you get here?” she finally asked.

Jake stood up, holding a few items in his hands. “Jay hyung called me and some of the guys last night to come help out. Since a few of us don’t have schedules until later today, we figured, why not?” He smiled again. “Sunoo’s in the bathroom, and Jungwon’s helping out in the living room.”

“I see…” Hana muttered, slowly making her way to the kitchen island and sitting down. Her eyes scanned the clean countertops and neatly stacked dishes.

Jake joined her in the kitchen, unpacking the last few boxes. “Jay hyung didn’t want you stressing out,” he explained casually. “He figured you’d done enough yesterday and… well, you kinda scared him a little.”

She winced, guilt flickering across her face. “Right… I might’ve been a little harsh yesterday.”

Jake let out a light laugh. “You were passionate.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

He grinned, not denying it.

After finishing her breakfast, Hana cleaned up her dishes and glanced toward Jake again. “Are you sure you guys don’t need help?”

Jake shook his head. “We’re good. Seriously. If anything, go finish up the closet or just relax for a bit.”

She gave a small nod. “Alright… Thanks, Jake.” And with that, she disappeared back into the bedroom, feeling a strange mix of gratitude and quiet embarrassment.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of quiet. After bidding goodbye to the members who had come to help, Hana was finally left alone in the now clean and organized apartment. The silence was comforting, but also a little strange—like the calm after a storm.

She stood in the kitchen, gently stirring a small pot on the stove. The dinner she was making was simple—something light, something she could manage. Her appetite hadn’t fully returned. Her mind kept circling back to yesterday. The frustration, the raised voice, the stress that boiled over.

I shouldn't have snapped at him like that, she thought, frowning at the simmering broth.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of the front door passcode beeping echoed through the apartment. The door clicked open, then shut, followed by the soft thud of footsteps approaching. Before she could turn around, a pair of arms wrapped around her from behind.

A warmth pressed gently against her back, and she felt his presence even before he spoke. “Welcome back, love,” she murmured with a faint smile, not needing to look to know it was him.

Jongseong closed his eyes and rested his face against the curve of her neck, holding her close—snug, but never too tight. He let out a content sigh. “It smells good.”

She smiled gently, her heart calming at the sound of his voice. “It’s nothing special. Just something light… I haven’t really been in the mood to eat.”

He loosened the hug and stepped back just enough to turn her gently toward him, his brows knitting together slightly. “Why not?”

She reached over and turned off the stove before meeting his gaze. “I’ve just been thinking… about yesterday. I felt bad. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you.”

Jongseong’s expression softened. “Love, it’s okay. You were stressed. It was a lot.”

“But still—”

He gently cupped her face, brushing his thumbs against her cheeks. “You’re human, Hana. I know you didn’t mean it. Moving is overwhelming. It’s okay to feel everything all at once.”

She bit her lower lip and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. “I just hate that I took it out on you.”

He held her tightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You didn’t take anything out on me. You were overwhelmed, not unkind. There’s a difference.” He paused, pressing a soft kiss against the top of her head. “Don’t carry guilt where there’s only love, okay?”

She nodded quietly. “Okay.” He pulled back just enough to tilt her chin up and leaned in, pressing a kiss to her lips—gentle, lingering, full of warmth that made her shoulders finally relax.

“Now,” he whispered, forehead resting against hers, “let me help you finish dinner. And afterward, we can just sit on the couch and do absolutely nothing.”

She chuckled softly, her heart a little lighter. “That sounds perfect.”

TAGLIST. @senascoooop ,

© 2024-2025 — all rights reserved to user iovestuck, please do not steal, plagiarise, or translate any of my works without prior permission from me !

[htrhng]

i. for you

심재윤 x fem! reader ‎ ‎ ✴︎ ‎ ‎ ‎fluff situationship comfort highschool wc 530 ‎ ‎ ‎ archive.

you don't hear it from him⎯obviously. you hear it from someone in chem who says jake got into a fight, that he swung first, and that it was over a girl. your stomach dips, but you don't ask. not because you don't care, but because you already know how he is. he won't say a word unless you force it out of him, and maybe you're a little scared to hear it from his mouth. when the bell rings, your feet move on their own. you find him sitting outside the nurse's office, hoodie up, sleeve pushed up to reveal a wrap around his hand. his lip's split and there's a bruise forming on the sides of his face. he looks up at you like he expected you to come. like he's waiting. "what the hell, jake," you mutter as you sit down beside him, voice lower than you mean it to be. he shrugs like it's nothing. "wasn't a big deal." you look down at his hand, at the way his knuckles are red and swollen. your fingers brush against his gently. he lets you hold it without flinching. "you didn't have to." it's quiet. honest. and what you mean is you shouldn't have. he glances at you, lips tugging up like this is all some kind of joke. "i know," he says. "but someone had to." and that's when your heart does that stupid thing. the achey, slow-burn kind of twist that only comes from someone who isn't your but still chooses you anyway. you hate how easily he says things that sound like more. you hate how you're still holding his hand. you hate that you don't want to let go. "you'll get suspended," you say after a pause, the words failing out softer than you mean. he hums like it's not that serious. "would you be mad?" he asks you suddenly. you blink. "if you get suspended?" he shakes his head, eyes on yours. "no, if i did it again." your chest tightens. "yeah," you reply, barely above a whisper. "i think i would." you look down again, at your fingers curled into his, at the busted skin and the warmth he's letting you hold. "you didn't have to do it for me." "wasn't for you," he says, barely a beat later. "was for the guy who thought he could talk about you like that." your tightens. "we're not even⎯" "i know." and that makes it worse. but it doesn't. because somehow, even in all the unspoken, you feel it. his hand in yours. his thumb brushing closer now, voice quieter, like this is the closest thing to a confession either of you will get. you breathe in. "next time," you whisper, "just tell me." he tilts his head. "tell you what?" you give a small smile, brushing a thumb over his bandage. "that you care." he doesn't answer right away. just stares at you, soft and sure like he's memorizing your face. then ⎯ "i do." and someone, in that moment, it feels like enough. like maybe this could be more. like maybe it already is.

[htrhng]

( 𝐚𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 ) ─ ㅤ❛ ㅤ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃. ❜ 종성

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

[htrhng]

“emma, realistically speaking, how can i actually know whether i can assume big things. yea i look at the sun and i assume it’s yellow but it’s not like i can assume that it can be dropped from the sky or it’ll turn green. i dont know”

right!!!!!!!! exactly!!!!!!! you cant assume the sun will drop and then it does, because your assumption about the sun is already baked into your version of stable reality. that bs is locked in so deep, so unquestioned, so natural, that you dont even think of it as an assumption. you think of it as a law.

and thats a big no no ill redpill you of that

when we say assumption creates, we dont mean if you suddenly imagine the sun turning green it instantly does. we mean………your entire 3d is shaped around what you’ve accepted as default truth. whats realistic, what’s possible, whats allowed. and the reason certain things dont shift is because you still secretly think they’re bigger than you or outside your jurisdiction.

so when you say but i couldn’t drop the sun, thats quite literally proving the law. because youre witnessing how your unshakeable intention = your unshakeable experience. you dont think you can control the sun, so you dont and thats how powerful you are🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

now what happens when you do think you can control something??????? like your grades. your partner. your bank account. suddenly it’s not physics anymore, suddenly it is negotiable and that’s your sweet sweet entry point.

youre obviously not here to rewrite gravity so i wont teach you how to turn the sun green. we’re here to realise your little category of maybe and impossible and i don’t know is also a set of assumptions, and once you treat those the way you treat the sun, like unquestionable, they stabilise. they lock in and theeeennnnnn they show up

let’s not try to control the sky but at first stop giving power to the part of your brain that thinks it cant control you

[htrhng]

i love life

SOFT SPOT ┆ A PARK JONGSEONG ONESHOT

SYNOPSIS! love is a crazy thing, and you’d always been absorbed in the idea of it, 100% committed as your school’s cupid but cupid deserves love too, right?

GENRE! strangers to lovers, basketballer!jay (there’s barely any basketball in this), mutual pining, simp!jay, high school au

WARNINGS! some sexual innuendos, drinking, partying, mentions of cheating and abortion

WORD COUNT! 9OOO+

MIKAELA��S! inspired by some book i read i think… this is from my old blog eumpapas, i’m not copying anyone please… also happy mega birthday to the man who made me start watching iland🙏🏻 DNA jay this one is for you.

BEING cupid isn’t easy, and it’s definitely not a task for the weak. Carrying around a heavy basket of heart shaped tipped arrows and a bow slung behind you as you matchmake, aim, and shoot, injecting pink that knits into a person’s bones.

Many people applaud you — for so intelligently pairing up matches together. But what they don’t realise is the immense effort it takes. Cupid may be an icon of love, but you barely have one of your own. And you wish, that there is another cupid out there aiming their love tipped arrow at you.

i. ugh, men

The piece of paper in your hands rubs against your palms as you take yet another glance at the capitalised name written in neon pink before looking back up at the blond hair boy in front of you.

“Jay? I mean- not discriminating or anything but you want me to link you up with Park Jongseong?” You furrow your brows, looking at Jake with pure curiosity.

His eyes widen as he realises what this might have seemed like. “No, no,” he furiously shakes his head, “he’s my bro, what are you even talking about.”

You tilt your head as you scan the nervous footballer who’s too busy fidgeting in his seat to realise, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him so nervous — even more than before a crucial game, and you wonder what’s come over him.

“Jake, the neon pink sparkly pen? If you’re not in love with your best friend, what puts you in such a lovesick mood?” You ask, flapping the crumpled piece of paper at him as he sighs.

“Firstly, it’s a smiggle pink scented pen, get it right. And secondly, it’s not really about matchmaking, I just need your help with something.” He groans at the accusations you’ve pasted on him. 

You purse your lips, “Jake, you know I don’t do anything other than matchmaking. I would really like to help, but I’ve been a little tight on time recently.”

Before you can grab your bag from the small round coffee table, he swiftly brings his hands up, stopping you from leaving. His eyes held such desperation that your body seemed to move back down by itself.

“Look, this is kind of like matchmaking, think of it as helping a blossoming couple out. Please.” His plea of desperation squeezing your heart ever so slightly.

“Has this blossoming couple got something to do with you and that pretty best friend of yours?” You raise your eyebrows, as you shoot a knowing look at him. It wasn’t rocket science, and it didn’t take a genius to know that Jake was deeply in love, fully head over heels: entranced with his best friend. And as Cupid, no doubt you had such information at the back of your hand.

Jake holds back a smile by biting his lips, eyes darting away in fear of professing his love, “look, Jay’s just been such a cockblock recently, they’ve been friends for a while but nowadays they’ve been hanging out together a lot more. Alone. Do you understand how big of a crisis this is? All I need you to do is watch him, maybe use those matchmaking skills of yours to match him up with someone?”

You look at the pitiful state of the boy in front of you, with his hands constantly moving to brush his hair back in his withered stressful state. And you can’t help it — as someone who’s all about love, you find yourself agreeing to help him, even if you were already swarmed with four other couples to matchmake.

You find the list in your head getting longer as you ask Jake about Jay, the tiny book in your head that’s filled with possible matches seeming a little empty at Jake’s description of Jay’s ideal type, likes, and dislikes.

It wasn’t the first time you’ve heard about Jay, in fact it was probably about the nth time with the amount of girls who come swarming to you with bleak hope that you’d be able to matchmake them with him. And of course, you couldn’t deny the fact that he was attractive — with his coveted status as the vice captain of the basketball team, and not to forget his matte black Porsche he drives to school everyday, it would be weird if he wasn’t popular.

But what’s all that when Park Jay had a dick for a personality. Well, at least that’s what the rumours say.

And you’re about to confirm it right here right now as you stand outside the sports hall, the squeaking of court shoes piercing through your ears as you stall by rechecking Jake’s text.

Jay’s at basketball practice till nine, maybe you can catch him there.

The time on your phone blares a bright ‘0925’, and you curse yourself for not having the guts to say no to Jake — because as much as you are Cupid, you’re also weak hearted, and you don’t know how to handle a devilishly handsome boy who’s said to have a bad attitude.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, getting ready to push the door until it swings open from the other side and the vision in front of you turns from the freshly painted navy blue doors to a tall, lean boy with a number 99 plastered on the front of his jersey.

Holy shit, you think, and you wish you could duck around quickly and scurry away, yet your feet remain firmly planted to the ground as your eyes linger on the face in front of you.

“Something wrong, Cupid?” 

You open your mouth only to close it yet again. Because despite the harsh tone or recognition his voice held, you were mesmerised. You’ve only ever seen Jay from afar and now up close, he looks like a collection of violet-tinted heartbreak and soft silver snow — as the ferocious intensity he emits settles itself in the sharp dip of his cupid’s bow. His beauty is devastating, and your task is forgotten for a moment as you take in his black hair damp with sweat and the slender set of collarbones revealed by his jersey.

The boy looks like an angel and siren all at once, and fuck it if he isn’t the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Even prettier than Lee Heeseung, the attractive basketballer you’ve known since middle school (who you had a tiny crush on back then.)

It takes you forty two seconds and Jay bending down to snap you out of your gaze. And you find yourself not being able to do anything but shift back as the boy smoothly ties your shoelaces which you must have left undone in a rush to reach here on time.

“Thanks,” you say honestly, voice too breathy as your veins pump with embarrassment. 

He smiles softly, “don’t mention it, wouldn’t want you to trip and fall, right?”

You pause, and you hate how awkward you are during unplanned encounters. “Right,” you say, stumbling over your own words, “I mean- uhm, yeah! Thanks, but- I could have tied them myself.”

Jay laughs, and it’s a little husky as you capture the sound. “Right. You’re cute when you ramble.”

Right now, you wished you possessed the charm you usually carried when talking to other targets — bold and feminine. But with a mere sentence, Jay had the ability to reduce you to a young girl talking to an infatuation for the first time. And you think the rumours are false, because the boy in front of you seemed nothing like the playboy you’ve heard about: barely seeming to have an ounce of smooth confidence in his bones.

“You’re here for me, aren’t you Cupid? Did someone want you to matchmake me with them? Or are you on some sort of mission?” His sudden change of tone throws you off, arrogance radiating off him as the look in his eyes change. Bolder, sharper.

You think that you’re an idiot, for falling for his innocent façade, for believing those rumours were fake. Because now Jay looks like he’s playing god, with a devil’s smirk etched onto his face. 

“Does the name Jake Sim ring a bell?” It amazes you how blunt he sounds, mouth tense and one corner slightly tilted down. And it pisses you off, how handsome he still seemed.

“He’s the captain of the soccer team,” you try, avoiding the question all together, “who doesn’t know him.”

The boy in front of you seems unsatisfied, “not what I was asking and you know it,” he declines, a borderline genius glinting in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He smirks, brushing his hair back, “you’re telling me that my best friend didn’t hand you a note with my name on it, asking you to keep an eye on me?”

Fuck. How does he know?

You send him a cool grin — and thank goodness your usual calm and composed exterior is back — as you slowly walk towards him, “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Not everything in life is about you Jay, so get lost.” You pause. “Please.”

A part of his tenacity amazes you when he fails to keep his mouth shut, and you feel annoyed at his stubborn persistence. “Everyone knows your little love business, Y/n,” Jay elaborates, making you grit your teeth. His voice is like liquid mercury, toxic yet smooth. “There’s always talk about a new happy couple and a pretty pretty girl who set them up.”

And as if on instinct, your hands move up to twirl the ends of your hair, “what about it, Park?”

“You’re telling me that Jake Sim didn’t meet you today? Look me in the eyes and say it.” 

You stare into the eyes of the boy who looks like he could be a model, heart betraying you as it escalates. “I didn’t meet Jake Sim at Starbucks today. Quit bothering me, alright?”

“I didn’t say it was Starbucks,” Jay states brazenly, his head tilting in princely arrogance as you watch a small smirk settle on the crook of his mouth. “I thought good girls like you never lie.”

“Fucking hell,” you breathe in sharply, “get lost.”

Jay tucks one hand into his pocket, tugging his lips into a small smile, “You go first, I’ll follow you.”

Your cheeks heat a dark shade of red as you dread to have to tell Jake that Jay knew of your deal.

“Wait,” he says as you turn, gently grabbing your wrists. He might seem a bit rough on the outside, with arrogance lining his collarbones, but when he touches you, it’s surprisingly soft. “Don’t tell him I know. All I’ve been doing is giving her advice about approaching Jake and I don’t want to ruin any surprise she might have planned.”

You nod slowly, pieces coming together in your head. “So you want me to be your double agent?”

Jay smiles, and if you were honest, it might have been the most genuine you’ve seen him today. “Why not? Not like you’d take the chances of spoiling a couple’s confession. Live a little.”

You roll your eyes at his comment, “I live a lot, Park, maybe more than you’ve ever lived.” You pause, “ and if you want me to, you should fix that attitude of yours. God knows how you bag girls acting like a dick.”

