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h4nj1sunggg · 3 months ago

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 — ( h. jisung. )

pairing: Han Jisung x fem!reader [multiple characters mentioned]

genre: fluff, idol-fan to lovers

words: 11.1k

summary: At fifteen, Jisung’s music becomes your comfort. You send him letters, never knowing he treasures them. When the letters stop, your connection is lost. Years later, you are 22, at a Stray Kids concert, you hold a sign with a familiar phrase. As Jisung steps on stage, your eyes meet—fate reconnecting you.

desc: I care about this ff in really deep and distinct way from the others, some things really happened. I hope y'all will like it. the first letter event - and what jisung said - actually happened. <3

ᯓᡣ𐭩　 ( masterlist ) . Spotify playlist. @cherryheaart @hijadeplutao @diekleinesuesse

The first time you listened to a Stray Kids song, you were in your room, knees pulled up, back pressed against the headboard. Your phone’s glow cast soft shadows across the walls, blending with the warm, amber light of the salt lamp on your nightstand. Outside, the world was asleep. Inside, your thoughts were restless.

The music from your headphones filled the room, drowning out the hum of loneliness that had settled in your chest like an old, unwelcome friend. It wasn’t just sound—it was something else. Something alive, something electric, something that made the walls feel a little less suffocating. It was loud enough to make your pulse quicken, yet comforting enough to make your shoulders relax. Exactly what you needed.

Your phone buzzed. Messages. Conversations waiting for a reply.

You had been diving headfirst into the world of K-pop, losing yourself in vibrant performances and voices that felt like a safe place. BTS, GOT7… Their music had been your first taste of something different, something exciting. And they were beautiful, too—effortlessly captivating in a way that made you wonder if people like that even existed in real life.

But you still felt like something was missing.

Like your entire life.

You were missing something. You weren’t sure if it was something or someone, but you were always searching for it as if your life depended on it.

But still, something felt… off. Like an itch you couldn’t quite reach, a gap you couldn’t name.

You had always carried this feeling—a quiet, persistent yearning, as if you were chasing something just out of reach. You didn’t know if it was a person, a place, a dream, or just the idea of belonging. But the search never stopped. It was stitched into your skin, woven into the way you looked at the world, always waiting for that moment when everything would finally click into place.

It was as if Stray Kids were the flicker of light in the darkness you had been wandering through. Their music wasn’t just something to listen to—it was something to hold onto. Each beat, each lyric, felt like it was speaking directly to you, as if they understood that deep part of you that was searching, the part that couldn’t quite put into words what was missing.

Their voices, raw and full of emotion, seemed to pull you out of the silence that often echoed in your mind. The chaos of the world around you was still there, but it didn’t matter anymore. In those moments, when the rhythm of their songs wrapped around you, it felt like you weren’t alone. Like someone, somewhere, was lighting a path for you to follow.

There was a comfort in knowing that Stray Kids, despite being miles away, were somehow close enough to touch. They didn’t promise to solve everything, but their music became a refuge, a constant in a world that often felt too big, too overwhelming. You could feel it—their energy, their passion, and that undeniable sense of unity. It was as if their light was meant for you, guiding you through the quiet darkness you didn’t even know you had been hiding in.

You stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of you, the pen clutched tightly in your hand. It’s a little crinkled from the several times you’ve picked it up and put it back down again. The clock on your wall ticks loudly, as if mocking you for still not writing a single word. You take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and then glance at the paper again. Blank. Still blank.

"Dear Han Jisung." Nope. Too formal. You scratch it out quickly, the line looking way too stiff and impersonal.

"Hey Jisung!" Ugh, that’s even worse. Is that too casual? Is it weird? Maybe it’s weird. What if he thinks it’s weird? He probably gets a million “Hey Jisung!” ‘s every day. Okay, scrap that. You grab the pen again, staring down at the page like it’s some sort of exam you forgot to study for.

"Hi Han Jisung!" Nope, not that either. Now it looks like you're writing an email to your grandpa. You just want to say something to him. Why is this so hard? Why is writing a letter so difficult? You’re overthinking it. This is just a letter. Just… write. You tap the pen on the table, trying to find the right balance between casual and too casual.

"Hello stranger!" Yeah. Simple. It’s a start, right? Sure. You nod to yourself, like that was the breakthrough of the century. Now you just have to… actually write something. You wince and let out a tiny sigh. You take a deep breath, then, with some hesitation, scribble the first sentence.

Hello stranger! I have no idea what I’m doing right now. Seriously, I’m probably overthinking this way too much, but here I am—writing to you. Why? Well, because your music has literally been the soundtrack to my life for the past few years, and I thought maybe—just maybe—you’d want to know? I don’t know. I could be totally wrong, but here we are. You might not even read this. This could end up in some random staff member's hands or the “fan mail pile” for all I know, but hey, I’m doing this anyway because I really need to get it out there.

You pause and re-read the last line. Oh my god. Why did you write that? That’s so awkward. You’re cringing already. Why can’t this be easier? You take another deep breath and keep going.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, your music means so much to me. I’ve been listening to it for years, and it’s honestly helped me through some really tough days. It’s not just the beats or the lyrics, but there’s something about it that makes everything feel… less heavy. So, thanks for that. Really. You probably don’t know this, but your songs have been like my personal comfort food. Which sounds weird, but I think you get what I mean.

You stop again. Comfort food? Did you just compare his music to food? Why do you always sound like a weirdo? You shake your head and cross out "comfort food," then quickly scribble:

Okay, scratch that. What I meant to say is, your music is like a little piece of happiness in my life. Better? Probably not, but it’s all I’ve got right now. Anyway, you probably don’t need to know all that, but here we are.

You stare at the page again. Why is this so hard?

P.S. If you do happen to read this, I just want you to know that you’re amazing, and please keep being you. I’m rooting for you all the way, Jisung.

You set the pen down and lean back in your chair. Your heart is racing like you’ve just run a marathon, and now that it’s finally done, you're not sure whether to be relieved or hide under your bed.

You take one final look at the letter and squint. But then, in the silence, you decide to just do it. You fold the letter, seal it in an envelope, and—without thinking too much about it—write “Han Jisung” on the front. And with that, you shove the feeling of nervousness down and send it off into the universe. Maybe he’ll read it. Maybe he won’t. But you don't actually care, you liked the shaky feelings of writing for him, for only him.

A month or so later, you’re sitting in your room, staring at your phone screen. You’ve checked the notification tab for the hundredth time, just in case, but there’s still no sign of anything that might be important. You’re about to give up and go back to scrolling aimlessly when you see it.

A new Stray Kids video.

It’s one of their weekly promotion updates, just a casual vlog-like video. You freeze. It’s not like you didn’t know the video would drop eventually, but suddenly you feel... jittery. You pull your knees up to your chest, nervously adjusting your glasses, and hit play. It starts with Jisung grinning at the camera, a little wave. Typical. But as you watch, something makes your heart stop.

You blink.

Jisung’s holding letters in his hands.

Your stomach drops, and you lean forward, gripping the edge of your desk. Is that... your envelope? It looks like it, but this can’t be real, can it? You never imagined he'd actually hold your letter, much less... read it. He looks up at the camera, holding it for all to see, and smiles. "Ah, It’s in English, but it’s okay because we can communicate with our heart."

Your heart stops.

He... he read it. He actually read your letter, and what’s even crazier is that he’s holding it up, like nothing. Like it is nothing. But for you? Oh for you it’s the entire world. The camera catches a glimpse of his expression, a small smile creeping on his face. You can’t help but notice how soft his eyes look as he reads, his voice filled with warmth as he says the words.

The video continues, but you can barely focus on what he is doing or saying next. You’re too busy re-reading that line in your head.

He actually read it.

Your heart flutters, and you feel this mix of emotions you can’t even begin to describe. Excitement. Nerves. Awe. And somewhere deep down, a strange sense of warmth. He’s not just an idol on a screen anymore. He’s someone who’s heard your words, someone who knows... you exist. In a small part, of course.

You laugh to yourself in disbelief, eyes wide. “He… he actually said that.” Your hands are trembling as you watch the video again, replaying that part over and over.

Suddenly, the awkwardness of it all hits you again—he’s never going to see you the same way again, right? This is totally insane. What do you even do now? Do you keep writing to him?

From that moment, you kept writing him, only once a month, just to... support him from afar at your way. He was your little secret, your hour to write something that only one person, that could understand you in a unique way.

11.07 maybe we're not all meant to be loved for every time I say to myself "I'm okay" I find a hundred more reasons not to like me to tell myself again that I'm not okay I have severe self-esteem issues and I think you have noticed this for a long time Maybe I'm not made for love feel it yes, you find it in every action, a pinch of love is in everyone maybe it's just me who finds it distant Or is it distant But I feel a gash in my chest Because I can't be loved like everyone else because everyone finds the one who can love him, even just a little bit is it me? is it me who is not good enough for everyone? is it me who just don't go? who knows where the future will take us I know I wish it was with you but oh Jisung, you had me at hello. I love you, yours y/n

After that small phase, that changed your whole world, he didn’t say or do anything anymore. Then after 5 years, you stopped; between high school and the search for a work, your little reality stayed like that. But your passion for the Stray Kids music, never stopped.

It’s a typical afternoon, and you’re scrolling through your phone, trying to pass the time. Your mind is in autopilot mode as you check social media, not really expecting anything exciting. But then, something catches your eye. You blink, and your heart skips a beat.

A post from Stray Kids’ official account.

“Stray Kids DominATE World Tour: coming to your country!”

Your breath hitches. You blink again, as if the words on the screen will change if you look at them long enough. But no, it’s still there. Stray Kids, your favorite group, is coming to your country.

You feel your heart thudding in your chest. It’s been years since you last sent a letter to Jisung. Years since you even thought about the idea of seeing him in person. After everything—the letters, the time passing, and the uncertainty—you never thought you’d have the chance to see them live, let alone in your own country.

You would have flight to the other side of your country to see them.

You stare at the screen for a moment, hands trembling as you scroll through the details. The venue, the date, the tickets—it all feels like a dream. You think about how much you’ve changed over the years, how different you are from the shy girl who used to write to Jisung from her small room, unsure of what the future held.

But this… this is real.

You can already picture it in your mind: the stage, the lights, the energy of the crowd. And then, suddenly, you imagine standing there in the front row, surrounded by your friends, the atmosphere buzzing with excitement.

Your stomach flips with anticipation, but there’s a flutter of nervousness too. You haven't seen Jisung in person yet, and even if you’ve followed him for years, this is different. It's real. You can’t help but wonder if he’ll recognize you, if he’ll remember the letters from so long ago.

You lean back in your chair, the excitement taking over. Your best friend’s message from earlier pops into your head: “Are you really going to let this chance slip by?”

You pull your phone up again, heart pounding as you consider what to do next. The thought of being that close to him, seeing him perform live… the nerves and excitement mix into something a little more overwhelming than you’re used to. But this is your chance.

This is your chance to finally see him.

You take a deep breath and, without overthinking it too much, text your best friend: “I’m going to the concert. I have to. I can’t miss this.”

Their reply comes almost instantly. “I KNEW you would. You’re going to make it happen!”

You stare at the screen for a moment, your hands shaking a little. You don’t know what the future holds or what might happen at the concert, but one thing’s for sure: you’re not letting this moment slip away.

You sit there for a second, staring at the ticket page like it’s a dream. You feel like you’re about to faint, but you don’t care. After what feels like an eternity of checking your bank account, double-checking your credit card, and almost losing hope when the page freezes for a second—there it is. The confirmation email.

Your hands shake as you open the email, your eyes scanning over the details.

“Your tickets are confirmed.”

Your chest tightens. It feels like everything is crashing in all at once. You did it. You actually did it. You’re going to the concert. You’re going to see Stray Kids in person.

You sit there, staring at the screen, feeling a wave of pure euphoria wash over you. It’s like the weight of everything you’ve been holding onto for years suddenly melts away. The letters, the waiting, the uncertainty—it doesn’t matter anymore. You did it.

You spring out of your seat, almost tripping over your own feet in your excitement, and run to your best friend’s room.

“I got them! I got the tickets!” you scream, practically bouncing with joy.

Your best friend, who’s sitting casually on their bed, looks up at you like you’ve just won the lottery. You’re already tearing up, and your best friend’s eyes widen with surprise.

“Oh my god, y/n,” they say, standing up quickly. “Are you crying?”

You nod, wiping your eyes quickly but not really caring that you’re already a mess. “I can’t believe it,” you choke out, barely able to keep it together. “I’m actually going to see them. To see Jisung. In person. Like—I’m really doing it!”

Your best friend wraps their arms around you in a tight hug, clearly more than ready to celebrate with you. They hold you close as you try not to sob into their shoulder, laughing between hiccups of breath. It’s the most emotional you’ve felt in a long time.

“I’m so happy for you,” your best friend says, gently pulling back to look at you. “You deserve this. You’ve wanted it for so long.”

You laugh again, your tears turning into happy, shaky giggles. “I can’t believe it’s real,” you whisper, holding your phone to your chest like it’s a precious treasure. “I really thought I was just dreaming about this.”

