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kysstar · 2 days ago

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omg thank you so much!! im so happy you liked it <33

MELODY | JEONG YUNHO

pairing: jeong yun ho x fem!reader

synopsis: you’re a struggling pianist, playing in an underground lounge owned by the mafia. one night, the club’s true owner, yunho, finally appears—a man whispered about in the darkest corners of the city. Your music becomes the only thing that calms him.

genre/tropes: opposite attracts, obsessive behaviour (kinda)

warnings: blood-shed, violence

word count: 10k

authors note : : i love the aesthetic of this fic. this one is more descriptive, idk if I did it justice

[series masterlist]

—You play the piano in an underground lounge, the soft melodies swallowed by the low murmurs of criminals and the heavy clink of expensive glasses. No one really listens; your music drifts above their heads like smoke they barely notice. The air smells of old whiskey, stronger cigars, and something metallic that you’ve learned not to think too hard about.

The place is called Halazia—a name whispered with a strange kind of reverence on the streets. From the outside, it looks abandoned: cracked bricks, rusted signage, windows so dark you can't tell if the lights are even on. But past a guarded, steel door and a staircase that dives into the earth, the lounge breathes with dangerous life.

Halazia isn't glamorous. It's all deep shadows, bruised purple lights, and velvet so dark it could swallow you whole. The tables are low and cluttered, the chairs heavy and old but too expensive to replace. Everything inside seems dipped in a sense of faded royalty—gold edges dulled with time, red curtains that look almost black in the dim light. The ceilings are low enough to make you feel like you're being pressed down, the air thick with secrets.

You sit at a battered grand piano pushed into a corner of the room, just barely illuminated by a single spotlight that's more moody than bright. Your fingers move across the keys like second nature, but there's no applause, no recognition.

You are background noise. Just another piece of Halazia’s furniture, like the stained glasses and the blood that sometimes doesn’t quite get cleaned off the floor.

Tonight, you’re wearing a black slip dress that clings to you when you move, the hem brushing just below your knees. A thin, silver chain circles your throat, catching the light with every tilt of your head. Your shoes are plain black heels—scuffed a little at the toes, though no one can really see in this lighting. Your hair is pinned up, a few stubborn strands falling free to frame your face.

You've never seen the real owner—the one everyone murmurs about between drinks and bad deals. Yunho. A name that carries weight. They say he's dangerous. They say he’s untouchable. You’ve only caught whispers, overheard things you were never meant to hear: how he handled a betrayal without blinking, how entire territories shifted because of a single decision he made.

But he doesn’t come here often. People like him don't linger where the blood is still fresh.

They say he rarely shows his face here, too busy with whatever dealings keep the ATEEZ syndicate running like a well-oiled machine. Some call him the executioner, others the right hand of the real leader, a man whose shadow is just as lethal as his bullets. Either way, Yunho is someone you don’t want to cross.

Not that you’d have the chance.

You don’t know if the stories are true—if he really killed a man with his bare hands at sixteen, if his name alone is enough to make people disappear. But you do know this: he is feared. And men like him don’t waste their time listening to music.

—Yunho didn't come to Halazia without a reason. He hated the place, if he was honest—hated the way the walls seemed to sweat with the desperation of men who thought money or violence could buy them safety. Hated how the ceilings dipped too low, how the air thickened with every whispered deal. But tonight, he had business to oversee, and if there was one thing he respected, it was showing up when it mattered.

He pushed through the heavy door without a word, the guards stepping aside the moment they caught sight of him. He didn’t bother looking at them. His presence alone was enough. A silent weight pressed into the room the second he entered, unnoticed by most but felt by anyone who mattered. Conversations slowed, some halted altogether. A few of the smarter ones kept their eyes glued to their drinks, pretending they hadn't seen him arrive.

He moved through the lounge with the kind of ease only a man with absolute control could carry. Long coat brushing his knees, boots heavy against the cracked tile. A black shirt, simple but expensive, clung to his frame; sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the veins on his forearms.

At first, Yunho barely registered the music threading through the stale air. Just the piano—soft, steady, haunting in a way that tugged at something buried deep in his chest. He should have ignored it. He had more important things to handle tonight: negotiations, threats, the delicate dance of violence disguised as business.

But then his gaze found you.

You sat tucked away in the corner, half-swallowed by the dark. Your posture was easy, practiced, the movement of your fingers across the keys effortless. You weren't playing for them, he realized—you weren’t playing for anyone. The notes you coaxed from the piano were yours alone, slipping into the cracks of the rotting lounge like stubborn vines.

You didn’t see him. Not when he stopped mid-stride, not when his attention locked onto you with a focus he rarely gave anything outside a deal or a target. You were lost in your own world, shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm you built.

Something about that irritated him and fascinated him.

He took a seat at a table near the back, still half in the shadows. From there, he could watch without interruption. Watch the way the dim light brushed your skin, the way your dress clung to your frame in all the right places without ever begging for attention. Watch the way your eyes stayed down, focused only on the keys, as if refusing to acknowledge the filth that surrounded you.

He lit a cigarette with a slow hand, the flame briefly illuminating the hard lines of his face. The smoke curled lazily around him, adding another layer to the haze that seemed to cling to Halazia’s walls. He took a drag, exhaling toward the low ceiling, his gaze never leaving the girl at the piano who had no idea the devil himself had finally decided to notice her.

For the first time in a long while, Yunho wasn’t thinking about business.

For the first time, he was thinking about something—or someone—he might want for himself.

—Yunho returns the next night.

And the night after that.

Always the same routine: slipping into Halazia’s suffocating dark, cutting through the smoke and stale sweat like a blade. Always finding the same table tucked into the shadows where the lights couldn't quite touch him

He watches as your fingers move effortlessly across the keys, your body swaying slightly with each note, completely immersed in a world no one else seems to understand. The lounge is still full of men with bloody hands and expensive suits, but even they keep their voices lower when he’s around. They know better than to disrupt whatever is keeping him so still, so quiet.

And eventually, Yunho decided he'd had enough of waiting.

It was late when he moved. Most of the night's vultures had already scattered, leaving only a handful of drunk, half-conscious stragglers. The lights were even dimmer now, the air heavier. You were finishing a quiet piece, something slow and aching, when the sharp sound of boots against wood echoed through the lounge.

You barely noticed it. Not until he was standing there—leaning casually against the edge of the grand piano, close enough that you could see the silver of the rings on his fingers, the careful roll of his sleeves to mid-forearm.

“Play for me.”

The words are deep, smooth, cutting through the smoke-laced air like a blade. The lounge is quieter than usual, but maybe that’s just your ears ringing.

You don’t look up again. Instead, you inhale slowly, steadying yourself as your fingers press into the keys. You play the first thing that comes to mind—not a classical piece, not a song meant for an audience. Yours.

A tune you composed years ago, when the world felt different, when you still had dreams beyond playing in a place like this. It’s soft at first, hesitant, like an old memory being pulled from the depths of your mind. But then your fingers find their rhythm, and the melody spills into the air, painting the room in something only you understand.

You feel his stare. It burns. Like a predator studying its prey, except there’s no malice, no threat—just curiosity.

The song ends too soon. Or maybe you wished it had lasted longer.

The final note lingers before vanishing into the air, swallowed by the weight of the moment. You exhale, standing quickly, your hands instinctively tugging down your extremely short dress.

"Which song?" His voice is deep, smooth—like the whiskey he drinks.

You hesitate. "It’s mine."

A beat of silence before he hums softly.

