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neoculturetravesty · 2 years

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falling is not drowning

Pairing: Haechan x Reader, Jeno x Reader Genre: romance, angst, college au, social media au, hurt/comfort, psychedelic, maybe enemies to lovers? Warnings: mature, 18+, strong language, past abuse, nudes, oral (male receiving), compulsive sexual behavior, inappropriate relationships, cheating, use of recreational drugs, alcohol, revenge porn, implied paranoia Word Count: 15k

Summary: Lee Haechan was one fuckboy who, despite your tireless efforts, had never rolled in the hay with you. But you were going to get him in your bed, even if you lost your mind. After all, you needed to fuck him to get to Jeno.

A/N: I wanted to write an unreliable narrator and something less wholesome than what I’m used to writing. If some fluff crept its way in, it’s because I am a hopeless romantic at heart.

God created fuckboys for a reason.

They were as important to the ecosystem as good guys were. They played their part in keeping harmony on this earth by ensuring that the right amount of girls always remained broken-hearted enough to eventually make their ways to good guys; and the remaining, to even more fuckboys.

But you never had the stomach for good guys. They were entitled, they put you on pedestals you never quite liked, they valued purity to a grizzly amount and at the end of the day, they wanted their bare minimum human decency to be rewarded with sex. The arduous, elongated act of forced chivalry, outdated traditions and black-and-white moralities always ended up with the same demand for sex that all men in the world invariably boiled down to. At least fuckboys were straight up in their true intentions. Fuckboys saved you all the drama from expectations set too high and masquerades that went on for too long. Fuckboys were your choice of poison.

Because despite girls lamenting about the games they played, and despite girls ganging up on, writing about and exposing them all they could, these fuckboys continued to exist. They continued to have more staying power than good guys. And the truth of it was very easy for you to see. Fuckboys existed because girls allowed them to exist. Girls like you. Girls that wanted the thrill of the unknown when it was paired with the accessibility of sex. Fuckboys never turned down sex. And you never turned down a fuckboy.

In some ways, you think you were addicted to them. You liked to think you had a higher sex drive than most, but even so, you needed your nights to be spend in the sharp oblivion of pleasure that these fuckboys brought you. It was your reward for working so hard during the days. You had a roster (rather, a black book) full of them. You had told yourself you’d go through all of them before you graduated and insofar, you had been pretty steady in your ambition. But there was one thorn in your side, that no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t remove. The fucker that had pricked at you for way too long, but not in the way you’d hoped.

Lee Haechan.

He was one fuckboy, who, despite your tireless efforts, had never rolled in the hay with you. And dammit, tried you had. You had tried to get his attention many times, but he’d never really looked your way. You hated him. Because this thorn on your side had eventually started to mess with your head and your ambition and your roster. Good thing he hated you in return.

You couldn’t say what it was. But the best way you’d explain it is that you had a mental bug that liked patterns and it had made you sleep in patterns and study in patterns and eat in patterns and fuck in patterns. You had gone through your damned black book in patterns and he was. Messing. It. The. Fuck. Up. You hated him.

What was it that made him so arrogant, anyway?

He wasn’t as good looking as the rest of his friends. He wasn’t that rich or that talented or that special in any way of the word compared to the people he hung around. You knew because you could swear you had fucked half of them.

You knew he hung around with Wong Yukhei. That boy was tall and gorgeous, even if he didn’t come from money. He had a face you could stare at without getting bored, and he was always down to fuck, even during times you’d hear he was seeing someone. So what if looked in the mirror every time you fucked? If you had a face like that, you’d keep looking in the mirror, too.

You knew his roommate was an older student, but he was handsome and had a banging body. He had a talent in fucking with a cock to match, and you suspected that if you had fucked him more than once, you could’ve actually fallen for him. But he was about to graduate soon and your need for a cock between your legs was greater than your need for a grip on your heart.

One of his other friends was Lee Jeno. And truth be told, you needed to fuck Lee Haechan so you could strike him off your roster and finally get to Lee Jeno. You needed to complete that pattern because fuck you, Lee Jeno was getting hotter and hotter by the day and you’d just sat through one of his swimming championships and spent the entire time ogling at the way his briefs clung to his bulge for dear life and your mouth had watered so bad that you’d gotten home that night and rubbed your pussy raw till you knocked out.

So, yes. Lee Haechan was a thorn on your side. He was a roadblock you needed to get past. You needed to put his arrogant prick inside of you so you could get over it and move on and start sleeping around the way God had intended. You fucking hated that he was down to fuck anything that fucking moved but he didn’t want to fuck with you and you didn’t know why. The arrogant fucking asshole. You hated him with everything you had and you needed to fuck him just to wipe that arrogant smile from his face.

It was just as well that the new semester was about to begin, because the break had given you some time to think and organize your plan of action. It didn’t take much scheming effort to find out what classes Lee Haechan was opting for this time around. He always did whatever Lee Mark did and Lee Mark’s girlfriend had a big old mouth when she was drunk and a girls night out with tequilas-a-plenty before school began seemed like the right thing to do and as you knew it, you had a complete list of Lee Haechan’s whereabouts by the time you got home. You were going to be a thorn in his side just like he was till he gave up his arrogant act and just gave it up.

So you came home buzzed that night and signed up for as many classes with Lee Haechan as you could. But it wasn’t enough. The alcohol in your veins was making you want to do something more reckless, so you whipped your phone out and opened Snapchat, only to discover that the motherfucker in question had you blocked.

What an asshole.

But it was okay. Snapchat wasn’t the only SNS you were on. How much more could he hide from you? You went on Instagram instead and shamelessly slid into his DMs. You stood in front of your floor length mirror ass-first and took a picture. You looked cute as fuck. It didn’t matter to you that the hem of your dress was hitching dangerously high. You looked good. You typed in,

‘too much ass for the first day back 🍑?’ as your caption and you hit send.

You smiled to yourself in the mirror. Who could resist you? No one could. Even tonight, on what was presumably a girls night out, men were all over you. Dancing with you in the club, grinding up against your ass in their drunken, lustful haze. Wanting to get you alone. Not many men had ever turned you down. Lee fucking Haechan had to be some sort of a saint.

You felt the adrenaline in your veins when you heard your phone buzz. Maybe he wasn’t a saint after all. You read his message,

‘Why you asking me?’

You smirked and laid down your bait.

‘wait, who dis? aren’t you lee donghyun?’ you shamelessly typed in.

‘Wrong message I’m guessing? This is Lee Donghyuck.’

‘who tf is lee donghyuck? Idk any lee donghyuck, why r u on my list?’

‘it’s haechan?’

‘ew okay. This wasn’t for you. Don’t be a perv and screenshot or anything okay?’ You were an expert liar.

‘Wasn’t planning on it, L/N,’ was all the fucker sent back. You needed more ammo, so you sent,

‘what if it was for you 😉’

You didn’t get a reply for a while and you thought this was it for the night. But as you were getting ready for bed, your phone finally buzzed.

‘In that case, yeah, it is too much ig’

You smirked to yourself. Operation Fuck Lee Haechan seemed a-go,

All things considered, you were having the perfect first day back. All your schedules aligned incredibly with all your other socials. You found yourself the perfect outfit that made you look cute enough for college and attractive enough for the boys. As if for a litmus test, you had purposely taken the long route so you’d run into Woobin. He had never been able to resist you and before your second class had begun, you had even fooled around with him a little bit. It was nice to know that the boys hadn’t lost interest in you. Dicks tend to be fickle, and you had wondered if most of your fuckboys had found other flings during the break. But knowing that you still had them riveted gave you the confidence that you still had it. It would’ve been the absolute perfect day, all things considered.

Except when you finally made it to the first class you had together with Lee Haechan, you learnt that the TA had the seats pre-assigned. Which put him next to another girl. It wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t kept smiling at her throughout the class. Not that that had ever been a barrier for you. But still, it was another stupid obstacle you’d have to go through if you didn’t do something about it sooner rather than later.

So, as the class ended, you knew you had to get at least one chat in.

“Since when are you called Donghyuck?” you almost inconsiderately barged into his conversation with the girl. She seemed nice enough, but men were creatures of little focus. You needed to block her away from his vision so she’d be out of his sight and out of his mind.

But Lee Haechan was right in your sight. And you saw that he’d caught a nice suntan in the break because his skin was glistening gold beneath the denim jacket he wore. You wondered if all of him was as golden.

“Since birth? Why do you ask?” he replied shortly. He had been talking to the other girl just fine. Why the fuck was he being so rude to you?

“How come people call you Haechan then?” you kept talking.

“None of your business,” he rolled his eyes and the girl behind you giggled. What a bitch she was and what an asshole he was. He had the audacity to quip at you and walk away.

“Okay, ruuude!” you called after him, but let it go. You knew guys usually acted differently around others in particular and in public in general. So you waited till the sun went down--you had learnt that people’s inhibitions tended to lower in the darkness of the night.

And in the cover of that night, you unbuttoned your top more than you should and zoomed in on your cleavage with your phone and took a picture.

‘Is it my business now?’ you sent.

The motherfucker left you on seen.

The thing with people with dicks is that they seldom use their brain. The moment they start using their minds, one could hypothetically grab them by the balls and make the blood rush to their cocks rather than their skull. That would usually set them right. You were blessed that the TA was a person with a dick. Because a quick handjob in the office was all that was required for him to rearrange the seating plan and situate you right next to Lee Haechan.

You couldn’t help but smile wide as you entered the lecture hall that day, much earlier than you needed to, and made your way to your new seat. You put your things on Haechan’s seat and waited for the drama to unroll. You saw him entering with that girl and you scoffed when you saw that he was carrying her things. He’d only known her, what? Three days? And he already wanted in her pants. Why else would he be carrying her shit?