Jay presses his hands to his chest in mock pain. “Your words hurt, Cupid,” he pouts, eyes glistening, “so are you in?”

“Depends,” you admit, “maybe if you take me on a ride in that cool car of yours.”

He thinks for a moment. “Fine.”

A smile blooms on your lips, and you’re too triumphant to notice the way Jay’s breath hitches as he takes a small step backwards, as if your aura was too potent, too powerful for him to breathe in.

“Deal.”

ii. a short guide on handling a crazy heart

The last place you’d ever think of telling your best friend, Yunjin, about your encounter with a certain vice captain was in the bathroom of a stranger’s house, with the latest hits blaring into your eardrums. “He’s got a dick for a personality,’ you scream over the music as she fixes her hair in the mirror, “he’s arrogant, infuriating, and he doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” she replies, giving you a knowing look through the mirror, and you roll your eyes at her comment. “So what exactly did Jay want you to do again?” Yunjin’s eyebrows raise as she asks her question for the fifth time this week, and you think if your friend wasn’t so pretty, you would have purposefully messed up her hair in annoyance.

You sigh, “he wants me to be a double agent of some sort, he doesn’t want to ruin his hard work of giving advice,” you admit, “I’m practically sandwiched between two best friends.”

“Aw, you guys are like a pair of cupids,” Yunjin says thoughtfully, “you and Jay. And I guess it brings no harm. Though you might be pissed with his personality, someone has to get under that thick skin of yours. He might just be the one to do it.”

You shoot her the finger accompanied by a glare as the two of you finally exit the bathroom to the bustling scene of the party, with sweaty bodies swaying to the rhythm of music blasting from the speakers.

“Y/n!” A golden voice calls out, making you turn over your shoulder, to find Jake waving you over excitedly, with a tall boy dressed in all black beside him, leaning against the wall coolly as he gazes at you with hooded eyes.

There’s an ineffable feeling that crawls into your stomach when you see Jay, as if he held all the power in the world to crush you with a glance. “Come play beer pong with us, we need two more people.” Jake's voice goes through your ears before leaving through the other side as you nod aimlessly, eyes trained on Jay’s figure — lean back muscles that were visible through the shirt that hugged his figure, as you and Yunjin follow them into another room.

“Me and Jay against the two of you,” Jake grins as he nudges you by the shoulder to the other side of the ping pong table, a few familiar faces surrounding the area.

“I’m out, ask Heeseung to play instead,” Jay mutters under his breath, but you catch it despite the loud chatter amongst the crowd. And it dims the small excited flame burning in your heart.

You watch as Jake sighs, “come on bro, don’t be a party pooper. First Sunghoon ditches to go god knows where with that neighbour of his, and now you?” Jay moves to comb through his slicked back black hair, eyebrows furrowing as he calls Heeeung over.

Looking at Heeseung, you realise that Jay and him were two completely different kinds of beautiful: Heeseung had a sharp jawline and soft curves; Jay, on the other hand, had a kind of edge and arrogance constantly lining the corners of his mouth, and it’s unconventional. To say the least. Everything about him was to you.

“Come on Park, don’t spoil the fun,” you pitch into the conversation, as the three heads turn towards you, “or are you scared you’re going to get trashed by two girls?”

Jay mutters a chain of words under his breath as he steps out of the tiny circle they’ve made, towards you, his gaze centred on you. And it suddenly feels silent as Jay’s eyes start at the tips of your toes, sliding across the smooth expanse of your legs and past your torso, lingering on the slight curvature of your neck before landing on your lips. Your swallow is embarrassingly audible in the unusual quietness, but you soon clear your throat.

He’s so handsome it makes you want to scream. You hate how good he looks; you hate how he looks at you, like you’re something of his affections. And you hate yourself for actually liking the attention, because even though you always state that you hate him, you know it’s not true.

Jay just gets on your nerves.

“Fancy seeing you here, Cupid. Who knew you could ever look so stunning?” And just like that, the moment’s over.

“Shut the hell up, Park. All you have to do is throw a ball into a cup, or are your basketball skills that bad?” You challenge him, and Jay lets out a laugh: a real laugh that you want to hear again and again and again, because it sounds like silver music and he’s beautiful.

And you hate yourself and your feelings.

“If that's what you think,” he breathes, as he stares into your eyes, “let’s make a bet then. If I win, you have to come to a basketball game of mine — because you’ve clearly not been to one, wearing my jersey, cheering for me. And if you magically happen to win, I’ll do anything you want me to.”

Maybe his car, maybe you could ask him to give you his car, you think as you set your mind on winning. Not one ounce of doubt that you’d be able to beat Jay, because despite not having attended one basketball game, you think that you had sufficient skill to win. He can’t be that good, right?

And once again Jay proves you wrong as he effortlessly scores cup after cup, and you’re buzzed, barely able to comprehend your surroundings as the crowd cheers his and Jake’s name. The only words you hear clearly is Jake’s extremely loud cry of excitement as Jay throws yet another ping pong ball into the last cup on your side of the table.

“See how it’s done, angel? I’m not vice captain for no reason,” he smirks as he rounds the table to your side. Though you’re half gone, you’re suddenly grateful for the dim lighting because you’d be caught dead by the boy next to you if he sees your flushed cheeks at the new nickname he’d just given you.

“Anyone told you not to randomly call strangers angel?” You hiss, as he gently wraps an arm around your waist, steadying your wobbling figure. Jay shrugs, and you huff out a breath, “it does something to them, okay?”

The boy looks down at you, thumb brushing over your cheeks — and you tell your weak heart to calm down, “what does it do, angel? Tell me,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s too close to you, because you can feel the weight of his words sink into your body as the hairs on the back of your neck stand.

“It hurts me, them, right here,” you reply, closing your eyes to tame the nauseating feeling in your brain, as your finger points to your heart, “makes their heart go boom.”

You don’t see anything, but you can feel Jay’s hands wrapped carefully around the nape of your neck, fingers entangled in your hair, as the other cradles the smooth, glass-like skin of your jaw, thumbs once again brushing with a tantalising shimmer. His breath smells of sangria and mint, and the sensation is just warm as you’re cast unceremoniously under his addicting spell.

“Yeah?” He whispers, and you nod softly.

“Yeah,” you answer, “so stop it, whatever that was. It’s annoying.”

Your eyes open and you see Jay smirking in his trademark expression, and you click your tongue in annoyance, pretending as if your heart wasn’t about to jump out of your chest.

“But that’s what you are, aren’t you? Cupid - Angel, same thing.” He replies, and you’re about to answer, but decide not to as his words swirl around in your chest.

“What are you even doing here anyway?” you groan, changing to topic as you furrow your eyebrows, vision betraying you as Jay’s devilishly handsome face duplicates itself under intoxication. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to drink when you were such a lightweight.

“Don’t think too hard, angel,” Jay teases, “or else your head will start hurting.”

“Shut up asshole,” you roll your eyes, trying to concentrate on the boy in front of you instead of the pounding in both your head and chest.

Jay grins, and you can see a little bit of evilish impurity and jaded sleekness — like a trained jaguar waiting to pounce. “Shut me up then,” he murmurs, “kiss me, angel.”

“If I kissed you, you wouldn’t be able to handle it,” you announce, and you busk in this moment because you’re sure you’d forget it tomorrow morning.

“And if I kissed you, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Your vision goes black.

You wake up buzzing out your mind, surprisingly in your own bed, with not a hint of remembrance of last night’s drunken conversation.

“Just get out, get some fresh air, it’s good for hangovers,” Yunjin says, all dolled up and ready to patronise the new cafe she’s been raving about, while you sit at the edge of your bed, staring daggers at her with your hair all messed up and head still spinning.

You groan, “are you insane,” your hand moving up to rub your eyes furiously, “must feel good not to be a lightweight.”

Maybe it’s your friend’s persuasion skills or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re easily persuaded because after ten minutes, you find yourself decently dressed and walking into the small diner situated around the corner as the striking ring of the bell pierces into your head, making you wince.

“Jake, fancy see you here again,” Yunjin shouts across the diner to a small four person booth where you see said boy’s head popping out. 

“Yunjin, Yn,” Jake waves, as Yunjin pulls you yet again to Jake, exactly like how she did yesterday night. “You know my best friend,” Jake introduces, staring at her as she waves, a bright smile that could bring a boy to his knees.

“Cupid or yn, right?” She asks, with clear confidence exuding out of her, “Jay’s cupid.”

You cough at her words, eyes darting to Jake’s face as you tilt your head in question. “Jay’s told me or well me and Jake about you.” She clears up, moving your suspicions away from her best friend.

“Right,” Jake chimes in, “surprised you’re still alive after yesterday. You knocked out mid conversation with Jay and he drove you and Yunjin home.”

“Come again,” you turn to look at Yunjin, eyebrows furrowed as she gives you a guilty look. 

“He had a nice car, and he offered, what could i even do with you alone,” she murmurs under her breath and you slap her shoulder.

“Actually, Jay’s here if you want to talk to him,” Jake brings up, looking around for the boy. And your eyes widen at his words, tugging Yunjin’s sleeves as an indication to leave.

“Yn, Yunjin,” and you curse yourself because Jay sounds so good in the early hours of the morning, too good, with his slightly raspy and deep voice that you wished to hear over and over.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, knowing how you are when you’re drunk. Embarrassment swallowing you whole and spitting you out at the thoughts of what you might have done in your drunken state consuming you.

“You okay angel?” You turn around at the sound of the nickname that pinches at your heart, “after what happened last night, I thought you’d never see the light of day again.” The familiar devilish smirk is cued and you know you shouldn’t be trusting him yet you are as your cheeks heat up.

Jay chuckles at your abashed state as he gazes at you, wondering how you looked so good even in a plain white shirt and shorts. Like an angel, and he thinks the nickname he’s given you is spot on.

“Don’t remember? Then I’ll leave it to your imagination,” he says, leaning into you. As you freeze, eyes dart from his face to his lips for a second before looking back up. You don’t know what’s come over you because your usual calm demeanour has been flushed out, replaced with the resounding of your rapidly beating heart.

“Can’t believe you’d do such a thing to me, angel.”

Your imagination runs wild especially after you watch Jay walk out the diner with a winner’s smile on his face, head racing with embarrassing scenarios as he consumes your mind day and night.

iii. pink eyes, pink hearts, the whole world turns pink when i’m with you

When you meet Jake again at the same small rounded Starbucks table, you tell him Jay has no intentions of getting together with his girl. He smiles and tells you that there’s no longer a need for you to ever talk to Jay again, and for some reason it bugs the hell out of you.

You don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop thinking about the golden confidence that surrounds his body like second skin, or the way he walks — like he’s it. Maybe it’s the way his hair still looks perfect after hours of sweat and playing basketball, or maybe it’s just because he knows exactly how to get you heated.

You hate thinking about him too much, because you’re afraid that your cheeks will flush a cherry red and you’ll start remembering how he bent down to tie your shoelaces or how his muscular arm wrapped gently around your waist as he entertained your drunk blabbering ( you cried for three days upon remembering this, cursing Yunjin for not helping you out ). So you don’t think about Jay, how he’s so so pretty and you certainly don’t think about the straightness of his nose, or the birthmark on his neck.

It’s a Friday night, and the campus is empty, students all gathered to watch the football game. And you feel an uneasy sensation settling at the bottom of your stomach. Something’s terribly off, you realise, as you look at your shadow and see another following you at an awfully close distance.

I fucking hate men, you conclude, as you clutch the pepper spray you keep in your jacket pocket, and you continue walking in the same direction like nothing’s wrong. You can’t call Yunjin, because she’s busy cheering her head off at the football game, you think as you try to strategise. And you silently curse as you watch the shadow get closer, it’s fine, you think, you’re strong and fast — and your trusty pepper spray never betrays you.

You turn around and spray the small can in the face of your follower, jumping back to see if the chemicals did the desired damage. But when the air clears, all you see is Jay’s gorgeous face crying profusely.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” you repeat again and again, and he doesn’t say anything. “I’m so sorry, Jay. Are you crying?”

The boy in front of you doesn’t look at you, blinking through his red eyes and burning tears as he takes the tissue you’ve offered him. You watch his swollen, puffy eyes as tears roll down and collect at the corner of his chin.

It’s not the time to laugh, you think, maybe just a little. And you have a strong urge to whip out your phone from your back pocket and take a picture of the once in a lifetime view in front of you.

So you do. And Jay isn’t having it.

“You know,” he says, voice scratchy, “you’re the most difficult fucking person I’ve ever met in my life.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes at his obvious compliment, “how would I know that you weren’t some pedophilic stalker who’s come to kill me!” You look at his pitiable state and you stop, “I’m really sorry.” Your voice softens.

“Say it again.” And his commanding tone makes you feel not so apologetic anymore.

“Go to hell.”

Jay sighs in annoyance, “that’s cute,” he replies, and you ignore the way your heart skips a beat. “I just saw you and wanted to talk to you, and maybe give you my jersey, for our bet.” His voice reminds you of springtime love and dragonfruit hibiscus, of frenzied thrills and mysterious shadows.

“Oh, where is it?” You ask, as if the thought of wearing his jersey to watch your first ever basketball game didn’t excite you even a little bit. His fingers clasp around your wrist, pulling you to a carpark where he had parked.

He unlocks his car, one hand still pressing the piece of tissue against his eye as the other swiftly opens the boot of the car. “Here, it’s washed, don’t worry — since you seem like that kind of person.”

You give him a look, as you watch him remove the tissue from his eye. It’s turned a shade of pink now, less puffy and less glassy. “What exactly do you mean by that Park, and here I was thinking of treating you for ice cream in return for giving you a pink eye.”

He huffs a tired sigh, “with the way you’re tiring me out, you should treat me for ice cream.”

And you look at Jay, who’s glowing under the rim streetlights despite his obvious red eye ( kudos to you ). With cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes liquid scotch, Park Jay is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn’t even know it. You’re addicted, even if your mind disagrees with your heart.

Stars could gleam all throughout the night sky and yet you’d still prefer to watch them through his eyes. And you think that you’re fucked, because you’ve never really thought of anyone like that. Not even Lee Heeseung, you only liked him because he was the fastest runner in middle school, but Jay — Jay made you feel like treasured snow in a globe kept by a bedside, he makes you feel like a fever dream.

“If you drive me, I will,” you say and he grins, jogging over to open the passenger seat for you.

“I’ll take a pistachio ice cream,” he orders as he slides into the driver’s seat and you enjoy the cool, crisp air blowing at you.

You choke at his words, “pistachio?” as your head tilts in question, “who eats pistachio nowadays? Everyone eats mint chocolate chip.”

Jay’s face contorts into an expression of disgust as he scrunches his eyebrows, taking his eyes away from the road to face you. “Honestly expected more from you angel, but I’m not surprised, just disappointed.”

“And I expected more from you, Park.” You comment, “who the hell doesn’t like mint chocolate chip?”

He groans at your argument, “it’s fucking toothpaste on a cone, what is there to like?” 

You gasp, mouth wide open ready to fight back till he sighs, eyes rolling as he turns into the parking lot of Baskin Robbins, “fine, I’ll give mint chocolate chip another try if you try pistachio. We’ll try each other's ice cream, okay?”

Smiling, you nod, happy that you’d win the argument, even if it meant having to try some weird nutty flavour of ice cream. “I’ll go get it, wait for me.”

You jog into the store, excited to finally treat yourself to ice cream — and for Jay’s expression when he eats mint chocolate chip because you know his face would scrunch up ( and you wouldn’t miss the opportunity to take yet another picture ).

You come back out into the parking lot, and you see Jay, with another girl pressed up awfully close to him, and it feels like your throat is closing up, squeezing as you feel the urge to rip the two apart. It looks wrong — Jay and her, and you think it’s what your knowledge and years of being Cupid is saying ( or maybe it’s your heart ). You hate it, hate the way she’s looking at him as if he’s some fallen God from heaven, hate the way she shifts closer to him even when he’s trying to avoid touching her.

You move before you know it, and you expertly loop your arm around Jay’s waist after passing his cup of ice cream to him. Red hot satisfaction lighting up inside of you as Jay rests his arm around you — as if it’s his natural instinct, and his expression of annoyance morphs into one of a devilish smirk that you were now well acquainted with. 

“You’re back, angel,” Jay murmurs, as he kisses the top of your head, his voice reverberating in your temples. 

“Yeah,” you say, grinning sweetly at him before shooting the girl a glare: eyes turning into stilts as you give the clueless girl yet another warning sign. It doesn’t take long for the intruder to awkwardly excuse herself before you click your tongue in annoyance, turning around to face Jay who had a foreign expression on his face.

“Is my angel jealous?” He asks, raising an eyebrow, and your heart fawns at the small movement that was ridiculously attractive. He hums, smiling sharply as your breath catches.

You clear your throat and look away, well aware that your hand still lingers on his chest and you have no motivation to move it. “Shut up.” And you feel panic rising, bubbling. This is bad. This is too dangerous.