Your stomach twists at the sound, your breath caught in your throat. His presence is suffocating, consuming. And when he finally speaks again, his next words make your pulse stutter.

"And your name?"

You hesitate. Just for a second. For a terrifying moment, it’s like you’ve forgotten it—like his presence alone has stripped you down to nothing but a girl behind a piano, nameless, insignificant. But then you force it out, your voice quieter than you’d like.

Yunho repeats it. Testing it on his tongue. Then, with a slow nod, he waves a hand—dismissing you. The conversation is over. Just like that.

You nod, mumbling a quick, breathless, “Thank you,” before slipping away. And as you walk off the stage, you swear his gaze follows.

—Your apartment is silent, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the peeling wall. The air is still, heavy with the scent of old books and faint traces of perfume lingering from earlier that evening.

You sit on the worn-out couch, your legs curled beneath you, mind restless as it replays the events of the night.

Why did he ask for your name?

The question loops endlessly in your head, gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.

Jeong Yunho wasn’t just some man. He was someone people whispered about in hushed tones, a figure who existed in shadows and blood-stained loyalty. And tonight, he had asked for your name.

Did you do something wrong?

Were you not supposed to play your own composition? Had you somehow offended him by ignoring him? Had your silence come across as disrespect?

Your heart pounds as anxiety coils in your stomach. You try to rationalize it, to tell yourself that maybe it was nothing—but deep down, you know better. Men like him didn’t do things without reason.

Your stomach twists. Maybe you played something you shouldn’t have. Maybe he recognized the melody. Maybe—

A sudden knock at the door makes you jolt.

Your heart slams against your ribs, panic surging before logic kicks in. You aren’t expecting anyone. And in a city like this, an unexpected visitor was never a good thing.

Slowly, cautiously, you approach the door. You hesitate before opening it, breath caught in your throat. But when you pull it open, there’s no one there.

Just a box. An expensive one at that.

Sleek, black, with a subtle golden trim. The kind of luxury that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Your stomach tightens as you bend down, fingers ghosting over the surface before carefully lifting it inside.

You place it on your small dining table, your throat dry as you lift the lid. A card rests on top.

Come tomorrow at 8 PM to the Halazia Lounge. Sharp. – JY

Your fingers tighten around the card. You suddenly forget to breathe.

Jeong Yunho called you to the lounge. Personally.

Your mind races, panic rising like a tide. Why? Was this it? Some kind of warning? A test? Were you in trouble? You weren’t stupid—when men like Yunho sent for people, it was never for something trivial.

You swallow hard, trying to steady your nerves. But then—your gaze shifts to what lies beneath the card.

You lift the fabric carefully, your breath catching in your throat as the material spills over your hands like liquid ink. A gown.

Nothing like the cheap, short dresses you were forced to wear at the lounge. This was something entirely different—long, elegant, heavy with quality.

The color is a deep midnight black, nearly blending into the shadows of your apartment. The fabric glides against your skin, intricate embroidery catching the dim light. It’s tasteful yet undeniably alluring, the neckline dipping just enough to be striking, the silhouette hugging in all the right places before cascading down in soft waves of fabric.

And then—the final touch. Resting at the bottom of the box, nestled in tissue paper, is a pair of heels.

Tomorrow, you were supposed to meet Jeong Yunho.

Oh god.

You were in so much trouble.

—The lounge is empty.

The realization settles deep in your bones as you step inside, your heels clicking against the marble floors, the sound unnervingly loud in the vast silence. It was a Sunday. The busiest night of the week, when criminals and power-hungry men filled the space, drowning themselves in expensive liquor and whispered deals. But tonight—tonight, it was deserted.

Except for one person.

Yunho.

He sits on the long leather seat in front of the grand piano, one arm draped casually over the armrest, his posture effortlessly powerful. But what unsettles you more than the emptiness of the room is that he’s already looking at you.

Your breath catches, and for the first time since receiving the dress, you feel the weight of it. The fabric clings to your frame, the smooth material skimming the floor as you move. It fits perfectly, like it was chosen with intention, with precision.

Yunho shifts slightly, and with the smallest tilt of his chin, he motions to the seat beside him.

Wordlessly, you move forward, the soft click of your heels echoing as you step onto the stage. The closer you get, the stronger his scent becomes—rich, dark, intoxicating. A blend of expensive cologne, whiskey. It lingers in the air around you, clinging to your skin the moment you lower yourself onto the seat beside him.

You sit with your body angled toward the piano, hands resting lightly on your lap, while Yunho sits facing outward—toward the empty lounge. You’re close. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into your side, close enough that every slow inhale you take is filled with him.

“Play something.”

Your fingers twitch slightly. “What song?”

“Something new.” He doesn’t look at you this time. Just leans back, gaze still fixed on the room ahead, voice impossibly calm. “Something you composed.”

No one ever asks for your compositions. No one ever cares to. The lounge patrons want something familiar, something they can drink to, drown in. But Yunho—he doesn’t ask for a song. He asks for you.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as your fingers hover over the keys. You close your eyes for a moment, grounding yourself before finally pressing down.

The first note rings through the empty lounge, filling the space like a ghost taking form.

Your hands move instinctively, muscle memory guiding each stroke, each transition. The melody is raw, something you created long ago but never had the chance to share. It unfolds before you, bleeding into the room like ink on parchment, like a secret whispered into the dark.

Yunho isn’t looking at the lounge anymore. He’s looking at you.

You can feel it—the slow turn of his head, the quiet intensity of his stare pressing against the side of your face, burning into your skin with something unreadable. You don’t dare look back. Instead, you focus on the music, on the way your fingers dance over the keys, on the way the sound seems to fill every crack and crevice of the space around you.

But his presence is overwhelming. And then, as the final notes begin to fade, you gather the courage to glance at him. Your eyes shift, just barely, just enough to steal a glimpse of the man beside you.

Yunho’s head is tilted slightly back, his expression unreadable, his features softened by the dim lighting. But what steals the breath from your lungs is the faint curve of his lips.

Not a smirk. A smile. Small, barely there.

Your heart stutters violently, panic gripping you as you quickly snap your gaze back to the piano, as if you had seen something you weren’t supposed to see.

The final note fades into silence. Your fingers remain resting lightly on the keys, unmoving, waiting. You don’t even dare to look at him.

Then—clapping.

The sound startles you. Your head turns sharply, eyes wide as you take in the sight of Yunho, clapping.

No one had ever clapped for you. Not in this lounge. Not in this life.

And yet, here he was—Jeong Yunho, the man whispered about in fear, the man whose name alone sent shivers through the city—clapping for you.

—It happens again. And again. Every week, like clockwork. The same sleek black box waiting at your door, another delicate note written in that same sharp, deliberate hand. The instructions never change. The day, the time, the place—always the Halazia Lounge, always at 8 PM, always signed the same way. JY.

And inside, another gown.

Each dress is more luxurious than the last, nothing like the cheap, threadbare fabric you were used to wearing. They mold to your body perfectly, the silk draping over you as if it had been made for you and no one else. The colors shift—deep emerald, sapphire blue, obsidian black, crimson red—but the quality remains the same. Expensive. Immaculate. Undeniably his choice.

You don’t ask why.

You don’t even consider refusing.

Because each time you arrive at the lounge, Yunho is already there, waiting. He sits in his usual spot in front of the grand piano, his back to it, his body angled slightly toward you, as if he had never once looked at the instrument itself—only at the person playing it.

You should feel nervous. You should feel terrified. Yunho is not just anyone—he is someone who carries power like a second skin, someone who could reduce an entire empire to ashes with a single command. And yet, despite all that, despite the cutthroat world he belongs to, You feel safe in his presence.