Then again, you wanted in his pants, and people often did strange things when their sexual desires and pants were at stake.

“Y/N, this isn’t your seat,” Haechan said impatiently, not even sparing a full look your way. But you looked at him by the eyeful. He was wearing the college hoodie and his legs looked longer than usual. You had two full hours to ogle at him. You could easily take a couple of minutes to revel in the unfolding of your scheme, just to see the pair of them seethe first.

“Um, yeah it is?” you rolled your eyes at him, because your last interaction had been annoying you more than necessary and you needed to return the gesture.

You heard him let out an exhale. “This is Yeri’s assigned seat. You can keep sitting here but the TA is going to have you move when class begins, anyway,” you could tell he was trying to keep his voice even, exasperated as he sounded.

“Oh, but haven’t you seen? There’s a new seating plan. The TA just posted it!” you held your phone out and showed them the class portal.

Haechan took your phone and held it closer to see and you saw the slightly sheepish moment of realization when he realized he was wrong. He gave that girl an apologetic look and she shrugged and walked away all the way to the opposite corner of the hall where you had the TA banish her. Having people by the balls was always an advantage.

You put on your best fake smile as you looked at them and moved your stuff from Haechan’s chair. It felt sweet to be this petty. And begrudgingly, he sat next to you, his body language agitated and his gaze locked straight ahead like he had blinders on. Like he wanted to pretend you didn’t even exist.

But you made your presence known wherever you went. That was something you took pride in. So what if this arrogant fucker wanted to pretend you didn’t exist. You had promised yourself to be a thorn on his side and you were nothing if not consistent.

“I’ve been trying this new perfume. The one I used to wear got discontinued, which is a travesty,” you began to speak. But the fucker didn’t even hum in response. So you stuck your wrist at him.

“Do you like it?” you waved your wrist under his nose and got the pleasure of getting a reaction out of him, even if it were one of pure annoyance.

“Smells a little like desperation,” he muttered.

Rude fucking asshole.

You pulled your wrist back in and straightened in your chair. Why the fuck did he have to be so rude?

“Now, now, Lee Haechan. All of NCTIT knows you’re not one to turn down a girl in need.”

“And all of NCTIT knows that you’ve got plenty of ways to satisfy that need,” he spoke in an annoyed tone and still didn’t look at you.

“Don’t be rude. I’m just trying to have a little fun,” you lightly tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie but he moved away from your grip.

“Do whatever you want, but get off my back.”

“I haven’t even begun to get on your back, Lee Haechan.”

“What do you want from me?” he suddenly turned to look at your face. He didn’t look angry or annoyed anymore. He just looked cold. You smirked. Some fuckboys were served hot and some were best enjoyed cold. You like them both ways.

“Unblock me on Snapchat.” you smiled at him.

“That’s what’s going to get you to leave me alone?” he cocked an eyebrow.

“Mhmm,” you nodded, smiling wider. You saw that the more you smiled, the more he tried to void himself of a reaction. It was amazing to see him struggle. He pushed his phone to your face just before class began, to show you the proof in the Snapchat pudding.

That night, you sat in nothing but your cutest set of bra and panties and got carried away. Your body looked amazing. You had curves and dips in all the right places and a face to match. Your skin was glowing, your hair looked perfect, and no one wore underwear as well as you did. It wasn’t a secret to you that boys wanted you. What you were seeing in the mirror was proof enough. It wasn’t illegal to flaunt what you already have. So what was meant to be a quick selfie turned into a 30-minute photoshoot. You took so many pictures of yourself that you had enough thirst traps to last you weeks. But these days, you only had one person to trap.

You picked out the cutest picture from the reel, one where the light hit your tits and ass just right and opened Snapchat and sent it to your victim.

‘one before bed x’

You didn’t expect a reply back, at least not yet. You didn’t expect that he’d take a screenshot, either. You smirked, even in your sleep because Lee Haechan had taken the bait.

This would’ve been the lamest Halloween party in the world, even if Lee Haechan wasn’t sucking face with that girl.

He wasn’t even dressed that special. He had put together the laziest Dracula costume that existed, and in a world where you weren’t hellbent on chasing him, you wouldn’t even have noticed him. You had been invited to so many other parties. You could’ve gone to any of them and had a better time. But the 127 party was where you would find him and that’s where you had to be. Now that you were here though, you wondered what good it did to put in all that effort to dress up. This was a perfect waste of your favorite black lingerie. You could’ve saved it for a better party, one where you had more eyes on you. The boys in here were drunk out of their fucking minds to notice you much. You hated being here more than you hated Lee Haechan.

“That is quite the tail you’ve got there,” you heard a voice behind you.

The voice came from behind a Squid Game Triangle Masked Man, so it wasn’t totally rude to give the rest of the body a once over… you couldn’t exactly see the eyes behind the mask now, could you? You didn’t hate what you could see.

“That’s quite the… pink overall you’ve got there yourself,” you smiled and stood up straighter and pushed your shoulders back. Your lingerie top put plenty of tit on display and it had been irking you all night that not one man had tried to hit on you yet.

The man unmasked himself and you actually felt the heat grow between your legs when you discovered it was none other than Lee Jeno himself. You had gotten so lost in your schemes, that you had forgotten Lee Jeno was the reason you’d been going through all that bother with Lee Haechan. How strange that he came to you all by himself, without you having to put in any effort at all.

“Oh, what a pity. I thought it'd be Na Jaemin under all of that,” you fake lamented. You knew these two had come together in couple-costumes. You earned a pout and a smolder in return.

“Bold of you to assume Na Jaemin would stay at a party this long,” he said and you actually laughed.

“Hmm. But you’re not meant to unmask yourself. Guess I’ll have to kill you now,” you angled your body towards him, just enough for him to keep flirting.

“Don’t I get a last wish?” he said and this time, he let his gaze travel along your body, too. You had him, hook, line and sinker.

“Lee Jeno has a catgirl fetish. Who would’ve thought?” you said when his gaze finally travelled up to your eyes. You held it.

“Who says it's my catgirl fetish that’s acting up?” he replied and if you were being honest with yourself, you were caught a little off guard. Because you’d been with enough fuckboys to know how they worked. You knew the weight of their words. You understood if they wanted a one-off or something more. And this boy seemed to be leaning on the side of something more.

“Pity. Here I thought I’d find out what’s hiding behind those pink overalls,” you raised your eyebrows. You saw his eyes darken.

“I could show you,” he grumbled and took you by the wrist and began to move you away. But Lee Haechan had started to walk up to the DJ and the lights were starting to dim. Maybe the party was finally getting started. So you held him back.

“What’s the rush? Let’s dance first,” you said, because you needed to keep Lee Haechan in your sight.

Jeno smiled and led you the opposite way instead. And when the music and the flashing lights and the darkness began to engulf your bodies, he made quick work of his hands. They grabbed at the full flesh of your ass and pulled you into his hard body. He was built, but that much you had seen when you’d ogle at him in the pool. But his hands were thirsty and they grabbed at you with the exact type of want you needed from men. You pressed your chest against him and you danced and the lights flashed and made it hard to think much. He smelled good, too. He was tall and he was handsome and he was into you. The lights were blinding and your mind was slowing. He was a good dancer. He took control of your movements and the heat between your legs grew. You’re sure he was grinding against everything that was right. But the flashing lights lowered your inhibitions and heightened your senses and you could’ve sworn you saw Lee Haechan’s eyes on you.

But soon, it felt too good. Soon, it was as if all sweaty bodies in the room were merging into one. Soon, it felt like everyone was grinding on everyone because you’re pretty sure you lost Lee Jeno in the crowd. It felt good to just dance in the darkness of the flashing lights. It felt good to feel random hands on your body and just let go. You closed your eyes and you smiled as the euphoria took over. You moved your body and your hips and your ass against everything that came close enough. And then you felt a pair of hands on your waist that only made your smile grow. Somehow, you didn’t need to open your eyes to know who they belonged to.

You took your chance. You easily looped your arms around his neck and pulled him into you. And he didn’t move away. Maybe the blinding lights protected him, too. If just for these moments, he forgot all about his ego. Because he grabbed at the hair at the base of your neck and tilted your head back. And he captured your lips in a hungry kiss.

You moaned into his mouth and moved your hands under his cape and over his belly. You felt the planes of his abs through the fabric, but your curiosity burnt hotter. His lips tasted like strawberry jam, but you wanted to taste more of him. You tugged at his top and made it untuck from his pants. You travelled your hands up and felt his stomach, skin on skin. He hissed and flipped you around so your back would be to his front and your ass right against his crotch. He held you into him with an arm around your waist. You felt the hardness of him on your back. You felt his breath hot on your neck. You heard the grunt from his mouth as he rolled back and thrusted against you. And standing right here in the thick of this party where everyone was drunk out of their minds and dancing in the dark into oblivion... standing right fucking here and getting dry humped by Lee Haechan was the hottest thing that had ever happened to you.

The music changed and the lights changed with it and the moment was stolen from you way too soon. You felt him turn and blend into the crowd before you’d even had a chance to look at him. The ache between your legs was wanton and identifiable, but the unease in your chest was what you couldn’t place.

“There you are,” Lee Jeno appeared by your side, “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Here I am,” you replied, though you weren’t. You weren’t really there.

By the time you got home, you had pretty much made up your mind on what you wanted to do next. You slipped out of your panties and stood ass first in front of the mirror once more.

‘this what u wanted?’ you sent, and before you had put yourself to bed, you finally earned your first real reply. You opened the message and your mouth watered at what you saw. Haechan stood in his bathroom with this shirt pulled up to expose his abs and your eyes finally saw what your hands had felt.

‘and this is what you wanted,’ his message read. You couldn’t argue with that. Though only his jaw was visible in the image, you could tell he had a smug expression on his face.