You sit down on the floor with your best friend, still in disbelief. You clutch the phone and tickets like they’re your lifeline, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer joy of it all. Your emotions are a whirlpool—excitement, happiness, a touch of fear, and this deep sense of relief.

"I’ve never been this happy," you admit, a few more tears slipping down your face. "It feels like everything is falling into place."

Your best friend smiles softly, their eyes a little misty too, because they know how much this means to you. “I’m so proud of you. I can’t wait to see you finally living this dream.”

You snuggle up to them, feeling a comforting weight in your chest, and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself be completely overwhelmed by the moment. You let yourself feel every ounce of happiness, even if it means crying like a total mess.

But you don't care. Not anymore.

This is real. And nothing is going to stop you from seeing Jisung and Stray Kids. Not now, not ever.

You’re still holding onto your phone like it’s the most precious thing in the world when your best friend suddenly squints at the confirmation email on your screen.

“Wait… y/n.”

You sniffle, wiping at your face as you try to calm yourself down. “What?”

They grab your phone, scrolling through the email like they’re scanning for something important. Then, suddenly, they freeze. Their mouth drops open slightly before they whip their head toward you, eyes wide.

“Y/n.”

You blink at them, confused. “What? Why are you saying my name like that? You’re scaring me.”

They turn your phone around and point aggressively at a specific section of the email. Your eyes dart over the words, still teary and a little overwhelmed, until one sentence jumps out at you.

VIP Standing – Early Entry & Soundcheck Access

Your brain short-circuits.

“Wait…” you breathe, staring at the words like they might morph into something else. “Wait, no. That can’t be right.”

Your best friend grabs your shoulders, shaking you a little. “You got VIP, you idiot!”

Your stomach drops. Your heart flips. Your breath gets caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The realization hits like a lightning bolt to the chest.

“I—I what?”

Your best friend practically cackles. “You have VIP! You’re going to be in the first row! You’re going to see them up close! You’re going to breathe the same air as Jisung!”

Your entire body freezes. You suddenly feel like your soul has left your body. First row. Close to the stage. Seeing them up close. Seeing Jisung up close.

Oh. Oh no.

Your face instantly heats up, your hands gripping your phone as if that’ll somehow keep you grounded. A nervous giggle escapes your lips, but it’s high-pitched and slightly deranged. Your best friend is watching you with pure amusement as you slowly curl in on yourself, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.

“I can’t—I can’t do this,” you whisper, eyes wide. “That’s too close. That’s too real.”

Your best friend laughs, nudging you playfully. “Too late! You’re gonna be right there, front and center. If you make eye contact with Jisung, you might actually pass out.”

Your brain goes into meltdown mode. The thought of seeing Jisung from the crowd was already a lot to handle, but this? Having a chance to be in the first row, close enough to see every little detail, every expression on his face? The mere idea makes your cheeks burn.

You groan dramatically, flopping onto your bed and burying your face into your pillow. “I’m going to die. This is how I die. I’m going to stand there, blushing like an idiot, and Jisung is going to think I’m some weird giggling mess.”

Your best friend flops down next to you, grinning. “Oh, absolutely. You’ll be the most adorable, awkward VIP in the history of Stray Kids concerts.”

You peek at them from the pillow, lips pursed. “That’s not comforting.”

They just laugh, ruffling your hair. “Hey, you’ve been waiting for this for years. Freak out all you want now, but when the day comes, you know you’re going to love every second of it.”

You groan again, but deep down, you know they’re right. No matter how shy or overwhelmed you feel now, the reality is… this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You’re going to be right there.

Jisung is going to be right there.

You kick your legs a little, giggling into your pillow again, feeling like your heart might actually burst. You don’t know how you’ll survive it, but one thing’s for sure—this is going to be the most unforgettable experience of your life.

Your best friend is staring at you with that mischievous glint in their eyes—the kind that only means trouble. You don’t trust it. You know this look.

“…What?” you ask cautiously.

They flop onto your bed dramatically. “You need a sign.”

You groan, already regretting everything. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.” They sit up, pointing at you with way too much enthusiasm. “You have VIP. You’re going to be right in front of the stage. If you don’t bring a sign, how will Jisung know it’s you?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “He’s not going to remember me just because of a sign.”

“Uh, yes, he will,” they argue, scooting closer like they’re about to hit you with the most brilliant idea ever. “You need something eye-catching. Something that will force him to look at you.”

You squint. “Like what?”

They pause, thinking. And that’s when you know you’re doomed.

“Okay,” they start, clapping their hands together. “Option one: A huge, bright neon sign that says, ‘Jisung, you had me at hello.’ Since you used to write that in your letters, he’ll definitely notice.”

You chew your lip. That one’s actually kind of cute. But before you can say anything, your best friend is already moving on.

“Option two: A wanted poster with Jisung’s face on it. But instead of ‘wanted for crimes,’ it says, ‘wanted for stealing my heart.’”

You burst out laughing. “That’s so embarrassing!”

“Exactly!” They grin. “He’ll love it.”

You shake your head, covering your face. “No way. Not happening.”

“Fine, fine.” They wave you off. “Option three: You hold up a sign that says, ‘Jisung, if you read this, you owe me a high-five.’”

You pause. That… actually doesn’t sound too bad.

“Wait,” you mutter, lowering your hands. “That one might actually—”

“Or,” they cut in, way too excited now, “we go completely insane with it.”

You regret ever opening your mouth.

“Like?” you ask, already knowing you’re going to regret this.

They take a deep breath, dramatically extending their arms. “A giant sign with the worst pick-up line possible. Something so dumb, so cringe, that Jisung will have no choice but to notice you.”

You snort. “Like what?”

They immediately pull out their phone and start scrolling. “Let’s see… oh! How about: ‘Jisung, are you a magician? Because whenever I look at you, everyone else disappears.’”

You groan, covering your face again. “Nooo, that’s so bad.”

“Or—wait, this one’s even worse: ‘Jisung, are you a bank loan? Because you’ve got my interest.’”

You throw a pillow at them.

They dodge, cackling. “Oh! Oh! Or, ‘Jisung, I lost my number, can I have yours?’”

“Stop!” you wail, flopping back on the bed. “I am not holding up a cringey pick-up line at a concert!”

Your best friend leans over you, grinning. “You’re right. We should make it worse.”

They sing, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you gently. “Come on, Y/N, you have to do something. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

You bite your lip, thinking. You’re so shy, and the thought of holding up something ridiculous in front of Jisung makes your stomach twist into nervous knots. But at the same time… you do want to do something. Something just for fun. Something that might make him smile.

With a deep sigh, you finally give in.

“Fine,” you mumble. “But no pick-up lines.”

Your best friend fist-pumps the air. “Yes! Okay, okay, we’ll come up with something perfect.”

This is how, unfortunately, you ended up there. Pressed against the barricades, right in the front line.

Your hands are slightly shaking, your heart is sprinting like it’s in the Olympics, and your sign—the one your best friend practically bullied you into making—is clutched tightly between your fingers. Big bold letters, scribbled with a mix of nerves and nostalgia, stare back at you:

"You had me at hello."

It feels surreal. You’re so close to the stage that you can see the setlist taped down, the microphones arranged neatly, and the faint outlines of shadows moving behind the curtain. Every time the lights flicker or the music changes, your breath catches in your throat like a glitch in your chest.

Your best friend is next to you, vibrating with excitement and nudging your shoulder every thirty seconds. “y/n,” they whisper for the hundredth time. “This is really happening.”

You nod, too stunned to even speak.

The crowd behind you is wild, cheering and chanting, ocean waves of sound crashing all around you—but you’re in your own little bubble. One where your knees are jelly, your cheeks are on fire, and your brain is screaming something like, “WHAT IF HE SEES IT? WHAT IF HE ACTUALLY REMEMBERS?”

You glance down at your sign again. That phrase—it’s more than just words now. It was in every letter you sent him. A silly little line you always ended your thoughts with, back when you were fifteen and awkward and full of hope. Back when you never thought he’d even open one of your letters, let alone read it out loud with that soft voice and smile.

“Oh, it’s in English, but it’s okay… we can communicate with our hearts.”

You clutch the sign tighter, heart squeezing. Suddenly, the lights go out and the crowd erupts. The music booms through the stadium like a thunderstorm of joy and adrenaline. And then— Stray Kids walk out.

You don’t scream. You forget how to. You forget how to breathe. Because he’s right there. Jisung.

He’s laughing at something Changbin says, mic in hand, messy brown hair slightly tousled from movement, and he looks even more unreal in person. Like someone sketched him out of your dreams and pressed copy-paste into real life.

Your best friend is elbowing you, but you barely notice. Your eyes are locked on him and then—he’s scanning the front row. You panic. Instinctively, you lift your sign. Your arms are trembling. Your lips are slightly parted. You don’t even know if he’s looking. But then—his gaze stops.

Right on you.

His eyes flick down to the sign, and for a split second, something changes in his expression. His smile falters—not in a bad way, just like someone pressed pause on his face. His lips part, just a little, like maybe he recognizes it. Like maybe…

Maybe he remembers. Your heart explodes. And just as quickly, he smiles. A small, warm, knowing smile and then the music kicks in, and he turns away—off to his next cue.

But your legs feel like Jell-O. Your eyes sting. Because just for a second, it felt like he saw you. And maybe—just maybe—he did.

The music is pounding, the lights are flashing in every color imaginable, the crowd around you is bouncing and screaming—but all you can think about is that moment. That split second when Jisung looked at your sign. Really looked.

And then… He doubles back.

You swear your soul almost leaves your body when Jisung turns his head and glances your way again. Just briefly—but it’s enough to make your heart catapult into your throat.

He squints, grinning, and this time he definitely reads your sign properly. His eyebrows lift in recognition, and he points—actually points—right at it. Right at you.

Your best friend shrieks beside you, shaking your arm like they’re trying to restart your brain. Then it happens. Jisung raises his mic, leans slightly toward your side of the stage, and mouths something exaggeratedly with a huge grin— "HELLOOOO!"

The fans scream like crazy, but all you can hear is your heart breaking in the best way possible.

You’re laughing and covering your face at the same time, suddenly so aware of your cheeks burning up. You feel stupid and giddy and emotional all at once. You peek between your fingers, only to see him doing a cheesy little heart with his arms and tossing it right in your direction.

You don’t even care if it’s just fanservice. In this exact moment, it feels like the world is narrowing down to just the two of you.

Like he remembers, like your letters meant something. Like this stupid, beautiful sign actually found its way to him again after all this time.

Your best friend is crying now too—probably from secondhand embarrassment, or maybe they’re just as soft as you. You scream. You cry. You laugh. You want to vanish and also replay that second a thousand times and even though the rest of the concert is still ahead of you, packed with lightsticks and choreo and noise— that moment?

That was yours. And he saw you.

You start noticing it somewhere around the third song.

At first, you think maybe you’re just being delusional. Wishful thinking, overwhelmed from that one unforgettable “HELLOOO” moment and still floating miles above Earth. But then… it keeps happening. Jisung keeps drifting to your side of the stage.

Every. Single. Time.

Whether it's during choreo or while they’re walking around to wave at fans, he’s always near. Hovering within your section, sneaking glances more often than your heart can handle. Sometimes his gaze flicks toward you so quickly, so naturally, it almost seems like habit. Like he's checking.

Your best friend notices first. “Okay, I’m not crazy, right?” they yell over the music. “He’s literally glued to this side. I swear, he’s looking at you again.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too busy trying not to combust.

There’s a song where he kneels near the edge of the stage, close enough to make out the shape of his earrings, his breath catching under the lights—and while the others wave and smile at the crowd, his eyes scan the front row. When they land on you, you feel it. The tiny pause. The almost imperceptible softening in his expression.

He smiles. Not big or loud like on TV, but something smaller. Something that feels personal. You can barely function.

He’s performing—singing and rapping and dancing like the powerhouse he is—but still, he sees you. Not just your sign, not just your face in a sea of fans. It’s deeper.

You can tell by the way he keeps looking like he’s trying to confirm something. Like he’s thinking: Is it really her? After all these years?

And maybe your face has changed a little. Maybe your hair’s different or your style’s matured—but the phrase on your sign hasn’t changed. Neither has the way your eyes shine when you look at him.

When the stage goes dark between songs, you catch him glancing over again. This time, he lifts his water bottle to take a sip and… winks. WINKS. You nearly pass out on the barricade. Your best friend has to literally fan you with the concert pamphlet.

And all night long, he’s still there. Dancing dangerously close. Sending hearts in your direction. Like a loop. Like a full circle. Like fate standing onstage in front of you wearing black boots and a mic. Han Jisung is a lot of things—idol, performer, artist. But tonight, he’s the boy who recognized you. And that might just ruin you forever.

The concert ends in a blur of lights, confetti, and screams that echo in your bones. As the last note fades and the boys disappear backstage, you’re left standing there, gripping the barricade like your life depends on it.

You can’t move.

Your knees have officially turned into jelly. Useless, wobbly jelly. The kind that doesn’t support a person who’s just experienced 2+ hours of direct Han Jisung fanservice.

Your best friend catches you the moment your legs give out. “Oh my God—okay, okay, I got you, sit down before you melt into the concrete.”