Even now, as you ascend the stage, your heels clicking softly against the polished wood, his gaze follows your every movement. The slit in your dress shifts slightly as you walk, the fabric parting just enough to reveal the curve of your thigh. You feel the weight of his stare, the quiet intensity behind it, but it does not make you uneasy.

You lower yourself onto the seat beside him, feeling the warmth of his body even though your shoulders do not quite touch. His scent envelops you instantly. It is familiar by now, but no less overwhelming.

Your hands find their place on the piano, your fingers hovering over the keys, preparing to play. But just as you inhale to begin, his voice cuts through the silence.

“Stop.”

Something inside you turns cold, panic creeping into the edges of your mind. Had you done something wrong? Had you overstepped? Yunho is unpredictable. He is a man who operates in ways you cannot possibly understand, a man whose patience is not something people dare to test. Your breath stills in your throat as you slowly turn to face him, waiting for an explanation.

But there is no anger in his expression. No frustration. Only quiet scrutiny, something almost thoughtful in the way his head tilts slightly. When he speaks again, his tone is even, calm.

“You always look down when you play.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “I need to see the keys.”

“No, you don’t.” He leans in just a fraction, his voice low, edged with quiet certainty. “Someone as skilled as you doesn’t need to watch their hands. You could play looking away.”

Your throat goes dry. He’s right—you could. You’ve done it before. You don’t need to see the keys to know where your fingers should land. But not with him looking at you like this. Not when his gaze is so heavy, so unrelenting, pulling you under like an ocean tide.

You open your mouth to protest, to come up with some excuse, but before you can, he moves. His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up with effortless ease.

It’s not harsh. It’s not forceful. It’s careful, like he’s testing something fragile. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw—barely a touch, a whisper against your skin, but it steals every ounce of breath from your chest.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

And you do. Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back toward the piano, your fingers pressing into the first key without breaking eye contact.

The melody begins, soft and slow, and for the first time, you aren’t watching the keys, you’re watching him.

The silence between notes stretches long, thick with something that makes your stomach twist into knots. His hand remains beneath your chin, steady and unmoving, his touch light but firm enough that you cannot escape it. His thumb strokes your jaw in slow, absentminded movements—so subtle, so unconscious, that you wonder if he even realizes he’s doing it.

Your heartbeat stutters. Your fingers tremble slightly against the keys, but you keep playing.

The room feels smaller. More intimate. The empty lounge fades away, the world narrowing to just this moment, just this man, just this touch that is as fleeting as it is devastating.

The song reaches its final note, the last chord dissolving into silence.

His hand lingers for a moment longer, the pad of his thumb tracing the edge of your jaw so gently, so deliberately, that your chest tightens.

And then—he smiles. Not a smirk. Not something cruel or amusing. A real smile. Something you’ve never seen from him before.

—The ATEEZ headquarters was rarely ever silent. It was a constant hum of chaos—phone calls being made, weapons being cleaned, business being handled in hushed voices and sharp commands. But today, there was a different kind of chaos. A Yunho-shaped chaos.

Seonghwa was the first to strike. "You’ve been leaving early these past few weeks."

Yunho barely had time to pour himself a drink before Wooyoung chimed in. "And you’ve been dressing nicer."

"Exactly," San nodded, arms crossed. "You even wore cologne last time."

Yunho sipped his whiskey, unfazed. "I always wear cologne."

"Yeah, but now you actually smell good," Mingi said, narrowing his eyes. "Before, it was just ‘man who kills people for a living’ smell. Now it’s... expensive man who kills people for a living."

Yeosang, who had been silently observing, finally leaned forward. "You’re going to Halazia a lot lately."

Yunho didn’t blink. "It’s my lounge."

Hongjoong smirked. "It’s our lounge. And you never used to care about it before."

Yunho took another sip of his drink, setting the glass down with a quiet clink. "There’s a pianist there."

Jongho frowned. "You’re going there... for music?"

San squinted. "Since when do you care about music?"

"Since when do you care about pianists?" Yeosang added.

"You don’t even own a piano," Mingi pointed out.

"Wait, wait, wait." Wooyoung raised a hand. "You’re saying you’ve been ditching us every Sunday night to listen to some random pianist play in an empty lounge?"

"She’s not random," Yunho corrected, still casual, still unreadable.

Hongjoong gave him a look. "Oh? And what exactly makes her not random?"

Yunho exhaled through his nose, debating for half a second if it was worth explaining. But he had known these idiots for too long. They wouldn’t drop it.

"She’s good," he finally said. "She plays differently."

Seonghwa’s brow arched. "Differently how?"

Yunho leaned back in his seat, fingers tapping against his knee. "She doesn’t just play. She feels the music. She composes her own pieces. You should hear it." He shrugged, keeping his voice even. "It’s interesting."

Yunho was never interested in things like this. He didn’t do hobbies. He didn’t have favorite pastimes. The last time he had shown any level of personal interest in something unrelated to their empire, it had been a limited-edition watch—and even that hadn’t pulled him out of their meetings every single week.

Wooyoung leaned in, voice slow, suspicious. "...So, you’re saying you go all the way to Halazia, alone, on a Sunday, when it’s supposed to be the busiest night, just to sit in an empty lounge and listen to a pianist who is not random play her little songs for you?"

Yunho’s expression didn’t change. "Yes."

Jongho blinked. "And that’s it?"

"That’s it."

Seonghwa studied him for a long moment. "...So you just sit there?"

"Yes."

"And listen?"

"Yes."

"No other reason?"

"No other reason."

Mingi spoke, face dead serious. "Guys... I think Yunho’s going through a midlife crisis."

"You think it’s stress?" Wooyoung whispered dramatically. "Do we need to get him a therapist?"

"He just needs a vacation," San nodded, looking oddly sympathetic. "Or a new hobby. Maybe golf?"

"He already has a hobby," Jongho muttered. "Apparently, it’s watching a pianist."

Yeosang frowned, voice dry. "We should get him checked for a concussion."

"I don’t have a concussion." Yunho’s voice was flat. "And I don’t need a therapist. Or a vacation. Or golf."

"Then what do you need?" Hongjoong asked, watching him carefully.

Yunho met his gaze, unfazed. "For all of you to shut up."

They did not shut up.

—The soft melody drifts through the empty lounge, curling into the air like smoke. Yunho sits in his usual spot, his arm draped lazily over the armrest of the seat, the golden glow of the chandeliers casting long shadows across his sharp features. You don’t know why, but tonight, he looks particularly unbothered—completely at ease in the quiet solitude of the room, watching you play like he has all the time in the world.

And then, without a word, he pulls a cigarette from his pocket.

You watch from the corner of your eye as he places it between his lips, flicking the lighter open with a single motion. The flame flickers for half a second before the end of the cigarette glows a soft ember red.

The scent of smoke reaches you almost instantly, mingling with the deep, rich cologne that has become so familiar.

You don’t stop playing. But you do narrow your eyes.

"You smoke?"

Yunho exhales slowly, watching the thin tendrils of smoke rise toward the ceiling. "Sometimes."

You frown, fingers still gliding over the piano keys. "That’s bad for you."

A soft hum of amusement rumbles from him, his voice smooth and low. "You care?"

Before you can think twice, your hand lifts from the piano, reaching across the short space between you. And then, with absolutely no hesitation, you pluck the cigarette straight from his lips.

His gaze flickers to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t stop you. His lips part slightly, the absence of the cigarette noticeable, but his expression remains impassive, curious, even.