You rode your vibrator that night as the sensory image of Lee Haechan rolling his crotch into your ass played in your mind over and over. You knew it was game on.

Any normal person could see that it was getting out of hand.

Your pictures to him were getting way out of control but you loved every moment of it. It made every cell in your body come alight. In some ways, the thrill of sending naughty pictures to Lee Haechan felt better than getting fucked in a stranger’s bed. You don’t know what it was.

On Monday, you decided he needed to see how well your back arched. So you put on your favorite bodysuit and kneeled on all fours and took what you thought was a really inviting picture.

‘i know this how you like it x’

You were rewarded with a picture of him laying in bed, even if he still had his clothes on.

‘almost but not really tho’

On Tuesday, you decided to get a little bolder. You took a picture of your bottom half laying in bed with your hand tugging onto your panties.

‘wanna lick my cameltoe?’

You got a Snap of his face wearing a cocked brow and feigned disapproval.

‘unsolicited pussy pics are not it, l/n’

So you put a hand inside your underwear so he’d see the gesture but not the offense.

‘why don’t you tell me to stop then?’

Motherfucker left you on seen that night.

The rest of the week went by in exactly the same fashion. You sending him risque photos and him replying just enough to keep you going without losing faith. It took you a while to realize that suddenly, you were the one being played. Yet, your instinct couldn’t have been totally wrong. Because every night, you’d rile him up with something more shocking than before and every morning you'd sit next to him in class and feel the heat coming off of him. You knew he was more interested than he let on. He hadn’t really been seen with that girl much anymore.

So you decided to amp things up.

On Wednesday, you contemplated going fully topless and just giving him an eyeful of your front. But at the last moment, you turned on the LED lights in your room and decided to cover your nipples with your forearm as you sent him a clip of you swaying to sensual music.

‘wanna dance with you again’

‘careful l/n,’ he sent back a Snap of himself, still too clothed for your liking.

‘don’t i get to see those abs again👅’ you demanded shamelessly.

He had waited a few moments before he sent back an ominous ‘Maybe.’

An ominous maybe was just a yes in waiting and it gave you enough information to know that you were moving in the right direction, but maybe it was time to do something more outrageous. You really needed this to get a reaction out of him.

Because although your nights were spent trying to seduce Haechan, Lee Jeno had been giving you a lot of attention during the days. As it turned out, he hadn’t really thought much of being blue balled that night at the Halloween party because on Tuesday, you found him waiting outside your lecture hall.

“I found you,” he said, smiling. He smiled with his eyes more so than his mouth, and a part of you had to admit that that shit was endearing. It was the kind of shit you could fall for, if you ever became that bitch. You ate lunch with him that day and you sat so incredibly close to him that you smelled like his cologne by the time you made it to your next class.

On Wednesday, Lee Jeno invited you to come see him at his swimming event. He won the competition and you found yourself furiously making out with him in the boys locker room while he wore his medal around his neck, his naked torso pressing into your clothed tits as he pinned you against the wall.

On Thursday, you felt your pussy throbbing for him as you walked past him working out at the campus gym. His sweat ran down the curve of his neck and you wondered what it tasted like. His veins popped angry in his forearms and you wondered how he'd respond if you asked him to choke you with them. He was a sexy beast and you needed to be in his bed.

But your fucked up brain still needed to go through that darned pattern.

There were other ways to have fun, you had thought; one that wouldn’t mess with your mental patterns or black book rosters. So, on Friday, it so happened that Lee Jeno invited himself over to your place and you finally decided to throw all your chips on the table.

While Jeno slipped into your bathroom, you stripped yourself of all your clothes and you sat at your vanity. You put your phone against it and you spread your legs and you masturbated on camera. You moaned and you grinded on your fingers and you made your pussy glisten and you hit send on your phone. You didn’t write a caption, not this time. The content was pretty self-explanatory, and if he wasn’t going to reply, you’re sure that at the very least, it would make him hard. You put your phone down and returned to rubbing yourself on the chair because fuck, the idea of Lee Haechan seeing you in heat was driving you crazy, and that’s how Lee Jeno found you.

So, before he could make a move, you kneeled and you took him in your mouth and you blew the living daylights out of him. You didn’t stop to ask how he liked it. You blew his cock and you blew his mind because the grunts that came out of the boy were as sexy as the rest of him and not once did he ask you to stop. You looked up at him even when you took him all the way down your throat and made a show of gagging on him. Guys liked thinking they had a bigger cock than any you’d taken, and you liked him well enough to inflate his ego that way. But by the end of it, you’re not sure whether it was his ego you had inflated or something else. Because most fuckboys would’ve walked out the door the moment they nutted in your mouth. You hadn’t expected that this one would help you with the clean up and keep kissing your mouth and make you hot tea to soothe your aching throat before he left.

It was a brainfuck in every sense of the world. Lee Jeno had fucked your skull and your brain and by the time he was kissing you at the doorstep, you had no idea what to make of any of it. You hadn’t really planned any pit stops in your black book. Then again, Lee Jeno was the last cock in your roster. You didn’t have any other men after him you wanted to pursue--at least not yet. Unless you added more names to that book, you wouldn’t really know what to do when you finally got to Lee Jeno. Would he really become your final destination in the true way?

It was a bizarre feeling going to bed that night and wondering how it came to you this easy. Lee Jeno didn’t give you the satisfaction of a chase, neither the gratification that came with the realization that the cock you were fucking belonged to an asshole. He was neither a fuckboy, nor a good guy. He had enough adventure in his stride to be one, but enough decency in his actions to be the other. It was the strangest moment of your life, realizing that a man you wanted between your legs was a good person. Nothing in your life was ever easy. Then how come Lee Jeno was basically yours for the taking?

That night you laid in bed and went through your notifications. You finally had a reply from Haechan, and what you saw confirmed to you that throwing all your chips in really had done the trick. Because Lee Haechan had finally rewarded you with a dick pic.

You didn’t even give it an eyeful before you closed it. For the first time in your little scheme, it was you that left him on seen. You don’t know what made you cry into your pillow that night.

“It’s literally a cabin in the woods. Depending on how much it snows, we can do a couple of fun things,” Jeno told you as he walked you to class.

“Okay, but how many people will be there?” you asked. That made him stop walking; you only realized as much when you had left him a few steps behind. You turned around, “What?”

“I… I was hoping it would just be the two of us,” Jeno said slowly, watching your face for a reaction.

“Oh…” was all you could say for a while. This request came out of nowhere. You hadn’t really known him that long--a couple of weeks at best. You didn’t know what to say.

Jeno smiled and stepped forward to close the gap between you two and took your face in his palms. “You don’t have to answer right away. But we’re not getting any other long weekends this semester. It could be fun.”

It felt easy to smile back at him as he held you, even if you didn’t know what to tell him. “I’ll think about it,” you said, because you assumed that this is what normal people said in situations like these. You saw the sparkle in his eye at your words and you felt that unease in your chest once again. A normal reaction from men you’d receive was a stiffening in their pants. A sparkle in their eye was new and unusual, though you weren’t sure you much enjoyed the sensation it brought to your gut. It was almost a relief when he ended the conversation with a kiss to your lips and walked away with a farewell. Because you needed to start thinking straight before you made it to your next class.

But no amount of mental prep made sitting next to Lee Haechan any easier. You had no idea what was happening to you. But the heat you used to feel between the two of you was replaced by an awkward, dark energy. Because ever since you had masturbated for him on camera and ever since he had revealed his cock to you, there had been nothing but radio silence.

You didn’t talk to each other. You didn’t acknowledge one another. When the night would fall and you’d find yourself alone, you didn’t model for him. Lee Jeno had been on the receiving end of your camera skills these days. You had hoped it would be enough to keep him occupied and happy whilst you untied your mental knots. But they were tugged on tight. No matter how much you told yourself that patterns didn’t matter, that black books didn’t matter, that not everything in this world had to be sense and order… those knots in your mind had taken years to form. There was no untangling them any time soon. You’d sooner get Lee Haechan in your bed than detangle your mind.

But you had stopped chasing Lee Haechan, too. What the fuck was it that you wanted? You had no idea. Why were you stuck in this limbo? You hadn’t a clue. Lee Haechan didn’t want you and Lee Jeno wanted you and you couldn’t have one without the other. You were fucked up. That much you had always known; but you don’t remember the last time you’d been this fucked up. Fuck Lee Jeno for waltzing into your life before you had invited him. Fuck him for fucking up the perfect plan in your head--one where you’d fuck Haechan before him. Fuck him for coming to your first and not even making you work for it. Fuck him for being kind and treating you right and not expecting too much. Because look what he fucking did your brain.

And now he wanted to take you away to a cabin in the woods in the snow. Like you were someone he could wine and dine and treat right and she’d be his in all her faith. What a fucking mess. You had no idea what to do.

Perhaps the universe took pity on you because before the end of the class, you learnt that for this course, you’d all have to visit the field site and the only time they were willing to accommodate so many college students at the same time was during the long weekend.

You finally had an out. And an opportunity. You didn’t know if you wanted either of it.

Pulling yourself together and putting your mind back in the scheme turned out to be a much easier task than you thought it would be.

Your dry spell ended when you learnt that for the field site visit, you had to work in groups of three. Manipulating group assignments was your forte, because you’re pretty sure you still had the TA by the balls. It was good to feel like you finally had control over something. So even if the TA didn’t want just a handjob this time, you sank to your knees and took him in your mouth and by the end of it all, the entire class had been divided into groups of three except for you and Haechan who would work as a twosome. It was only later in bed that you realized that you had sucked a man you didn’t really want to suck. You could only go to sleep when you had rinsed your mouth with a whole bottle of Listerine and your tongue seemed raw and blistered. So what? You were back in control. And in the morning, you finally sent Haechan a picture after a week and a half of silence.