“I could shut you up instead,” Jay murmurs, stepping even closer and a thrill runs through your body. “Want me to?”

“You’re such an arrogant asshole,” you whisper, slapping his shoulders without any real force, “why would you ask me this kind of question.” Your heart is screaming a resounding yes.

“Because I’m a gentlemen,” Jay glares at you, and this tension between the both of you — like cold fire and hot ice, erupts in a lick of blue, crystallised flames. “So I’ll ask you another time,” he pulls you towards him, “can I kiss you, angel?”

You can’t take it anymore. “Stop talking and just do it.”

You pull him down by his collar and press your lips onto his, feeling your skin heat up as his lips move on yours. Holy shit, you think. He’s an expert kisser. And it might be ironic because it’s your first kiss ever, but you believe that nothing after can ever top this. 

His hands rest on your waist, then to your jaw, then to your neck — and you feel. Feel the tip of his tongue asking for entrance at the inner part of her bottom lip, feel the way he’s kissing you roughly but smoothly at the same time, hair brushing your forehead and breathing unsteady against yours. Jay tastes like a blessed curse, a collection of angelic alcohol on a summer evening, and you want to hold him and never let go.

Because you’re making out with Jay, and your heart is pounding as you rest your thumb on his pulse and feel it flaring wildly, recklessly. Oh my god, you think, as he squeezes your waist before breaking the kiss — eyes slightly hooded as he stares at you in adoration that sparkles under the midnight sky.

He will be the death of you.

iv. three ways to ruin park jongseong

Jay thinks that there’s three ways to ruin him.

One: The kid’s viking ride at amusement parks. It absolutely destroys him, and his hair that he works on for hours in the morning. His knees get weak and his brain thrown out of his body as he squeezes his eyes shut, begging heaven to let him live another day even before the ride starts. 

Two: Mint chocolate ice cream. Which was why he surprised himself when he agreed to give it another try for you. He absolutely distastes the flavour, as the creamy cavity inducing toothpaste taste coats the roof of his mouth, he winces in disgust. The only exception, he thinks, is when he kisses you and he tastes it. Instead of its usual nauseating effect, it instead tastes like love drunk cherry epidermises. 

Three: You. With his jersey hanging from your shoulders, and he can smell his cologne, as you brush past him, eyes forming crescents as you greet him. “Hey Jay, are you ready for the game?”

His heartstrings tug, quicker and quicker at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. And he might be a little foolish when it comes to love, but he thinks that this was the way his name was meant to be said. 

“Jay? What, cat got your tongue?” You laugh, smiling. And he thinks he’s fallen for your laugh — that’s utterly contagious, your smile — which made him giddy for no reason, and the way you weren’t scared to annoy the hell out of him. 

He doesn’t know if this feeling is normal, because despite the rumours, Jay’s never had a girlfriend, nor has he ever been with a girl; relationship or not, and it was all Heeseung who had girls around all the goddamn time. With them, he felt sick at the way they whined to touch his hair. But you, you ruin him the most, even more than the viking ship ride. And all his life, Jay’s been a pretty systematic person, but now he doesn’t know where to start, what to do about it.

“Come again angel, didn’t catch that,” he replies, eyes catching yours as he turns into the school car park, one arm slung over the back of your seat as he reverses into a lot. 

You groan, cheeks pink, and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. “I said, are you scared the other team will trash you to pieces?”

Jay chuckles, at your sharp tongue and the way you skillfully tease him. “I’m not scared, why would I be? With an angel cheering for me, I literally have God on my side.” He gets out and rounds his car, moving over to open your side of the door as he watches you lick your honey lips in nervousness. Under the 7pm tinted red and orange skies of a Wednesday, Jay realises how blue he’d feel without you now that you’re here.

“Who,” you pause, as you try not to jumble up your words, “who said I’d cheer for you?” A lazy smirk painted on your face, as you praise yourself for not tripping over the nervous butterflies the boy in front of you gave your stomach.

“You’re here with me,” he says, eyes trained on you as you lean back onto the side of his car, “I drove you here, I will be walking in with you, the jersey you’re wearing has my name on it. And, I invited you to the game in front of half the school population at that party. You see the pattern here, angel? It’s us or nothing.”

The way his eyes hold your gaze as his hands graze over yours melts you. And you’re so drunk in him, you feel as if you could touch the clouds in the salmon sky.

“What if I exchange my jersey with another girl?” You say, eyes glinting with mischief as you fold your arms, testing him. “Or maybe I’ll sell it, I’ve heard that this jersey is a pretty coveted item here in Decelis.”

He clicks his tongue in annoyance and you grin, “girls like you are the bane of my existence.”

“Girls like me?” You raise an eyebrow, “love, I’m one of a kind.”

“Yeah, you are. You are the bane of my existence.” Jay nods in agreement, as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and wraps his fingers gently around your wrist, guiding you into the unfamiliar sports hall. He thinks he’s playing with something dangerous — because you’re tangerine dusts of fire, flames that warm his skin and he relishes your warmth as you intoxicate his brain, his mind, as the smoothness of your skin lingers on his fingertips.

“Sit,” he says, pointing to an empty spot he reserved for you. 

“I’m not your dog,” you retort, begrudgingly.

“Love of my life, light of my eyes, my all, would you please do me a kind favour and take a seat? I don’t want to tire those pretty legs of yours. Not like this.” 

Oh.

You laugh, and it’s so loud that you can feel the eyes of others on you. Yet you’re fully focused on the devilish man in front of you. And you think, if you were very brave or honest you would tell him — that you might have fallen for his charming ways, sly smile, and god-like features.

“That’s right,” you grin as he shakes his head at your bratty behaviour. 

“Anything for the princess,” he bows, and he doesn’t realise it but he’s smiling. Wide. And just like that you’re woven into his veins and he needs you like sin.

Jay makes up his mind that today’s match would be the best match he’s ever played. Not because you were here, sitting at the front row of the bleachers. Well, maybe, maybe it was because he wanted to hear you cheer his name, watch you grin in celebration as he scores hoop after hoop, and maybe because then — only then can he smoothly ask you to celebrate his win with him over dinner.

And that is exactly what he does. 

“You did so good, Jay, when you twirled around that dude and threw the ball into the ring,” You say, reenact Jay’s winning shot, the jingle of the bell of your favourite diner that you recommended Jay to go to ringing as you enter the small place.

Jay think’s it’s extremely endearing, the way you call the basketball hoop a ring, or how you explain his moves as if he was a dancer on stage — twirling, he thinks he could work with that.

Jay directs you to a booth to sit in and a waiter comes to take your orders. You request a double cheeseburger and so does Jay. And he notes down the way you toy with the salt and pepper shakers, rips up the edge of a napkin, and clinks silverware together in odd amusement; you don’t ever stop moving, it seems. And it’s adorable.

“Tell me about your business,” Jay prompts, elbow settled on the table as you grumble in protest.

You shake your head, pursing your lips in refusal, “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“No it’s not,” Jay huffs, “I think it’s interesting.”

And so you tell him. “People pay me to matchmake them with someone they’re attracted to,” you mumble, “and sometimes I get paid more when I get a request to play a certain role.”

“What kind of role?” Jay asks, full of curiosity.

“Well, on Saturday Yoo Jimin is paying me to act like an innocent girl who her boyfriend was two timing with — he cheats a lot you see, and she wants to finally dump him.” You elaborate, “I don’t accept all of these requests, I choose them. I get a whole lot of weird ones too so that's a big no.”

“Isn’t that cruel,” Jay comments, but a drop of pity found nowhere in his voice. And you laugh, tilting your head back. He watches, eyes following the curve of your throat.

“Maybe,” you say, “but cheaters deserve it. Especially when Jimin’s boyfriend has hooked up with multiple girls.”

“So you like to roleplay?” Your mouth drops open.

“Is that all you got out of my explanation? That I may like to roleplay?” You scoff as Jay grins, “sadly for you Jay, I don’t.”

He glares at you and you glare back at him even harder. “Right,” he snaps, “how could anyone ever put up with you to begin with? You’re impossible.”

“That’s mean,” you pout, eyes flickering to his as you rest your chin on the palm of your hands. “You’re mean, Jay. I really hate you.” False.

“And you’re a devil’s spawn.”

You gasp, “you wound me, Jay. I thought I was your angel.”

You are, he thinks as he stares at you. And Park Jongseong wants to kiss you — but only in the most connotative way possible, so that no dictionary definition would ever stand a chance to describe how your lungs could be filled with the sweetest air possible and yet you’d still be so breathless. Often, pictures the both of you holding hands, watching a movie, sitting on the beach hearing your laugh throughout the day, catching your smile and he hopes that at the very least you think of him when your eyes are closed.

Roseate cheekbones, pearlescent soft lips, and bickering emanates love as the both of you fill the quiet dinner with intimate chatter. 

And the night dies down all while Jay thinks about how you’re a vivid dream of lust and harmonies, euphoria reeking upon your entire figure, lips tainted with surreal giggles — and that the saliva in your throat is yet rather angel dust that converts into musical laughter, music he loved to hear as he watches you.

v. mascara stained cheeks, bruised skin, and a crumpled piece of paper.

“He must be really fucking into the cheating shit if he’s meeting his side chick an hour away from our school,” Jay grunts as he pulls over at the entrance of the restaurant Jimin sent you. 

Today, you’re donned in a different style — sweatpants and a random big sweatshirt you stole from Jay’s backseat. Your hair messed up and your mascara smudged. It wasn’t really part of the job to be dramatic, but you only live once, so what’s the point of living boringly?

Jay scans your face for the fifth time in an hour, “you look exceptionally pretty today, angel. You really live up to your pet name.”

You grin, eyes rolling as you shuffle through your bag to take out a positive pregnancy test, mind sifting through your checklist — mascara check, positive test check. “Jay, love, it’s called dedication. You obviously do not have such a quality.”

His heart spins when you call him love. And it’s crazy, because he’s staring at you — with makeup smudged all over your face, positive pregnancy test in your hand from God knows where, drowning in his oversized sweatshirt yet he thinks you’re pretty, too pretty. And if that wasn’t dedication, he doesn’t know what is.

“I’m dedicated,” he says. And you raise your eyebrows in question.

“To what Jay? And don’t say basketball cause everyone in the world knows that you’re in love with it. Honest to G-”

“You,” He cuts you off, as he watches sunlight seep through the windows of his car onto your cheekbones, softly portraying faint constellations of stars upon them. He watches as your orbs glimmer with fervour, lips parting slightly to expose a marvelled gasp, and he hopes that the hazed longing in his eyes has reached you.

You cough, eyes dodging his gaze as you shift. “Not now, Jay. Not when I look like this.” And it’s enough for Jay to start smiling. He’s amused, that all that mattered to you right now was how you looked when he was about to confess to you.

“Fine,” he laughs, “I’ll do it when you look prettier than you look now.” You hum as you appreciate the way his arms look under the sunlight through the windows. Before today, you’ve never associated attractiveness with driving, but the slight imprint of his veins along with his lean muscles turned your mouth drier than usual.

“Only you get me, love,” you say, as you mess your hair up a little bit more in the mirror. “How do I look?”

“Like a sex addict.” You slap him, hard across his chest. “What? You asked!”

“You can’t say things like that to a girl,” you tell him, hiding a secret smile. “Be a gentleman, say I look great and wish me luck.”

“You’d only be looking good when you’re going on a date with me, roleplaying or not.” He mutters under his breath as you shoot him yet another glare. “Fine,” Jay gives in, leaning over the control panel, and he’s dangerously close to you. “Good luck, angel.”

In front of you, everything is still. Jay, time, galaxies, constellations pause to dawn upon him and gaze at you, who’s clearly unaware of your beauty. “Happy?”

You nod and he smirks, “Why so quiet now angel?”

“Just shut up and get on with our act.”

He laughs before the two of you go over your plans again: Jay entering into the restaurant first, sitting at a table near Jimin’s to monitor the situation, and you entering five minutes later, causing the biggest break up ever. It’ll be fun, like drama club.

You look at yourself in the mirror once again, and you think you look like those prostitutes in those trashy american tv shows before you enter the building with the classy exterior. With crystal chandeliers hung and tablecloths made of white linen, you feel terribly out of place, but for what if not for money.

You immediately spot Jay, sitting there with his long legs spread out. And a few tables to your right sits Jimin and her boyfriend, who continuously toys with his phone under the tablecloth while she tries to keep the conversation going.

It’s showtime.

You storm up to their table, positive pregnancy test in one hand as you yell out, “How could you! How could you cheat on me!” Hands reaching out to grab the boy by his collar, tears welling up in your eyes as he fumbled to stand straight under your tiger grip.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, eyes wide as saucers as his hands move up to surrender. “Jimin, babe, I swear I don’t know this crazy woman.”

“Crazy? You said I was your everything, that we were bound by fate! I believed you and now I’m pregnant,” you scream, throwing the test into his face as his hands scramble to catch it.

“Just get it aborted for god’s sake, it’s not that fucking hard.” And you gasp, shocked by the sheer stupidness of the boy. You don’t really let your emotions get to you, but the boy in front of you with a grip that could bruise your wrist and a mentality of a crude alpha male disgusts you.

“Are you fucking kidding me? You have a girlfriend who was willing to listen to you and give you a second chance before, but you ruined it by being an arsehole.” You pinch his forearm and he yelps, “you’re pathetic, and you don’t deserve anyone in your life.”

You watch as Jimin packs her things and leaves, before you meet Jay in his car. And without a word, he puts the makeup remover you brought into a cotton pad, dabbing your face with it as his fingers softly brush over the bruise forming on your wrist.

“You’re insane,” he says, “so fucking insane.”

You grin, “you don’t mind,” you make up his mind for him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I don’t,” he says as he digs his pocket to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper, handing it to you. 

And you open it, reading the scrawny handwriting in black ink.

Matchmaking

Name : Park Jay / Park Jongseong

Match : This girl I call angel, I’m sure you know who I’m talking about

Extra : I think we’re a match made in heaven, so please, help me win her over

vi. an angel and her love

You push your clingy boyfriend Jay away from your body, and to no avail fail for the third time. “Jay, you’re going to be late,” you tell the boy whose arms wrap protectively around your waist, “that’s not very vice captain of you.”

“And it’s not very girlfriend of you to chase your boyfriend away,” he mutters into the crook of your neck, as he proceeds to tighten his grip around your waist.

You give up, which you should have done minutes ago, because you know your boyfriend isn’t one to listen to anyone — even you. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, especially not when you’re not an easy person either.

“Go, or I’ll ask Yunjin to put that photo of you with a pink eye on the jumbotron,” you tease, and it works because Jay immediately lets go of your waist, eyes turning into slits.

“Hate you,” he says, rolling his eyes as he pulls you in for a kiss.

It’s short and sweet. And a line invisible to the naked eye seemed to be drawn between the both of you, it’s scarlet and relatively thick in magnitude, as the feeling of being in heaven — a feeling you’re accustomed to whenever you’re with Jay enlightens your skin again.

“Kiss me again,” you complain.

“You always order me around,” he laughs.

“Kiss me.”

“Are you sure?” he mutters, lips curving into his signature smirk.

You grab the back of his head, yanking him down once more. And the silence around the both of you explodes and a world of colours appear before your closed eyes. Every thought in your brain erased and replaced by the thought of him, just him. His lips pressing against yours, his hands pulling you closer, running up and down your back, into your hair. The taste of his mouth and the heat of his breath cloud your mind.

And when you finally convince yourself to pull away, your brain fails to string any piece of thought together.

“I love you more,” you tell him, as you smile. 

And Jay looks, and he adores. He thinks (knows) he can watch you until the sun rises and the sun sets again, that he can watch you for days on end and never grow tired of you.

“Love you the most, angel.”

© SJYUNS

[htrhng]

      𝖢𝖱𝖠𝖹𝖸 𝖮𝖵𝖤𝖱 𝖸𝖮𝖴, 𝖡𝖠𝖡𝖸   𝗈𝗋 % 𝗆𝖺𝗒𝖻𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗁𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗅 . .

            ST✮RRING───𝒮.𝖩𝖸 ୨୧ 000 && 𝐖. kiss scene drinks ˖ ✧

ㅤ𝖤𝑋𝖳𝖱𝖠 ㅤ ( ￢ _￢ ; ) ㅤ this is so long overdue oh my GOSH hi kirakira my pookie baby girlfie, hope you like this gorgeous >3<

                        𝖢𝘓𝗂𝖢𝖪     🖇 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝙁𝗶𝗟𝗘 ᰈ̠ 𝖭𝘈𝖵𝗂

you always knew that jake sim was never one to play fair.

but then, like it was a routine, he had looked at you with those big, stupidly gorgeous eyes and told you he didn’t want to be alone that night with a hesitant mumble of, “could you keep him company? just for a bit ..” 

and like clockwork, you had caved. 

you could only imagine what your friends would’ve said had they seen you with jake then, his entire 5’11 stature completely draped on you as if your presence was the only thing keeping him grounded to reality. 

and it might as well have been, truly, considering how completely drunk out of his mind he was.

usually you find it easy to rationalize with those who’ve had a little too much to drink. but what was jake sim if not a being sent solely for the purpose of going against everything you consider a fact of nature?

it hadn’t even started that bad, if you think back to it. 

just another end-of-the-semester celebration for you and your classmates. and not to brag, but you’d gotten the highest marks in your major and (possibly) had gloated about the same a little too much, a little too publicly.

jake had taken it all in stride, to be fair. laughing your words off with easy, playful jabs like he didn’t care about it at all and that pissed you off more than you’d like to admit.

the evening ran by fast. slowly but surely, friends and acquaintances started trickling out. somewhere along the way you’d ended up pushed right next to him on the couch, his shoulder pressing against you in a way that you found hard to ignore.

you could’ve sworn you said something about leaving, bag slung over your shoulder, when jake had reached out. his fingers grazing your wrist, the gesture so innocent you’d genuinely considered falling for it. 

“don’t go yet,” he’d said, voice quieter than you’d ever known it to be, “please?”

and you did. against your better judgement. 

maybe you just didn’t want to make a scene. 

or maybe .. you had a temporary lapse in sanity. caused by how stupidly cute and helpless his flushed cheeks looked. like a puppy. 

albeit a very annoying one who definitely did not deserve your sympathy. but still had it, anyway.

next thing you knew, he was clinging onto your arm, his other hand resting a little too comfortably on your waist. you hated how close he’d leaned into your figure, all the while mumbling about some new assignment he’d been working on. 

you hated how warm, how heavy he was. hated that you wanted him closer still.

“hey,” his hand grasped your chin to lift your gaze towards his own, with a care that almost made you ache, “you’re not even looking at me.”

your gaze finally met his—and that, you would later realize, was your second mistake. 

because he was looking at you like you were the only real thing in the world that was worth focusing on—eyes lidded, slightly hazy, but ever confident. 

he was close enough that you could count every eyelash laying delicately on his cheekbones.

“don’t do this,” you’d blurted out, voice barely louder than a whisper, “you’re drunk.” 

but even then, you made no move to pull away.

jake only smiled, and shook his head slightly, as if amused. “i was drunk,” he corrected you, “but not anymore. not for this.”

“i hate you,” you mumbled back, more trying to convince yourself of the fact than him, though you had a sinking feeling that he already knew it was the furthest thing from the truth.

“no you don’t.”

he leaned closer till the tip of his nose was an inch away from yours and suddenly the chatter around you, the music, the soft lights—everything seemed to fade away. 

breathless from the reduced space between you, you’d asked, “how would you know?” 

“because you’re here.” jake’s tone was reverent, thumb brushing against your lower lip. “because you stayed.”

your breath caught in your throat. what could you possibly reply to that with?

insist that you still hated him? hell, you wouldn’t believe yourself say that after how your fingers clutched onto his shoulder for purchase.

still, you vaguely remember having said it anyway, a shaky voice telling him how he always ruined everything and how you hated every single thing about him.

jake’s hand slid up to cup the side of your face more firmly, fingers sinking into your hair. “you don’t mean that,” he answered simply, eyes fixed on your lips.

“i do.” 

but you didn’t, though you wished with your entire being that you did.

and when he kissed you, it was nothing like you could’ve imagined. 

it wasn’t soft, careful. 

it was aching, messy, real—like jake had been holding back for far too long and simply didn’t know how to stop now that he had you. 

his hand on your waist dug deeper, pulling you flush against himself like he needed to feel every inch of you just to be able to breathe right. 

your own hands were now desperately hanging onto his sweater—maybe to push him away, maybe to drag him closer—you couldn’t tell for sure.

all you know for sure is that when you did finally pull apart, it wasn’t by choice. 

it was due to the need for air.

just for a second, to remember what the actual hell you were doing. to remember who it was that you were kissing.

“i still hate you,” you’d immediately said, unsteady as you struggled to catch your breath. 

“i know,” he rested his forehead resting against yours, again with that damned smile of his, “but you kissed me back.”

𐙚 . regulars : @chrrific @jessxxxfwd @evanesceki @soobundle1009 @weedatthegasstattion @flipitkickit @douqhnxtss @soona-huh @amoressb @nicholasluvbot @manariee @rinrinninnin @ddeonuswife @douqhnxtss @lovenha7 @amatariki @i-am-not-dal @liyahhhh620 @elleetlalune @eunwonji @s0shroe @wensurr @unhakies @starniras @calabaeri @athenaisonlinee @weepingsweep @itsactuallylina ⋆

[ 𝑓𝗋𝑜𝗆 陰 ] : taglist people hello ! in the future, i'll be tagging ygs in fics i post here, as well as on bambisnc <3

ㅤㅤㅤ© YiNTUAL ♡ 2025

[htrhng]

BAD DAY?

you rarely ever ask to stay the night- so your bad day instantly became the best part of theirs.

downbad bsf enha! x reader. cute. fluff. humour. hehe

perms:

@nikiswifiee @ancnymcnzjy @ja4hyvn @17ericas @hoonieyun @jellyluv4eva @wheretheheckis-ssaki @hyukabeanie @gxwesn @tojiworshipper

[htrhng]

──★ JUST LIKE HEAVEN (part. 2)

꒰ ‎﹒ pairing: jay x fem!reader … ﹒ 90s au, childhood friends to lovers, brother's best friend!jay, exes to lovers, fluff, smut … ﹒w/c: 15k synopsis: three years. that’s how long it had been since you last saw jay park. since spring break, since mixtapes and goodbye letters and i’ll write when i can. he had traded the life you knew for one on the road — guitars, neon lights, hotel rooms in cities you’d never been to. and it was 1994 now, you had your own place, your own rhythm. you had almost convinced yourself you were over it. until a concert. a song. a glance across a crowded room. and suddenly, nothing was over at all. ꒰ ‎﹒ warnings: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), smut, mdni!!! 💿 % (◠﹏◠ ✿) #nowplaying: just like heaven - the cure | read part 1 here <3

it’s been three years since you last saw jay park. and somehow, it still feels like yesterday.

by 1994, everything feels different. you’re in your last year of college now. you know how to make your bed in the dark, how to survive on gas station coffee and a playlist that’s been the same since sophomore year. your books are underlined and frayed at the corners. the shoes by your door don’t match on purpose anymore. jungwon’s in college now, halfway through. he’s still figuring things out, but his voice has settled, and so has his energy. a little more grounded, a little less wild around the edges. he doesn’t call as much as he used to, but he writes sometimes. signs his letters with messy doodles and stories that sound like home: who’s dating who, which professor’s a nightmare. he’s talking about studying abroad next year. says it like a joke, but you know he’s serious.

your friends are scattered across cities and apartments, student loans and early jobs. some of them are in long-term relationships. some are engaged. some are already talking about house payments. they still write you, too. sometimes on postcards, sometimes in long emails typed from shared computers in dorm basements. you keep every one.

you've learned how to let go of things slowly. how to miss people quietly. how to stop expecting things to stay the same.

the world has changed since 1991. nevermind came out. so did automatic for the people. you cut your hair once, just to feel something. you fell in love with someone else for a little while, then out of it, and didn’t talk about it much after. the posters in your room have faded from the sun. you don’t live in the dorms anymore. you don’t listen to the same tapes every night. just most nights.

you don’t talk about jay. not really. not out loud.

he shows up in passing. in jokes jungwon makes. in old notes you kept but don’t read. in the way your breath still catches when someone plays just like heaven on a jukebox too late at night. you heard he’s playing in a band now. you don’t know much. just that sometimes, when you pass a flyer on a telephone pole or a crumpled gig poster in a café window, you pause a little longer than you mean to. and sometimes, just sometimes, you wish you see his name is on it.

sometimes, in the middle of doing something normal — folding laundry, walking back from class, standing in line for coffee — you remember that last afternoon.

spring break, 1991. the sky was overcast, warm in the way that made you think summer might arrive early. jay was leaving again. his band had just gotten picked up to open for someone bigger, someone you’d never heard of but pretended to recognize. he had a folded schedule in his back pocket, all scribbled in blue ink and crossed-out cities.

“you should come,” he said. “i’ll leave your name at the door.”

you smiled. nodded. said, “yeah, maybe.”

but you never did.

the next semester hit hard. papers stacked up, internships started, and time blurred. phone calls turned into postcards. then into silence. it wasn’t anyone’s fault, not really. he had tour dates. you had midterms. and something about trying too hard to hold on felt embarrassing after a while.

the last thing he sent was a letter.

you still remember the envelope. thin, bent at the corner, his handwriting slanted and messier than usual. you read it in your dorm room one night, sitting on the edge of your bed while your roommate snored into her pillow.

y/n,

i’m sorry i’ve been gone. i mean, i’ve been here, just not really anywhere at the same time. i thought i could keep up with everything. with touring, with writing, with remembering to breathe. but i keep messing it up. i keep losing time. i didn’t want to stop writing. i just didn’t know how to keep showing up if i wasn’t doing it right.

i still think about you. that’s probably unfair.

i hope you’re good. i hope you’re better than i’ve been.

— j

you kept that letter for too long. read it twice. three times. then put it away in a drawer and didn’t open it again.

after that, things just… faded. you didn’t write. he didn’t call. you heard from jungwon once that jay had been in town for a weekend but didn’t stop by. you told yourself that was fine. you told yourself it didn’t matter. until that night in 1993, in the back room of someone’s party. the music loud. drinks half-finished. two girls near the record player talking about some band they saw the week before. one of them said, “the guitarist was so hot, i swear he was flirting with me all night backstage.” and the other one laughed. “the one with the flannel? that’s jay, right?”

you froze. just for a second. and didn’t say anything. you didn’t ask if it was the same jay. you didn’t need to. you left early, walked home alone, told yourself it didn’t mean anything, that you were fine. that you’d grown out of it.

but some nights, when it’s too quiet to lie to yourself, you replay that last goodbye. the way he’d said, “you should come.” and the way you never did. you wonder if he waited. for how long. or if he stopped counting somewhere along the way.

and here you are, 1994, months from graduating, pretending the weight on your chest is just the pressure of adulthood. pretending you don’t still rewind that tape sometimes. pretending you haven’t memorized his handwriting even though you haven’t seen it in years.

you’re fine. you smile when people ask. you talk about plans. you fill your days with work and lists and voices that keep you forward-facing. but every once in a while, at the end of a song, or the bottom of a box, or when you see someone in a denim jacket that doesn’t quite fit, you feel it again.

you never really let go. you just learned how to carry it differently.

it started as something casual, something thrown into a friday night without much weight — just yunjin walking into the room with two tickets and that grin she always had when she knew you needed something to pull you out of your head. she said bon jovi was in town. said yeonjun already had his and that the three of you could go together. said she didn’t want to hear any excuses. and you didn’t have one, not really. so you nodded, and told yourself it would be good to get out. you hadn’t been to a concert in a while. not a big one, not the kind with lights and heat and voices shouting into the dark.

you didn’t think about jay right away. maybe just for a second. a flicker of memory at the name. you remembered him talking about bon jovi, you remembered that t-shirt you painted for him. 

so you went. you got dressed. you wore your denim jacket and borrowed eyeliner from yunjin. yeonjun picked you both up in his dad’s car, windows down, music too loud. it was the kind of night that felt like it could belong to anyone. the arena was full. the floor vibrated before anything even started. people were already on their feet, beer sloshing from plastic cups, voices rising together like they’d been waiting all week just to scream. you found your seats, somewhere near the back but high enough to see the full stretch of stage. the lights dimmed. a ripple ran through the crowd, electric and hungry. and then the band was there. you let yourself enjoy the first songs. let the music rush through you, let the drums hit your chest. yunjin was dancing in her seat. yeonjun kept shouting lyrics half a beat too late. the night blurred around the edges in the way concerts always do.

and then came the next song. always. you recognized it before your brain caught up. 

and that’s when you saw him.

your eyes were scanning the stage out of habit, and there he was. standing off to the left, half-shadowed in blue light. guitar slung low across his chest, hair falling forward a little as he tilted toward the mic. he looked older. not in a bad way, just real. flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands steady on the strings. and then he opened his mouth and sang. not lead. just backing vocals.

your body didn’t move. couldn’t. it was like the floor had locked you in place. you stared. the rest of the crowd kept moving. the lights kept flashing. yunjin was still beside you, completely unaware. but your world had shrunk to the length of the stage and the shape of his shoulders and the way he closed his eyes when he hit a harmony.

jay. after all this time.

after postcards and silence and a hundred almost-memories you tried not to replay.

he was looking out into the crowd, past the lights, into the blur of people that you had somehow become a part of. and still, something in you reached for him. your fingers curled against your jacket, your breath caught halfway. you didn’t cry. not yet. you just kept staring, like maybe if you stayed very still, the universe would shift, and he’d look up, and see you. but he doesn’t see you. of course he doesn’t. you’re just one face in a crowd of thousands, too far up and too far back and too far gone. but when the last chorus of always starts, something in your chest breaks open anyway.

you hear him — clear, right through the echo and the noise. i know when i die, you’ll be on my mind, and i’ll love you, always.

your breath catches so hard you forget how to let it go.

your fingers find the edge of your seat. your knees lock, then unlock. and before you even know what you’re doing, you’re standing. slipping past yunjin’s knees, brushing yeonjun’s arm. you don’t look at either of them. you just go.

“where are you going?” yunjin’s voice follows you.

yeonjun chimes in too, confused. maybe a little annoyed. “dude. what—”

but you don’t answer. you can’t. you’re already down the stairs, already pushing through the hallway, the noise of the concert fading as you make your way out. the air outside is colder than you expected. your legs feel heavy. your hands are shaking, and you don’t stop walking until you’re alone. you take the long way home, even though the buses are still running. even though your shoes are not made for this. you walk like you’re trying to wear the feeling out of your body. like distance could make this less real.

and when you finally get to your apartment, you shut the door quietly behind you. you don’t turn on the lights. you just stand there, coat still on, bag still slung over your shoulder, and you let yourself feel it. you cry. you cry in that ugly, helpless way where your hands can’t keep up with your face, where your chest folds in on itself, where everything you’d been holding in since 1991 spills out like it never had anywhere to go. you cry because you saw him. because it’s been three years. because you didn’t know he would be there and now you don’t know how to be here without the weight of that moment pressed into your skin. and then you sit down on the floor, like your body doesn’t know what to do next.

you think about all the things that came flooding back the second you saw him: that christmas, the porch light, the sound of his voice in a letter, the way he used to rest his forehead against yours like it meant something. the lake house. the mixtape. the last kiss. you think about the letter he sent before it all went quiet. the way he said i still think about you, and how you never answered. you think about the day you heard someone else say his name and pretended it didn’t knock the air out of you.

you think about how, even after all this time, you still knew his voice the second you heard it. and somewhere under all of that, buried deep in the ache, there’s something like pride. because he made it. you always knew he could. he was good, really good. not just at guitar, but at meaning what he played. and now here he is, sharing a stage with one of the biggest bands in the world. and sounding like he belongs there. you’re happy for him. you are. but it still hurts. not because you wanted him to stay, but because some part of you never expected to lose him like this. not so completely.

you wipe your face with the sleeve of your jacket. pull your knees up to your chest. the room is quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of a light somewhere down the hall. and in the middle of all that silence, your heart keeps repeating the same question, over and over. does he ever think of you when he sings it? you don’t know. maybe you’ll never know.

but tonight, for a moment, you were eighteen again. and that’s almost worse than forgetting.

you wake up with your face still puffy, the inside of your mouth dry, and the memory of always still echoing in your chest. you sit on the kitchen floor with yesterday’s clothes and a cold cup of coffee, and you think, i’ll just move on. you don’t mean to say anything about it. you don’t wake up planning to talk. but then there’s a knock and it’s yunjin, holding a paper bag and looking like she already knows you’re not okay. yeonjun’s behind her, carrying takeout cups and wearing his we come in peace t-shirt that always makes you laugh, even when you don’t want to.

they don’t press at first. they come in, settle onto your couch, act like it’s any other morning. yunjin puts music on low — something soft, r.e.m. — and yeonjun turns on the kettle like he lives there. you sit cross-legged on the floor in your hoodie, and after a few minutes of silence, yunjin says, “you didn’t come back.”

and that’s when it breaks, and you tell them everything. not the whole thing. not every letter, not every tape, not the lake or the kiss or the way he once said you make things feel easy. but enough for them to understand that it wasn’t just the shock of seeing him. it was everything around it. the time, the loss, the space between who you were and who he is now. they don’t interrupt. they don’t try to fix it. yeonjun just nods, real slow, and mutters, “damn.” yunjin reaches over and squeezes your hand.

hours pass, blurring into a quiet afternoon of them helping you pack away some of the memories, pausing only to put on some mindless show. they don't stay too long after that. eventually, they get up and start talking about dinner, about how you're going out whether you like it or not, and you let them take you along because the apartment feels too full of memory, and because they're trying, and because you've always been better at pretending when someone else is watching.