You press the cigarette down on the ashtray sitting atop the piano, snuffing it out without ceremony. The final note of your song lingers in the air, almost too perfect as an ending.

Slowly—so, so slowly—Yunho turns his head fully toward you. His eyes flicker with something unreadable, something quiet yet intense, and suddenly, you’re hyperaware of everything. The warmth of him beside you. The way his gaze drops just slightly, lingering on your parted lips before rising back up.

"Bold move."

You swallow. "You’re welcome."

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, his eyes still on you, something unreadable flickering behind them. You can feel the weight of his gaze even as you turn back to the piano.

Your fingers poised to start another song but your fingers freeze over the keys as you watch him from the corner of your eye. He doesn’t go far, only circling the bench until he’s behind you. And then, with effortless ease, he sits down again—this time, facing the piano.

Your pulse stutters, and for some reason, you can’t seem to find your voice. The warmth of him settles into the space beside you, and suddenly the elegant grand piano feels too small, too intimate.

He stretches out one long arm and presses a single random key. A jarring, out-of-place note rings out. Loud. Offbeat. Completely wrong.

You stifle a laugh. Yunho tilts his head, staring down at the piano like it had just personally offended him. “That didn’t sound right.”

A soft giggle escapes before you can stop it, and you press a hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. “No, no, it really didn’t.”

He exhales through his nose, and you catch the faintest quirk of his lips. His fingers hover hesitantly over the keys, as if he’s trying to figure out where to place them, and for some reason, the sight of him—a man so powerful, so feared, completely out of his element in front of something as harmless as a piano—makes warmth bloom in your chest.

Gently, cautiously, you take his wrist and guide it down, adjusting his fingers to rest on the proper keys. Yunho stills beneath your touch, his gaze flickering to you, sharp and unreadable, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Here,” you murmur, voice softer now. “Try this.”

You press down lightly on his fingers, guiding him into playing a simple, steady note. The sound rings out smooth this time, blending seamlessly into the space between you.

Yunho watches your hands carefully, brows drawn together in quiet concentration. His fingers twitch beneath yours, adjusting slightly, pressing down again on his own this time.

“Not bad,” you tease lightly.

He hums, tilting his head toward you slightly, and you realize too late how close he is now.

His face is only inches from yours, his warmth pressing into the small space between you. His fingers are still resting against the keys, his wrist still lightly caged beneath your own, but you can’t focus on that anymore—not when his gaze flickers down ever so briefly, just for a second, before meeting your eyes again.

And then—he presses another key, completely offbeat.

A laugh bursts from your chest before you can stop it, bright and full, and you swat lightly at his arm, shaking your head. "You did that on purpose!"

He leans back slightly, feigning innocence. "Did I?"

"You absolutely did." You cross your arms, trying to suppress the grin stretching across your lips. "You were doing fine, and then you just—butchered it."

His smirk grows, just a little. "Maybe I wanted to see you laugh again."

It’s the way he says it—so effortlessly, so casually, like it’s not something that should make your stomach flip. Like it’s not something that should make your heart stutter.

You swallow, suddenly finding it very difficult to look at him, so you turn back to the piano instead. Your fingers find the keys again, pressing lightly, anything to steady yourself.

—You were expecting the box.

It had become routine by now—the faint buzz of the intercom, the quiet thump of something left at your door. Always around the same time. Always the same sleek black packaging with a handwritten note tucked neatly inside. And always a dress. Another beautiful thing you had no reason to deserve, meant to be worn in an empty lounge for a man who barely spoke.

So when the doorbell rang, you barely looked up from the sink.

Wiping your damp hands on a kitchen towel, you walked over, half-distracted, your mind already picturing what color the dress would be this time. Maybe a deep green. Or something soft and silver. You reached for the door and opened it—

It wasn’t a box.

It was him.

Yunho stood there, perfectly still, framed in the doorway like something out of place in the dim, narrow hallway of your apartment building. His frame was wrapped in a sharp three-piece suit, deep charcoal, almost black, with a matching coat draped over his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, effortlessly elegant, the kind of look that made him seem more like a character from a movie than a man who existed in your very real, very modest world.

And in his hand was not a gun, not a file, not even a glass of whiskey, but a brown paper bag.

He looked vaguely… awkward. Not uncomfortable. Just not him.

The silence between you stretched long enough to become a little ridiculous, until Yunho cleared his throat and shifted the bag slightly in his hands. His voice, when it came, was low but careful. Like he’d thought about this before showing up and still wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right.

“I, uh… wanted to take you to dinner.”

That sentence should have sounded strange coming from him, but it didn’t.

You blinked. The words finally registered. “Dinner?”

He nodded once, lifting the bag slightly. “There’s a dress in here. I wasn’t sure what you had.”

You stared at the bag, your brain tripping over itself. “I’m not ready.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And then, just slightly—his eyes shifted past you, toward the inside of your apartment. “May I come in?”

You hesitated for a second, then stepped aside.

He ducked his head politely as he entered, and suddenly your tiny, quiet apartment felt incredibly inadequate. The living room was clean enough, but plain. A small couch that sagged in the middle. A bookshelf with mismatched spines. Faint music from the old radio near the window. Nothing here was worthy of the man who now stood in the middle of your space, too tall, too composed, looking like he’d stepped out of another world entirely.

You closed the door behind him, heart pounding against your ribs, and forced yourself to keep breathing. “I’ll just… change.”

He gave a short nod, gaze politely dropping toward the floor. “Take your time.”

You bolted to your room, shut the door behind you.

Jeong Yunho was in your apartment. In. Your. Apartment.

You pressed a hand to your face, pacing for a second before forcing yourself to breathe and look inside the bag.

The dress was deep burgundy, simple but elegant. The fabric was soft with a gentle sheen, designed to flow around the body rather than cling. It had thin straps, a gentle dip at the neckline—not too bold, not too modest. A perfect in-between. And somehow, impossibly, it was your exact size.

Of course it was.

You changed quickly, smoothing the dress over your hips, running your fingers through your hair in the mirror until it didn’t look like you'd just lost your mind. You didn’t own heels to match, but you settled on the cleanest pair you had and exhaled deeply before opening the door.

Yunho hadn’t moved.

He was standing exactly where you left him, hands in his coat pockets, his back to your bookshelf like he was trying not to look at anything too closely. You almost wondered if he was nervous.

When his eyes finally landed on you, something in his expression shifted.

And then he softly smiled, “Shall we?”

You didn’t speak. Just nodded once, your throat dry as you stepped out beside him into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind you, locking your quiet apartment in the dark as you followed Yunho down the narrow corridor. The building’s usual creaks and moans echoed around you, each footstep oddly loud in the stillness of the night.

He walked just slightly ahead of you but never too far, as if aware of every movement you made, adjusting his pace without looking.

When you stepped out onto the street, a black car was already waiting. Of course. Sleek, polished, and clearly expensive, the kind of vehicle that made people turn their heads if they had the nerve. Its engine hummed softly under the streetlight glow, and without a word, Yunho stepped forward and opened the door for you.

Yunho stepped ahead and reached for the back door, pulling it open with ease.

You murmured a quiet “Thank you” as you slid into the passenger seat, and he waited until you were settled before circling the car to climb in beside you.

The ride started smoothly, the city rolling past in a blur of warm yellow streetlights and deep shadows. The interior was dimly lit, the soft leather cool beneath your fingertips as you smoothed your dress absently across your lap.

You kept stealing glances at him—Yunho, the man who had become a ritual in your life, now sitting next to you like this, was all perfectly normal. His jaw was sharp in profile, the dim lights of the dashboard casting soft shadows across his cheekbones

Finally, you turned toward him, voice soft but steady. “Why dinner?”