You let them half-carry, half-drag you a few steps back, where the crowd is slowly thinning out. Your heartbeat still hasn’t gone back to normal. Your eyes are wide and glassy, your cheeks hurt from smiling too much, and your brain is… not functioning.

You plop down on the ground, legs out, clutching your sign to your chest like it’s a priceless artifact. Your best friend crouches beside you, eyes shining with the kind of joy reserved for someone who just watched the most surreal rom-com moment happen in real life.

“Okay,” they say, “I know you’re about to spontaneously ascend into the clouds or whatever, but can we talk about how Jisung, THE Han Jisung, literally spent the whole concert stalking our section?”

You blink. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. Then—“I. I don’t. Did that even. Was he—? Was that me?”

They let out a wheeze. “Yes, babe. That was you. He was looking at you. You were like… his anchor point on stage. His little human lighthouse. His—”

“Okay stop,” you squeak, slapping their arm lightly. “I’m already not breathing.” You fall back onto the ground dramatically, hands over your face, kicking your feet in the air like an overwhelmed anime character. “I literally cannot walk. I’m never recovering. This is it. I peaked.”

They lie down beside you in the parking lot chaos, laughing like you’re both ten years old again. “So when’s the wedding?”

“I’m gonna faint.” “You already did.”

You both just lay there, staring up at the Roman sky filled with leftover glow from the stadium, and for the first time in forever… you feel like maybe the universe really did hear all your letters. Because Han Jisung saw you and tonight, you’re more than just a fan. You were seen.

You’re still on cloud nine—maybe cloud ninety-nine, honestly—when it happens. You and your best friend are waddling toward the stadium exit, limbs aching in the best way possible, still squealing every five seconds about “THAT LOOK” and “HIS SMILE WAS FOR YOU,” when two staff members in sleek black jackets gently stop you with polite but firm smiles.

“Excuse me,” one of them says, glancing at your badge. “You were in the VIP section, yes?”

You blink. “Uh… y-yeah?”

“There’s just one quick thing we need to double-check with you and security. Won’t take long.”

You exchange a look with your best friend, confusion furrowing both your brows. But everything seems official enough—lanyards, radios, serious vibes—so you nod slowly. “Just her,” the second staff member adds. “Won’t take more than a few minutes. You can wait outside.”

Your best friend looks very skeptical, but you give their hand a squeeze. “I’ll be fine,” you whisper, heart already fluttering with curiosity, nerves, and—somehow—a sense of déjà vu. They guide you down a hallway behind the stadium, past doors labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.” Your heart is pounding again, the post-concert haze starting to shift into something else entirely—something warm and terrifying and electric.

You expect to find a security desk. Maybe someone with a clipboard asking you about your badge. Instead, they open a nondescript black door and gently motion you inside. And then?

They close it behind you. Leaving you in a quiet room, with one Korean staff member sitting by a small table…And Han Jisung. Standing there. Looking right at you.

You freeze. Your brain full-stops. Your hands go clammy, your vision tilts a little.

He’s dressed in casual post-show clothes now—oversized black hoodie, damp hair pushed back, skin still glowing under the fluorescent lights. And he’s holding a stack of papers in one hand. A Non-Disclosure Agreement.

“Hi,” he says, smiling nervously, like he’s the one about to faint. “I—I hope this isn’t too weird. But… I think we have a lot to talk about.”

You blink once. Twice. You point at him, dumbly. “You—uh—you’re real.”

He laughs. “So are you.”

You stare at him, brain not computing. “I—what—what’s going on?”

The staff member slides the NDA toward you gently and nods. “We just need you to sign this first. Then you can talk.”

You glance down at the document, then back up at Jisung, who suddenly looks very, very shy. “You had me at hello,” he murmurs, voice soft.

And that’s when it hits you. Your fingers are trembling. Not dramatically—just enough to make the pen slip weirdly between them like you’ve never held one before in your life. “This is… this is a prank,” you whisper, laughing nervously as you eye the NDA in front of you like it might suddenly morph into a math test. “Is this a prank? Are there cameras? Am I on Korean Punk’d right now?”

“No prank,” the staff member replies kindly - in a broken English you would say, and even they look a little amused.

You glance at Jisung again. He’s still standing there, fidgeting slightly with the sleeves of his hoodie, like he’s the nervous one. Which makes absolutely zero sense because he's Han Jisung. Global superstar. Idol. Rapper. The guy who lives in your playlists. The guy you once wrote a letter to while wearing pajamas and eating Nutella from the jar.

“I—okay,” you mutter, cheeks burning. “Yeah. Cool. Sure. Just signing… a totally normal legal document. In front of Han Jisung. Casual.” You bend over the table, but your hand stutters halfway through your name, and the result is this ridiculous, uneven signature that looks like a toddler tried to draw a bird.

You stare at it for a second.

“Oh my God,” you mumble. “That looks like a sneeze. That doesn’t even look like letters.” Jisung chuckles quietly behind you, and it sends a warm buzz all the way down your spine.

You slap your palm over the signature in defeat. “Can I get a redo? Please? Just one?”

“Don’t worry,” the staff member says, gently taking the paper. “You signed it. That’s what counts.” You nod quickly, awkwardly, then stand up so fast your chair squeaks loudly against the floor and you wince like you just stepped on a puppy.

Jisung steps closer. “You really didn’t think I’d remember you, did you?”

You meet his eyes—those soft, too kind eyes—and feel your heart thump all over again. “I didn’t even think you’d read the first letter,” you admit quietly.

He smiles. “Well… I read all of them.”

You blink up at him, brain still rattling around like a loose marble in a washing machine. Everything is surreal. The room. The papers. Him. Especially him. So, naturally, the words that tumble out of your mouth next are: “You’re lying.”

Jisung’s smile drops into something halfway between offended and dramatically scandalized. “Lying?!”

You immediately regret it. “I didn’t mean—I mean, I did say that, but—what I meant is—it just doesn’t make sense!” He crosses his arms, eyebrows lifting as he leans back slightly, all mock betrayal. “Wow. I invite you to my post-concert secret lair, I give you an NDA, and this is how I get treated? Accused of perjury?”

You let out a wheezy laugh, covering your face with both hands. “Okay, okay, but come on! You get like, thousands of letters! There’s no way mine stood out.”

Jisung’s expression softens. “Yours did.” Your breath catches in your throat. He shrugs a little, looking suddenly bashful again. “They weren’t like the others. Yours were messy. Honest. Funny. You rambled a lot.”

“I do ramble,” you say into your palms.

“And you always ended them with ‘You had me at hello.’ I started looking for that line every time a new letter came in. It felt like a secret code.” Your heart flips so violently it could probably qualify as a gymnastics routine.

“You’re… serious?” you whisper, peeking at him through your fingers.

Jisung steps a little closer, eyes locking with yours.

“I’m very serious. You made me feel… seen. Not like an idol. Just a guy. A guy who drinks too much iced coffee and overthinks song lyrics at 3 a.m.” You slowly lower your hands, blinking at him in disbelief.

“…You’re still a liar.”

He groans, dragging his hands down his face with a laugh. “Unbelievable.”

“I’m sorry!” you giggle, cheeks hurting from how hard you’re smiling. “I’m just—I don’t know how to believe this is real.”

He gestures to the room. “You signed an NDA. This is legally real.”

You snort.

Jisung grins again, “Wanna sit down? We have a lot of catching up to do… and I want to know everything.” You blink at him again, still partially convinced this is some elaborate prank or a very intense lucid dream. But then Jisung grabs two water bottles from a mini-fridge in the corner like it’s the most casual thing ever, cracks one open, and hands it to you.

“Alright,” he says, flopping onto the couch like he owns the universe. “Welcome to today’s episode of 'So You’re the Girl Who Wrote Those Letters,' hosted by me, your favorite idol-slash-detective, Han Jisung.”

You’re still standing awkwardly by the door, clutching the water like it’s a stress ball. “Is this really happening?”

He pats the seat next to him. “Very real. Very much happening. NDA signed, remember? No turning back now.”

You shuffle over, sitting on the edge of the couch like you're scared it might swallow you whole. He wiggles dramatically to make space, grinning at your stiff posture.

“So!” He clears his throat with fake professionalism. “Question one: On a scale from one to microwave popcorn, how nervous are you right now?”

“…What?”

“You heard me.”

You laugh—loud and surprised—shaking your head. “I don’t know… burnt popcorn?”

Jisung gasps. “That bad? Harsh. Okay, question two. Favorite ice cream flavor. Go.”

“Strawberry.”

He nods seriously, typing nothing into his imaginary clipboard. “Noted. Question three: why did you stop writing to me?”

You freeze.

He says it so casually, but his eyes—his eyes are serious now. You look down at your hands in your lap, fingers tightening around the bottle cap. “I think I just.. felt like I was bothering you for years. So I stopped.” A beat of silence.

"Y/n, you were never a bother."

Your heart cracks a little.

“And now…” he continues, voice lighter again, “Question four: What does ‘you had me at hello’ actually mean? Because I googled it once and ended up in a rom-com spiral.”

You snort, feeling your whole body loosen just a bit. “It’s from Jerry Maguire! It means… I liked you from the beginning. From the very start.”

“Ohhh.” He squints at you. “So you liked me before I even read your first letter?”

“I liked your music!” you clarify quickly, feeling your cheeks flame. “You were just… really inspiring and talented and—ugh, don’t look at me like that!”

“I’m not looking at you like anything!” he says, leaning forward, clearly enjoying your slow descent into social panic. “I just think it’s cute.” You groan into your hands.

He chuckles. “Okay, final question: do you still write letters?”

You peek at him through your fingers. “Sometimes. I just never send them anymore." Jisung leans back, arms crossed, giving you the softest smile you’ve seen all night.

“Well,” he says, “maybe you don’t have to send them anymore. Maybe you can just… say them. To me.” And just like that, you’re microwave popcorn again.

Your eyes finally rise to meet his again, and it hits you like a quiet storm.

Han Jisung is right in front of you. Up close, he’s unfairly beautiful in a way that your brain isn’t equipped to process. His hair is longer than usual, falling in damp strands that cling to his forehead and the sides of his face, still glistening with sweat from the concert. His honey skin shines under the backstage lights, flushed with heat and adrenaline, and there’s a soft heaviness to his breaths, like he ran straight from the stage just to see you.

You shouldn’t be staring. You know you shouldn’t. But how are you supposed to look away?

His eyeliner is slightly smudged at the corners, making his eyes look even deeper, darker, almost like they’re pulling you in. His lips are parted just a little, and for a terrifying second, you’re not sure if your legs are still functioning. Your whole body feels like it’s melting—cheeks burning, hands clammy, stomach turning into a rollercoaster.

Oh god. He’s looking at you too.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice soft, still slightly breathless. “You look a little—uh… pink?”

You want to respond, say something clever, but all that comes out is a panicked squeak and an awkward cough as you drop your gaze to the floor. Your heart is doing parkour. Your brain has gone offline. You’re ninety-nine percent sure you’re blushing in every shade known to man.

This is not how you imagined meeting your favorite person.

You’re still trying to gather the shreds of your dignity from the floor when he suddenly reaches behind him and pulls something out from the table.

A pen and a notepad, he holds them out to you like he’s offering you his soul. “Write me one,” he says, eyes twinkling, lips curved into that signature mischievous grin. “A letter. Right now.”

You blink. “What?”

“You heard me.” He nudges the pen into your hands. “You wrote the first one when I didn’t even know your name. Now that I do…” He shrugs, leaning back on the couch with way too much confidence. “It’s only fair.”

“I—I can’t just—write something now,” you stammer, gripping the pen like it might explode. “You’re literally watching me.”

“Yup.” He grins wider. “And I won’t read it until you’re done. Promise.” He covers his eyes with one hand, peeking through his fingers. “Okay, mostly promise.”

You sit down slowly, legs still wobbly from concert-induced jelly mode, and rest the paper on your lap. The room goes quiet except for your shaky breathing and the rapid tap-tap of the pen against your palm.

hello stranger, This is so awkward I might actually pass away—

You pause. Scratch it out.

Hello stranger, You’re very sweaty right now and I’m trying not to faint—

Oh god. No.

You quickly fold the page over, hiding it from his view.

Jisung’s shoulders are trembling from silent laughter, his hand still over his face. “That good, huh?”

You grumble, “This was a terrible idea.” But you keep writing anyway. Because deep down, it kind of feels like everything you never thought could happen… is actually happening.

You chew on the tip of the pen, brow furrowed in concentration, totally lost in your own little whirlwind of panic and ink-stained emotions. The world has shrunk down to this piece of paper, this moment, this boy who once lived in your headphones but is now sitting across from you, waiting with a soft grin and stars in his eyes.

And while you're focused on your shaky handwriting, completely unaware of how adorable your nose scrunches every time you get stuck on a sentence—

Jisung is staring at you like you hung the moon.

He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, chin propped up by his hand. His expression shifts, playful grin softening into something quieter, something a little stunned. It’s like he’s watching something rare, something fleeting. Something that doesn’t even realize how beautiful it is.