‘heard we were partners,’ the caption read over a selfie that was tame by your standards. Just a regular top with too much cleavage. He had definitely seen more.

‘you heard right,’ you got in return a picture of him presumably just out of the shower, still too many clothes on.

You needed to get a move on or you’d never be able to move on. You needed to pull yourself together and remind yourself that you were a desirable fucking bitch whose heat men couldn’t resist. Lee Haechan was just a man. You needed to treat him like more of a man and less as a roadblock with too much control over you.

So during the trip to the field site, you fucked with his head. Before that girl could even daydream of finding herself next to him, you’d manipulated everyone on this bus to make it so that only you could sit next to him in the back and he couldn’t switch seats no matter what he did. He sulked and stared out the window for the first few minutes, keeping up his tradition of pretending you don’t exist when the two of you were in broad daylight. But this was the man that had dry humped you in the darkness of the dancefloor. So when everyone had settled in their seats and the excitement about being on a trip over a long weekend had died down, you put your hand on his thigh. And you rubbed. Motherfucker didn’t move, even when you saw his jaw clench. You moved your hand higher up between his legs, feeling around for what you needed and that’s when he caught your wrist and silently, but roughly jerked it away. You smiled. You wanted him riled up. You liked him riled up. It gave you so much control.

You fucked with him throughout the time you were meant to be working together. When the coordinator presented you with something to observe under the microscope, you pressed into Haechan’s side till you felt the leather of his belt cutting into your hip. You saw him gritting his teeth but not saying a word as he worked. You put your hand over his when he reached to grab something. You held his bicep to get out of your seat. Later, you made quite a show of bending over to pick something from the ground and grazing your ass against his crotch. Maybe he needed to relive a memory to act on his instinct. But he was colder than you realized.

Or maybe, he really did hate you.

Because you had been chasing him for weeks. You had done everything you could. You had stripped down naked for him and fucking masturbated for him. And he still didn’t want you.

It had to be you. Because Lee Haechan was fine with just about everyone else. When he hung with his friends, he smiled the brightest. When he spoke to that girl, he spoke with kindness. When he was in bigger groups, he’d become the life of the party and the de facto leader. When he was with older students, he had no trouble playing the mischievous little brother. But when you’d walk in, it was as if you sucked his energy like a blackhole. He’d shut off. He’d turn cold. He’d lose his words and he'd avert his gaze. He hated you, but not in a passionate way. He hated you where he didn’t want to spare any emotion for you, because he thought you were that undeserving.

You felt that uneasiness in your chest again, only this time, it travelled up to your throat. Lee Haechan was going to be a thorn in your side in more ways than you could’ve imagined. He loved his friends and his family, he did well in college, he had talent and beauty, he was God’s favorite and you weren’t. His apathy hit you like a dagger and you snuck away, disappearing from the rest of the group and spending the rest of the trip in hiding. It wasn’t going to work. You’d gotten naked for him. You’d gotten to your knees and taken a man in your mouth you didn’t want to take. All for him. But none of it worked. You stole a bottle of liquor from the coordinator’s office and you drank from it till you passed out in your hiding spot. And on the night before you had to leave, you took your chances and sent him a message.

‘I’m out in the woods,’ you wrote, no picture this time.

It was in the dark of the night and in the thick of the trees. And Haechan liked you in secret. That was a hypothesis you had to test. The gentle rustling of the leaves and the soft crunching in the grass confirmed to you as much.

He wore a scowl as he often wore whenever he was around you. He approached you like he was being cautious.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, “I had to complete all the requirements myself.”

“It’s our last night together, Haechan. Don’t you want to have some fun?” you stuck your tongue out. And in the sharp fluorescence of the moonlight, he saw the heart shaped pill sitting pretty in your mouth.

He leaned in and sucked it from you, his lips closing around your tongue and taking what he needed. His hands roamed down your waist and onto your ass and once again, Lee Haechan wrapped himself around you in the darkness of the night and in the blindness of the moonlight. You were right. This was the only way he liked you.

But his touch kept growing, like his hands were multiplying till they were touching you deep in your skin and you held onto him impossibly tight and moaned into his mouth. His touch was everywhere you had heat on your body like there were many of him and only one of you and he was surrounding you in every raise of the hair that prickled your skin. He was moaning, too. You felt the reverberations of him in your throat, right in your jugular and right in your ribs that were threatening to split open. You wanted to split open for him.

You were one with the earth. He was you and you were him and you were the earth and the earth was in you. You were suffocating in the scent of him and your breaths were the same. He was breathing in your mouth and taking the life of you. You wanted him to take it all and end it. You were gripping into him and your fingers were sinking into his flesh and bones. You were feeling all of him. You were calling out his name and now he was behind you and you were drowning into the dirt. You felt him in waves and you felt his voice singing in your ear. What was this melody? You felt like you had heard it before. You didn’t know many songs. But you sang his name in return. There was so much pleasure in calling out his name. You felt it in your being and in your insides and you called it out till it felt like you were extorting it out of your body. Like his name was a shard of glass that shredded you from the inside as it came out of you. And you sang it again. And again. And again. You sang it till your throat was bleeding. You sang it till you felt rakes scratching down your skin. You sang it till you felt him on top of you, suffocating you once more and immobilizing you. Haechan, Haechan, Haechan.

Haechan. He could take the life of you and you’d die happy. Haechan. He lived inside of you but never outside. Haechan. He needed you in the dark but never in the light.

You were ripped open for him and he’d seen your insides. Your breaths were gone and your heart was flying. You gripped at him. You wanted everything back. How dare he take so much from you? ‘Give it back to me! Set me free!’ you screamed.

Haechan, Haechan, Haechan. You were drowning in him and he in you. Haechan, Haechan, Haechan. You could taste the blood and euphoria on your tongue. Haechan, Haechan, Haechan. You never existed and you never could. Haechan, Haechan, Haechan. Nothing was light and everything was dark and you had never mattered to anyone.

Haechan.

You were stumbling even as you laid and that girl was pressing a palm to your head. Was she trying to kill you?

“I checked your temperature because I thought you had a fever. Do you feel anything?” she asked.

Do you feel anything.

What a strange thing to ask.

Did you feel anything?

You didn’t feel anything.

Nothing at all.

“I think you may have caught a cold out there. Do you want me to get you something?” she asked. You snatched away.

“I’m fine,” you snapped though your throat felt like sand. Had you been looking, you would’ve seen her face look taken aback.

“Okay. The bus is leaving in an hour. Thought you should know,” she said and left you alone.

What happened out there? How did you catch a cold? You’d been hiding and he’d been hiding with you. You’d been laughing and you’d been running. What happened?

You needed to shower.

You rid yourself of your clothes and jumped at the sight of the smooth planes of your skin. He had cut you open. That much you remembered. He had cut you open and felt your insides. But how could he have done it? You weren’t even scratched. You felt the memory of him in every inch of your skin. Had you fucked? Did you finally get what you wanted from him?

You didn’t remember.

And that thought had you emptying your stomach into the toilet.

You climbed into the bus and he looked up, like he’d been waiting. He wordlessly moved the jacket from the seat next to his. Like he’d been keeping it for you. And you sat because where else would you go? This was your doing. You had nowhere else to go. And when the bus started moving and everyone settled in, he held your hand and he intertwined your fingers.

You just wanted to go home.

You turned a corner when you caught sight of Lee Jeno. He’d been looking for you the whole day and you’d been avoiding him the whole day. You’re not sure what it was: did you not want to see him or did you not want to face him?

‘free now?’ you read part of his message in the pop up notification but not all. You didn’t want to open the text and have him see that you had read it.

‘should I pick you up after class?’ he messaged again and you felt like you were suffocating. You walked around campus, trying to avoid all the places you’d run into him.

‘Is it okay if i come over tonight? I miss you,’ his last message read and you switched your phone off. This was too much. You were suffocating and you wanted to hide. You turned and almost ran head first into the TA’s chest. He held you by the shoulders to steady you and you flinched away. Why were people touching you?

“Trying to skip class, Ms. L/N?” he said in a tone you didn’t quite like.

“No, I’m just getting my things…” you looked away to walk away, but he didn’t let you. Your alarm bells rang hot in your ears. Nothing about this situation seemed right.

“Hold on, Ms. L/N. I’ve been meaning to discuss something,” he said with a smile on his face. You looked around and maneuvered yourself so you’d be in a spot where people could see you. And who else was going to catch you in your lowest moments but Lee Haechan? You felt his eyes on you and you weren’t sure you felt any safer.

“I know you're failing your classes,” he began. Still smiling. You saw Haechan scowling your way from the corner of your eye.

“I guess I am,” you replied shortly. Perhaps he didn’t like the sudden ice in your stature toward him.

“You don’t have to, you know. I’ve told Professor Lin what a talented girl you are,” he reached in to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear and you felt your skin crawl.

“Oh? Did you tell him how you knew?” you replied. You couldn’t see Haechan in your periphery anymore. You felt the danger deep in your belly. You didn’t like where this was going.

His eyes darkened. “I’ve been helping you a lot, Ms. L/N. Sometimes, you need to help me, too.”

“Is there a problem?” you heard Haechan’s voice behind you. But you didn’t stop to hear the rest of the conversation. You turned on your heel and you ran away.

You were good at running away.

But how could you feel suffocated in your own home?

Lee Jeno kept knocking on your door and ringing up your phone as you sat on the floor with your hands pressed to your ears. That’s how.

You wanted to scream. You wanted everyone to leave you the fuck alone. Who did he think he was, trying to check up on you? For what? He hadn’t really known you that long. Who was he to think he had any right to check up on you? Who gave him the right to knock on your door and fuck with your head like this? All he had done since the moment he had met you was fuck with your head.