He looked at you then. His gaze met yours for a second before returning to the road.

There was a beat of silence. Then, in a voice quieter than you expected, he said, “I wanted to talk to you. Somewhere that isn’t the lounge. Somewhere normal.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “You wanted to talk?”

He nodded, still watching the road ahead. “Get to know you. I figured it’s overdue.”

You smiled, small and genuine. “You could’ve just said so.”

His lips curved at that, “I’m saying it now.”

—The car slowed in front of a glass-paneled tower that stretched high into the dark sky. Soft golden lights glowed at the entrance, and two suited valets stepped forward almost immediately as Yunho pulled to a stop. Without a word, he cut the engine, stepped out, and tossed the keys to one of them.

You stepped out slowly, eyes lifting to take in the full height of the building. It looked like the kind of place where people made million-dollar deals over imported wine.

Yunho said nothing, only caught your gaze for a moment and nodded toward the entrance. You followed him inside.

The lobby was quiet, polished marble and soft music under soft light. A man in a tailored suit greeted you with a bow deeper than necessary, and when his eyes flicked up to Yunho, recognition flashed in his expression. No names were exchanged. He simply gestured toward a private elevator and said, “It’s ready.”

You stepped in first, and Yunho joined you without speaking. The elevator was quiet as it rose. You tried not to fidget.

At the top of the tower, a server was already waiting. Another bow. Another hushed welcome. And then you were led to a table tucked near the window, set for two, the city spilling out beneath the glass like stars scattered across asphalt.

Yunho moved ahead of you and pulled the chair out before you could reach for it. It was such a simple gesture, so quietly done, but it made your throat tighten unexpectedly. You mumbled a soft, “Thank you,” as you sat, smoothing your dress absently.

He didn’t say anything—just nodded once and moved to take his own seat. He unbuttoned his blazer as he lowered himself into the chair across from you, the fabric of it folding neatly as he leaned back.

The server brought the first course quickly, something light and plated like art. You glanced up to find Yunho already watching you—not in that quiet, unreadable way he usually did, but more openly now, like he was figuring something out.

For a while, you talked about things that weren’t important at first—music, restaurants. You joked about how you’d never stepped foot in a place like this. He didn’t laugh, but there was a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, the kind you’d learned to recognize as his version of amusement.

He asked about the first time you played piano. You told him. He listened. His eyes stayed on you the entire time.

You were mid-sentence when he leaned forward slightly, brow drawn in subtle focus. He reached for a cloth napkin from beside his plate, and before you could react, he gently reached across the table.

“Here,” he said quietly.

You blinked, confused—until you felt the soft brush of the napkin against the corner of your lips.

And his hand paused, just for a second, before he drew back and folded the napkin neatly again, setting it beside his plate.

Neither of you said anything about it.

You went back to eating, slower now. More aware. He kept glancing at you, and this time when your eyes met, you didn’t look away.

The meal came to a quiet end, plates cleared, wine glasses nearly empty. The night outside the windows had deepened, the lights below blinking like a scattered constellation.

Yunho rested his hand lightly on the edge of the table, fingers tapping once. Then he looked at you, “There’s a park a few blocks from here,” he said. “Would you like to go?”

You nodded, just once. “Yeah. I would.”

Yunho rose from his seat with that same quiet composure he carried everywhere, offering his hand as you stood. You took it without thinking, steadying yourself as you stepped away from the table. He didn’t let go right away, and you didn’t pull away either.

The walk to the park wasn’t far—just a few blocks through quieter streets, the kind that hummed with life during the day but fell into a peaceful hush at night.

The park was mostly empty, just a few dim streetlamps casting long shadows over empty benches and carefully kept paths. Trees swayed in the breeze, branches rustling softly, and the night air held the faint scent of damp grass and spring. It was the kind of silence you didn’t need to fill.

You walked side by side, not speaking at first. His hands tucked in his coat pockets, yours curled around your arms for warmth.

But after a few minutes, your steps began to slow.

The ache in your feet, sharp and insistent, made it harder to keep pace. The heels—beautiful, expensive, chosen by him—had felt manageable in the restaurant. On smooth marble floors, under soft lights. But here, on uneven paths and quiet gravel, they were becoming unbearable.

You tried not to limp or to wince, but Yunho noticed anyway.

He looked over, brow drawing slightly. “Are they hurting?”

You gave a small, sheepish smile. “Just a little. It’s fine.”

He stopped walking. You didn’t, but then, with no warning, he reached for your wrist gently, just enough to stop you. You turned toward him, confused.

“Sit,” he said, nodding toward the nearest bench.

“It’s fine, really—”

“Sit.”

You gave in, lowering yourself onto the bench with a quiet sigh. He knelt down in front of you, one knee pressing into the grass, his coat shifting around his frame as he reached for your ankle.

“Yunho—”

“I’ve got it.”

You hesitated, heat rising to your face as his fingers gently wrapped around your foot, steady and careful. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he slipped the strap of your heel open and slid the shoe off. Then the other. His brows furrowed ever so slightly in focus.

When he stood again, he held the heels lazily in one hand, the straps hanging from his fingers. Then, with his free hand, he reached out toward you again.

You slipped your hand into his, and he helped you to your feet.

You just started walking again, side by side, his fingers still wrapped around yours, your heels swinging gently from his other hand.

Your fingers remained curled in his, and for a moment, you just looked at him—unsure whether to thank him, to let go, or to pretend like this wasn’t happening at all. But Yunho, standing there with your shoes in one hand and your hand in the other, looked completely at ease. He met your eyes, and as your lips curved into a shy, uncertain smile, something in his expression shifted. The faint crease in his brow softened. His mouth pulled into a slow, quiet smile—one that reached his eyes this time.

It made your stomach twist in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.

The two of you began walking again, no real direction, following the winding paths of the park without speaking. Your feet were bare against the earth, cool and damp, but it didn’t matter. His hand was still in yours, steady and warm.

You weren’t sure how long you walked like that. Time blurred in the quiet.

But just as you turned down a narrower path, a sharp drop of water landed on your shoulder. Then another. Then five more. And before either of you could react, the skies opened up above you, a sudden downpour crashing through the trees with a roar.

You stopped walking as rain soaked through your dress in seconds. The wind picked up, and your hair clung to your cheeks, water running down your arms.

Yunho immediately glanced around, spotting the small wooden structure a few meters back—some kind of park gazebo. He turned toward you, already tugging at your hand. “Come on, let’s go under—”

You shook your head, standing your ground as rain slid down your face. “It’s fine. Just rain.”

He hesitated. The water was already dripping from his hairline, darkening his suit. He looked like something pulled out of a painting—sharp, severe, and completely soaked. But he wasn’t bothered by it. Not really.

He took a small step closer instead, still holding your hand. The rain kept falling, warm and relentless, and the world around you faded into nothing but the sound of it.

You watched each other through it. Your lashes stuck together, droplets catching on your cheeks, and he looked at you like he was memorizing everything.

Then, gently, his free hand came up to brush your hair away from your face. He tucked it behind your ear, slow and careful, his fingers trailing against your damp skin as they pulled away.

It was quiet, the kind of quiet that builds and tightens until it’s impossible to ignore. You felt your breath catch as his eyes flicked to your mouth and back again, and suddenly there was no more space between you.

His hand was still on your cheek, your fingers still laced in his, and his face was closer now. Closer than it had ever been. You weren’t moving away. Neither was he.