the diner they pick is on the corner near the old bookstore, the neon sign flickers a little, and you feel something in your chest settle as soon as you sit down. yunjin and yeonjun are talking, laughing quietly about someone from class, their legs brushing under the table in that way that makes you suspicious. they’re trying to act normal, but there’s something too soft in the way she hands him the salt. you watch them out of the corner of your eye, chewing on your straw, and finally smile for real for the first time all day.

but after a while, the noise gets too much again. you excuse yourself, and step out the front door, letting it shut behind you with a soft click. the sky’s dark now, but not cold. the street’s mostly empty and silent, except for a few cars passing, the occasional sound of a skateboard or a laugh from somewhere around the corner. you reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crushed pack of cigarettes. one left. figures. you picked this habit up during finals last year. felt cool. felt like the end of a music video, like it did in the 80s. but now, in the 90s, they say it’ll kill you. but it shuts everything up for a second. so.

you don’t know how long you stand there like that, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting the night breathe around you. and then headlights hit the pavement, a car pulls into the lot — dark green, polished, the kind of old-school cool that feels deliberate but not forced. it’s a 1992 chevy camaro z28, all angles and muscle, the kind of car a guy buys when they’re not quite ready to settle down.

you watch without thinking. the door opens. a guy steps out, tall, black jacket, looks vaguely familiar. another follows, laughing, pulling off a beanie. you know them. not well. not personally. but you recognize them. because you’ve seen them before.

on stage.

the third door opens slower.

and there he is.

jay.

he steps out like he’s unsure of the ground under him. same flannel, sleeves rolled, hair a little shorter now, but still him. still the same shape of boy you kissed once in a field of stars, the same voice on every tape you kept hidden in your drawer.

he’s looking down at first, shoulders slightly hunched. and then he looks up. right at you. he freezes. you freeze too. for a second, maybe longer, neither of you moves.

the other guys are still talking, already walking toward the diner entrance. but jay doesn’t follow. he stays there, by the car, staring at you like you’re something he thought he made up. like seeing you breaks some rule. your cigarette burns down between your fingers. you forget to breathe. you forget to blink. and in the silence between one breath and the next, the years fold up like they never happened. it feels like you’re just two kids again.

the car door is still open behind jay, one of the other guys calling his name from a few steps ahead, not noticing, or maybe not caring, that he hasn’t followed. his eyes stay on you like they’re trying to make sure you’re not just a trick of the lights, something he pulled out of a dream too late at night. you don’t look away. you can’t.

he closes the door and takes a few steps forward. slow and careful, like you might run.

“hi,” he says, voice low, uncertain, like the word isn’t big enough for what he’s feeling.

“hi.” you say it back.

and then silence again. the kind that comes heavy and weird, pressing between the two of you like fog. you cross your arms. he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. a door opens somewhere behind you, someone laughs from inside the diner, but it doesn’t touch either of you. he clears his throat first.

“i forgot we were in your city,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “too many cities lately. i don’t even know what day it is half the time.”

you let out a small, dry laugh through your nose — not exactly mean, just tired. “yeah,” you say quietly. “i went to the show.”

his eyes widen a little, like the information hits harder than it should. “you—what?”

you nod once, slow. “i didn’t know you were part of the band. it was my friend’s idea. she dragged me out.” your voice is steadier than you expected. “i recognized your voice first. then i saw you.” he doesn’t say anything. his mouth opens slightly like he might, but nothing comes out. “you’re really good,” you add, softer this time. “i mean it.”

his shoulders drop a little. his mouth twists, not into a smile, exactly, but something close. “thanks.”

“i didn’t know you made it that far,” you say. “bon jovi.”

he exhales. his eyes are shining a little, and he looks down like he needs a second to get control of whatever’s happening inside him. “i didn’t know you’d be there.”

“me neither.”

he takes another step toward you. you don’t move. "i didn’t think i’d ever see you again," he says. his voice cracks at the end, just a little. "and now you’re here, you’re smoking."

you let out a low laugh, real this time. “yeah. turns out i have terrible coping mechanisms.”

he smiles, but it’s cautious. “i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for disappearing. for not writing. for—”

you hold up a hand, just slightly. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.” his voice is steady now. quiet, but clear. he’s still standing a foot away, but it feels like he’s closer than that. “i wanted to reach out a hundred times,” he continues. “but it felt like too much. or not enough. and then time just… passed.”

you nod, slowly. “yeah. it does that.”

he looks at you again, really looks this time, like he’s trying to see who you became. “you look good,” he says. “different, but not really.”

you smile, even though it hurts a little. “you too. the flannel’s still doing the heavy lifting though.”

he laughs, finally, and it breaks something between you. for a second, you let it be easy again. he tilts his head, eyes soft. “can i—are you okay?” you hesitate. then nod. “i don’t know what this is,” he says. “i don’t know if i have the right to even be talking to you right now. but i’m really glad i saw you.”

you swallow around the lump in your throat. “me too.”

he takes a breath like he might say more, but the diner door swings open then, and yunjin leans out. “hey—are you—”

she sees him, and freezes. then looks at you. then back at him. her mouth opens like she wants to say something but she wisely doesn’t. “i’ll give you a minute,” she says, disappearing back inside without another word. you and jay both laugh under your breath at the same time. and just like that, it’s quiet again. he takes one more step forward, close enough now that you can see the curve of his lashes, the slight stubble on his jaw, his birth mark on the side of his neck. the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“can i give you a hug?” he asks, voice soft. unsure.

you nod. barely, but it’s enough. he moves toward you and wraps his arms around you, carefully at first, then tighter, like something in him breaks open when you don’t pull away. and you sink into it. not because you want to, but because your body does before your mind can think twice. his arms are strong, warmer than you remember. he smells like the kind of cologne you’d smell on someone walking by backstage, faint smoke and something sharp underneath it, but it’s still him, still familiar. you bury your face against his shoulder, and neither of you says anything for a long time. he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. doesn’t let go.

“i think about you a lot,” he says, voice rough. “still.” you meet his eyes, breath shaky. he continues, “some songs... i write thinking about you. i don’t mean to. it just happens.”

you blink hard, chest tight again. “i liked always,” you say. “it’s a good one.”

he looks down, just a second. his hand still resting on your back. “yeah, i wrote that one,” he says. you stare at him for a beat. he shrugs a little. doesn’t say if he wrote that one thinking about you. but his eyes say more than his mouth ever could. you look away first. try to breathe again.

“how’s jungwon?” he asks suddenly, gently shifting the weight of the conversation.

you smile, genuine. “he’s good. third year. studying architecture. i don’t know where that came from.”

“he always liked building stuff. remember that weird tower he made out of cereal boxes?”

you laugh quietly. “yeah. and glue sticks. and half the living room rug.”

he smiles at that. the kind of smile that aches. “i missed him. i miss home sometimes.”

you nod. “me too.”

he looks at you again. more carefully this time. “what about you? last year, right?”

“yeah. almost done.”

“how’s it been?”

you shrug. “busy. normal. lonely, sometimes. i live alone now.”

he opens his mouth to answer, but the door behind him swings open again. two guys step out, the same ones from the car. one of them grins when he sees jay and calls out, “hey, you coming in or what?”

jay glances at them, then back at you. “i’ll be in soon,” he says. “ran into a long-time... friend.”

the pause in the middle of the sentence hangs there. not heavy. just strange. like both of you noticed it, but neither wants to name it. the other guy raises his eyebrows a little but doesn’t ask anything. they head back inside. the silence creeps back in. the door opens behind you this time. “hey,” yunjin says, stepping out. “we’re heading out. you coming?” yeonjun follows, one hand casually linked with hers. they both look at you, curious but not nosy, like they know enough not to ask. you glance at them, then at jay. then back.

you shake your head. “i think i’ll stay.”

yunjin squeezes your arm, just once, and nods. yeonjun just smiles, like he expected that answer all along. they wave as they walk away, hands still linked, disappearing around the corner. you turn to jay. he doesn’t say anything. just watches you. waiting. and somehow, without a word, you both understand the next step.

and that's when jay thinks about everything that happened in the last three years. he didn’t mean for it to happen the way it did.

at first, he thought he could balance everything — school, the band, writing, you. he really thought he could make it all work. but time moved differently back then. and he was always chasing something. a setlist. a deadline. a bus that left too early or too late. the band got serious quicker than any of them expected. one night they were playing to twenty drunk kids in someone’s garage and the next they were opening for someone bigger, someone with real equipment and real fans. people started showing up. listening. remembering his name. it was addictive but also terrifying. 

college faded into the background. it didn’t make sense anymore. he stopped going to most of his classes. said he’d take a semester off, then another. his parents were furious at first. called it reckless. stupid. said he was wasting potential. but then they came to a show. just one. they saw the way the crowd reacted, the way he moved with his guitar like it was part of him, like the music wasn’t something he made but something he became. after that, they softened. not completely, not all at once, but enough.

he kept going. city after city. song after song. sleeping in vans, missing birthdays, forgetting what day it was. he lost track of holidays. of phone calls. of you.

but he thought about you all the time. 

he thought about you when the van was too quiet and everyone else was asleep. he thought about you when he saw lights flickering in some motel parking lot and it reminded him of that night in the lake. he thought about you when he wrote something too soft, too raw, and didn’t know why it mattered until your name crossed his mind halfway through the chorus. he thought about you every time they played near your state and he almost said something to the manager. almost asked if you’d be there. he thought about you every time he rewound that tape you gave him, the one with your handwriting on the cover and that one song you swore would always make you think of summer.

he started writing that last letter months before he sent it. scratched out versions of it in different notebooks, napkins, corners of lyric sheets. tried to get the words right and never did. everything sounded like a lie, or worse, like a goodbye. and he didn’t want it to be that. but he also didn’t know how to keep pretending it wasn’t over. and when he finally wrote it, he kept it folded in his bag for three days before mailing it. didn’t sleep that night. didn’t tell anyone. he didn’t expect you to write back. but part of him always hoped you would.

he told himself he was doing what he was meant to do. that the trade-off was worth it. that this life — the shows, the travel, the applause — it had to be enough. but then the lights would go down at the end of a set, and someone would ask if he was coming out for drinks, and he’d find himself standing by the door too long, thinking of you. of your voice. of how you said maybe when he asked you to come see him play. he told himself you were probably happy. probably better off. probably didn’t think about him the same way anymore.

and then, three years later, he walked out of a car in a city he didn’t even realize was yours. and there you were, smoking a cigarette, looking at him like he’d never really left. like he was still someone you knew. and everything inside him just stopped. because it had been three years, and somehow, it still felt like you were the only part of his life that had ever been quiet enough to feel real.

he watches your friends walk away until they’re out of sight. the parking lot quiets down again, humming with the low buzz of neon and leftover conversation.

he turns to you. “do you wanna get out of here?” he asks, like it’s nothing. like it’s not everything.

you look at him for a second. just long enough for it to matter. “yeah,” you say. “i do.”

he nods, like he wasn’t expecting a yes. like part of him already had one foot back inside the diner. you both start walking toward the car, the one he came in, but he hesitates. “this isn’t mine,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. early. that’s the drummer’s car.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down for a second before glancing at you again. “my car’s at the hotel. about twenty minutes that way.”

“my place is closer. we can walk, if you want.” you don’t know why you say it. not exactly. the words come out easy, but they sit strange in your chest. there’s no plan. no reason. no expectation. just this pull that says don’t let him go yet.

he nods. “okay.”

the walk starts quiet. the streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet you only get in a small city late at night. the air is cooler now and makes your skin feel too tight. you pull your jacket tighter around you. he notices. he doesn’t say anything. just steps a little closer. your shoulders brush, just slightly. neither of you moves away. you pass under a streetlamp. it hums above you. you glance at him out of the corner of your eye — his jawline in the yellow light, the way his hands are still tucked into the sleeves of his flannel like he’s holding something in.

“i don’t know what to say to you,” you admit quietly. not looking at him.

“me neither,” he says, almost instantly. “it’s weird.”

“yeah.”

“but not bad.”

you glance up at him but he’s already looking at you. you nod. “no. not bad.”

you don’t speak again for a while. the silence between you isn’t empty, though. it’s full of everything you both remember and everything you’re both afraid to ask. every few steps, your arms brush again. sometimes your hands, and it doesn’t feel like an accident. but it doesn’t feel like a decision either.

you turn onto your street, point out the building without saying anything. he follows you up the front steps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear your keys in your hand before you realize you took them out. you stop in front of the door. and that’s when it really settles in — the closeness. the possibility. the strangeness of all of this.

you haven’t seen him in years, you barely know him now, but you used to. you really, really used to. and standing here, in front of your door, you’re not sure which version of him is looking back at you — the boy you kissed in the dark, or the man who sang backup on a stadium stage. maybe both. maybe neither.

you unlock the door with a quiet click, push it open slowly, and step inside first. you don’t turn on the overhead light, just the small lamp by the bookshelf. your place smells like lavender and the faint trace of the incense you burned the night before. you kick off your shoes, he copies you. he steps in carefully, like he’s not sure if he should be there, like he might break something by breathing too loud. his eyes move slowly across the room — the record player near the window, a stack of books with a coffee mug balanced on top, a blanket half-fallen from the couch.

he lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. “you made it look like you.”

you glance at him, eyebrow raised. “what does that mean?”

he shrugs, walking a little deeper into the room. “i don’t know. it just... feels like you live here. it’s not just a space. it’s yours.”

you smile, small. close the door behind him. “thanks, i think.”

he turns back toward the shelf, fingertips brushing over the spines of the books, the edge of a candle, the side of your old walkman. he pauses. his hand stops at a cassette case, faded, slightly cracked at the corner, label smudged from years of being touched. he pulls it out gently. the handwriting is his.

he looks at you, eyes soft. “you kept this?”

you nod, slow. “yeah.”

he stares at it for a second longer, then sets it back down, careful. when he turns back toward you, his face is quieter than before, like something's settled. “do you... wanna talk?” he asks. his voice isn’t pushing. just curiosity and hope. “like—about everything. put things in order.”

you blink once, then nod. slow. “if you want to,” you say. “if you’re comfortable.” he nods too, eyes still on you. you motion to the couch, then the kettle. “you can sit, or make tea, whatever makes it feel easier. make yourself at home.” he lets out a little breath at that, the corner of his mouth tugging into a barely-there smile. he sits on the couch and watches as you move through the space. you light the kettle on the stove. he watches your hands. “so,” you say eventually, turning back to face him, leaning against the counter. “how did you end up playing with bon jovi?”

he huffs out a breath, eyes widening slightly. “honestly? i still don’t totally know.”

you raise an eyebrow and he shrugs. “you auditioned?”

he nods. “twice. the second time, i played a song i wrote. didn’t say it was mine. they figured it out later. he liked that too.” he pauses. “it happened fast. i didn’t expect it.”

you tilt your head. “but you wanted it.”

“yeah,” he says, looking down at his hands. “i think i did. i mean, of course i did. we were opening for a few mid-sized acts. nothing huge. a guy who did lighting for their crew saw us in a club, told someone higher up that our guitarist was ‘some kid with way too much emotion in his fingers.’” he rolls his eyes at that. “i guess jon liked that.” you walk over slowly, curling your legs under you as you sit across from him. he shifts just slightly to face you. “so,” he says, matching your tone. “what about you? how were the last three years?”

you hesitate. not because you don’t have answers — but because none of them feel simple. you shrug. “good in pieces.” he watches you for a second. not pushing, but not letting the question disappear completely either. you offer a half-smile. “i don’t think i figured anything out, if that’s what you’re asking.”

he nods. “i wasn’t.”

a quiet settles in again. and then he says suddenly: “i missed you.” with no hesitation. like the words had been sitting too long and couldn’t stay still anymore.

you really look at him. “i missed you too.”

his eyes soften again. he leans forward just slightly, elbows on his knees. “sometimes i used to wonder if i made it all up. that summer. the way we were. if i just remembered it better than it really was.”

you shake your head, sure. “you didn’t.”

“you were always in the back of my mind,” he says. “even when i didn’t want to admit it. especially then.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. “i thought about you a lot. more than i wanted to.”

you both sit in it for a moment — the weight of three years, of silence, of almosts that never got their ending. the kettle starts to hiss, soft and steady in the background, but neither of you moves. he leans back a little, one arm draped lazily across the back of the couch, his hand only inches from your shoulder now. “i thought maybe we’d bump into each other again. and i hated that. the idea that it’d take chance, not effort.”

“but you’re here,” you say, quiet.