Why did everyone keep messaging you? Why did you reopen your phone? What did everyone want from you? You felt like you were caged. You needed Lee Jeno to get the fuck away from your door so you could run and hide. You weren’t safe, not even in your own home.

Eventually, he did, and you shot out. You were losing control, that much you could sense. Everyone wanted something from you. Everyone wanted to fuck you and use you and blame you and shame you. You couldn’t breathe. Your chest was so tight that you pounded on it with your fist as you ran. You needed help.

You don’t know how you found yourself in the living room of your professor’s house, sipping onto the mulled wine he gave you. But it did good to numb your mind. The fireplace you sat in front of made you feel like you were sinking into a hot bath. Maybe you were finally coming down with the cold you had caught on the trip. But your mind was foggy and that’s how you liked it. Everything was finally slowing. It felt nice to sit in Professor Hwang’s company, in the luxury of his comfortable townhouse. It felt soothing to listen to his voice take over your senses. It felt almost relieving feeling his large hand smoothen over the skin of your shoulder. It felt inevitable to find his lips on yours.

And when he disrobed and walked into his room, you followed.

The legs you were using to walk didn’t feel like your own. It was far too cold and your dress was far too short. But there was too much alcohol in your veins to really make you feel a difference, let alone have you know your elbow from your ass. How much more could you run? Where else could you hide? You had exhausted all your safe harbors and running grounds. So you walked back home, though by the time you climbed the first flight of steps, you were stumbling. And a figure stood waiting outside your door. But it wasn’t Lee Jeno.

“What are you doing here?” you snapped at it.

He wore the same scowl he always wore when he saw you, but you didn’t have to be totally drunk to know that tonight’s expression was a cocktail of not just disapproval, but also concern. “Where have you been? Everyone’s looking all over for you,” he said.

“Why is everyone looking for me?” maybe they wanted to shame you.

“You told them you’d come to dinner. Why didn’t you come?” his eyebrows were slightly lifted and his head slightly tilted, like he was trying to search your face in the dim light of the street lamp. That’s how he liked you. In the darkness, where the lights could blind.

“Didn’t feel like it,” you said and stumbled on the step. But he strode ahead and caught you. You flinched away.

“Are you drunk?” he asked, and his voice wore only concern. How dispensable.

“What are you doing here?” you angered again and hurried to your door. You fumbled with your key and felt the burning behind your eyes when you couldn’t get it right.

He took it from your hands and unlocked the door. “Why have you been avoiding me?” he returned your question with one of his own and he followed you in. You didn’t want him here.

“What happened between us that night?” you replied in yet another question.

“Nothing,” he said, almost too quickly, like he’d been expecting you’d ask that as soon as you saw him. His head was shaking and his face was solemn. His eyes were round. Fearful.

“It couldn’t have been nothing. You…” he what? What could he have done that night that was more sickening than what you did?

“Y/N… nothing happened…” he inched towards you, shoulders hunched, arms stretched forward, approaching you with caution.

“How can you know?” you asked and you felt you would choke on your tears.

“I didn’t take as much as you, Y/N… I remember everything that happened. I got you back to your room that night…” he stood affront you and placed his hands on your forearms. You felt your chest reverberating from sniffles of tears that couldn’t fall.

“Why don’t you want me?” you croaked yet another accusation at him, much different to what you’d been accusing him of a moment ago. Did he fuck you? He didn’t fuck you. Why didn’t he fuck you?

You were crazy.

“Y/N…” he whispered and his hands moved to the back of your shoulders, pulling you in. You resisted.

“Fuck me now,” you whispered back suddenly and you grabbed at his shirt and began to unbutton it. He held your wrists.

“Y/N, you’re burning up. You’ve got a fever. Just sit down--”

“Why won’t you fuck me, Donghyuck?” you gripped at his shirt because he didn’t allow your hands to do much else.

“Y/N, just sit down--”

“Why won’t you fuck me? Is it because I disgust you? Is it because you find me deplorable?”

“Come here--”

“Is it because I deserve everything I get? Is it because not even my family spared my body?” you pushed against him. But he held you in a stronghold. Not letting you go.

“Shh…” he hushed and you felt hot, fat tears on your face. You gripped at him once more.

“Why won’t you fuck me?” he had messed up your pattern and now look what you did. “Please, fuck me,” so you begged.

“Y/N. Come here,” he pushed your face into his chest and held you tight.

“Please, fuck me,” you sobbed and you begged into him. He held you tighter till you felt you were suffocating again. But this was a different kind of suffocation.

“Please fuck me,” your sobs grew more desperate and your pleas more pathetic. But he held you so tight that you almost felt your blood cut off. You found yourself sinking into him and your eyes closing and your head spinning. Maybe you were still begging him. Maybe you were sinking once more. Maybe it was the room that was spinning. Maybe that’s why you were on top of him instead of against him. Maybe that’s why your head was heavy and your eyes still hot and his shirt still wet and his lips still warm. They were so warm on your head. You wanted to drink in the scent of him. But he moved much too soon.

“Don’t go,” you pleaded.

“I’m not. We need to bring your fever down,” he said gently. This boy hated you. Perhaps he pitied you more than he hated you in this moment. “Do you have any medicine?”

You shook your head.

“I’ll go get some,” he replied and you took his hand and repeated,

“Don’t go.” You didn’t know what you’d do if he went.

He looked torn. Like he didn’t know whether to help your body or your mind. He held your gaze and sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged by your bed as you laid, searching your face.

“Have you eaten?”

You shook your head, “I don’t want to.”

He nodded and when he had concluded his internal battle, he took your hand in both of his and kissed the back of it.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently. And you knew what he meant, though he couldn’t possibly have known.

You felt the tears hot on your cheeks once more. Maybe the fever was boiling them in your eyes.

But how could it not be your fault? Everything happened because you willed it so. Everything that happened was your own doing. You looked away. But he whispered once more.

“None of it. None of it was your fault, okay?”

You intertwined your fingers with his. It didn’t matter if he pitied you or spoke those words from the kindness of his heart. It was nice to hear them as you slept.

You didn’t want to go for any of your classes. You wanted to stay in bed where you were comfortable and hidden. You were already failing everything. You’d probably have to repeat, anyway. What did it matter if you missed a few days?

But you had to get up. Staying in bed would mean that you’d have too much time to think about what you did. So you got up and dressed yourself and you went to campus. There weren’t very many places you could go.

Jeno found you and this time, you didn’t have it in you to hide away. He took one look at your face and he held you in his arms. You leaned into him because you couldn’t really fight it. And when it seemed you were going to break, he shielded you with his jacket and walked you away from a place where there would be too many seeing eyes to the safety of his training room where it was just the two of you. He didn’t ask you why you cried into his chest. He just held you till you cried from being undeserving of him. He was light and you were darkness. You didn’t want to dim him.

“I knew something was up,” he said as he pulled back and wiped your tears with his thumbs.

You looked into his kind eyes. The eyes that you had told yourself you could fall for. You leaned in and you kissed his lips. You didn’t deserve him. But you wanted to know what it felt like to be kissed from love and not lust. To be treated with tenderness rather than irk. Jeno kissed you slow and gave you everything your heart had been yearning for.

Why?

Why did he give you your heart’s desire?

You hadn’t really done much for him.

You hadn’t even known him that long.

But he had decided that he wanted to give you his affection and his actions had mirrored his heart.

You placed your cheek on the hard planes of his chest and you closed your eyes till you felt you were drifting. Why did you leave your bed? You had no energy left. You were too cold and your head was too light.

Why did you feel undeserving of Jeno’s kindness? Why did being vulnerable to him feel like you were breaking a rule? What good were rules and patterns when all they had done was fuck with your head and make you…

You couldn’t finish the thought. You just held onto him tighter.

“Let’s get out of here,” he spoke in your ear.

“I don’t have the energy,” you said and it made you feel broken. Your eyes burned.

He kissed your cheek and made you rest your head on his shoulder. “You’re sick. You should be in bed.”

You nodded.

Patterns, rules, rosters, black books.

It was all fucked up. You had fucked it all up. You hated what you had become. You hated your skin and your body and your very being. You cried in Jeno’s car and all he could do was hold your hand as he drove you. He didn’t know you much. He was playing the boyfriend to a girl he had met at a party just a few weeks ago. One he hardly even knew. Would he still be kind to you once he figured out how fucked up you were? Would he still want to chase you and dote on you once he found out what you had done?

It didn’t matter that Lee Haechan didn’t fuck you.

You had broken the pattern.

You had freed yourself.

Was the price of freedom always this gruesome?

Jeno kept smiling patiently as you let him in. He sat you on the edge of your bed and crouched to take your shoes off for you.

Were you really so weak that people had to take care of you like this? First Haechan and now him? But Jeno wasn’t people, was he? What else could you have felt when you hadn’t really known the benevolence he was giving you?

Your world was divided into good guys and fuckboys. You’d never give good guys the time of day. Your nights would usually end when the fuckboy would nut. Jeno wasn’t a good guy. Jeno wasn’t a fuckboy, either. He was just a decent fucking human being.

Could you have him?

What would you do once you had him?

You didn’t know how to keep a person. You enjoyed your solitude.

He was so pure and you were so vile. He was so gentle and you were so brazen. He was so kind and you were so cruel. He was good and you were evil.

But it felt good to be cared for by an angel. You were going to destroy him. But you didn’t have the energy in you to warn him. So you sat and accepted everything he was giving you. But your lips spoke of their own accord.

“Why are you so nice to me?”

He looked up from your feet and stroked the side of your cheek. “I like you.”

“Why? Why do you like me?”

He shrugged, though the kind smile didn’t leave his face. “I don’t know. Why does anyone like anyone?”