And just as his mouth hovered over yours, his phone rang.

You both jumped, startled by how quickly the moment shattered.

Yunho pulled back instantly, his hand dropping from your face, his eyes darting away as he stepped back, just slightly. You let go of his hand, suddenly unsure of what to do with your arms, your body, your breathing.

He reached into his coat pocket, the expression on his face unreadable as he glanced at the screen. “I have to take this,” he muttered, his voice quiet, but firm.

You nodded, your pulse racing in your ears. You turned away before he could see the flush creeping up your cheeks, unsure whether it was from the near-kiss or the fact that you had wanted it.

—It had been days since the night in the park. Since the rain, the almost-kiss, the phone call that shattered something neither of you had dared to name. You hadn’t seen him since.

No messages. No black box at your door. No notes written in careful, slanted handwriting. And worst of all, no Sunday meetings at the Horizon Lounge. The quiet rhythm the two of you had fallen into—the silent understanding, the music, the glances—was suddenly gone.

You cursed yourself for it. For letting that moment happen. For wanting it. For ruining whatever fragile thing had existed between the two of you.

Now, the only excuse you had to see him was gone too.

You found yourself scanning every corner of the Halazia Lounge during your shifts, eyes flicking up from the piano every few seconds, hoping to catch the silhouette of his frame in the shadows. But there was nothing. He wasn’t there. Not once.

Your schedule had only gotten worse. Your boss, already demanding on a good day, had started pulling you in earlier, keeping you later. You barely had time to eat properly, much less rest.

Tonight was no different. You were walking home from a late run to the grocery store, a paper bag tucked under your arm. The streets were mostly empty now, the hour too late for comfort but too early for safety. You were too tired to care.

Your feet dragged, each step heavier than the last. And instead of taking your usual long route home, you turned down the narrow alleyway that split behind the old post office. It wasn’t ideal—it was dark, quiet, barely lit—but it shaved ten minutes off your walk. You told yourself it was worth it.

Three men, loud and slouched, leaning against the wall near a back exit of some bar. Their voices carried—slurred, careless—and before you could glance away, one of them noticed you.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Out a little late, aren’t you?”

You backed up instinctively, clutching the grocery bag tighter. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“Trouble?” One of them laughed. “No trouble, sweetheart. We’re just being friendly.”

The first one moved closer, reaching for your arm, and you reacted out of reflex. You shoved him back, quick and sharp, but your body was slow to follow through. You were too tired. Everything hurt. The second one caught your wrist, and you yanked away, stumbling back into the alley wall. Your head clipped hard against the edge of the brick, and a flash of pain burst behind your eyes. You didn’t fall, but you dropped the bag.

You weren’t scared—not really. Just angry. Angry at your body for being so slow, for betraying you when you needed strength. Angry at the men. Angry at everything.

And then, suddenly, they were gone.

The first was shoved hard against the wall, a loud crack of impact ringing through the narrow alley. The second was yanked back and dropped to the ground with a punch that echoed like thunder. The third barely had time to react before he was flung aside, groaning as he scrambled back to his feet.

You blinked, heart hammering, trying to steady your breathing as the men stumbled away.

Yunho stood in front of you, chest heaving, hands clenched at his sides, and he looked furious.

He turned to you, eyes immediately softening. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded, then shook your head. “Just my head. It’s nothing.”

But your knees buckled a little, the exhaustion finally catching up to you. You swayed, and Yunho stepped forward just in time to catch you, your body collapsing against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured.

You barely heard him. Your arms curled weakly around his coat, your head resting against his shoulder as the cold and the panic drained from your system. You felt his arms shift, one under your legs, the other behind your back. And then he lifted you, without effort, cradling you against him like you weighed nothing at all.

You could feel his heartbeat where your cheek rested, could feel his breath as it hit the top of your head. You stayed like that, letting the movement lull you, eyes heavy.

After a moment, you spoke, voice faint. “We stopped meeting.”

His steps didn’t falter, but he sighed. A soft, quiet sound. Not at you, never at you.

“Work got in the way,” he said gently.

You smiled, small and tired. “I thought I did something wrong.”

He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “Never.”

You weren’t sure how long the walk back to your apartment took. Wrapped in his arms, your cheek pressed against the steady beat of his heart, the time blurred. He didn’t speak again, but you didn’t need him to. His grip was secure, his pace calm and unhurried, as if carrying you through the quiet city night was the only thing that mattered.

When he reached your building, he didn’t hesitate. His fingers slipped easily into the side pocket of your bag to find your keys, and soon you were through the door, into the dim light of your apartment.

He carried you straight to your room, gently lowering you onto the bed like something fragile, careful not to jostle you more than necessary. The mattress dipped under your weight as he pulled the blanket aside, settling you against the pillows before crouching down beside you.

His hands moved slowly as he brushed a few damp strands of hair from your forehead, eyes scanning your face, your shoulders, your arms. “Anywhere else?” he asked quietly.

You shook your head. “Just my head.”

He nodded, then stood up. “Stay here.”

A few minutes passed before Yunho returned, the small white box in his hands. He placed it on your nightstand and knelt beside the bed again, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the mattress. His other hand reached out, fingers brushing gently through your hair, shifting the strands away from your face so he could see the wound clearly.

It wasn’t just the coolness of the antiseptic or the sting of it against the broken skin—it was the way his fingertips moved. The way he tucked your hair back so carefully. The way he hovered close but didn’t touch you more than he had to.

“You should’ve gone the long way,” he said softly, voice low. “Even if it took longer.”

You wanted to respond—something smart, something to brush it off—but the weight of his concern was too real. You couldn’t make light of it.

He applied the antiseptic slowly, carefully dabbing around the wound with practiced hands. You hissed once, and his jaw clenched slightly, but he didn’t stop. He only said, even quieter, “Almost done.”

After cleaning it, he reached into the kit for a bandage, his hands working gently, wrapping it around your head with a care that didn’t match the man the world feared.

When he finished, he sat back a little, eyes meeting yours. “That should hold for now.”

You stared at him. At the way his tie had loosened, at the drops of sweat near his temple, at the way his brows were still furrowed with concern even though the danger had passed. You wanted to say something, to thank him, to reach for him again—but the words were slow to come.

He stood, not abruptly, but with quiet purpose, closing the box and setting it aside.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t want him to go, but you also didn’t know how to ask him to stay.

Yunho lingered for a second, eyes searching yours, like he was waiting for something. When nothing came, he exhaled gently and nodded.

“I’ll come by tomorrow.”

—The pain pulled you out of sleep like a hook behind your eyes. You sat up slowly, groaning as the headache throbbed, sharp and insistent. For a moment, you stayed still, hoping it would pass. But it didn’t. It lingered, pulsing behind your temples, turning each blink into a dull ache.

You reached blindly toward the nightstand drawer, searching for the little bottle of pills you always kept tucked there. Your fingers came up empty. You opened the drawer fully, rifling through it again—nothing. You moved to the bathroom cabinet. Nothing there either.

The silence in the apartment pressed in around you. You didn’t want to go outside. Not after what had happened. Not after the alley, the panic, the blood. But your head pulsed again, sharper this time, and you knew you wouldn’t sleep.

So, with a heavy sigh, you grabbed your purse and slipped out into the night.

The city was quiet this late, more shadow than light. The sidewalks were mostly empty, the occasional distant car rumbling past. You moved quickly, sticking close to the glow of the streetlamps, head lowered. The pharmacy was open, barely lit, manned by a half-asleep cashier who didn't bother to look up. You paid for the pills in silence and tucked them away, eager to be home again.