“yeah.” he breathes out. “and i don’t want to leave this time without doing it right.”

you glance at him. “i don’t know what doing it right means,” you admit.

he smiles, eyes tired and full. “me neither. but we could try.”

you look down at your hands, then at his fingers brushing slightly against the fabric of the couch. your heart’s louder now. you nod, barely. “we could try.”

you don’t know when it happens exactly, the shift. maybe it’s the quiet. maybe it’s the way the room’s only lit by the soft glow of the lamp. maybe it’s the weight of his words still floating between you. but suddenly, you’re looking at him, really looking at him, and he’s already looking at you. his gaze doesn’t move — not to your hands, not to the floor like it used to when he got nervous. it’s steady now, like he’s memorizing something. like he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. your heart stumbles a little. and neither of you looks away, and the moment stretches. his knee is brushing yours. his hand still resting on the couch cushion. your whole body feels too aware of itself — your fingers, your lips, your throat. 

the kettle screams.

you both flinch, not much, just enough to break the spell, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“right,” you say, standing up quickly. “tea.”

he stays on the couch, watching you move across the room. you flick off the stove, pour the water into the mugs you grabbed earlier. you add honey to yours, then add some to his, too. you bring the mugs back, hand him his. he smiles when he takes it. that same crooked, tired smile you remember.

you sit again, curled into your side of the couch, feet tucked under you. “so,” you say, gently blowing over the rim of your cup. “rockstar life, huh?”

he really laughs, for the first time tonight. “i mean, it’s not exactly groupies and private jets,” he says. “sometimes it’s tuna sandwiches at truck stops and sharing hotel rooms with people who snore like they’re dying.”

you snort. “glamorous.”

“deeply.”

“do you like it?”

he thinks for a moment. “i do. most days. some days it’s exhausting. some days i feel like i’m just chasing noise.”

you nod, sip your tea. “do you ever get lonely?” you ask, quiet.

he looks at you. “yeah,” he says. “a lot more than i thought i would.”

you both finish your tea slowly, the conversation drifting here and there. small questions, quiet answers, tiny pieces of each other being carefully returned. it’s not like before. but it’s not not like before either. 

you place your mug down gently on the coffee table. he does the same. your hands brush. just barely. you start to move yours away out of instinct, but then you feel his fingers wrap gently around your wrist. you look up. he’s already looking at you again. his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, where your pulse is loud. louder than you want it to be.

he leans in, not quite closing the space, but almost. “you still do that thing,” he says, voice low. “twist the sleeve of your sweater when you’re nervous.”

you glance down at your hand. he’s right. you look back up at him. his face is so close now you can see the faint scar near his eyebrow, the one from when jungwon pushed him off his bike in eighth grade. you could reach for him. you could close the distance. you could kiss him. 

you don’t move, not at first. you just sit there, watching him, feeling his hand warm against your wrist, his thumb brushing once against your skin like he’s asking something without saying it. the distance between you is nothing now, and he’s close enough that you can see the way his lashes fan downward, the faint crease between his brows, the softness in his expression that wasn’t there when he first stepped out of that car. his hand moves slowly, from your wrist to your jaw, fingertips grazing up the side of your neck. his touch is careful, your breath catches, and he feels it, you know he does, but he doesn’t stop. his palm settles against your cheek, his thumb resting just below your eye.

he tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking down to your mouth, and then he leans in. his lips meet yours in a kiss that feels like an exhale, full of everything that’s gone unsaid. he kisses you like he’s afraid to startle you, like he’s still checking if you’ll let him stay. and you do, you kiss him back without hesitation, your hand moving to his chest like you need something to hold onto. his breath hitches and he shifts closer, legs brushing yours, the heat of his body pulling you in. his other hand moves to your waist, anchoring. you tilt your head, your lips parting under his, and that’s when the kiss deepens.

you feel him everywhere — in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the press of his chest against yours, in the gentle sound he makes when you pull him in a little closer. the world narrows. the couch disappears. the years fall away. there’s only him, only this, only the you falling into together like no time has passed at all.

when he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, he doesn’t go far. his forehead rests against yours. your noses brush. his hand stays on your cheek. your eyes stay closed.

“i’ve wanted to do that since i saw you standing outside the diner,” he says, voice low, breath warm against your skin. “actually, since before that.”

you smile, overwhelmed, a little breathless. “i know.”

you open your eyes to find his already on you. wide, tender, shining. “i didn’t think i’d ever get the chance again,” he adds.

you reach up, fingers finding the side of his neck. “you have it now.”

and he kisses you again, no pause this time. his mouth finds yours with more confidence now, more feeling. the way you mold into him is instinctive, your hand slides up into his hair, his fingers spread across your back. the kiss is soft, but it’s not shy. every press of his lips says i missed you, every shift of your body says i’m still here.

his lips don’t leave yours for long. there’s no rush, but there’s urgency, not of time, but of want. of having waited too long and not knowing how to say it any other way. his hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair. he shifts closer, his body pressing into yours with a kind of hesitation that disappears as soon as you don’t stop him. your knees bump. your hands move without thinking, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. you feel the weight of him then — not just the physical, but everything he’s holding. 

he leans into you, and you lean back, and the cushions give under your weight as he gently guides you down, your back meeting the couch, his body following. he hovers over you for just a moment, eyes meeting yours like he’s asking again, silently, if this is okay. and you answer the only way you can: you pull him in.

his mouth finds yours with more fire this time. it’s still careful, still steady, but there's a heat now that wasn't there before, something that builds in the way he presses you into the couch, the way his hand finds your waist, the way he exhales against your lips. you feel the weight of his body above you, his knee slipping between yours, the warmth of him sinking into your skin. your hands explore him like you’re tracing something familiar and new at the same time — the slope of his shoulder, the nape of his neck, the muscles shifting under your palms.

he pulls back just slightly, mouth still close, breath catching as he looks down at you, and then he says it, voice low and rough and full of awe, “god, you’re so beautiful.” you inhale sharply, eyes locking with his. he kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. “always were,” he murmurs between kisses. his lips trail lower, grazing your neck, making your whole body tighten. “you don’t even know what you do to me,” he whispers.

your breath hitches. your fingers tighten around his back. he kisses you again, deeper this time, the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. every shift of his body against yours makes your skin burn in the best way. there’s something new here, a closeness that’s never been touched before, but was always waiting. you find it overwhelming, but it’s not scary.  his hands move to your hips, grounding you, holding you like he doesn’t want to let go — like he couldn’t, even if he tried. his fingers dig in just slightly, and it sends a shiver through your body. you exhale, a soft, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out, and he hears it.

he kisses you harder. his mouth pressing into yours like he’s starving for it now. you feel his tongue slide against yours and you moan softly into his mouth, and that’s when you feel his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, skin against skin, warm and steady and reverent. he groans when he touches you. low, like it’s involuntary, like just feeling you beneath his hands undoes something in him. you reach up and tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging gently, messing it up in a way that makes him hiss under his breath. he leans into it, hips pressing forward, his body sinking further into yours, like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. his knee shifts between your thighs, pressing in. you don’t know if he means to do it or if it’s just instinct, but it sends a wave of heat through your core that makes your back arch slightly into him. you let out a breathless moan and your hips twitch without meaning to, and he feels it. his breath stutters, his hands holding tighter.

“fuck,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “you make the prettiest sounds.”

you let out another soft, shaky moan when his thigh presses in again, more deliberate this time, like he’s testing something, like he’s trying to see how far he can take you with just this. your head spins. his hands slide further up under your shirt, fingers spreading across your waist, his palms dragging up the bare skin of your stomach. you gasp softly when the cool air of the room hits the warmth of your skin, and he leans back just enough to look at you. his lips are parted. his eyes heavy and full of something dark and warm and wanting.

“can i take this off?” he asks, voice low, almost careful. “just your shirt.”

you nod, but it’s not enough — you’re already whispering, “yeah. yes. it’s okay.”

he lifts it slowly, his fingers brushing your ribs, the fabric sliding up over your head and landing somewhere behind the couch. his eyes drop to you, his gaze moving over your chest, your stomach, the way your skin is flushed and rising with every breath.

“jesus,” he breathes out, more to himself than to you. “you’re... fuck.”

you can’t look away from him. the way he’s looking at you, like he’s not sure if he should touch you or fall to his knees, makes your whole body ache. he leans in again, this time slower. he kisses your collarbone. the center of your chest. his hands still holding your waist, guiding you gently as his mouth maps a path down the center of you. your hips move again, and his thigh finds its place between yours, pressing up, grinding just enough to pull another sound from you, one that surprises even you.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your skin, one hand sliding up to cup your ribcage. “just like that. let me hear you.”

you feel it all. his body above yours, your legs tangled under him. the weight of his thigh against your center, the warmth of his mouth, the hands that can’t seem to stop touching you. you don’t know where this is going yet — not fully — but right now, it’s everything. right now, it’s his breath on your skin, your hands in his hair, your lips swollen from kissing him over and over again. it’s the years that fell away the second he touched you. it’s the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense.

his hands never stop moving, dragging along your sides, your stomach, and he leans back just slightly, just enough to take you in again, his eyes dark and full of something that makes your skin heat under the weight of it. his fingers slide up one strap of your bra and down your arm, until the thin band slips from your shoulder. he presses his mouth there immediately — warm kisses, one after the other, his lips brushing over the new skin, then he bites gently, just enough to make you gasp, and he groans at the sound.

you moan softly, helplessly, when his mouth gets close to your breast, and that’s when he stops. just for a second. he lifts his head and looks down at you, breathing heavy, his hands still firm on your waist.

“do you really want this?” he asks, voice low and serious.

you nod right away, then say it out loud, because you want him to hear it. “i’ve been waiting for this for a really long time, actually.”

his eyes flash, jaw tightening, like the words hit deeper than they should. he groans, low in his throat, and then he’s on you again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, and you feel his breath, warm and fast, as he speaks between kisses. “yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough. “what exactly have you been waiting for?”

you let out a breathy laugh, your fingers digging into his back without thinking, and whisper, “i was waiting for you to make me yours.”

he curses under his breath, something sharp and guttural, and you barely have time to react before he’s reaching behind you, tugging your bra down with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin. “fuck,” he mutters, eyes locked on yours. “i’m gonna make you mine, then.”

his touch changes — still gentle, but firmer now, more certain. he cups your breast like he’s wanted to for years, his thumb brushing your nipple before he leans in and takes it into his mouth. your back arches without meaning to, a moan slipping out of your lips as your hand flies to his hair again, pulling slightly, needing something to hold onto. he groans into your skin, the vibration making you shiver. his other hand slides under your back, supporting you, keeping you close. your hips roll instinctively beneath him, your legs parting more, needing more of him everywhere. your nails drag across his back, not too hard, but enough to make him breathe harder, to make him growl softly against your chest.

“so fucking perfect,” he murmurs. “can’t believe you’re really here. can’t believe i get to touch you like this.”

his voice is raw now, every word soaked in years of longing and frustration and heat. and you’re melting under him, body buzzing, mind gone, skin on fire. his mouth is still on your breast, warm and wet, his tongue circling your nipple in slow, maddening strokes before he sucks it into his mouth again. and while he’s doing it, you feel him shift his hips down into you, slow and deliberate, grinding his hardness right where you need him most.

your whole body jerks in response, hips tilting up into him, a sharp, breathless moan leaving your lips before you can stop it. his thigh is still between your legs, but now his cock is pressing right against your core, even through the layers of clothing — and it’s too much, not enough, exactly what you’ve been aching for. he keeps moving his hips, slow, hard, dragging himself against you like he knows exactly how close you are to falling apart.

you whimper again, high and needy, your hands clutching at his shoulders, at his back, at anything you can reach. “jay,” you breathe, voice thin and shaky, “please.”

he pauses, not pulling away, just lifting his head slightly from your chest to look at you. his eyes are dark, pupils blown, lips parted and wet. “please what, love?” he asks, his voice low and rough and teasing. he knows. of course he knows. but he wants to hear it.

you stare up at him, completely undone and open. “i want you,” you whisper. “i want you so bad it hurts.”

his breath leaves him in a rough exhale, and before you can say anything else, his hands are on your waist, lifting you and pulling you up onto his lap, your thighs straddling him, your chest still bare against his flannel. you can feel how hard he is now, pressed right between your legs, and the friction makes your head spin.

he kisses you hard, deep and messy, all teeth and tongue and want, and then he pulls back just enough to murmur, “tell me where.”

you blink, dazed. “bedroom. down the hall. second door.”

he stands with you still wrapped around him like it’s nothing, like he was meant to carry you. you hold onto him, arms around his neck, mouth brushing his jaw as he moves fast, focused, straight down the hall. he kicks the door open gently with his foot and walks you inside, setting you down carefully on the bed like you’re something he doesn’t want to drop, like he’s still trying to be careful even when he’s about to lose control.

“fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you as he stands over the edge of the bed. “look at you.”

he crawls over you slowly, hands braced on either side of your head, and starts pressing kisses to your skin again — your jawline, your cheek, the soft space behind your ear, down your throat. every kiss is hot, open-mouthed, a little desperate. he whispers between them, voice hoarse.

“so perfect.”

“been dreaming of this.”

“can’t believe i get to have you like this.”

his hands roam over your ribs, your sides, your thighs. his body never leaves yours. every part of him is pressed to you, and you’re burning, pulsing, so far gone you can barely form thoughts. your fingers dig into his back, his arms, his hair, anywhere you can pull him closer. you moan again when he kisses the space between your breasts, grinding into you through his jeans, and he growls softly at the sound, kissing lower, biting gently at your hipbone.

“gonna make you feel so fucking good,” he whispers against your skin. “gonna take my time with you. finally.”

you arch into him, legs falling open wider, and he groans, pulling back just enough to look at you — all flushed and panting beneath him, your eyes glassy, lips kiss-swollen.

“you’re mine tonight,” he says, voice wrecked. “every inch of you.”

you nod, breathless, your whole body trembling. “i’m yours,” you whisper.

and that’s all he needs. he pulls back just enough to sit on his knees between your legs, breathing hard, his hands moving to the buttons of his flannel. his eyes don’t leave yours as he pulls it off slowly, letting the fabric fall to the floor beside the bed. underneath, there’s just a worn black t-shirt and you watch, wide-eyed and barely breathing, as he lifts the hem and peels it off too.

he’s lean, all muscle and sharp lines, but not in a showy way. more like someone who’s lived in his body, worked in it, played night after night with a guitar strapped across his chest. his stomach is tight, his arms strong, his collarbones prominent in the low light. and god, he’s beautiful. you swallow, your fingers twitching against the sheets, and he sees the way you react to him, the way your eyes move over every inch of his chest like you can’t help it. like you’ve been thinking about this too long not to stare now that he’s finally in front of you like this.

he smirks, just a little. not cocky. just knowing. “you okay, love?” he asks, voice low and teasing.

you nod quickly, your lips parting around a soft gasp when he leans down again, mouth ghosting over your collarbone. “you’re even better than i imagined,” you whisper, like it slips out before you can stop it.

he groans at that, something low and deep, and kisses you again, slow and hot and full of tongue, before he starts moving lower. his hands find your waist again, fingers sliding under the hem of your pants. he kisses your stomach once, just above the waistband, then looks up at you through his lashes.

“can i?” he asks, voice a little rough now, like he’s holding back.

you nod, and your voice is small but certain. “yeah. please.”

he hums like the answer physically affects him, and starts pulling your pants down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs, down your calves, until they’re gone. you’re left in just your underwear, legs spread for him, chest rising and falling fast, and he sits back for a second just to take it in. he lets out a sharp, helpless sound when he sees you.

“fuck, baby,” he says, eyes roaming. “look at you.”

his hands come to your thighs, thumbs brushing the inside where your skin is already hot and shaking. he leans in, kisses one side gently, then the other — slow, open-mouthed kisses to the softest parts of you, places no one’s ever touched the way he does now. his lips find the crease of your thigh, right where it meets your center, and you gasp, your hips jumping slightly. he chuckles against your skin, breath hot.

he kisses you through your underwear next, a soft press of his mouth right where you need him most, and it makes your entire body jolt. you whine, your hand flying to his hair, tugging lightly. he moans at the contact, at the scent of you, his nose pressing lightly against the fabric. and then he breathes you in, slow and deep.

“jesus,” he mutters against you. “you smell so fucking good.” his hands tighten on your thighs. he presses another kiss through the damp fabric, then another, dragging it out, letting you feel every bit of the tease. your hips roll again, trying to get more, chasing the heat of his mouth, and he just smiles. “fuck, baby, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says softly, almost like he’s in awe. 

you can’t respond, not with real words, just a soft, shaky moan and your fingers digging deeper into his hair as he keeps kissing between your legs, building the pressure, praising you under his breath like it’s a prayer. your legs are trembling now, thighs twitching with every breath. he groans into you, deep and low, like he’s losing his mind just from being this close. then his hands slide up your thighs, slow and firm, curling around your hips as he pulls his mouth back just enough to look at you.