“But you don’t know anything about me.”

He nodded like he agreed but wanted you to see something else. “True. We don’t know each other that well yet. But I still like you, and we can get to know each other.”

You could get to know each other. What a strange proposition. No one had really wanted to know you. And you weren’t sure they’d like you much when they did.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” more tears fell from your eyes. He didn’t wipe them this time. He studied your face, like he was choosing his next words.

“We all make mistakes, Y/N. I’ve made mistakes, too. But I still like you.”

He was an innocent. He had no idea what he was talking about. What good would it do him to find out?

“I want to tell you someday,” you whispered and surprised yourself. Would you ever tell him like you said you would? He had no clue what would hit him. He didn’t know you. His idea of you was so different from your idea of yourself.

“Take all the time you need,” he held your hands.

Maybe you could have this. Maybe it really was this easy sometimes. Maybe love was as easy to give as Jeno made it seem. How difficult could it be to receive it?

“Let’s go to your cabin someday,” you said softly. He smiled the widest smile so far, one that made his eyes disappear into crescents atop his cheeks. It made you smile in return. Your mind slowed and your heart swelled.

You didn’t know him.

He didn’t know you, either. Maybe that was a blessing. Because the way he treated you made you hate yourself just a little less.

Patterns were like shackles. Getting up meant brushing your teeth thrice and going out meant scrubbing till your skin burned raw. Eating meant precise calculations and not eating meant having to start all over again. Reds came before blues and yellows before purples and you could fuck the same fuckboy twice but only if it maintained the harmony of your roster. Patterns shackled your wrists and your ankles but kept you from destruction.

But you had broken your pattern. Maybe you had freed yourself of your shackles.

Walking to campus didn’t feel numbing anymore. Putting on a pretty dress this morning felt soothing. Brushing your hair without counting your strokes felt comfortable. Stepping on grass and smelling the flowers in the air felt relaxing. You were here. You were present. You were alive. You were okay. You were well.

Your blood had only known how to burn hot in your veins. You didn’t know you had the ability to feel the warmth that you felt as you walked towards Jeno’s training room. Was this the difference between love and lust? One burnt you in a fire and the other slowed the flames to a warmth? You couldn’t be in love with Lee Jeno. You hadn’t known him long. You didn’t even know what love was.

But your heart was full and your mind calm. You were walking to see him. So why couldn’t you find him?

Why did you suddenly feel the eyes of many boring into the back of your head?

Why did the warmth in your blood turn to ice on your skin?

Why did the sweet melody of birds around you turn to murmurs in your ears?

Why was everyone sneaking glances at you?

Why was everyone talking about you?

“There she is.”

“Can’t believe she’s showing her face.”

“The campus slut.”

“What a whore.”

“I knew she was a slut. Didn’t think she was a full on homewrecker.”

“Homewrecker.”

“Is it true?” a voice broke through the murmurs, like it was speaking to you, not about you. Lee Haechan stood in your way.

“What’s going on?” you asked.

Lee Haechan pushed his phone to your face. And you saw it clear as day.

You bent over in front of your camera. And Professor Hwang right behind you.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t move an inch.

The murmurs grew louder in your ears like they were trying to drown you.

“Let’s go,” Haechan grabbed at your wrist.

“Where?”

“Somewhere else.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“Come.”

You couldn’t go home. And you couldn’t stay here. So you followed him all the way to his car while the gazes of everyone in your path hit you like daggers.

You left it all behind, but not before you saw Jeno’s face of betrayal as he saw you ride away with Lee Haechan.

He kept driving and you kept sticking to your phone like a vice. The videos kept coming. The pictures kept coming. The vitriol kept coming. You had earned it all.

‘She’s always been a homewrecker. She tried to seduce my boyfriend. Here’s proof.’

‘we been knew she a slut, i’ve got a whole library of her nudes lol’

‘weird tits’

‘why is she moaning like she’s dying i'm not even hard’

‘i’ve fucked her she’s boring and kinda loose’

‘lmao has everyone seen her naked? Y’all have receipts’

‘Woobin ur pictures look fake asf’

“yeah ngl, that doesn’t even look like her’

‘are her tits fake?’

‘anyone got pics of her puss?’

‘i do brb posting’

‘Guys, revenge porn is not it’

‘yeah, you can go to jail asshole’

‘shut up slut she sent it to us’

‘yeah but your posting it without her permission sooooo’

‘It’s the criminal act for me’

‘You idiots need to take it down or I'm reporting’

‘who wants pussy pics?’

‘she fucked my uncle’

‘fuck off no one believes u’

‘is she even on this?’

‘hi y/n i’m dtf and my dick isn’t as wrinkly’

The vitriol kept coming and you kept reading. You read and you read and you saw yourself in every picture you remembered you took and even the ones you didn’t remember taking. People got it right and people got it wrong. They mostly got it right. Everything they were saying was true. You read on and you felt you could’ve read forever. But Haechan’s hand came in and took the phone from you.

You didn’t realize you had stopped travelling. You didn’t realize you were sitting on the hood of his car. You didn’t realize how far he must have driven to take you here. Away from the city where the river was as clean as nature had intended it to be and the manmade landscape looked like a distant picture behind it.

“Why did you do it?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” you whispered back. He nodded.

“Did you know he was married?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know he has a daughter our age?”

“Yes.”

He nodded once and looked away. Like he was organizing his questions.

“Why did you film it?” he asked. Not as an accusation. Just a question.

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember filming it,” you spoke barely above a whisper.

“Do you remember posting it?”

“No.”

“Did he know you were filming him?”

“I don’t know.”

“He could lose his job, Y/N.”

You looked up towards the river, unconvinced with your own next words, “We’re both adults.”

“Yes. But you’re a student. And he’s a teacher. You filmed him.”

“Yes.”

He looked down to think. Then he looked ahead with you.

“You could get in trouble, too.”

“Yes.”

“Do you… you really don’t remember filming it? Or posting it?”

“No.”

“Do you often have gaps in your memory?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why did you do it?” he asked again.

Your breath came out in between a scoff and a dry sob. You turned your head to look at him. “Because I’m fucked up.”

“Because you’re fucked up,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” you said in the same broken voice. And perhaps he could see that you were about to wallow in your self pity. Because his tone grew colder.

“That’s going to be your free pass for everything? That you’re fucked up?”

You looked away, ashamed. You shook your head. A long pause stretched between the two of you. Like he didn’t know what to say anymore. So you reached in your bag and handed him a pocket sized, leather bound diary.

“What’s this?” He took it.

“My black book,” you couldn’t speak up.

“Black book?”

You nodded. “A list of all the people I’ve fucked. All the people I want to fuck.”

Haechan’s face didn’t betray any notable reaction. He flipped through the pages and paused only when he saw his name. He didn’t say anything. So you talked.

“It has to be in order. All these names. I need to go through them in order. I’ve had this since the first semester. If I don’t do things in order, it…” you looked away. You sounded crazy even to your ears. But Haechan’s face was unchanged.

“It stresses you?” he tried to understand.

“I spiral.”

“Are you spiraling now?” he asked.

You nodded. What else would explain any of this?

“Is it because of me?” he traced his name on your book.

You looked at him. Was it because of him? Was it because of Jeno? Was it because of Professor Hwang? Who broke your pattern first?

What did it matter? What did it matter who broke your pattern? Patterns were fucked up and you were fucked up and all of this was because of no one but yourself.

“This isn’t right, Y/N.”

“Yeah.”

“You need help.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know.”

You looked at him. “What do you mean?”

“This,” he lifted the black book, “This has been going on since freshman year? The first semester? And you didn’t get the help you needed then?”

You looked at the ground and your eyes burned once more.

“What you told me that night… was it true?” he asked. And it made your heart hurt more than anything you had read on your phone. His question cut you open and made your tears fall and your shoulder shake. Who would believe a mentally unstable girl? Of course he thought you lied. He probably thought you were a pathological liar amongst all the other things.

But you nodded. You didn’t lie to him and he didn’t lie to you. That’s not how you worked. He could hate you and you could hate him. But you didn’t lie to each other. He saw you for what you were and you saw him.

His pupils lifted like he was thinking and he swallowed.

“Who did this to you?” he asked.

You couldn’t answer. You never had an answer. What did it matter who did it? It’s what you deserved.

Haechan sighed. Like he had thought better of his question. “You need help, Y/N,” he repeated.

“I know,” you agreed, though your voice was hoarse.

“I know some people.”

“Okay.”

“I could take you there right now.”

Your heart dropped. This was soon. This was much too soon. You couldn’t do it. You didn’t have it in you.

“Just let me die,” you whispered.

You saw the clenching of his jaw and the pressing of his lips. And without warning, he flung your black book towards the river with as much strength as his body could muster.

“Face your fucking problems, Y/N,” he said.

You cried. He was right. How could he be wrong? You needed help and no one had ever given it to you. You hadn’t given it to yourself. You had an opportunity to be better. He was giving it to you. Were you really that far gone that you weren’t accepting it? You trusted him. You hated him and you trusted him.

“Take me,” you cried.

He didn’t need telling twice. He got in the car and drove you where he promised.

Clarity is a strange phenomenon. You think you have it in moments you absolutely don’t. Where things feel so real you almost believe them. But when you open your eyes, and really open them, you start to lose faith in everything there ever was.

You lost everything. You failed your classes. You lost the few friends you had. You were put on probation. And your videos and pictures lived in everyone’s phones forevermore. You couldn’t run. You couldn’t hide. You couldn’t even escape.

But you felt free. For the first time in your life, you felt like you could see. You finally felt regret. You finally started to reflect. You felt the pain you had caused everyone you knew. But most of all, you finally felt the pain you had been causing to yourself.

Haechan was right. It wasn’t your fault.