You were halfway back when you heard a scream.

You froze. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp—sickeningly sharp. A few feet ahead, just past a flickering lamp post, was a narrow alley. Your first instinct was to turn around. You had no reason to get involved. You were barely healed from your last run-in with the shadows of this city.

But then came another scream.

And your feet moved before your fear could catch up.

You stepped into the alley, cautiously, each step slow and deliberate. The light from the street barely reached here, the darkness thick and heavy. But as your eyes adjusted, you saw figures clustered near the far end.

One of them stood apart.

His back was to you, tall and broad-shouldered, body tense. The others surrounded three crumpled bodies on the ground. Blood was already pooling beneath them. Not enough to be fatal, but enough to make your stomach twist.

Your eyes locked on the lone figure standing over them, unmoving, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Yunho?”

He turned sharply at the sound of your voice. And in that instant, everything slowed.

The streetlight hit his face, and the sight stole the breath from your lungs.

Blood spattered across his cheekbone, on his jaw. His knuckles were red, the skin raw. His eyes were wide, not angry, not cold, but startled, like a child caught doing something they were never meant to.

He waved a hand toward the others behind him without looking away from you. His men understood immediately. Two of them grabbed the battered attackers and began dragging them away, quick and silent.

You walked toward him without speaking, ignoring the way his eyes darted away from yours like he couldn’t bear to meet them, like he expected to see disgust there.

You closed the space between you until you were standing right in front of him, the scent of rain and rust thick in the air. Slowly, you lifted your hand.

Yunho tensed, as if bracing for something, but all you did was reach up to his face.

Your fingers brushed gently against his cheek. You wiped the blood away with your thumb, not looking at the mess or the violence in the air.

He blinked, watching you with something unreadable in his eyes, like he was searching your face for disgust, for fear, for anything that might confirm the worst. But there was none of it.

His hand lifted, slow and hesitant, fingers hovering near your jaw. He paused, just long enough to give you the chance to move, but you didn’t.

His palm settled against your cheek, warm despite the dried blood.

You met his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “Are you okay?”

Yunho stared at you for a moment longer, breath shallow, and then something in him gave way. The careful restraint cracked. He leaned in, and then his mouth found yours.

His lips were warm, hesitant at first, brushing against yours like he was still waiting for you to pull away. When you didn’t, he deepened the kiss—just slightly—his hand shifting to cradle the back of your head, careful to avoid the healing wound. You tilted into him instinctively, your own hands rising to grip the front of his coat.

There was no one else in the world in that moment.

He pulled back slowly, resting his forehead against yours for a moment, his breath mingling with yours. Then he leaned back just enough to meet your gaze.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Now I am.”

taglist : : @callmeagardengnome @serinebsblog @vtyb23 @choisanchwego @monsta-x-jagi @kyunlov @lcvejjoong @blueginz @lunaryoongie @yeon103 @spenceatiny18 @darlingz99 @matchahintonagar @ateezswonderland @hearts4itoshi @trivia-134340 @special4u @cristy-101 @sheadoreswalls @lcvejjoong @m00njinnie @stayatinykatsy @hwa2tiny @tournesol155 @nixwolfe @yoonglesbae @vigtore @likexaxdaydream @0325tiny @amazinglystay @helenjmmyz @hopingfortwistedfriends @xuchiya

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kysstar · 2 days ago

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hii! i seriously love your writing sm <3 just curious if the SOYC series will be updated soon, i love it sm and im so excited to read the next part :3

much love <33

heyy! im a little busy with studies and stuff, so i have not started writing the next chapter yet lol. but dw soyc series is my priority rn 😌

#𝐎𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 💌

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kysstar · 2 days ago

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Hiii! I’m such a fan of your writing—congratulations on the 1k! Could I get a pirate king? I love to learn and teach myself new things as well as teaching what I know to others. I was a professional tutor for a while for students age 4 to 24 helping with all sorts of stuff, and now I work at a community college! I love music, literature, and languages. I’m in school for communications and working on a certificate to teach English as a second language. I’m pretty outgoing and love to have fun and laugh and make others laugh, but I also appreciate the quiet moments too. I’m curvy with dark brown hair and green eyes. I’m also on the taller side (5’7”). 😅 Thank you so much for doing these, and congratulations again! 💜

aww thank you so much, you are so sweet <33

ora's 1k celebration main masterlist

KIM HONGJOONG !

oh this is so a hongjoong match?? hongjoong would love how passionate you are about learning and teaching. he’s the kind of person who would just sit and listen to you explain something for 20 minutes with literal stars in his eyes. he’d be so in awe of how you care for people, how you help others grow, how you light up when you talk about language or storytelling or music. he’d probably interrupt your monologue just to say “you’re so cool”. would definitely groan when you wear platform shoes/heels, but would secretly love it. would rest his head on your shoulder when you are talking with someone.

first date with hongjoong is at a cozy little bookshop café! you’re sipping tea, sharing bites of cake, flipping through books and laughing over weird titles. he sneaks off to buy one you loved and tucks a note inside. he walks you home, his jacket around you, fingers brushing until he finally just holds your hand <33

#𝒐𝒓𝒂'𝒔 1𝒌 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 #𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 🏴‍☠️#kim hongjoong #hongjoong ateez #kim hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x reader

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kysstar · 2 days ago

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congrats on 1k bby ‼️ u deserve so much more 🥹🤍

anywaysies on to my request 😋🏴‍☠️

here’s my personality (according to my frens):

fun

bubbly

ambivert

artist

dancer

lazy

street wear

books

adaptable

fashionista

thats abt it 😭

love u mwah 💋😘💋

CHAE MY BABYY <33 thank you for requesting ilysmm mwah mwah

ora's 1k celebration main masterlist

JUNG WOOYOUNG !

i pair you with wooyoung! you’re fun, bubbly, and expressive — he lives for that. he’d feed off your energy and match it with his own chaotic, affectionate self. he’d drag you out of bed when you need it or happily just chill with you doing nothing for hours. you’re a dancer and an artist? say less. he’d never shut up about how talented you are. “look what chae made!!” he’d show everyone. if you draw something even slightly inspired by him? yeah. he’s melting. you two would serve looks together. best-dressed couple everywhere you go. he’s dramatic, so expect coordinated outfits and mirror selfies at every opportunity.

first date with wooyoung would be wandering through a cozy night market. he insists on taking a hundred pictures of you. after, you sneak up to a quiet rooftop with city lights glowing around you. you sit close, sharing music through one pair of earbuds, talking about everything and nothing

you both would be the cutest couple <3

#𝒐𝒓𝒂'𝒔 1𝒌 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 #𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 🏴‍☠️#jung wooyoung #wooyoung ateez #jung wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x reader

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kysstar · 2 days ago

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hey and congrats on 1k! I was hoping to request a hunting for treasure option(?) I was thinking a cute one could be a Hongjoong oneshot with the prompt being sort of comfort/supportive ish(?) maybe something like “it’s okay, you know. to need a little help sometimes,” or “i’ll stay for as long as you need.” (I got these from the first reference you linked! I also apologize if I’m vague at all 🧍‍♀️😖) just something cute n fluff :3

(also I’m obsessed w salt on your crown, can’t wait for next ch, sooo good!)

thank you and happy writing🙏🤍

thank you so much!! i had fun writing it. i hope you like it <33

ora's 1k celebration main masterlist

STAY | KIM HONGJOONG

pairing : : kim hongjoong x fem!reader

prompt : : “i’ll stay for as long as you need.”

warnings : : angst, hurt/comfort

word count : : 0.5k

—You didn’t even hear the door open.