“can i take these off?” he asks, voice dark and tender at the same time, like he’s already halfway gone.

you nod fast, desperate, breathless. “please.”

he hums at the way you say it, like you’re giving him everything he’s ever wanted. and then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of your underwear, and pulls. he watches as he drags them down your legs, never breaking eye contact for too long. he tosses the fabric aside without care, like nothing matters but you now, here, like this. his eyes drop to your core, and he groans, deep in his chest. “fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet already.”

your cheeks burn, but you don’t hide. you can’t, not when he looks at you like that, like you’re sacred. 

he kisses your thighs again, then lower. kisses your mound. kisses the soft skin right beside where you need him most. teasing, worshipping. and then finally he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe from your entrance up to your clit. your whole body arches. your hand flies to his hair again and you let out a sound that’s not even a moan — just a desperate breath, cut short by how hard it hits.

he groans into you. “that’s it,” he murmurs, licking again, slower this time. “that’s what i wanted.”

his hands slide under your thighs and hold you open, steady, as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue moves like he knows you already, like he’s been dreaming about this for years — licking, sucking, teasing. he focuses on your clit in soft, steady circles, then moves down, tongue fucking you, groaning every time you moan for him. you can’t stop moving. your hips grind against his mouth, your thighs tense, your stomach pulling tight. and he just holds you there, letting you fall apart in his hands.

“you taste so good, baby,” he whispers between strokes. “so sweet. fuck.”

you whimper, fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure building so fast you don’t know what to do with it. he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t even slow down. his mouth stays on you, perfect and hot and overwhelming, his hands holding your thighs open as he works you open with his tongue. when you moan his name again, sharp and breathless, “jay—,” he groans like it physically affects him, like it’s the only thing he ever wants to hear again.

“that’s it,” he says. “say my name again. let me hear you.”

every movement feels intentional — like he’s learning what makes you whimper, what makes your legs shake, what makes you cling tighter to his hair and moan his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known how to say. his mouth is relentless, warm and wet and perfect. his hands hold you firm like you might slip away if he lets go. the coil inside you is tightening fast now, heat building between your hips, up your spine, down your thighs. your whole body arches into him, and he groans at the way you move against his mouth.

“you’re doing so good for me, baby. come on. let go,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. you gasp, your fingers fisting the sheets now, eyes squeezed shut, heart pounding. and then his mouth sucks your clit just right and your whole body shatters. the orgasm hits hard.

your back arches off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat as the pleasure rolls through you in waves. your legs tremble, toes curling, thighs squeezing around his head, and he just keeps licking you through it, gentler now, helping you ride it out, coaxing every last bit of it from your body with his mouth. “fuck,” you breathe, over and over, your voice shaking.

he finally pulls back when you’re twitching, your body too sensitive, your breath caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh. he kisses your thighs again, affectionate, almost reverent, and then he sits up. his face is flushed, lips swollen, chin wet with you. he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. and then, slowly, he reaches down and undoes his jeans. you watch, still trembling, chest rising and falling too fast. your eyes follow his hands as he pushes the denim down his hips, revealing the outline of his cock through his boxers — hard, straining, undeniable. he kicks the jeans off, and then he just stands there for a second, breathless, staring down at you with something between hunger and awe.

he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still at the waistband of his boxers, pausing for a moment as his eyes roam over your face, your body, your chest rising and falling from the high he just gave you. you meet his gaze, and there’s something new in it now — something softer than before. not lust, not quite. something closer to reverence.

“i’ve thought about this,” he says, voice low, breath shaky. “so many times. more than i ever should’ve.”

you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek, fingers brushing along his jaw, grounding him. “me too.”

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second. then he kisses you again like he’s trying to tell you everything he can’t quite say out loud yet. you taste yourself on his tongue and you moan into his mouth. he pulls back just enough to whisper, “i missed you so fucking much—” his hips grind against yours through the thin fabric still between you, “you. all of you.”

“i missed you too,” you whisper, and it comes out raw and honest.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck. then he finally pushes his boxers down, and you feel the heat of him against your thigh, thick, hard and heavy. you look down and your mouth goes dry. it’s overwhelming, in the best way — not just the size of him, but what it means. that he’s here. with you, like this.

he moves between your legs, settling into the space that always felt like his, and pauses. “you sure?” he asks again, his voice quieter now. steadier.

“yes,” you say, without hesitation. “please.”

he groans, and reaches down, running the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in you. the pressure makes you gasp again, your hips twitching toward him, desperate to feel him where you’ve needed him most. he lines himself up, eyes never leaving yours, and then he pushes in slowly and carefully, letting you feel every inch as he stretches you open. your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your back arching, hands flying to his shoulders. he curses low under his breath, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut for a second.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you feel like heaven. you feel... fuck, baby.” your fingers dig into him as he bottoms out, buried completely inside you, and he stays there for a moment — not moving — just breathing with you, forehead resting against yours. “you okay?” he murmurs.

you nod. “perfect.”

​​he starts to move, slow at first, with deep, steady thrusts that make your breath stutter with every roll of his hips. the friction is perfect, the heat between you unbearable. every sound he makes — every grunt, every whisper of your name — pushes you closer to the edge again. his hands roam constantly, like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. he kisses you between thrusts, muttering things into your mouth like so fucking good, and i missed you, and you were always mine.

you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, tighter, and he groans like he’s breaking apart. his rhythm builds, his hips slamming into yours with more force, more urgency. it’s not rough, not careless, but it’s just that he needs this. needs you, every part of you, and you need him too. the sounds of skin and breath and moans fill the room, tangled with his name on your lips over and over again. “jay—fuck—”

he kisses you hard, messy and open-mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours as he pounds into you, the headboard knocking gently behind you, his hands everywhere. one grips your thigh, the other pressing into the mattress by your head. and then his hand moves up, fingers brushing your jaw, your lips, and you part them instinctively, letting him slide his thumb inside your mouth. he watches you as you suck on it, his eyes dark, mouth falling open. “jesus christ,” he breathes. “you’re... fuck.” 

you swirl your tongue around the pad of his thumb, moaning around it, and his hips stutter. he growls low, pulls it out, and brings that hand down to grip your waist as he fucks you harder and deeper, every thrust dragging against the sweetest spot inside you. “you feel so good,” he mutters, voice wrecked, barely coherent. “so fucking good. like you were made for me.” you cry out again, hips rocking to meet him, your nails raking down his back. your whole body tightens, thighs trembling, your second orgasm crashing close like a wave.

and then he says it, broken, breathless, true. “i loved you. all this time,” he gasps, pressing his forehead to yours, thrusts getting sloppy, more frantic. “i still fucking love you.”

you come undone with a cry — loud, raw, desperate. your whole body arches into him, clenching around his cock, dragging him down with you. you tremble under him, pleasure blinding, his name falling from your lips like prayer. he groans, deep and guttural, and pulls out at the last second, fisting his cock once, twice, before he comes with a growl, hot and thick across your stomach. he jerks in his own hand, breathing ragged, eyes locked on you as he spills everything onto your skin.

his forehead drops to your shoulder. his body trembles above you, he lets out a shaky breath, his lips brushing your neck. “mine,” he whispers. “you’re mine. you always were.”

you hold him close, heart pounding, your legs still wrapped around his waist. and for the first time in years, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s meant to be. you stay like that for a moment, his body heavy over yours, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders, your breath slowly returning to something close to normal. your skin is damp with sweat, your chest still rising and falling too fast, and you can feel his heartbeat against your ribs, loud and unsteady.

he doesn’t move right away. just presses his lips once, soft, against your neck, then your collarbone, then rests his forehead there like he can’t bear to let go of the closeness just yet. you slide your fingers up into his hair, brushing it gently back from his forehead, and whisper, “we’re a mess.”

he laughs, low and breathless, and lifts his head enough to look down at you. his gaze moves to your stomach, the evidence of him still there, and he hums, a little sheepish. “let me clean you up,” he murmurs. you nod, and he leans over the side of the bed, pulling a crumpled t-shirt from your laundry basket nearby — one of his, you realize, from years ago, soft and faded. he uses it carefully, wiping your stomach, being gentle like you’re fragile now, like he’s still not done taking care of you.

you watch him the whole time. the way his jaw clenches in focus, the way his hands move. the way he keeps stealing glances at your face, like he needs to check if you’re still with him. and when he’s done, he tosses the shirt aside and settles beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. you turn toward him instinctively, tucking yourself against his side, your leg draping over his hip, your hand resting flat on his chest. he wraps an arm around you and pulls you closer. skin to skin, warmth to warmth.

“you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, almost afraid of the quiet that’s settled around you both.

you nod, pressing a small kiss to his shoulder. “more than okay.”

there’s a pause, and he shifts a little, like he’s trying to find the right words. his fingers trace slow circles on your back, his breath even now, steady against your temple. “i meant what i said,” he murmurs eventually. you blink, and tilt your head to look at him. “about loving you,” he says. his voice doesn’t shake, but it’s quiet. like he’s scared to say it too loud, scared it’ll disappear if he does. “i didn’t know how to carry it back then,” he continues. “but i still love you, even after all this time.” you don’t interrupt, you let him speak.  “it never stopped,” he says. “not really. i loved you when i was writing songs in hotel rooms. i loved you when i saw your name on old letters and had to stop myself from riding to your city. i loved you when i stepped out of that car and saw you again for the first time.”

he turns fully toward you now, brushing your hair behind your ear. “and i love you right now,” he says. “more than i know how to explain.” your throat tightens and your eyes burn. you reach up, touch his face, and trace the line of his cheek with your thumb.

“i love you too,” you whisper. “always did.”

he leans in then, kisses you slow and soft. nothing rushed, nothing hungry, just love.

just all the things you both kept to yourselves for years, finally allowed to be spoken in the quiet of your room, under soft sheets and the faint hum of the city outside. you rest your head against his chest again, and he holds you tighter. 

“can we stay like this for a while?” you ask.

he kisses the top of your head. “as long as you want.”

and for the first time in a long time, there’s no distance. no almosts, no waiting.

and he sleeps over that night. not because you asked, not because he asked. just because neither of you ever considered the alternative.

you fall asleep tangled in each other, your leg over his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist, his breath steady against your neck. his skin is warm, even under the cool sheets, and at some point in the night, he murmurs something — too soft to catch — but it makes you smile in your sleep. when you wake up, the sun’s filtering through the blinds in thin lines, and he’s already awake.

he’s propped up on one elbow, watching you, hair messy, smile soft. “good morning,” he says, voice low, raspy from sleep.

you blink slowly, stretch a little, and smile back. “hi.”

he kisses your shoulder, then your cheek, then pulls you closer like he doesn’t want to leave the bed — like he could stay like this forever. but he can’t, and you both know that.

“i should get back to the hotel,” he says eventually, eyes apologetic. “they’re probably losing their minds trying to find me.”

you sigh, nestle into his chest for one more second. “what time’s the last show?”

“tonight,” he says. “city next over. it’s the end of the leg, then we get a few weeks off.”

you nod slowly. “you can use the phone,” you say, sitting up, brushing your hair back. “i don’t think it’s been used in days.”

he grins. “i missed landlines.” he pulls on his pants and shirt from the night before, pads barefoot to the phone in the corner of your living room, dialing a number from memory. you hear him talk to someone — probably the security guy — laughing a little, apologizing, promising he’ll be down in twenty. when he hangs up, he walks back toward you, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on the edges of your apartment like he wants to remember it exactly as it is. “they’ll be here soon,” he says, voice lower now. “i should go.”

you nod. try to smile, but it’s small. he watches you for a second. then steps closer. his hands land on your waist. his forehead rests against yours.

“come with me,” he says.

your heart stutters. “what?”

“just for the night. the last show. it’s nothing big. we’ll be back by morning. or—” he laughs softly, eyes still on yours. “we won’t. we’ll figure it out.”

you blink. “jay…”

“i know it’s sudden,” he says. “i know we haven’t figured out what this is. but i don’t care. i just want you there.” you hesitate. not because you don’t want to go — but because it feels big. because everything between you always has. he leans in closer, kisses the corner of your mouth. “come with me,” he says again. softer this time. “please.”

he looks at you, you look at him. and then you’re moving.

you spin around, nearly tripping over your own feet as you head to your bedroom, pulling open drawers, grabbing whatever you can — a pair of jeans, a toothbrush, your tape player. he laughs from the hallway, breathless, half in disbelief. “i’ll take that as a yes,” he calls out.

you yell back, “shut up and help me find my shoes.” he grins, already heading into your closet like he’s lived here forever. and just like that, you’re going.

before you leave, you scribble a note on the back of an envelope you found near the phone, the ink shaky from how fast you’re writing. you fold it in half and slide it under the mat by your door. 

yunjin, if you pass by here — went on tour with jay. just one night. back tomorrow. probably. maybe.

you don’t sign it. you don’t need to. she’ll know, and then you go. the drive to the next city is quiet at first. the windows rolled halfway down, your bag in the backseat, jay’s hand resting on your thigh the entire time. there’s music playing low on the radio — tom petty, bryan adams, someone you don’t catch — and the sky is the kind of gray that doesn’t mean rain, just distance. he looks over at you every few minutes like he still can’t believe you’re there. like he’s afraid to blink and find the passenger seat empty.

you get to the venue around three. the crew’s already setting up, cables and amps everywhere, the soundcheck halfway through. someone hands jay a setlist. someone else tells him where catering is. he keeps looking back at you like he’s trying not to lose you in the noise. you don’t get lost.

you follow him backstage, watch him tune his guitar, watch him run through scales absentmindedly with his eyes half on you. you sit on a speaker case and talk with one of the backup singers for half an hour about lip balm and tour food and how long the drives get between cities. you see the way the rest of the band looks at jay when he plays — the quiet respect, the ease, the way he’s earned his space up there. you don’t say anything. you don’t need to. and when the show starts, you watch it from the side of the stage. 

the lights are blinding. the bass shakes the floor. the crowd screams in waves, louder with every song. and he plays like he’s alive in a way you’ve never seen before, like every note is another word he doesn’t have to say out loud. you watch his fingers move across the strings, his head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. and all you can think is i’m so fucking proud of him. he looks at you once during a quiet moment between songs. you smile, he does too.

after the show, the band’s buzzing. half-dressed, towel-draped, beer-in-hand kind of buzzing. someone hands you both a drink. someone else tries to convince you to stay for another leg of the tour. you laugh it off. or maybe you don’t.

you end up in a hotel room around two in the morning. his guitar still in the corner, your makeup smudged, your voice a little hoarse from singing along. he presses his forehead to yours before you fall asleep, whispers, “you were my favorite part of today.” you don’t answer. you just kiss him.

the next morning, the world feels slower. the windows are fogged. the coffee tastes stronger. he sits on the edge of the bed, shirtless, one sock on, and glances at you like he’s thinking too hard. “you know,” he says, not looking up, “this could be a thing. you and me. doing this.”

you pull the sheet up over your chest, lean on your elbow. “you mean… shows? cities?”

he nods. finally meets your gaze. “yeah. if you wanted.”

you don’t answer right away. because maybe this was supposed to be one night. maybe you were supposed to go home in the morning. but maybe you won’t. you think about the noise, the lights, the music. about his hand on your thigh in the car. about his mouth on your skin the night before. about his voice saying “my favorite part of today.” so you look at him — hair messy, guitar pick still in his pocket, smile soft, and you think: maybe i could get used to this.

and your life changed a little after that day. not in the kind of way that people notice from the outside, not right away, but something shifted. you came back home feeling different. lighter, like someone who finally let herself say yes, like someone who wasn’t afraid of living anymore.

you graduated two months later. your cap didn’t sit right on your head and your gown was wrinkled from the car ride, but none of that mattered. not when you saw him in the crowd, leaning against the back railing, sunglasses on, biting back a grin when you caught his eye. he didn’t bring flowers. he brought his car. you hadn’t packed a bag. he didn’t ask if you wanted to go, and you didn’t ask where.

you watched a concert in a city you never thought you’d see, slept in a motel with pink walls and a broken ice machine, woke up to him humming something under his breath while brushing his teeth, one hand tangled in your hair like he couldn’t believe you were real. sometimes you went alone. just you and him. sometimes you brought a friend — yunjin once, who danced side stage like she’d been doing it her whole life, who whispered he’s so gone for you, you know that, right? into your ear after the show, and kissed your cheek before disappearing into the crowd.

sometimes you both passed through home. once, you and jay picked up jungwon for a weekend. no plan, just his overnight bag and your mixtape in the stereo. you ended up at the coast. jay let jungwon drive for part of the way, and you both screamed when he almost missed the exit. you slept three across in one bed, your feet tangled, your ribs hurting from laughing. jay played guitar on the porch of the tiny rental, barefoot and happy, and jungwon fell asleep with popcorn in his lap. 

no one talked about what it meant, but everyone felt it anyway.

you started carrying a small bag in the back of your closet, just in case. a toothbrush. a sweater. a cassette or two. he’d show up sometimes without warning, always leaning against the doorframe like he’d never left. “thought we could drive,” he’d say. and you’d go, you always went. you weren’t following him, you weren’t chasing anything. you were just there together making it up as you went along. saying yes to the kind of life that didn’t always fit in lines or schedules or plans. but fit him, and it fit you.