Yet all these years, you’d lived with the burden that it was. You had punished your body for it. You had punished your mind for it. The food you would eat was to harm or ornate your body. The patterns you built were to enslave or protect your mind. You looked for control in places you couldn’t find it. Because all that control had been taken from you all those years. Your body didn’t belong to you. Your mind didn’t belong to you. You numbed your soul thinking that if you thought any less of yourself, that it would make it all okay. That if everyone hated you altogether, you’d finally be seen the way you saw yourself. You kept punishing yourself. For something you didn’t even do.

You’d been living in the past. Because you never healed from it. Because you had never given yourself the opportunity to heal. Because you thought punishing yourself was how you could fix everything that happened. Because never once did it occur to you that you could’ve helped yourself without waiting for someone to help you.

You’re not really sure you had clarity.

All you know is that for the first time ever, you remembered all the things that happened to you. All the things you had done. You had fallen to your knees and confessed like you were begging to a deity. Every day you fell to your knees and cried and remembered and each confession brought with it a new suppressed memory. You cried for all the years you had lost and all the times you had punished yourself for things you couldn’t possibly have controlled. You cried for little Y/N and all the burden she had been carrying for you. She was so innocent. So vulnerable. So young. And you blamed her till she was tainted in your memories. You cried when you told her it wasn’t her fault. How could it have been? She was a child. You cried when you begged for her forgiveness. For not believing her. For punishing her. For hating her. You cried when you forgave her. And when you cried so hard that you couldn’t move, not an inch, not a hair, not a speck, so hard that you felt you’d never breath, never stand, never function, so hard that you felt the life of you weakening beneath your knees, you set her free. You let her go. Little Y/N was free.

And in the darkness of the night when your tears drowned you but didn’t suffocate you anymore, you thanked Y/N as she was now. For being her own savior.

Maybe you didn’t have all the clarity in the world. But you knew your eyes were wider open than before as you sat in the rose garden of the center and took in the wide expanse of grass around you. You could smell every bit of it. And you could see the boy sitting in front of you on the lawn chair. You looked at the roses and he looked at you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to have this?” he asked, pointing to the vanilla frap he’d gotten you along with other goodies.

“I’m actually not allowed sugar. Or caffeine,” you smiled at him.

“Wow. This place don’t mess around,” his lips pressed into an impressed expression and he took a healthy sip from your glass. “Noted for next time.”

Next time? After everything, Jeno wanted there to be a next time?

“Tell me how you feel,” he asked softly.

“I feel okay,” you nodded and you smiled. His face didn’t change, so you reached for his hand. “Really, I am.”

“When do you get out?” he asked, stroking his thumb on the back of your hand.

“I’m not sure. I like it here,” you leaned back in your chair and inhaled the sweet smell of roses all around you. How nice it felt to smell them. Almost as good as it felt to plant them.

“Y/N…” Jeno trailed away as he looked at his feet. Contemplating. Wondering what he could say and what he could not.

“You can say it,” you smiled at him, though you weren’t sure what he wanted to bring up first. There was too much in the tangles you had left behind.

“The pictures… they’ve… they’ve been taken down. The feminist society filed a report against everyone sharing your pictures without your consent,” he kept stroking the back of your hand with his thumb. You realized he was worried.

You weren’t. The pictures and videos were the least of your concern. They didn’t bother you.

But Jeno was worried. And he didn’t hate you. And that took you by surprise.

“I heard you hit Woobin,” you said, amused.

“He was asking for it,” he pouted. He looked so cute when he pouted. So you reached in to pull his cheek.

“Jeno, you can’t hit every boy that has been an asshole after having sex with me. You’ll have to go through the entire campus.”

He flinched and brooded cutely for a while while you grinned and stroked his frown with the backs of your fingers. But then, he asked you what you’d been expecting.

“Lee Haechan…” he looked at you. You looked back into his warm eyes. They were confused. Of course they were. You hadn’t done much to reassure them.

“Go on,” you encouraged so he'd know it was alright to talk about this.

“Are you… did you ever…” he didn’t know how to put this. You had told him about your compulsions and your rosters and your black books. You told him all the things you did, even while you were with him. Maybe the information was too much to absorb at one time.

“No,” you shook your head for him.

“Do you… do you… like him?” he asked.

“No,” you shook your head and took his hand again. You liked holding it.

“Then… what’s your relationship… to him?”

“Hmm…” you turned your head up to think. You didn’t have to think much. You knew. “He understands me.”

Jeno was a smart guy. Perhaps in some ways, he felt you, too. Because he didn’t need an explanation beyond what you said. He just squeezed your hand and said,

“I’d like to understand you too, someday.”

It took you by surprise once again.

“You still want to try being with me? After everything I’ve done?” you asked him without masking it.

“We all make mistakes, Y/N,” he told you what he had told you all that time before, “And everyone deserves a second chance.”

You felt your heart melt. You had been right. Even though you'd been out of your mind, your heart had seen Lee Jeno for what he was. Kind-hearted. Pure. Gentle in his judgments. Sweet with his words. Innocent in his heart.

You took a deep inhale, like his words were healing you and you needed to breathe them into the deepest pits of your lungs and burn them into your heart.

“I’m going to get better for you,” you promised him. And his lips met your forehead.

“You need to get better for yourself. And when you do, I’ll be waiting.”

Those were the kindest words anyone had ever told you.

You held onto them in the hours and days and weeks to come till you finally walked down the path of the green grass and left the rose garden behind.

A second chance and a new life.

You were you and you were reborn and old you and new you could coexist within you.

This body was yours and it was a gift. You started loving it for all the things it did for you, rather than all the things it could do for everyone else.

Your mind was yours and yours alone. No one could own it or enslave it. Not even you.

Life had second chances, and you had taken it. You gave yourself a second chance. You were deserving of a second chance. You were deserving of all that was good and pure and true in this world.

You smiled bright as you held onto the acceptance letter of your new college. It felt nice to have poured out your story to them and have it be validated in this way. You had new things and kept some old things. Some things were better left in the past, and with some you had to learn to make peace that this was so. You couldn’t change people’s minds about you. But their murmurs would have followed till you could hear no more. So you left them behind. And you smiled at your new opportunity. You had heard that it knocked at the door but once. You welcomed it with open arms.

You decided you needed to share in your joy. So you picked the roses from the garden you tended and tied them together with a ribbon. You didn’t lament that you had never received flowers before. You felt joy that you were about to give flowers to someone for the first time.

You smiled as you walked, smelling the roses every so often and simmering in the sweet smell of them. Jeno would like them and you were going to be okay. He would see you and he’d smile the smile that made his eyes disappear and you’d be okay. You were okay. You were going to be okay.

As you walked to Jeno, you could’ve sworn that you saw Lee Haechan drive past you and meet your eyes, if only for a second. Out in the sun, in broad daylight, where no darkness shielded you and no lights blinded you.

And in your heart, you wished him well.

1K notes · View notes

moonlightjeno · 2 years

Text

pairing :: mark x reader

summary :: a series of melodies encompassing the feeling of falling in love with your best friend

wc :: 8k

a/n :: haven't been here in a hot second, but this story ties up my little psa dont fall in love with your best friend blurbs. all of these experiences are based almost soley on my own personal experiences this one shot included and this is kind of my way of figuring out my shit. so enjoy <3 + huge thank you to my queen and absolute love @suh-insane for reading this over love you lots <3

playlist :: psa: don't fall in love with your best friend, advice from a hopeless romantic ( a compilation of songs that fits their story please listen while you read <3 )

i. seventh grade and blink-182

The world revolves around song. Through music in which people are determined by music; and relationships can be made stronger and more clear through song or melodies. The melody of one person when clashes with another can do one of two things: it can align with it, the chords of one balancing out each other through the staffs of a five-set bar filling spaces in between quarter notes or half notes as one rests and the other rises up to meet it or it can create chaos. This chaos that can be created through the clash of notes, it can be seen when the melodies don’t choose to align with each other, instead the dance around each other avoiding one another as the music swells and swells until there is no other option but for the two melodies to meet and either reach crescendo or crash.

The first time you meet Mark Lee you’re convinced he hates you. You know this from the way he gives you what could only be recalled to be as the “stink eye” in seventh grade which has your mind leading to all the possibilities as to why the boy might hate you. Where one melody and the next are crashing into each other in anything but harmony, one reaching as the other darts away.

It had never been something in particular that had made you believe the song that defined you and Mark weren’t meant for each other. When you had first seen him, you had just assumed he hated everyone in your small seventh grade class except the loud overly energetic boy named Lee Donghyuck who you had somehow called your best friend.

But your internal rivalry with Mark, a clash of harmonies between one another, had started in the lunch room of your school. You vaguely recall the day you met him, brown hair fitted onto his hair in a bowl shape that you had just glared at. The hair was cut at odds ends making what your twelve year old self thought to be a bowl cut look more like a bowl with jagged glass pieces sticking out in uneven cuts. Donghyuck, leg bouncing up and down as his fingers tapped in and out of the rhythm that poured through the old cable headphones that you had managed to sneak into the lunchroom, had informed you of the new kid that was coming in. The boy, being the social butterfly, had managed to get the new kid’s schedule - and though he had lost it the moment the new boy had given it to him - Hyuck swore that he had managed to retain enough information to tell you about him. At the end all you had managed to get out of your best friend who had now rushed to the new boy, half of a headphone still on his ear so that your tiny ipod had been ripped from your hand and was now on the lunchroom floor Blink-182 playing from the now unplugged headphone jack, was that his name was Mark Lee and had just moved in from Canada.