You’re right there, nervously scribbling out sentences and sighing dramatically when things don’t sound perfect. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, your cheeks still warm from the earlier fluster. You keep whispering the words under your breath as you write them—like you want to make sure they feel right.

And Jisung can’t take his eyes off you.

He’s seen crowds of thousands. Stages filled with flashing lights and screaming fans. But somehow, in this quiet room with your knee bouncing anxiously and your fingers smudged with ink—

You’re the only thing he can focus on.

For the first time in a long time, Han Jisung isn’t thinking about lyrics, or cameras, or performances. He’s just watching you, heart thudding in his chest like a drum beat only he can hear.

You’re still hunched over the paper, determined to finish your masterpiece of a letter, when the door suddenly creaks open with a sharp click. You flinch, nearly dropping the pen. Jisung doesn’t even look up. He’s too busy watching you like you’re made of stardust.

"Yo, Jisung—" Chan’s voice cuts through the soft stillness. "We’re leaving in five, man, so if you’re—" He stops dead in his tracks when he notices you.

The silence that follows is loud.

Your head snaps up. Chan stares. You blink. Jisung turns his head slowly, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "...Oh," Chan says.

"Hyung," Jisung coughs, straightening up so fast his hair bounces, "I can explain."

Chan raises an eyebrow. "Should I be... concerned or congratulating you right now?"

"I—um—neither?" Jisung scratches the back of his neck. "She’s the letter girl."

Chan's eyes widen just a bit. “The letter girl?” You give the most awkward little wave in human history. Chan just laughs under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Well, that makes sense now. You were obsessed with those letters.”

Jisung shoots him a look. “I wasn’t obsessed.”

“You read them like bedtime stories, bro.” You shrink slightly in your chair, cheeks burning. Chan notices and immediately softens, raising his hands.

"Sorry—didn’t mean to embarrass you. Just… this is kinda surreal."

"Tell me about it," you mumble, still gripping the pen like a weapon.

Chan smiles and backs up toward the door. "Alright, alright. I’ll give you two a few more minutes. But Jisung—three tops, or I’m dragging you out myself."

“Got it,” Jisung says, not even looking away from you.

And just before Chan slips out, he glances at Jisung one more time and adds with a smirk, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” The door shuts again.

Silence returns. You glance at Jisung, heart racing. “So… ‘letter girl,’ huh?”

He grins. “Told you were unforgettable.”

The room settles again after Chan’s exit, but your heartbeat refuses to calm. You’re pretty sure it’s echoing off the walls. You try to focus on the letter again, but your hand feels shaky, and Jisung’s eyes haven’t left you since. He leans back a little, resting his palms on the edge of the couch, lips pressed together like he’s holding back a thousand things at once. “So…” he says slowly, voice warm and teasing, “you’re kind of famous in our dorm, you know.”

You snort, embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I didn’t expect that anyone actually read those letters. Let alone… multiple people.”

“I didn’t just read them,” he says, more serious now. “I waited for them.”

You look up. He’s already looking at you.

“Every month,” he continues, softer now. “I’d hope for your handwriting. Your awkward little jokes. The way you signed them with those weird doodles in the corners.”

You blink quickly, swallowing a sudden knot in your throat. “They were really bad doodles.”

“They were the best part,” he grins.

A quiet beat.

Then Jisung shifts forward a little, fingers nervously tapping his knee. “Hey, um…”

Uh-oh. The stammer is back. His usual confidence slips for just a second.

“If you’re not—like—leaving right away, or busy, or… I dunno, allergic to Korean food…” he chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Would you maybe… wanna grab dinner? With me?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Dinner.

With Han Jisung.

Dinner.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You have to take a breath and reboot your voice system entirely.

“I—I mean, yeah, I could eat,” you say. “Not, like, desperately hungry or anything, I just… yeah. Food. Cool.”

Jisung laughs, the tension in his shoulders easing immediately. “Cool. Awesome. Yeah.”

You both sit there for a moment—smiling like two idiots, hearts pounding, cheeks burning, knees brushing under the table without meaning to.

And just like that, the boy you once only knew through a screen is standing up, holding the door open for you, and smiling at you like a sunshine, “C’mon, Letter Girl. Let’s get you some dinner.”

The hallway is quiet as you and Jisung slip out of the room, flanked by a silent Korean staff member who guides you toward a black van parked just behind the venue. You can barely feel your feet on the ground—everything’s a blur of fluorescent lights, adrenaline, and the fact that you’re walking beside Han Jisung like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

Except it’s not.

Not even close. As the staff opens the side door of the van, Jisung gestures for you to go in first. You nod and awkwardly half-bow, then climb into the seat behind the driver. Jisung hops in right after you, sitting beside you with barely a few inches of space in between.

And that’s when it hits you.

You’re in a car with Han Jisung. After a concert. His concert. Sweaty Han Jisung. Oh god sweaty Jisung. Who invited you to dinner.

You inhale through your nose—trying so hard to be normal—but it doesn’t help. Because the smell of his cologne, mixed with just a little leftover sweat and stage energy, is literally intoxicating. And unfair.

He buckles in, leans back, and casually glances over at you. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you blurt, way too fast, your voice cracks on the word “fine.”

He stifles a laugh. “You sure? You look like you might short-circuit.”

“I feel like I might,” you admit, covering your face with your hands and groaning softly. “This is so weird.”

“Not in a bad way, I hope?”

“No! No, no. Just… weird in a ‘how is this my life right now’ kind of way.”

Jisung smiles, shifting to face you more directly. “It’s weird for me too. In the best way.”

The car starts moving, and you both fall into a gentle silence—one that feels warm and oddly familiar despite the circumstances. You sneak a side glance at him.

His hair is still slightly damp, a few strands curling at the tips. His cheeks are flushed from the show, his eyes soft now, not wide-eyed and loud like on stage. He looks… real. And that’s when he catches you staring. “Something on my face?” he grins.

You snap your head forward so fast your neck nearly cracks. “No! I mean—yes. I mean—your face is on your face, but nothing wrong with it—”

He chuckles, low and fond, and leans his head back against the seat. “You’re cute when you panic.”

You press your lips together, letting out a weak little whimper. “Why would you say that out loud?”

He smirks and shrugs, gazing out the window. “Just speaking from the heart.”

The restaurant is dimly lit, stylish but cozy, tucked in a quiet corner of Rome. The kind of place you would never walk into alone, let alone with Han Jisung sitting across from you.

The server seats you both in a corner booth. Jisung shrugs off his jacket and settles in, his damp hair finally drying into soft waves that brush the tops of his ears. He stretches a little before glancing at you. “What do you wanna eat? I’m starving.”

You open the menu and nearly forget how to read. Confused words blur into nonsense, and your eyes dart nervously to the little pictures beside each dish. You point randomly. “That one looks… food.”

Jisung snorts. “That one is food. Solid choice.”

The server returns and Jisung takes over with shocking ease, placing the order in basic but charming Korean. You blink at him, because that was hot as hell.

“You’re nervous,” Jisung says through a laugh, resting his chin on his hand, smiling lightly. “It’s okay though. you're cute when you're nervous.” Despite the mess, despite the way your nerves are doing backflips, this already feels like a core memory. And Jisung—he doesn’t seem fazed at all.

You mumble lightly with hands that cover your face. “You’re really going to ruin me tonight, aren’t you?”

“Maybe a little,” he says with a wink. “But in the sweetest way possible.”

The dinner wraps up and the two of you step out into the cool city evening, the air crisp and fresh after a long, heated meal. The city feels different at night—quiet yet alive, with a gentle hum of conversation and the soft clink of glasses from nearby cafes. You can see the faint glow of the lights in the distance, and it feels like the perfect backdrop for a night out with Jisung, though you’re still trying to convince your body it’s actually happening.

You and Jisung walk side by side, the streets gently bustling with life, but it feels as though the world around you has slowed down, just for a moment. Every few steps, your hands brush together, sending little jolts up your arm, and each time, you quickly pull your hand away, your heart racing like it’s trying to escape your chest.

You’re not sure if he notices, but it feels like you’re walking in a dream. You’re not supposed to be this close to him. You can barely remember how to keep your hands to yourself.

And then—he stops.

Right in the middle of the cobblestone street. A car passes by, headlights painting the two of you in a fleeting, golden light. Your breath catches. “Uh… Jisung?”

He’s standing there, staring ahead, his hands shoved in his pockets, his face tight. You can see the muscles in his jaw working, and for a second, you think he might be upset. But when he looks at you, there’s a storm behind his eyes—a frustration you can’t place.

“Y/n…” he starts, his voice low, almost like he’s trying to keep it steady. “I need you to stop.”

“Stop?” You blink, confused, trying to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stop what?”

He turns to face you fully now, his shoulders tense. “Stop pretending like you don’t know what’s going on here.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you frown. “What do you mean?”

His expression softens for a second before the frustration creeps back. “I mean… stop acting like you haven’t noticed how I’ve been looking at you all night.”

You freeze. “Jisung, I—”

“No, listen,” he cuts you off, running a hand through his slightly damp hair. “I’m not saying you’re doing this on purpose. But you keep pushing me away, like you’re scared. But I’m not some... some idol you have to be afraid of, okay? I’m just me.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he continues, voice rising a little more in frustration now. “Every time I think maybe you’re starting to trust me, you pull back. And then when I think I’ve done something wrong, you just—” He stops, taking a deep breath. “You don’t understand, do you? You don’t get how much I’ve thought about you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes wide, and it’s like the world slows down even more. You stand there in silence for a moment, processing what he’s just said. Your chest feels tight, your palms sweating.

And then you manage to speak, voice shaking, “I—I didn’t know you felt that way.”

He laughs, but it’s a low, frustrated sound, not like before. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been terrible at showing it. But I want you to know, Y/n… I’m trying here. And I don’t want you to keep pushing me away. I want you to let me in.”

You swallow hard, your heart beating faster now, and for the first time, you realize how ridiculously close you are to him. You’re both standing on the cobblestones, inches away, and your pulse is thundering in your ears.

“Jisung…” Your voice falters.

He looks down at you, eyes softer now, but still intense. “I know you’re scared. I know it’s a lot. But I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

And just like that, the tension in the air shifts. His words—raw and unfiltered—wrap around you, and for a moment, everything feels different. The world feels a little smaller. His gaze softens, and he reaches out, barely brushing his fingertips against yours.

This time, you don’t pull away. Your fingers tangle with his, just a touch, like a quiet promise. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself feel it. Whatever this is.

You stand there, still trying to wrap your head around everything that’s just been said. Jisung’s words are echoing in your mind, like a melody you can’t shake. You’ve been trying so hard to keep it together, trying to make sense of the whirlwind that is him, that is this. But you’re still so shocked, still so shaken by everything happening, you can barely breathe. You look at him—really look at him—and the storm inside your chest only grows.

“I’m just—” You shake your head, your words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m still trying to figure all this out. I’ve never been in something like this, Jisung. I don’t even know how to react. You’re you and I’m just… me. And I don’t get why you even… want this, want me.”

You let out a short, shaky laugh, but it’s all nerves. “I’m just—so surprised, and it feels like I’m waiting for someone to wake me up and tell me it’s not real. It’s a lot to handle, and my brain is still catching up.”

Jisung stands there, silent, watching you with an expression that’s almost unreadable, but his eyes never leave yours. You feel the weight of the night, of the connection between you two, hanging in the air like an unspoken truth. Your pulse quickens as the words tumble out of your mouth, but the moment they do, you feel silly for saying them.

“I just don’t know if I’m ready for all of this, Jisung,” you whisper, stepping back slightly, almost as if you’re trying to distance yourself from the intensity of it all.

His gaze softens. He’s still standing just a few inches away from you, but there’s a distance between you now—a distance you can’t seem to bridge. You look at him, your chest tight with a hundred different emotions, and before you can continue your rambling thoughts, he steps forward in one fluid motion.

And then, without any warning, he reaches up, his hand cupping your face with a tenderness that takes your breath away. His thumb brushes your cheek, a silent gesture that sends a wave of warmth rushing through you.

“You don’t need to figure everything out right now, Y/n,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m not asking for all of you at once. I just want you to be real with me. You’re not alone in this, okay? I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

You swallow hard, still lost in the weight of his words, when you feel his fingers gently lifting your chin. His gaze drops to your lips, his breath brushing across your face. Everything about the moment feels like a slow-moving storm. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until it catches in your throat.

And then, without any warning, Jisung closes the small gap between you two. His lips are soft, tentative at first, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. But you don’t. You don’t want to.

The kiss starts slow, almost hesitant, but as soon as his lips press against yours, a quiet fire blooms in your chest. Your mind blanks for a split second, everything else fading into the background. It’s gentle at first, just a brush of lips, a quiet meeting of worlds that shouldn’t fit but do, somehow. You feel his warmth, the soft pressure of his lips against yours, and it all feels like something you never could’ve imagined before.

But then he deepens the kiss ever so slightly, his hand shifting to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you in closer, and your knees feel like they might just give out. The kiss becomes more urgent, more alive, and the world tilts around you as his lips move with a careful urgency, like he’s telling you something without words.