The only sound in the room had been the low hum of the TV, playing something you weren’t watching, something you couldn’t focus on if you tried. You sat curled on the corner of the couch, sleeves of your hoodie pulled over your hands, tissue crumpled and forgotten beside you. Your eyes were swollen, skin blotchy, and your chest ached from crying so much it felt like your heart might leak out of you.

“Y/N! You won’t believe the disaster I saw on the subway today,” Hongjoong’s voice rang out, cheerful, like it always did when he came to see you. “There was a guy holding a parrot. A parrot. Wearing a tiny vest—”

His footsteps grew slower, softer, until he was standing right in front of you. You felt his presence more than anything—his quiet stillness, the way the air shifted around him. Then he knelt down in front of you, gently, like he didn’t want to startle you. You turned your face away, embarrassed, trying to hide the state you were in.

“Y/N…” he said softly, tilting his head to try and catch your eyes. When you didn’t respond, he reached up and touched your chin, gently coaxing your face back toward him.

“What happened?” he asked, eyes searching yours.

You sniffled, lips trembling. You barely got the words out. “He… he cheated on me.”

The expression on Hongjoong’s face changed in an instant. He didn’t speak, didn’t push you for more. His brows furrowed, and his eyes softened. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Shame crawled up your neck.

Without a word, he stood, and your heart dropped.

Of course. Why would he stay? Why would he waste his time? You must’ve looked pathetic, sitting there crying over someone who threw you away like nothing.

You curled in on yourself more, willing yourself to disappear.

Then, you heard it—footsteps again. And the sound of your freezer opening.

You blinked, confused, until Hongjoong returned and sat beside you on the couch, a large bucket of your favorite ice cream in one hand, remote in the other. He flipped through a few channels before settling on something dumb and light—a cartoon you both used to watch in high school.

You glanced at the ice cream. He was eating it like it was his.

“Hey,” you murmured, reaching for the tub.

“Nope,” he said, shifting it out of your reach.

“Joong—” you whined, crawling across his lap to grab it.

He chuckled, holding it higher. You were practically climbing him now, and somewhere in the middle of it, the tension cracked just a little. You felt your lips twitch. He saw it and grinned.

“There it is,” he said softly, like the sight of your almost-smile was worth more than anything else.

He scooped up a spoonful and brought it to your mouth. You didn’t even hesitate—you leaned forward and let him feed you.

Eventually, you shifted, settling between his legs with your back against his chest. His arms came around you instinctively, one hand holding the ice cream while the other handed you the spoon. You took turns eating in silence, the TV a comforting background hum.

By the time the bucket was empty, the ache in your chest had dulled just a little.

“Joong?” you said softly.

“Mm?”

“Can you stay the night?”

He wrapped both arms around you, pulling you closer, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“I’ll stay for as long as you need.”

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kysstar · 7 days ago

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guys im so fucking sorry 😭 i was out of town so I couldn't open tumblr please forgive me 🙏🏻

i will be completing half of the requests by tomorrow and posting them. then I will post the other half by tuesday

im very busy with studies and other writing projects I took, and I'm so fucking tired 😭😭

plus @the-midnight-blooms made me watch jjk and now I'm very depressed 🤧

#𝐎𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 💌

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kysstar · 10 days ago

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hiii!!! This is my first time ever really requesting anything but I love your works and I’ve been reading/following you for a while now! You’re super talented! I’d love to request a pirate king! My hobbies are dancing (on a team in a studio), drawing, drinking coffee lol, spending time with my friends, and listening to new music! Im also a huge nerd and I love Ateez (loreteez 😝)/dc/marvel/rdr2/etc! I’d say I’m a very creative person who’s also open minded to trying new things. If it matters at all I’m an ENFJ too! Dream date would definitely be an activity of some sorts, restaurant/meal dates are a little intimidating haha. I hope you have fun with this! :))) 🤍

omg thank you so much ily <33

ora's 1k celebration main masterlist

CHOI SAN !

you and san would be perfect! you’re both super expressive and high-energy in different but complementary ways. both of you love dancing, imagine you both dancing in the studio together. it could be a dance battle or a soft ballroom dance. also? he’s a giant nerd too. He’d totally be into hearing your takes on DC or RDR2 lore, even if he doesn't understand a single thing, because he just loves hearing you talk <3 he’d be obsessed with your art and would 100% beg you to draw him

ideal date? amusement park! you and san would accidentally match outfits. he’s way too serious about winning you a plushie and refuses to walk away until he does. spoiler: he spends like $40 on a rigged basketball toss and finally gets you a tiny prize. he’s unreasonably proud. you'd end the date on the ferris wheel together, sitting across each other. you'd talk and he'd sit there and listen with a soft smile on his face.

you both would really balance each other <3

#𝒐𝒓𝒂'𝒔 1𝒌 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 #𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 🏴‍☠️#choi san #san ateez #choi san x reader #san x reader

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kysstar · 11 days ago

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⚓ ORA'S PRIVATEER PARADE !

thank you so much for 1k 🖤

i genuinely appreciate every single one of you who takes the time to read, reblog, like, or comment on my work. your support means more than i can put into words. knowing that people connect with what i write makes me really happy MWAH <3

welcome aboard! what would you like to do?

🏴‍☠️ have a glass of rum with the pirate king : : tell me about yourself! (your hobbies, your personality, ideal date etc.) and ill match you with an ateez member + an ideal date!

💰go hunting for treasure : : send me an ateez member + a prompt ( here are a few references, one two three four five. you can even use your prompts!) and i will write a short oneshot for you!

🌊get lost in the wave : : send me an ateez member + a prompt/trope. i will make a moodboard for you!

🧜‍♀️maybe meet a siren : : send me an ateez member + a prompt/trope i will write a few headcanons!

guidelines!

you can order all four— pirate king 🏴‍☠️, treasure 💰, wave 🌊, siren 🧜‍♀️— but please send them separately, one event per ask!

please be patient with me!

everyone is welcome! dont hesitate to send an ask (anon or not)

before sending a request please read the guidelines!

again, thank you sm! i hope everyone has fun <33 (i hope people participate or else i will cry)

#𝒐𝒓𝒂'𝒔 1𝒌 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 #𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 🏴‍☠️#𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 💰#𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆 🌊#𝒔𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒏 🧜‍♀️

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kysstar · 11 days ago

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Hello gorjous!!!! Do you have any general masterlist? I'm looking for it on your blog but I onky found masterlists for different series and for San :( your healer Jongho fic was so cute I need more sobs

heyy! yes i have my masterlist on my pinned post!

here, 'take my hand' is the link to my main masterlist, 'you and me' to my requesting guidelines, and 'castle' to my taglists

if you have any problems with finding it, please tell me <33

(here's the link in case it doesn't work.)

main masterlist

request guidelines

taglists

#𝐎𝐑𝐀'𝐒 𝐀𝐒𝐊𝐒 💌

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kysstar · 12 days ago

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...what the fuck?

i don’t even know how that happened, but thank you srsly

thanks for reading my fics, for reblogging, tagging, and for being patient when i drop a chapter and then disappear for a month (or two). i know i’m not the most consistent poster, but I really appreciate everyone who’s stuck around anyway.

i love all of you very much and adore all the comments and tags <33

ANDDD AS USUAL I HAVE A LITTLE SURPRISE EHEHE

a small celebration for this milestone <33 I hope everyone participates mwahh 💖

#𝐎𝐑𝐀 𝐘𝐀𝐏𝐒

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kysstar · 12 days ago

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