fit this version of love that moved, and stretched, and stayed. the summer blurred like that. with half-packed bags and gas station snacks, and hotel keys that never worked the first time. with sweat on your skin and his songs in your ears. with soft hands and sleepy grins and “come here” whispered into your neck in the backseat of his car at rest stops. with your feet up on the dashboard, and his fingers tracing your knee at red lights. it wasn’t perfect, but it was yours.

you got used to the rhythm. not just of the music, but of the life. sleeping in unfamiliar beds. brushing your teeth in gas station bathrooms. ordering breakfast in diners that smelled like the seventies and played the same four songs on repeat. you stopped asking where you were. stopped keeping track of state lines. stopped needing to define what you were doing. but you weren’t trying to escape anything, you just didn’t need to stand still anymore.

some mornings, you woke up to the sound of his guitar in the other room, already strumming something into shape. other mornings, he was still asleep, one hand wrapped around your waist, his face pressed into your shoulder like you were the softest thing he’d ever touched. there were fights, too. about timing, about exhaustion, about space. sometimes he shut down. sometimes you disappeared into the crowd before the encore. but every time, you found your way back. not with apologies, always — but with hands reaching in the dark. with quiet dinners. with the word stay whispered into your hair.

you made friends with the crew. with the other musicians. you had your own backstage pass, but mostly you stayed out of the way. you read books in the greenroom and  you painted your nails on the tour bus floor. you stole his hoodies, of course. you took pictures you never printed. and in every city, he kissed you like it was the first time. you never asked what would happen after the tour ended, and he never offered a version of forever. but something in you both knew that this, whatever this was, had already become part of your bones.

one night, after a show in a city that felt too loud even in the fading hours, you and jay found yourselves driving back to your hometown. not just a quick visit, but the kind of week where time stretches slow and familiar. you needed a break from the tour, from the noise. the car hummed softly down the old roads you both knew by heart. the tour bus felt miles behind you, like a distant memory. the car was small, just enough space for both of you and a couple of guitars resting in the backseat. you didn’t say much, but the silence was easy and comfortable. jay hummed a melody low enough that it was more felt than heard, his fingers tapping softly on the steering wheel like it was another instrument. you reached over and squeezed his hand without thinking, and he glanced at you, a soft smile playing on his lips, like he’d been waiting for that all night.

when you arrived at your parents’ house, your mom opened the door, and the second she saw you, her eyes welled up with tears, of course. your dad, teased as always, “didn’t think you’d grow at all while you were gone.” and even though it was the same old line, you could tell he meant every word, his voice warm with relief. jay stood beside you, shifting awkwardly at first, but your parents welcomed him like he’d been part of the family forever — not just jungwon’s best friend, but the one who made their daughter smile in a way they hadn’t seen before.

the days that followed were a patchwork of memories and new moments stitched together. you went back to the park where you and jay had found each other again after you left for college, trying to make sense of everything that had changed. the diner where you’d shared late-night fries and whispered secrets during winter break, the neon sign buzzing softly overhead, still humming the soundtrack of your youth. you stood by the lake where the sky had caught fire the night of your first kiss, the water reflecting the soft glow of twilight. and then there was his childhood bedroom, tucked away in the basement of his parents’ house, walls still lined with posters, a guitar resting against the bed, and a window that looked out onto the quiet street. you remember the night he played “just like heaven” on his guitar there, fingers trembling with a mix of nerves and hope. it was before he left for college, before the silence stretched long between you. that song, that moment, stayed in your chest like a promise, one you both carried through the years.

that week, wrapped in the comfort of old places and quiet laughter, felt like a pause in the endless moving. a chance to remember where you came from, and to hold on to the pieces that made you whole.

and sometime in late october, you were at a city on the coast, windy, a little gray. the venue was old and charming. he was quiet that day, but not distant, just thoughtful. kept checking his setlist and tapping his pick against his thigh. didn’t talk much in soundcheck, and you knew better than to push. you watched from the wings, your arms crossed over your chest, the laminate pass hanging loose around your neck. and when they got to the second half of the show, the part where they sometimes rotated songs in or out, someone leaned over and told you he was going to do something different. you didn’t know what that meant, not until he stepped forward, a little closer to the mic, and looked out at the crowd like he was looking for something in it.

“we’ve been on the road for a while now,” he said, voice steady. “and this next one’s not ours. but it’s always been… mine. in a way.”

you felt it before he played the first chord. your breath caught in your throat. he glanced sideways, just once, just for a second, and then he started playing.

“show me, show me, show me how you do that trick…”

and your heart cracked wide open. because just like heaven wasn’t just a song, it was your song. from the very beginning, from that spring you thought you’d lost him, from mixtapes on train rides, from letters tucked into jacket pockets. from him playing it for you in his childhood bedroom, dreaming of what it’d feel like to be wanted the way those lyrics wanted someone.

you left the venue late that night, your hand in his, your cheeks still warm, your chest still aching in the best way. and no one said “the end” because no one needed to. some stories don’t end when the lights go down. they end quietly, in moments like that: in a guitar string still vibrating, in a look across the stage, in the memory of a song you never stopped hearing.

and in the way you still felt like heaven to him. always.

author's note: first of all… i’m so sorry for taking forever to update this 😭 life got busy, motivation disappeared, my brain shut down for like days, you know how it is. but we’re BACK and i’m so, so happy i finally got to share this part of the story with you

writing this second half felt like coming home in a nostalgic and painful and soft way. i always knew i wanted this fic to feel like growing up, and getting older, and realizing that love doesn’t always disappear just because time does, it just shifts. and maybe, if you’re lucky, it comes back <3

thank you for reading, screaming, crying, waiting, messaging, and just being here. this fic means the world to me. if you made it this far ilyyyyy!!!! you are the moment <3

taglist: @iyoonjh @jakesimfromstatefarm @blushingkoo @povjin @7789995323567322 @wtfisgoingright @dearestdreamies @fateismoonstruck @skzaurora @mora134340 @wonuziex @htrhng

[htrhng]

i genuinely believe i was destined to find shifting

i always used to make these worlds in my head when i was younger, and it always comforted me like no other

maybe that’s why i got into it so fast and something in me knew it was real and my fate

[htrhng]

MAKE YOU MINE ⭑ 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾

𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄， 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖻𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎

❪ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄 ❫ ｡ vamp!enha 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1765────── fluff ✿‎ kissing skinship bruises blood 贅沢 𖥔

★ 𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦 𝖥𝖮𝖱 𝖠 𝖪𝖨𝖲𝖲

LEE HEESEUNG

“get away from her,” heeseung’s voice cuts in like a knife in the darkness, and in a flash of a moment, he’s standing in front of you, the dark figure before you a second ago vanishes in the air.

his chest rises and falls steadily, but his eyes burn with a fierce protectiveness that makes your heart skip. “are you okay?” his voice is softer now, trembling slightly, as if the threat had shaken him more than he wants to admit.

you look at his red glinting eyes, a horrifying sight, and yet it’s what draws you in, the real him. you finally nod at him, his cold hands cupping your jaws.

“don’t ever scare me like that again,” heeseung whispers, his forehead pressing against yours, breath cool and ragged. his hands are still on your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a touch that borders on reverence.

you don’t move—you can’t. not when his lips are this close. not when his eyes, red and unholy, flicker down to your mouth like he’s starving for more than just blood.

“you don’t know what it does to me,” he breathes, voice dropping lower, hungrier. “seeing someone else near you—touching you.”

his lips graze yours, not quite a kiss, not quite innocent. it’s restraint. torture. heeseung’s fingers curl slightly at your neck, thumb dragging down to your pulse. “this… it’s mine,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth against the skin there, not biting—just claiming.

you feel the chill of his breath, the heat of his desire. it’s terrifying. intoxicating. and you don’t want him to stop.

PARK JONGSEONG

“stay behind me,” jay says, voice low, dangerous—like a blade unsheathed in the dark.

you barely have time to breathe before he moves, a blur of motion that leaves the air sliced and stilled. the threat—another vampire, fangs bared—crumbles to ash at jay’s feet without a sound.

you stagger back, heart pounding, your silk gown torn at the hem. jay turns to you, eyes burning red, blood trailing down his temple.

“you’re bleeding,” you whisper, reaching up to touch him.

he catches your wrist midair. not harshly, but firm. “don’t.” his voice is tense, too tense. “i’m barely holding back.”

you search his face—the furrow in his brow, the tightness in his jaw. he looks more beast than man, yet still beautiful. yours.

“you keep risking everything,” you say, stepping closer, ignoring his warning. “you’re not just my bodyguard anymore, jay.”

his expression shatters. “you think i don’t know that?” he breathes. “every time you look at me like this, i forget what i am. what i could do to you.”

“then don’t forget,” you whisper, pressing your palm to his chest. “remember who you are with me.”

his breath stutters. “you’re playing with fire.”

“maybe i want to burn.”

his lips crash onto yours—desperate, bruising, filled with the hunger he’s buried for too long.

and as he pulls you into his arms, shielding you once again from the world, he silently vows:

he’d rather burn with you. than live forever without you.

SIM JAEYUN

“you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you whisper, voice trembling as your fingers brush over the purple bruises blooming down jake’s ribs.

he winces, but not from your touch. his eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark shadows, lift to meet yours. a dried line of blood streaks from the corner of his mouth, sharp against his pale skin.

“i had to,” he says quietly. “he was getting too close to you.”

your heart clenches. “you let him hurt you just to protect me?”

he doesn’t answer. instead, his gaze drops—shame flickering in the red that still glows faintly in his eyes.

“jake,” you murmur, cradling his face. “this isn’t saving me if you’re killing yourself.”

he leans into your touch like it’s the only warmth left in the world. “i don’t care what happens to me,” he says hoarsely, “as long as you’re untouched. unbitten. alive.”

you feel his pain under your fingertips—the fractured ribs, the bloodless chill of his skin, the weight of everything he’s endured just to keep you safe.

“i never asked you to suffer for me.”

he looks up, jaw clenched. “i need to suffer if it means you’re okay.”

your hands tremble as you pull him into your arms, his body too cold, too still. “then let me take some of the pain, jake. please. let me save you for once.”

his voice breaks against your shoulder. “you already did… you just don’t know it yet.”

PARK SUNGHOON

“your father won’t approve this,” sunghoon breathes, lips just inches from yours, swollen from the kiss he couldn’t resist. yet he doesn’t move. his cold hands stay firm on your waist, pulling you tightly against the chestplate of his armor.

you tilt your head, breath hitching, heart pounding like a war drum beneath royal silk. “he never approved of anything that made me feel alive,” you whisper. “but you… you do.”

sunghoon’s jaw clenches, fangs just barely visible in the moonlight that spills through the stone corridor. “i’m not a man, princess ,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet. “i’m a monster in armor. your father assigned me to guard you, not—”

“—not fall in love with me?” you finish, eyes shimmering with both defiance and longing.

he exhales shakily, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

you reach up, fingers trailing over his jaw, cool and sharp under your touch. “then show me.”

and he does—he kisses you like a man who’s starved for centuries. his hands slip into your hair, down your back, trembling as they memorize every curve like it’s his last night breathing.

“we can’t stay,” he whispers against your lips. “if i stay, they’ll kill me in front of you.”

your breath is shaky, but steady with resolve. “then take me with you.”

his eyes flash red.

the next night, the princess’s bed was cold. her chamber empty. and far beyond the kingdom’s borders, a knight rode fast beneath the moon—his arms around the only thing he ever dared to love.

KIM SUNOO

the night is soft, wrapped in a quiet so complete it feels like the world is holding its breath just for you. sunoo’s hand slips into yours, warm and gentle, grounding you in the stillness. his eyes gleam faintly crimson as he studies your face, searching for the words he can’t find.

“you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he says softly, voice like a lullaby in the dark.

you swallow hard, heart fluttering against your ribs. “but what if you hurt me?” your voice is barely a whisper, trembling with the weight of uncertainty.

sunoo’s fingers tighten around yours. “i would never hurt you,” he promises, voice breaking with the honesty that feels almost too fragile for someone like him.

he leans closer, breath warm on your skin, and you can’t help but shiver. “there’s a darkness inside me,” he admits, eyes locking with yours. “but with you, it’s quieter. softer. like i’m… learning to be human again.”

his lips brush yours, hesitant at first, then with growing certainty. the kiss tastes faintly metallic, but beneath it is something sweeter—hope, trust, something new.

you rest your forehead against his, breath mingling. “teach me,” you whisper.

sunoo smiles, a delicate, almost shy curve of his lips. “we’ll learn together.”

and in the quiet night, with stars watching overhead, you find yourself willing to take the leap—into the unknown, into forever—with him.

YANG JUNGWON

you shouldn’t be here. not in the shadows of the balcony, not with jungwon’s back pressed to the stone wall and your hands clutching his bloodstained collar.

“this is wrong,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move. doesn’t stop you. his eyes glow faintly crimson in the moonlight, flickering between restraint and something dangerously close to desire.

“you’ve said that every night,” you murmur, fingers brushing the healing gash on his neck. “and yet, here you are.”

he exhales, sharp and shaky. “if your brother knew—”

“he’d kill you,” you finish for him. “but i’m not his to protect, jungwon.”

your words hang heavy between you. the space is thick with tension, charged with every stolen glance, every quiet moment over the years where you knew—he was always soemthing more than he let on.

“you smell like blood,” you whisper, stepping closer, voice softer now. “you’re hurt again.”

“i’m fine,” he lies, jaw clenched.

you reach up, cradling his cheek. his breath catches. “you keep fighting for me in the dark, jungwon. when will you let yourself have something… light?”

his composure cracks.

his hand wraps around your waist, pulling you flush against him, his forehead pressed to yours. “you don’t understand what i am,” he whispers.

“then show me,” you say.

and he does—kissing you like he’s spent centuries waiting, like you’re the only thing that makes him feel alive in a world of shadows.

he’ll regret this. but not tonight. not while you’re still in his arms.

NISHIMURA RIKI

“vampires aren’t real, right?”

your voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, like you’re afraid the truth might answer back. you stand in the doorway of your shared apartment, hoodie pulled tight around your frame, eyes wide and fixed on riki—who’s sitting on the windowsill, bathed in moonlight.

he doesn’t answer immediately.

he just looks at you. too still. too quiet. like he’s trying to decide whether to lie or let everything unravel.

“why are you asking that?” he finally says, voice low, almost careful.

your eyes dart to the blood on his sleeve. your breath catches. “i saw you,” you say. “last night. in the alley. your eyes… they weren’t human.”

he stands. not rushed, not startled. just slow, graceful, quiet in that unnatural way you never noticed until now.

“you weren’t supposed to see that.”

you take a step back, heart pounding. “so it’s true.”

he sighs. his voice is softer now. “i didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“how long?”

he meets your gaze, something ancient and sorrowful flickering behind his eyes. “since before we were roommates. since before i knew what it meant to want something… i couldn’t have.”

he moves closer. you don’t run. you should, but you don’t.

“are you scared of me now?” he whispers.

you tremble. but you don’t look away. “should i be?”

riki leans in, just enough that you feel his breath on your lips, he smiles through his nervousness, hand caressing your cheeks.

“absolutely not,” he murmurs, “i want to keep you safe, even from myself.”

스루 ܃ the way each one of these can be a seperate drabble or oneshot .. TT i love vampire enha 🫰🏽

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[htrhng]

( 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.

[htrhng]

shifting belongs to you.

shifting, okay? the exact same as planning a roadtrip. a little benevolent, hope-driven, but we’re not hoping anymore. we’re planning.

when you plan a trip as a young-in, probably to see the aristocratic antoinette family (all lace collars and glass lemonade) or drive past the bone-white villas curling up the new england countryside, you don’t. plan. not really. you just know.

your mother says “pack light.” something in your blood hums: nothing can go wrong. you might be a little excited & giddy, might be hard to fall asleep first, so, you count sheep with your bare feet tangled in cool cotton sheets. what you don’t do, is worry about all the ways the trip is doomed to fail.

you don’t ask for proof if it’s real, you decide it’s going to be. so, when you sink in the backseat, perhaps you drift off into slumber. or you watch the plaid fields turn into silver cities. you might stop at small-town diners with peach pie and radio static. point is, when you said, “i’m going.” the world started moving to meet you and every mile marker is a yes.

and then—at some point between the radio lullabies and the scent of gasoline and honeysuckle, you stop looking out the window; you start recognizing things.

the road softens into something silkier, familiar. a tree with ribbons tied to its branches, your name scrawled on a fogged-up mirror, a sign for a town you dreamed about once when you were nine, sick with high-fever and magic.

nobody told you how to get there, what gas to take, because nobody has to. the sun hits the pavement in that certain way, it’s golden, refreshed with life. every dent and crevice was worth the wait. houses creak in greeting, you swore the sky bent a little bluer.

you didn’t hope for it, didn’t chase it. you remembered it. you decided it. then, lived carefree. no “waiting period,” just a continuous decision to live in the moment. so, it was.