You respond instinctively, your hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart through the fabric of his shirt. You can’t help but melt into him, your senses overloaded by the sensation of him—his warmth, his touch, the way his kiss makes everything else feel so far away.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. You’re both still, your chest rising and falling together, and for a long moment, neither of you says a word. The city around you fades away completely, and all that’s left is the feeling of his lips, the softness of his touch, and the steady rhythm of your hearts beating in sync.

“I don’t want you to be scared anymore,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your cheek as he speaks. “You don’t have to be.”

You stare up at him, your heart still racing, still trying to comprehend what just happened, but there’s no denying it. The quiet promise in his words, the sincerity in his eyes—it makes something inside you stir.

“Jisung…” You whisper his name like it’s the only thing that matters right now.

His eyes meet yours again, and this time, it’s clear. He’s not going anywhere. Neither are you.

"You had me at hello."

#han jisung #( skz. — 💭! )#stray kids #han jisung skz #han jisung x reader #han jisung smut #skz #han jisung fluff #fan x idol #fan x idol relationship

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astrotruther · 26 days ago

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Beauty in Astrology

Male/female gaze, supermodels & celebrities extravaganza.

Striking Beauty:

Aries Moon / Mars - Hot, bold and magnetic.

Hard aspects (squares, oppositions, conjunctions) between:

Mars-Pluto - Aura that makes people nervous.

Moon-Pluto - Been through a lot and others sense it.

Moon-Mars - People sense their raw emotions and sensuality.

Pluto-Aphrodite (1388) - Dark, mythical beauty & haunting eyes.

Venus-Ascendant - Eye-catching beauty. People want to know them.

Venus-Uranus - Beauty that isn't cookie-cutter.

Venus-Chiron - Vulnerable beauty that makes people protective or predatory.

Soft / Cute Beauty:

Aries Venus: Bashful charm, “accidentally sexy” vibes.

Mars conjunct Neptune: soft, dreamy sensuality.

Soft aspects (trines, sextiles) between:

Moon-Aphrodite: gentle, sweet, and glowing from the inside.

Mars-Pluto: Quietly intense. They attract by NOT demanding attention.

Venus-Jupiter: The pretty privilege placement. ❗Do not get cosmetic procedures with this. It backfires badly. (E.g. Jennifer Aniston)

Male-Gaze Beauty:

Mars in 1st house - Hot body.

Moon in 7th house - Men project all their fantasies onto them.

Pisces Moon - Men want to protect them. They trigger their savior complex.

Mars in Scorpio - Dominant and alluring. Men secretly want to dominate them.

Venus sextile / trine Mars: Sexy without effort. You’re not even trying, that’s what kills them.

hard aspects (squares, oppositions, conjunctions) between:

Mars-Ascendant - Attention-grabbing aura.

Moon-Pluto - fragile yet intense — men project everything onto them.

Venus-Jupiter - The beauty standard.

Venus-Uranus - The manic pixie dream girl.

Venus-Ascendant - Undeniable, indisputable beauty. Very photogenic.

Female-Gaze Beauty:

Libra Moon / Venus: She’s put together. Classic beauty.

Venus in Taurus or Cancer: Lush, safe, comforting beauty.

Venus-Saturn aspects: Elegant. Intimidating. She runs things.

Mars-Neptune aspects: Soft, sensual energy. She's the standard.

Venus-Mercury hard aspects: People listen when she talks.

Lilith-Pluto hard aspects (when evolved): She empowers other women.

Venus opposite / square Mars: Men can't figure her out. Women love her chaotic energy.

Venus conjunct Mars: Wild card. Can go either way — stunning (Zendaya) or not really (James Corden). Works equally on men and women—no "gaze" bias.

Supermodel Beauty:

♡ Sagittarius (late degrees) / Capricorn (early degrees) Risings — Libra MC naturally aligns their careers with fashion and an aspirational sense of beauty with staying power. They become industry darlings.

♡ Ascendant, Moon, Venus, Mars, or Lilith in Virgo / Libra / Leo

♡ Lilith / Jupiter / Pluto / Venus in the 8th or 12th house

♡ Aries Ascendant, Saturn in Aries, Saturn-Ascendant aspects

♡ North Node in Libra

♡ North Node in the 10th House - Born to be seen. Particularly in Libra, she's the muse of fashion houses, the face of campaigns, magazine covers, and tumblr aesthetics. She's the Pinterest moodboard everyone saves but never really knows. If materialistic, she leans into being objectified ("I’m here to look expensive, not deep").

Celebrity Astro Patterns:

Aries Moon / Rising — shows up constantly in female celebrities' charts. They aren't just attractive, they've got everyone obsessed.

📌Examples: Angelina Jolie (Aries Moon), Selena Gomez (Aries Moon), Kendall Jenner (Aries Moon + Rising), Rihanna (Aries Moon + Rising), Beyoncé (Aries Rising)

Sagittarius Rising — They CAN’T not be seen. Jupiter puts a spotlight on them but doesn't necessarily guarantee a good reputation. They stay visible.

Capricorn Rising — Built for fame. They want it, and know how to play that game. Saturn gives them discipline to navigate long-term fame and just enough controversy to stay relevant.

📌Examples: Ariana Grande, Megan Fox, Naomi Campbell

Virgo Moon / Venus / Mars — Common in celebs who've undergone major cosmetic transformations over the years. Virgo needs control and perfection, so cosmetic work may be a coping mechanism as much as an aesthetic choice.

📌Examples: Kylie Jenner & Kim Kardashian (Virgo Venus), Bella Hadid & Blake Lively (Virgo Moon + Venus), Ariana Grande (Virgo Mars)

Libra Mars — Beauty that benefits from relationships. They become more visible through their partners, even if they eventually outshine them.

📌Examples: Princess Kate, Priyanka Chopra (her popularity in the U.S. increased significantly after Nick Jonas), Camila Cabello (Señorita being her most successful era), Kylie Jenner (her relevance spikes whenever she is in a new relationship, e.g. currently with Timothée Chalamet) even as the overall Kardashian brand declines

Jupiter in 1H — People are influenced by the way these natives present themselves. It is beneficial for ventures related to beauty, fashion, skincare, makeup. But, they need to be careful about sustaining that relevance long-term. Jupiter here gives success fast, but not always forever.

📌Examples: Kylie Jenner, Hailey Bieber made Rhode a billion-dollar brand while some bigger celebs' brands flopped.

Scorpio / 8H Venus — Looked down upon, perhaps even considered "ugly" in their earlier years but become a beauty standard with age.

📌Examples: Rekha, Kylie Jenner

youtube

Lastly — Please keep talking about Palestine. There's a shift happening. You can see it in how world leaders are starting to backtrack, Netanyahu’s slowly losing support, and Israel’s actions are no longer passing under the radar. It’s working — not fast enough, but it is working. Your voice matters. Don't stop using it.

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leashybebes · 2 months ago

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If it sparks joy:

Cuddling in a blanket fort for BT ☺️

it sparks so much joy. also for @mediocre-mee, because great minds think alike. warning: remarkably little cuddling, but lots of blanket fort

"You guys are really bad at this," Denny says as the third blanket in a row flutters to the floor. He has his hands on his hips, eyeing them critically.

"Give us a break, kid," Tommy says. "We had sad childhoods."

Buck fights a wince but Denny just rolls his eyes at Tommy, picks up two blankets and starts issuing directions. It was Tommy's idea, when they started talking about fostering, that they should start looking after the 118 kids in larger numbers, kind of a series of trial runs. He called it practice, but apparently he doesn't need practice. Maybe Buck does though - he's starting to think Chris is the exception that proves the rule. Once they get past around five years old, kids think Buck is embarrassing. Tommy, though? Tommy's cool, even if he can't build a blanket fort to save his life, even if he's saying objectively uncool things.

They move furniture around under Denny's watchful eye, repurpose lamps and chairs and picture hooks to build the blanket fort of Jee and Mara's dreams.

"Okay. Not awful," Denny concludes. "I'll go get the girls."

"I'll start the popcorn," Buck says.

Jee and Mara are delighted with their blanket fort, and rightly give Denny most of the credit, the three of them piling into the fort to watch a movie while Buck and Tommy work on dinner.

When Karen arrives to pick up the kids later, Tommy, Buck and Denny are drinking root beer on the porch, while the girls are sleeping off dinner in the blanket fort.

"Oh, they have you wrapped around their little fingers," she crows at the sight of their living room.

"Yeah," Tommy admits, completely unembarrassed.

"This is why we're the favorite uncles," Buck says, from where he's sorting through backpacks, making sure all three of the kids are leaving with everything they brought with them, apart from the friendship bracelets that had been earnestly delivered - Mara's been on a kick lately and Jee is, as ever, delighted to learn from her.

Once they've waved them off, Buck claps his hands together and says, "Okay. Should we put the room to rights?"

"Absolutely not. C'mon, get in the blanket fort with me, Buckley."

"You're kidding, right? It barely fit Denny and the girls. We'll have a structural collapse within five minutes."

Tommy tugs on Buck's hand, pulling him in for a kiss and then leading him into the living room. It takes a bit of effort, but they manage to crawl through the blanket tunnel Denny had carefully constructed and Buck lets Tommy pull him into his arms without protest. He looks so good in the glow of the string lights Jee had cooed over, so handsome and so big and so steady, smiling happily at Buck.

"You know," Buck says, "I used to think I'd hate anything that promised this level of mess on a regular basis."

"And now?" Tommy asks, smiling like he absolutely already knows the answer.

"I'm going to be a wildly indulgent father," Buck admits. "Stick-on stars on the ceiling, redecorating on a whim, cake for dinner. You're gonna have to hold me back."

"Good luck with that," Tommy says, tucking Buck closer into his arms and kissing the top of his head. "They learn that pout from you and I'm a goner."

"Our kids are gonna be demons," Buck says with a sigh.

Tommy strokes his back. "But they're gonna be happy."

In the cosy warmth of the mismatched blankets, in the endless safety of Tommy's arms, Buck smiles.

#bucktommy #my writing #writing games

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learn-korean-with-yuli · 29 days ago

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NO MAKEUP MAKEUP FOR STRICT SCHOOLS!!!

dailymotion

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joyswonderland1108 · 2 months ago

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"It's Just Company Content" - A Masterclass in Missing the Entire Point of BTS (and Jikook for obvious reasons)

You ever see someone say "Jikook is just fanservice" or "that's just company content" and feel like your last three brain cells just collectively jumped ship? Same.

Let's break this down. Grab a snack. I'm about to get emotional, petty, and philosophical all in one go.

1. "Company Content" Is literally how we know them. Let that sink in.

So let me get this straight: You're dismissing Jikook moments because it was.. filmed? Uploaded? Edited and shared with us?

BABE. That's how we know all of BTS. You didn't personally sit across from Namjoon while he read Nietzsche. You didn't hold Yoongi's mic during his underground rap era. You didn't see Jungkook's first dance lesson. Everything we know, their personalities, quirks, chaos, brilliance, kindness, and vulnerabilities, came to us through content.

Whether it's Run BTS, Bon Voyage, random lives, AYS, Run Jin, Suchwita, IG posts, etc. We built our connection with them through what they shared, be it company-directed or personal.

2. Imagine being BTS, sharing your soul, only to be told "Fake!"

Jungkook: [writes songs about missing someone, cries mid-performance, posts literal dream confessions]

Jimin : [Shows up unannounced to support him, writes letters, bakes bread with his hands that are legally considered lethal weapons]

Some armchair analyst on Twitter: "That's fake. It was in a Bangtan Bomb"

Okay, sure Brenda.

Imagine the audacity of someone giving you pieces of themselves in the form of music, dance, laughter, and years of consistent bonds, only to be told it doesn't count because you saw it through official means.

What were you expecting? Hidden camera footage from their dreams? Should Jungkook have sent a carrier pigeon instead?

3. "We don't know them personally" - EXCEPT when it's convenient for you?

The irony of people screaming "You don't know them personally!" while also confidently stating "Jikook isn't real. They're just close friends, stop deluding yourselves."

So wait.. You do know them personally? Did they text you that?

Because unless Park Jimin called you crying at 2 AM saying "Hey, FYI, I'm not emotionally attached to Jungkook" maybe, just maybe, don't dismiss what has been shown to us for over a decade.

You can't pick and choose when they're real people with real emotions and when they're holograms programmed by BigHit.

4. "It's Only Jikook that's fake apparently?"

Curious, isn't it? Other duos can have their moments. Other friendships are "sweet", "loyal", "soulmate-level". But when it's Jikook, suddenly there's an NDA and a green screen involved?

They hold eye contact like a telenovela? "That's editing."

They giggle like they just kissed behind stage? "Just bros"

They disappear together and show up glowing? "Maybe they just exfoliated."

Why is Jikook the only bond people feel the need to aggressively sanitize?

If the only argument you have against them is "It's filmed content" you might want to double-check your bias list.. Or your subconscious.

5. Some of y'all sound like you want to get BTS content illegally and THEN you'll believe it?

The real kicker: the same people saying "company content is fake" are also the ones digging through sketchy private airport videos or whispering about sketchy "sightings" like they're in a true crime doc.

So you're saying the only way to validate Jikook's relationship is to see it off-screen.. by stalking them? What??

And i'm not even talking about random genuine sightings when Army happen to come across them, but full on people getting their private schedules, camping outside their places or the places they usually like to go to, etc..

Let's be clear:

Company content = BTS choosing to share with us.

Organic Army sightings = accidental, often sweet, and rooted in respect.

Stalker footage = creepy, unethical, and not content.

So if you're ignoring what they willingly give and romanticizing what they don't, maybe you're not a skeptic. Maybe you're just.. disrespectful.

Because again, why is it that the realness of Jikook, or any BTS bond, only matters to you when it's behind a grainy camera lens, not when it's in HD, with subtitles, and wrapped in genuine affection?

6. Jikook has shown up consistently. For Years. In Every Format.

Let's roll the tape.

Run BTS? Jikook are physically glued to each other.

Bon Voyage? They sleep next to each other like it's a law of physics.

Interviews? "Who are you closest to?" "Jimin". "Jungkook"

Lives? "I miss Jimin" "Jungkook is watching"

Dreams?? Jungkook : "I dreamed about Jimin again"

They're not hiding. They've never hidden. You just don't want to see it unless it fits your idea of "real".

But real doesn't have to be off-camera. Real can be live. Real can be edited. Real can be content.

I'm taking this opportunity to share @slaaverin 's amazing edit:

youtube

7. Company Content is a Window. Don't spit on the glass.

Yes, we don't know BTS personally. But the only way we know them at all is because they decided to show us parts of themselves.

So when you say "It's just content", what you're really saying is : "Everything they've shared doesn't matter."

And that's just.. tragic.

They could've kept it all to themselves. But they didn't.

They let us in, in their own way, through what they chose to share, and honestly? That's more real than anything you could steal from a hidden camera or baseless rumor mill.

In Conclusion: Just say you don't like Jikook and Go

Because if your only counter-argument is "it's company content" then:

You're not debunking anything.

You're not smarter than the rest of us.

You're just uncomfortable with the possibility that Jikook is actually unapologetically real.

And you know what?

That's okay. Just admit it and move. Don't drag the entire concept of content, trust, or the emotional contract between BTS and ARMY down with you.

So yeah, dismissing Jikook as "just fanservice" is lazy, weak, and honestly disrespectful to BTS, the fans, and the literal art of communication.

And if content is all we have, then content is what we honor. That's the deal. That's the bond. That's BTS.

#jikook #kookmin #minkook #company content is real #jikookmoments #if its fake why so emotional #content matters #Youtube

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kittenan2 · 2 months ago

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Diamond Necklace

Pairing: Jung Hoseok (J-Hope) x Reader Genre: Romance, Smut, Idol AU, Fanfiction Rating: Explicit (18+), contains mature themes, sexual content, and strong language Warnings: Explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, possessive behavior, light dom/sub dynamics, mentions of alcohol, obsessive thoughts, and public teasing. Proceed with caution. Summary: A flirty dance cover of BTS’s Dynamite with a cheeky “diamond necklace” innuendo blows up, catching the eye of J-Hope himself. What starts as spicy DMs with a mysterious stranger spirals into a steamy, obsessive night in Seoul that leaves you marked—literally and figuratively. Word Count: ~3.5k

The bass of Sweet Dreams pulsed through your cramped apartment, your phone balanced on a precarious stack of novels. You’d spent weeks perfecting this dance cover—every hip pop, every smirk, every flick of your wrist dialed to precision. Your cropped hoodie rode up with each sway, flashing a glimpse of skin, while your leggings hugged every curve. As the final note hit, you struck a pose: lip bitten, eyes smoldering, a playful wink thrown at the camera.

You collapsed onto the couch, breathless, and grabbed your phone for the outro. “Alright, Army, I’m wrecked,” you laughed, sweeping damp bangs from your face. “But real talk? I’d sell my soul for a diamond necklace from J-Hope. Too much to ask?” Your smirk lingered, the innuendo dripping for the fans who’d get it. You hit post without a second thought.

The “diamond necklace” line was a nod to Army Twitter’s filthier corners, where fans traded sly jokes about Hoseok’s charm. J-Hope was your bias—his radiant energy, fluid dance moves, and that killer smirk were your undoing. You didn’t expect the reel to do more than your usual few thousand likes.

By morning, it was at two million views.

Your notifications were a warzone:

“Y/N, YOU WILD FOR THIS 😭” “DIAMOND NECKLACE? GIRL, I’M DEAD 💀” “Living our Hobi thirst dreams, we stan 😍”

Fan edits poured in—slow-mo clips of your hips rolling to Daydream, your hair flip synced to Ego. Brands slid into your DMs, but so did the weirdos. As a small-time Instagram influencer known for K-pop covers and flirty vlogs, this was your brand: bold, teasing, a little dirty. Just another day.

Until it wasn’t.

In a dimly lit Paris hotel room, Jung Hoseok sprawled across a king-sized bed, phone glowing against the dark. He’d been following you for months on a burner Instagram account—@random7digits, no pic, no trace. Not even his members knew.

It started with a fan edit of you slaying his Chicken Noodle Soup choreo, your sensual precision making his pulse spike. He’d binged your profile: dance covers, thirst traps, Q&As where you answered with a wink. You were magnetic, and he was addicted.

Then came the “diamond necklace” reel.

Hoseok watched it on loop, your sultry moves and that bold line—“a diamond necklace from J-Hope”—hitting like a shot of adrenaline. The innuendo was filthy, and it stirred something possessive. He knew you were teasing the fandom, but it felt personal, like a dare meant for him.

“She’s trouble,” he muttered, smirking. “And I want it.”

His thumb hovered over your DMs. From his burner, he typed:

Careful, princess. Wishing for diamonds like that might get you in trouble.

He hit send, heart racing, already hooked on the game.

You woke to a DM that stopped you cold:

Careful, princess. Wishing for diamonds like that might get you in trouble.

The account was a blank—random numbers, no face. Probably a troll, but the cocky tone sent a thrill down your spine. You bit your lip, typing:

Trouble? My favorite kind. You offering diamonds or just talk?

His reply was instant:

More than diamonds, princess. But you gotta earn ‘em.

Your stomach flipped. This guy had game. Over the next week, the DMs became your fix—each message bolder, hotter, laced with tension. He matched your flirtation with a mix of charm and edge, keeping you glued to your phone.

That dance today… you know what you’re doing. Teasing like that’s gonna get you in deep.

You upped the ante, posting a story for him: a slow-motion Ego cover, your body rolling in a tight tank top, sweat gleaming on your collarbone. Caption: Deep? Only if you can keep up.

His response was a video: no face, just a lean, toned torso in grey sweats, moving to Mic Drop with lethal precision. His abs flexed, hands—long fingers, veins popping—tugging his waistband low, revealing a V-line that made you choke.

Keep up with this, princess.

You rewatched it, thighs pressed together, heat pooling. You sent a photo: you in a lacy bralette, leaning forward to flaunt cleavage, lips parted. Your move, mystery man.

The escalation was relentless. His voice notes(using voice changer)—low, husky—were pure sin. “You keep sending shit like that, I’m gonna lose it,” he growled, the words sinking into you. You fired back a breathy note: “Good. I want you wrecked.”

One night, after a Butter cover where your hips swayed and fingers traced your neck, he snapped:

You’re begging for it, aren’t you? Touching yourself like that, knowing I’m watching.

He wasn’t wrong—you’d been thinking of him, this faceless stranger who had you unraveling. You typed, reckless:

Maybe I am. Gonna do something about it?

His reply was a photo: his hand gripping a whiskey glass, knuckles tense, a silver ring glinting. Keep pushing. I’ll give you everything you’re asking for.

You pushed harder—a shower clip, steam blurring the glass, your silhouette teasing as water slid down your shoulders. Oops. Slipped.

His response was feral: You’re fucking killing me. That body… I’m gonna ruin you.

The game was addictive, each message a spark setting you both on fire. You didn’t know his name, but he was under your skin.

Ten days in, he dropped a bomb:

Meet me. Seoul. This weekend. Lotte Hotel penthouse. No questions, just us. Say yes.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Meeting a stranger who’d been driving you wild? Insane. But the promise of that penthouse, the mystery, the way his words made you ache—it was too much to resist.

You typed, fingers trembling:

You’re nuts. Rules: safe word, no sketchy shit, and you better be as hot as you sound.

His reply:

Safe word’s ‘sunshine.’ I’ll take care of you, princess. You won’t regret it.

You spent the next days in a frenzy, packing, texting your best friend (“If I die in Seoul, avenge me”), and boarding a flight. The uncertainty only fueled your want.

The Lotte Hotel was a glittering maze of marble and gold. The penthouse was obscene—black marble floors, silk-draped bed, a bottle of champagne chilling in ice. The air was heavy, intoxicating.

You stepped inside, heels clicking. “Hello?” Your voice wavered. No answer. Your pulse raced as you set your bag down, nerves and anticipation colliding.

You poured champagne, the bubbles sharp on your tongue. Then you felt it—a shift in the air, a presence behind you. You turned.

He stood in the shadows, black cap low, fitted shirt clinging to a lean frame, dark jeans slung low. He moved like a predator, all controlled power. Then he lifted his cap.

Jung Hoseok. J-Hope. Your bias.

Your glass almost shattered on the floor.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, legs buckling. “You’re… him.”

He smirked, closing the distance, eyes dark and possessive. “Still want that diamond necklace, princess?” His voice was velvet, laced with sin, sending heat to your core.

You couldn’t speak, brain short-circuiting. Hoseok—Hoseok—was real, devastatingly hot, his gaze promising everything.

“I…” You swallowed. “Yes.”

His smirk deepened, predatory yet soft. “Good girl.”

Hoseok stepped into your space, his cologne—musky, spiced—flooding your senses. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb dragging across your lip with deliberate slowness.

“Been dreaming about you,” he murmured, lips close. “Every night, watching you tease me. You’ve got no idea what you do.”

Your breath hitched, hands gripping his shirt, feeling muscle beneath. His kiss was filthy—tongue sweeping, teeth nipping, all hunger. You moaned, melting into him as he backed you against the wall, the cool surface a shock against your heated skin.

His hands gripped your hips, pressing himself against you. You gasped—he was hard, straining against his jeans.

“Feel that?” he growled, grinding slowly. “All for you.”

He lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed. He pinned your wrists, his other hand yanking your dress up to reveal soaked lace panties.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes raking over you. “Dripping already.”

He tore the lace, the rip loud. His mouth was on you—hot, relentless, tongue swirling over your clit, then plunging inside. You screamed, hips bucking, but he pinned your thighs, devouring you like a man starved.

“Hoseok—fuck,” you gasped, trembling. His fingers joined, curling deep, hitting your G-spot with precision.

“Taste so good,” he rasped, lips glistening. “Could do this all night.”

He edged you, pulling back as you neared the peak, leaving you whimpering. “Please,” you begged, tears pricking.

“Not yet,” he said, licking his lips. “You cum with me inside.”

He stripped, revealing lean abs, sweat-slick skin. His jeans dropped, and you stared—he was thick, veined, glistening. He climbed over you, kissing you, letting you taste yourself.

“Ready?” he whispered, softer now, checking in.

“Yes,” you breathed, arching into him.

He pushed in, slow and deep, the stretch intense. He paused, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “So tight,” he groaned. “Perfect.”

His thrusts were powerful, each one hitting deep, his hips angled to strike your G-spot. The bed creaked, headboard slamming as he drove into you. His dirty talk was relentless:

“Wanted my cum, didn’t you? Begging for it in front of whole world.” he growled, biting your neck. “Gonna mark you, make you mine.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles. You screamed, the edge nearing. He denied you once more, stopping as you trembled, leaving you a sobbing mess.

“Please, Hoseok,” you cried. “Need it.”

“Okay, princess,” he murmured. “Cum for me.”

His thrusts deepened, fingers relentless. Your orgasm crashed, vision whiting out, body convulsing as you screamed his name. He fucked you through it, thrusts erratic, then pulled out, spilling across your chest and neck, marking you in thick, warm ropes.

“Mine,” he whispered, smearing his release across your collarbone, sealing the claim.

Hoseok collapsed beside you, both of you slick with sweat. He pulled you close, lips soft on your forehead, your cheeks.

“You okay?” he murmured, brushing hair from your face.

“Better than okay,” you whispered, dazed.

He smiled—bright, sunny, your heart stuttering. He cleaned you gently with a warm towel, then pulled a velvet box from the nightstand. A diamond necklace—delicate, sparkling—clicked around your neck, his lips brushing the clasp.

“Next time you want something,” he said, low, “you come to me.”

You laughed, still reeling. “Think I just did.”

He grinned, tucking you into his arms. You fell asleep, the necklace a cool weight against your skin.

You woke alone, panic flaring until you saw the note:

Flight to catch. Keep the necklace. Call me when you want more. - H

A Polaroid showed Hoseok, shirtless, smirking, holding a card: Mine.

Your phone buzzed—a text from his official Instagram:

Liked your necklace, baby. Ready for round two?

You grinned, typing: Only if you bring a matching bracelet.

Days later, you filmed a Blood Sweat & Tears cover, the diamond necklace glinting, hickeys blooming across your collarbone. Your hips rolled, fingers tracing the marks, a smirk for the camera.

The reel went viral. Army lost it:

“Y/N, THOSE HICKEYS?? SPILL 😳” “DIAMOND NECKLACE AND LOVE BITES? QUEEN SHIT” “Isn't this J-HOPE coded?? I’M UNWELL”

Twitter exploded with edits—zooms of your marked skin set to Euphoria. Theories flew: “Y/N’s mystery man is an idol, bet it’s Hobi.”

A DM from Hoseok’s official account: a screenshot of a tweet: Y/N’s hickeys + necklace = J-HOPE CLAIMED HER, I’M SCREAMING.

His message:

Showing off my work, princess. Wear those marks like a crown.

You typed back, grinning:

Just giving the people what they want. More next time?

His reply:

Count on it. Bracelet’s ready. So’s round two.

You touched the necklace, the hickeys tingling. The world could guess, but only you knew—and the promise of more burned bright.

A/n: Okay so my 2AM thoughts are getting wild I guess. But seriously all I need is diamond necklace from J-Hope. Is it too much to ask? 🤭

P.S.: My @kittenan account tumblr messaging is not working and also I am unable to comment. So I created a backup account. Please follow and support.

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog

#jhope x reader #bts jhope #jhopesmut #jhopefanfic #hoseok fanfiction #jung hoseok fanfic #hoseoksmut #hoseok #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts x reader #kittenanwrites

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xuexing-lumi · 5 days ago

Text

What’s Your Inner Calcifer Trying to Say to You? (Theme: Howl's Moving Castle)

(feat. Sophie, Howl, and everyone's favorite sassy flame)

If you’ve ever felt like your spark flickering, or like you're stuck honoring promises you don’t even remember making then this reading is for you. Inspired by Howl’s Moving Castle, this tarot journey channels your inner Calcifer.Your inner fire has something real to say.

Pick your pile. Let Calcifer talk.

PILE 1

PILE 2

🔥PILE 1: Sophie holding Calcifer.

✦ TAROT CARDS: Strength, Page of Cups, Eight of Pentacles

The Strength card shows that you’ve been soft when it was easier to harden. You've tamed your impulses, calmed your own storms, and kept going through grief and burnout. Your inner fire honors how you’ve protected it even in silence. Page of Cups tells me there’s a dream you’ve secretly been feeding. Something small, shy, creative maybe a story, a soft love, a new self-image. Calcifer says: “I know you’ve been scared to believe in it. But I’ve seen the way your heart glows when you imagine it. That’s your truth.” The Eight of Pentacles affirms you’ve been working on yourself steadily, even if no one sees it. This is the card of spiritual craftsmanship. You’re building your inner castle, brick by brick And guess what? That fire you’ve been carrying is the thing that’s lighting every room.

What does Calcifer want to say to you ?

“You’re like Sophie. You think you’re just ‘average,’ but you’re literally holding me....your fire.....in your own hands. You’ve been nurturing your spark even when you didn’t believe it was valuable. That quiet care? That fierce gentleness? That’s power.”

What is Calcifer's advice for you ?

“You don’t have to be loud to be strong. You don’t need to shout to burn bright. Keep nurturing that gentle flame. Hold it like Sophie.......with love, patience, and a bit of stubbornness. You’re not weak. You’re wise so don't listen to the stupid things they say and don't even bat an eye to their stupid actions.You are me, I am you”

🔥PILE 2: Howl holding Calcifer.

✦ TAROT CARDS: The Devil, Knight of Swords, Four of Cups

The Devil here screams of energetic entanglement. You’ve promised yourself to something that keeps you drained whether that’s perfectionism, emotional avoidance, or even love that isn’t reciprocal. Your inner Calcifer is tired.

Knight of Swords is the panic energy.....constantly doing, thinking, chasing, reacting. You’re stuck in a mental loop. Your inner fire is overheating. “You’re running so fast you don’t notice I’m flickering,” Calcifer says.

and Four of Cups? You’ve stopped enjoying the things you once loved. That’s a major sign your fire is low. You feel disconnected. Apathetic. But it’s not because you’re broken. It’s because you’ve left yourself behind.

What does Calcifer want to say to you ?

“You remind me of Howl......beautiful, chaotic,and hiding behind glamours. You’ve bound me to something out of fear. Maybe a relationship, an identity, a hustle. You’re burning yourself out to keep up a pact that your soul outgrew long ago.”

What is Calcifer's advice for you ?

"Break the pact. You don’t need to keep your fire chained to fear, ego, or expectation. Let yourself be reborn. You’ve glamoured yourself into someone else’s idea of ‘worthy’ but you were already magic. Choose freedom. Choose rest. Choose you.”

✦ do you want a personal reading like this?

🌸 I offer:

Celebrity Tarot Reads (K-Pop, BTS, Actors) SP Manifestation Guidance Future Love + Shadow Work Spreads Moon-Coded Letter from Your Twin Flame Channeled Audio Readings + PDF Summaries ✧ First reading? Ask for a free pull!

—

📩 DMs Open: @xuexing-lumi Tumblr inbox

🖤 closing words from Lumi:

We ride or die, even through the mess. 💅 — Lumi, the Moon’s Bride 🌕💋

—

(ignore):

#tarot#tarot cards#tarot reading#tarotblr#tarotcommunity#pick a deck#tarot pick a card#pick a picture#pick a photo#pick a card#spiritual warfare#spiritual awakening#spiritual growth#spirituality#chanelling

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magic-shop-stories · 4 months ago

Note

Hey there! I just read Yoongi as a father, and I absolutely loved the way you wrote the emotions—it hit me right in the heart! Your writing is so immersive, and I was wondering if I could request something? Could you write a scenario where one of the BTS members (maybe Yoongi or Namjoon?) finds the reader/OC completely at rock bottom like emotionally and physically drained, feeling utterly hopeless but instead of letting them push him away, he slowly helps them heal? I’d love to see that transition from heavy angst to the softest, most comforting fluff, with lots of patience, late-night talks, and maybe some found family vibes. Just something that makes the reader feel safe again.

No pressure at all, but I’d love to see your take on this! Thank you so much, and I hope you have a wonderful day!

💌 Reply:

Ahh, thank you so much for your kind words! I'm really happy that Yoongi as a father resonated with you, it means a lot! This request immediately tugged at my heart, and I knew I had to write it. There's something powerful about someone refusing to leave when you feel like not being saved. I poured a lot of emotion into this, and I hope it gives you that deep angst and quiet, healing comfort you were looking for. Sending you lots of love! 💜

REQUEST NAME:

when the silence breaks

↳ Yoongi x Reader (Platonic/Close Friends/More?); Angst with Fluff,

Rating: M

Word Count: ~3.7k

Genre: Angst with Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Slow Healing, Slow Burn

Warnings: Depression, self-neglect, suicidal ideation (implied past attempt), emotional breakdown, dissociation, guilt, recovery themes, strong language

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader (Platonic)

Featuring: Stubborn but deeply caring Yoongi, raw emotions, slow recovery, acts of service as love, quiet but unwavering support, and a hoodie that carries too much history

The last time you saw Yoongi, he’d snapped.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. But guilt doesn’t care about fairness.

You’d dragged yourself to his studio that night, a ghost in his stolen hoodie, the one he’d shrugged off weeks ago and never asked for back. The fabric still carried traces of his cologne, but now it clung to you like a second skin, sour with sweat and three days of unmoving air. Your hair hung in greasy strands, and your socks didn’t match, though you couldn’t remember when you’d last bothered to look. The walk there had been a blur of flickering streetlights and sidewalk cracks, each step heavier than the last.

Yoongi’s studio was a tomb of soundproofing foam and tangled cables, the air thick with the musk of coffee grounds and sleeplessness. He was hunched over his desk, fingers flying across the mixing board, eyes bloodshot. The monitors glowed like twin moons, casting his face in pallid blue. You hovered in the doorway, the hoodie’s sleeves swallowing your trembling hands, and waited for him to notice you.

He didn’t. Not until you choked out his name.

“Yoongi...”

Your voice was a rusted hinge. He jerked, pulling his earbuds out, and for a heartbeat, his face softened, the way it always did when he saw you, like you were a song he’d forgotten he loved. Then the deadlines came crashing back.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his temple. A half-empty energy drink trembled near his elbow. “Didn’t know you were stopping by. Everything okay?”

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you mumbled about the therapy, the sessions that left your thoughts gauzy and your hands steadier, until they didn’t. “They’re… not working. I can’t... I keep...”

“Can this wait?” he interrupted, already turning back to the screen. “I’m up against a wall here, and Joon needs this track by...”

You didn’t hear the rest.

The world narrowed to the hum of his computer, the flicker of the waveform on the monitor, the way his shoulders tensed as he dove back into the mix. You stood there, shrinking under the weight of your own need, until the silence grew teeth.

Then you left.

The walk home was a fever dream. Rain slithered down your neck, but you barely felt it. Your phone buzzed once in your bag, a voicemail, you’d learn later, where his voice cracked over “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” but you let it die, buried under a crumpled tteokbokki container and a mountain of unopened letters.

Your apartment was a museum of ruin. The ceiling fan hadn’t spun in weeks. A coffee mug lay shattered by the door, its shards glittering like misplaced stars. You’d thrown it last Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, when the silence got too loud. Now you curled on the couch, his hoodie pulled over your knees, and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. They twisted into shapes: a frowning mouth, a fractured heart, a question mark you couldn’t answer.

Yoongi had a key.

You’d given it to him after the incident, that night he’d found you on the bathroom floor, your fingers curled around nothing, the tiles cold against your cheek. He’d called 119, then held your hand in the ambulance, his grip tighter than the IV needle in your arm. “You don’t get to leave,” he’d hissed, voice raw, as if anger could stitch you back together. “Not like this.”

He’d never used the key without asking. Not even when you vanished for days, when your texts went gray and your curtains stayed shut.

Until now.

The door creaked open on a Thursday afternoon, slicing through the gloom with a blade of hallway light.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The hoodie’s collar muffled your breathing, but your heart—traitor, loudmouth—pounded like a fist against glass.

You were curled into the couch’s sunken cushions, drowning in the hoodie’s oversized sleeves. Light flooded the room, harsh and clinical, and you recoiled like a creature unearthed from soil, yanking the hood over your face. The fabric almost scratched your cheeks, rough with salt from dried tears.

“Jesus,” Yoongi muttered, his voice frayed at the edges.

You listened to him navigate the wreckage, the crunch of chip bags under his boots, the soft clink of glass shards being swept into a dustpan. His shadow stretched across the floorboards, warped and elongated by the naked bulb, and you braced for the inevitable. For the “Look at this mess” or “What the hell happened to you?”

But he said nothing.

Instead, he knelt. The floor groaned under his weight, and you felt the couch dip as he leaned closer. Calloused fingers brushed the hood’s edge, tentative, as if you might dissolve at his touch. You stiffened, but he didn’t stop, tugging the fabric down until the cold air bit your face.

His breath hitched, a sharp, wounded sound.

You knew what he saw. The hollows under your eyes, bruised like overripe fruit. The split lip you’d gnawed raw. The scar on your wrist, pale and jagged, peeking from the hoodie’s cuff like a whispered confession.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word cracking like ice underfoot.

You waited for the storm. For the guilt-tripping “Do you know how worried I’ve been?” or the frustrated “Why won’t you let me help?” that had driven others away.

But Yoongi wasn’t others.

He stood abruptly, the motion sending a half-empty ramen cup tumbling to the floor. Without a word, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

You watched through slitted eyes as he moved, methodical, relentless. He didn’t just clean; he excavated.

The shattered mug you’d hurled at the wall last week aimed at a memory, a voice, your own reflection, was swept into a bin. The mountain of takeout containers, some sprouting fuzzy green colonies, vanished into black trash bags.

When he reached for the pill bottle on your nightstand, you finally spoke.

“Don’t.” Your voice was a rusted blade.

He paused, the orange plastic clutched in his fist. “These expired two months ago.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.” The pills rattled as he dumped them into the trash.

He returned the next day. And the next.

You stopped counting the times he barged in, armed with grocery bags and a stubbornness that outmatched your own. He scrubbed the grime from your windows until sunlight dared to creep back in. He replaced your threadbare towels with ones that smelled like fabric softener and home.

Once, he unearthed a sketchbook from under your bed, pages filled with frenzied scribbles of storm clouds and fractured song lyrics. You watched, throat tight, as he tucked it gently onto the bookshelf, beside his old production manuals.

“For later,” he said, as if later was a promise he could keep.

The fifth night, he found you shivering in a sweat-soaked hoodie, the broken AC leaking icy air like a betrayal.

“Shower,” he said, not a request.

You shook your head, curling tighter into yourself.

He disappeared into the bathroom. The pipes groaned, and soon steam curled under the door, carrying the faintest hint of your lavender body wash. When he returned, his sleeves were damp, hair mussed from scrubbing off your tiles.

“Now,” he said, voice softer now. “Or I’ll drag you there myself.”

You went.

He waited outside the door, humming a half-formed melody under his breath, the same one he’d played on your cracked keyboard last week. You stood under the scalding water until your skin turned raw, until the heat seeped into the cracks of your bones, and wondered when he’d learned the exact temperature you liked.

When you emerged, towel clutched to your chest, he was gone.

But on the couch lay a fresh hoodie, his hoodie, folded neatly beside a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae. A sticky note clung to the rim:

“Eat. Or I’ll tell Jin you’re alive. He’s been texting me conspiracy theories about you joining a cult.”

For the first time in weeks, your lips twitched.

The feeling terrified you.

Yoongi’s visits became as predictable as the sunset.

He arrived daily at 6:07 PM, his knuckles rapping once against your door, a courtesy, not a request, before letting himself in. The first time, you’d flinched at the sound, burrowing deeper into the couch’s crevices. By the seventh day, you found yourself staring at the clock, counting the minutes until the lock clicked.

He never announced himself. Just slipped in, grocery bags, somtimes rustling with Jin’s aggressively labeled Tupperware -“EAT ME BEFORE I CRY”- scrawled in red Sharpie, and set to work. You cataloged his routines: the way he’d kick off his shoes by the door, always left aligned, laces tucked in, the sigh he’d exhale before tackling the dishes, the precise angle he’d tilt his head when scrubbing stains from your coffee table, as if decoding a particularly stubborn chord progression.

The hazards disappeared first.

You noticed the razor blades gone from your desk drawer, replaced by a box of colored pencils. The vodka and soju bottles under the sink vanished, its spot taken by a six-pack of water. The loose pills in your nightstand? Swapped for melatonin gummies shaped like tiny bears. He moved like a ghost, erasing traces of your decay, and you let him.

His notes appeared in unexpected places:

Taped to the fridge:

“Ate the expired yogurt. You’re welcome. P.S. Jin says hi. He’s 83% sure you’re not dead.”

Slipped under your pillow:

“Hobi made a ‘Sunshine Recovery’ playlist. It’s 90% Disney songs. USB on the desk if you’re brave.”

You found it plugged into your laptop, track one titled “Hakuna Matata (Sad Remix)”

Scrawled on the bathroom mirror in dry-erase marker:

“Shower. Please. You smell like Namjoon’s gym bag.”

You ignored them. Mostly.

But on day twelve, you caught yourself staring at the USB drive, its neon green casing mocking you from across the room. When Yoongi returned the next morning, he found it plugged in, the playlist paused midway through “Let It Go”. Hobi’s voice cracking spectacularly on the high note. He didn’t smile. Just nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less, and left a new note:

“Track 7 is worse. You’ve been warned.”

The breaking point came on a rain-lashed Thursday.

Yoongi found you huddled on the balcony, his hoodie soaked through, hair plastered to your skull. The broken AC had turned your apartment into a sauna, and you’d fled to the icy downpour, chasing numbness.

For once, he broke protocol.

“Up,” he barked, hauling you inside with hands that trembled, from anger or fear, you couldn’t tell. You stumbled, knees buckling, but he caught you, his grip firm around your waist. “Enough.”

He marched you to the bathroom, cranked the shower to near-scalding, and shoved a towel into your chest. “Now.”

You stared at the steam curling under the door. “Go away.”

“Try again.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and you realized with dawning horror that he’d brought a book, a weathered copy of Murakami’s 'Kafka on the Shore'. “I’ll be here.”

“I don’t need...”

“You don’t get to decide what you need right now.” He flipped a page, jaw set. “Shower. Or I read aloud. Your choice.”

You showered.

The water burned, but you leaned into it, scrubbing until your skin turned pink. When you emerged, towel clutched like armor, he was gone –again– but a fresh hoodie hung on the door, like last time, still warm from the dryer. His cologne clung to the fabric, a woodsy anchor in the storm.

That night, you found his Murakami book left behind, a receipt marking page 127:

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions.”

Beneath it, in Yoongi’s jagged script:

“Sandstorms pass. I’ll wait. -Y-

You slept with the book under your pillow, the hoodie’s sleeves wrapped around your fists.

The next morning, the AC was fixed.

You didn’t ask how.

It was Saturday 3 AM when the words claw their way out.

Yoongi’s on the floor, back against the couch, grading demos with his laptop balanced on his knees. The screen’s blue glow sharpens the shadows under his eyes, and you wonder if he’s slept at all this week, if either of you have. You’re drowning in his hoodie again, the third one he’s brought this month, its sleeves frayed from your restless picking. The scars on your arms itch beneath the fabric, a map of failures he’s already memorized.

He knows. Of course he knows.

He was the one who found you that second night, after all, your body limp against the bathroom tiles, fingers curled around an empty pill bottle he still won’t name aloud. He was the one who screamed into the phone for an ambulance, who held your hand in the ER with a grip that left bruises, who slept in a plastic chair for three days until your eyes fluttered open. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he’d hissed then, voice trembling with rage and relief. “Don’t you dare leave me like this.”

But tonight, the silence between you is a live wire.

You trace the oldest scar, a jagged line he’s never asked about. “You saved me,” you say, voice frayed. “That night, the other night....”

His fingers freeze mid-keystroke. The laptop fan whirs louder.

“You never thanked me,” he says finally, not looking up.

“Would you have wanted me to?”

“No.” He closes the laptop with a snap. “I’d have wanted you to fight harder.”

The words sting, but his eyes soften them. He shifts closer, knees brushing yours, and you catch the faint tremor in his hands, the same tremor he’d hidden when he carried you to the ambulance.

“I’m still here,” you whisper, as if it’s a confession.

“Barely.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and stares at the carpet like it holds the answers. “You think I clean your apartment for fun? That I listen to Hobi’s playlists out of charity?” His laugh is bitter, worn thin. “You’re alive. That’s the baseline. I’m waiting for you to live.”

The honesty hangs between you, raw and unflinching. You want to scream, to tear at the walls, to ask why he bothers, why anyone would. Instead, you blurt, “It’s hard. Wanting to stay.”

“I know.”

“How?”

He hesitates, then rolls up his sleeve. A faded scar runs along his forearm, paler than yours, older. “I was twenty one. Scared. Angry. Thought the world wouldn’t miss another nameless kid from Daegu.” His thumb brushes the mark, a habit you recognize now. “But the world’s full of shitty second chances. This...” he nods at you, at the space between you, “...is mine.”

You reach out, fingertips grazing his wrist. His pulse jumps, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re not nameless,” you say.

“Neither are you.”

The clock ticks. Rain taps the window. Somewhere downstairs, a car alarm wails.

Yoongi leans back, eyes heavy but clear. “Complaining yet?”

“About what?”

“That I make it hard to want to die.”

You huff, surprised. “Asshole.”

“Good.” He reopens his laptop, the glow cutting through the dark. “Means you’re still here to insult me.”

Timeskip

Winter arrived with teeth, biting through Seoul’s streets and frosting the windows of Yoongi’s studio. Inside, warmth pooled under the glow of desk lamps, the air thick with the burnt-caramel scent of overbrewed coffee and the faint hum of a space heater fighting valiantly against the chill. You sat cross-legged on the floor, his hoodie swallowing your frame, its sleeves rolled haphazardly to your elbows. A notebook lay sprawled in your lap, pages crammed with lyrics scratched out and rewritten, margins filled with doodles of storm clouds and half-melted snowmen.

Yoongi was at his desk, scowling at a tracklist as if it had personally offended him. The studio was cluttered in its usual organized chaos, a framed photo of Bangtan’s debut days tilted precariously near his monitors, a wilting succulent Jungkook had gifted him –“Hyung, it’s indestructible—like you!”– clinging to life by the window. His fingers tapped absently against a coffee mug, the one you’d painted for him last month, a lopsided heart that read “World’s Okayest Producer.”

You’d come here often lately. Not because he asked, but because the silence between you had shifted, no longer heavy, but companionable. A refuge.

“Your hoodie,” he said suddenly, not looking up.

You paused, pen hovering over a line about fractured constellations. “Yours,” you corrected, tugging the fabric tighter. It smelled like him now, cedarwood and the faint smell of coffee.

“Keep it.” His voice was casual, but his shoulders tensed, the way they did when he was avoiding eye contact. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You snorted. “Liar. I’ve seen your closet.”

“Exactly. I need an intervention.” He spun in his chair, finally facing you, and froze.

A strand of hair had escaped your ponytail, clinging to your temple. You went to tuck it back, but he was already moving, slow, deliberate, like approaching a skittish animal. His calloused fingers brushed your skin, tucking the stray lock behind your ear. His thumb lingered, tracing the curve of your forehead, and you didn’t flinch. Didn’t dare breathe.

The studio’s hum faded, the whirring computer, the heater’s rattle, the distant traffic, until all that remained was the click of his chair rolling closer, the hitch in his throat as he leaned in.

His lips pressed against your forehead, a whisper of warmth, fleeting but searing. You closed your eyes, memorizing the weight of his hand cradling your jaw, the way his breath shuddered like he’d been holding it for years.

“Don’t make me write a ballad about this,” he muttered, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His ears were pink, but his voice held its usual gruffness. “Taehyung would never let me live it down.”

You laughed, shaky and breathless. “Would it be a good ballad?”

“The best.” His thumb brushed your cheekbone, a silent confession. “But you’re not ready for my masterpiece.”

Outside, snow began to fall, dusting the city in quiet. Inside, the space heater sputtered, and the succulent’s last leaf trembled in the draft. But here, in this cluttered corner of the world, you felt it, the tectonic shift, the faultline of before and after.

Yoongi returned to his desk, but his knee stayed pressed against yours, a steady anchor. You picked up your pen, the lyrics suddenly flowing easier, and wondered if this was what hope tasted like, bitter coffee, cedarwood, and the ghost of a kiss still burning on your skin.

Epilogue

Recovery isn’t linear.

Some days, the darkness still slips through the cracks. It pools in the corners of your apartment, whispers through the vents, and stains the edges of your thoughts. But now, when the weight threatens to suffocate you, you reach for your phone.

“Yoongs...”

“Be there in 10.”

He always is.

One morning, long after the snow has thawed, you find him at your kitchen table. Dawn bleeds through the curtains, painting the room in watercolor grays. Yoongi’s slumped over his laptop, cheek pressed to the keyboard, glasses askew. The screen casts a faint glow on his face, illuminating the track title: DAWN_CHORUS_FINAL.mp3.

You linger in the doorway, memorizing the scene. The empty coffee mugs, yours with chipmunk doodles, his plain black, clustered like survivors of a long night. The crumpled sticky notes littering the table-

“Bridge needs more bass,”

“Lyrics too vague?”

-in his jagged handwriting. The USB drive Hobi gifted you months ago, now plugged into his laptop, its neon green casing glowing like a tiny beacon.

His hoodie hangs on the back of your chair, threadbare and familiar. You slip it on, the fabric warm from the radiator he’d insisted on installing last month, and pad closer.

He looks younger in sleep, the crease between his brows softened, lips slightly parted. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, and you resist the urge to brush it back. Instead, you drape his spare hoodie, yours now, really, over his shoulders. He stirs, murmurs something unintelligible “…key change…”, and sinks deeper into sleep.

The laptop screen flickers. You glance at the track, curiosity overriding guilt. The waveform pulses gently, and you hit play.

His voice spills out first, low and rasping, layered over a piano melody you recognize, the one he’d hummed outside your bathroom door. Then your voice joins, lifted from old voicemails and late-night rants, stitched into harmonies you didn’t know you could make. Lyrics you’d scribbled in his margins weave through the arrangement:

“The dawn is just a chorus of all the nights we survived.”

Your eyes burn.

In the corner, the succulent Jungkook once called 'indestructible' thrives in its new pot, now at your place, its leaves plump and green. Beside it, the Murakami book lies open to page 127, a fresh note tucked into the crease:

“Sandstorm’s passing.Coffee’s on me today. -Y-”

You start the coffee, just the way he likes it, black, with a pinch of salt he’d begrudgingly admitted cuts the bitterness. As the machine gurgles to life, you open the fridge. Jin’s latest meal-prep containers stare back, labeled “RECOVERY RAMEN - NOW WITH 200% MORE HOPE!” in aggressively cheerful font.

Outside, the city stirs. A delivery truck rumbles past, and the first birdsong trills through the cracked window. Yoongi shifts, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder. You catch it before it falls, your fingers brushing the scar on his forearm, the one he’d shown you that night, the one that mirrors yours.

He doesn’t wake.

You pour two coffees, set one beside his laptop, and sip yours slowly. The bitterness lingers, but so does the sweetness.

When he finally stirs, blinking blearily at the dawn, you nod to the track. “You finished it.”

He grunts, reaching for his mug. “We did.”

“Cheesy.”

“Blame Hobi. He insisted on the harmonies.” He takes a sip, hides a smile in the rim. “You hate it?”

You press replay. The chorus swells, your voices tangled now, inseparable. “It’s tolerable.”

“High praise.”

Chuckles. Sunlight fractures through the window, painting his face in gold. The coffee steam curls between you, and for a moment, the world holds its breath.

Yoongi breaks it first. “Next track’s on you.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dusk Theory.” He smirks at your raised brow. “... gotta have a sequel.”

You throw a pen at him. He ducks, laughing, and the dawn blooms brighter.

END.

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