The news of a new kid had elated you at first. Like the bridge to a song, where the melodies are being changed, a new instrument has been introduced altering the path of the constant song structure. Your young mind reeling at all the different possibilities of you being able to share your interest and getting someone new that wasn’t donghyuck attached to the books that you liked to read or even better into the very indie pop music you had just recently found. Though you would never stray from the occasional blink-182 that made both you and donghyuck feel older and cooler than the other seventh graders around you. It’s that exact music that has your lunch proctors coming over to your small lunch table, where donghyuck had dragged a mark towards, your ipod in their hands as they scorned you for listening to music that was too “mature” for your young age. Your reaction had been to stick out your tongue at the back of the proctor who you decided that fateful day as they took away your orange ipod, the faint buzz of music still heard, that mark didn’t like you. He didn’t like you because when you had asked him for help to get your iPod back because Donghyuck had disappeared and you had figured because the boy came from canada that he was supposed to help you - looking back at it in retrospect you understand that the stereotype your american history class had drilled into your young mind was not correct.

Mark did in fact not help you. He did the complete opposite and called your music taste awful before he walked over to the lunch proctor which you had just realized had been your old english teacher who already didn’t like you - no matter how much you tried to be enthusiastic in their class, and showed your love for reading - to tell them that you had stuck out your tongue at them.

It doesn’t occur to you that mark had in fact not snitched on you as you believed but instead had asked the teacher for your ipod back and had only gotten a shake of the head that you had deciphered as disappointment towards yourself instead of the teacher informing young mark to tell you to come pick it up after school. But at the time Mark had been too shy, and overly conscious of himself to tell you that himself so he said nothing and walked away from your table in an attempt to find Donghyuck the only boy he found himself energized to be around.

It is from the moment that you see the boy with shaggy brown hair, eyes wide in amusement at everything, hands fidgeting with a guitar pick after he walks away that you have convinced yourself he hates you. This is not something you have to prove, it is something you deduced because for the rest of the year all you ever got from the boy were rude words and the stink eye. A list that though only consists of two items - three if you count how the boy would at times tease you and complain to donghyuck in your presence about the fact that you had been moved up to his english class - that the boy everyone adored detested you. A clash of songs, of melodies between one another. The push and pull between two forces that are syncopated with each other, not matching but not against one another.

ii. two years and a crush

You think that hate might have been a strong word to describe how Mark felt about you. Dislike or maybe he felt too awkward around you. The song of hate is one too strong to pinpoint on any set person with no valuable excuse. It is the border between hate and care that is often blurred between two people that have yet to know each other or often already do. The beauty of music, the fluidity of it that is said to have strict rules to follow in order for chords to harmonize with one another can be changed and modified through the course of time. Change that a year or two can prolong, where donghyuck guarantees you that Mark does indeed not hate you but thinks the opposite that you hate him.

It is the shock, sprawled all over your face when your best friend informs of you this news that has you take a step back. Mind reeling at the possibilities that could have made the boy you wished to be friends with from afar - only for his awkward but adorable demeanor and knowledge in the language of music that had you slightly grown fond off - that had you set on walking up to the brown haired boy black sharpie in hand as you scrawled a message on his ninth grade yearbook.

The book feels heavy in your hands, the turn of pages not balanced evenly as you picked it up from one of the many grey speckled lunch tables in your school's lunchroom. Mark’s signature - a bold star on the center of the page - marking it as his. In the time between seventh and ninth grade the number of markings on his pages have expanded. Each corner filled with some note or another about having a good summer, the most common being “hags” a term very much detested on your part. Though some would thank him for his help in English class or talk about the way his laugh would always be heard echoing down the halls of the school making anyone who heard it smile even for just a second. You are stuck on what to write in the boy’s yearbook, where “hags” was most definitely out of the way but how else to express that you in fact did not hate the boy before you, but felt something else entirely.

Your fine line pen - you had switched out the marker ( though a mark and marker joke had been tempted to be made on your side ) for a pen to donghyuck who had insisted the writing utensil he used had to match his loud personality - had just begun to write the initial entry to the yearbook when a cough sounded from behind you. Pen smearing to the side at the abrupt noise that had broken you from your thoughts as you turned your head around, to find Mark cheeks slightly pink and a confused look on his face as he looked down to the book in your hands and then back to you. The question written on his face, what were you doing with his yearbook?

The brown haired boy had sworn he had left it on one of the many desks littered around though that wasn’t too say much when all the tables had at one point clumped together in the center of the room and mark had been dragged from one person to another - because after two years in a music program it seems people begin to want to talk to you - to sign books. What he hadn’t expected was to find you, crouched in the corner next to the pile of yearbooks, eyebrows drawn in concentration as you stared down at his yearbook.

Mark knows that you are not a person of hate. He knows this because Donghyuck talks enough about you that if Mark was to be given a trivia on who your favorite band was and what subject you hated the most he would have aced it ( you would never be able to choose just one band and obviously music but not because you didn’t like the class but because of its teacher ). It is evident from when you speak to Donghyuck, a smile grazing your features even when you scold hyuck for not getting enough sleep that you care deeply for others. He knows this yet he thinks that there is something wrong with him for when you look at him he only ever sees confusion written in your features.

The same confusion that you look at him with now, but this time what seems to be the ghost of a nervous smile grazes your lips as your eyes dart from him to the book on your hands before you are scrambling up yearbook flopping slightly to the side and before mark can greet you, you’re off towards another pile of yearbooks and people with only a “oh...um...hi! I'm gonna go.”

When he picks up his yearbook, only the beginnings of a scribble before the pen smudged read “I don’t hate you” which has mark now copying your face of confusion at the rest of the words that have smaread and he can’t seem to make out but wishes he could because the small little smiley face you’ve drawn at the top has butterflies tumbling around in his stomach.

It is people who do not have music, people who do not have a song that we should fear. This is something to be believed in because with no song whether audible or not people become less of self and more of one. Dips and staccatos in one’s song that create variety are what then allow us to match with other harmonies and rhythms between each other. So when a boy presented you with the opportunity to learn how these dips worked, how they would bounce from one end to another trailing behind a note or holding it for a note longer harmonies between these two people become more insync with each other.

- -

By the time that the end of tenth grade rolls sound you know for a fact that Mark doesn’t hate you, because if he did you don’t think the poor boy would have helped you in music class. Mark Lee most definitely doesn’t hate you or he wouldn’t have helped you write a whole song for a class that everyone - except the musical prodigy himself - hated.

It is said that music in syncopation will at one point catch up to each other in order to create a beautiful rhythm. When one beat is off the next, it will become the foundation to that song, as one beat chases the other and they dance around each other never quite crashing into each other but grazing one another to fill in each other’s missing beat.

The idea of what syncopation is has been drilled into your brain for the fifth time this week in music class. One of those many music theories that you understand in exactly what they are but when put into practice you’re left looking into space with a hopeless look. Which left Mark looking at you a mix of emotions coursing through him as you bit your lip in worry as the teacher went on about what the end of the trimester’s project would be.

The assignment was simple, in theory of course. Simple if your music teacher had bothered to teach you how to play the keyboard that lay on top of your desk, the computer plugged into the weird conversion device that you had yet to understand its function, with the holy Sibelius software open. Its purple background and paper-like overlay with a single music staff only managed to meddle with what you knew of music. It wasn’t that you were a complete music disaster. You knew how to play the guitar - or at least the intro to Blink-182’s I Miss You - and had begun to learn the bass because your favorite member of a band you followed played the bass. Basic understanding of music theory was also stored in your brain, you knew how notes worked, just not how to place them. You understood what each note was, just not how they fit well together, just like you knew what chords were just not how to play them on the piano. So when given the task to compose a full original song in the span of a month, it wasn’t looking great.

Not great until Mark, sitting next to you, saw how your eyebrows had drawn in together as you tried clicking away at the screen only to get half notes instead of whole notes. The boy wanted nothing more than to remain by his chair, as he happily played the piano keys. Their loud thunk thunk a soothing melody to him as the melody in his head was played out in front of him. When the music teacher, purple tie with too many dots for anyone to count, had announced the assignment he had been beyond excited, that is until the teacher had also announced they would be sharing their songs by the end of the month.

Mark loved music. He loved the melodies and rhythms that would play in his head, as he hummed along to whatever jazz or new radio station he had found earlier that day played through his headset. Music was a translation for the way his heart felt or brain was thinking, when he got too awkward or shy to the people around him. The lyrics that he was constantly jotting down on his beat up notebook were words and thoughts that would flit back and forth through his head, different ideas or butterflies that would create a turmoil in his stomach. Mark however did not like performing in front of people, the blame was on the way his heart would alter its constant path when there was someone in front of him to listen to his music or see his notebook. It was too personal the scribbles on the notebook that had gone with him through one move and then another a whirlwind of houses and unknown people through each new city.

He had tried once to perform in front of people, the audience consisted of his mother and father and the church group he had been going to in their small living room back in toronto. When he looked back at it, the performance shouldn’t have gone awry, it should have been one happy moment in his life that had helped him express himself and be more out there. Except when he got on the small DIY stage his parents had prepared for him for the annual church talent show, guitar ready in his arms and he started to strum the first couple of chords to the song he had just written all he could see was the world laid before him as they saw him raw without any protection. Nothing to grab onto except all his secrets - though a song about how much he liked chicken was truly not that deep - that he had run out of the stage, and into the city street notebook in hand.

It’s been too long since he’s tried again to perform in front of anyone, but he tries to convince himself that if he could help you write a song then you would be able to help him with his anxiety about his own work. He most definitely tries to convince himself that he doesn’t want to help you because he knows you think he hates you and wants to prove otherwise. Mark definitely doesn’t want to help you, because he thinks you’re cute. He definitely doesn’t want to help you because he heard you laugh once - when he had lunch by your table - and heard you laugh so hard that tears had started to spring in your eyes as you smacked donghyuck in the arm and he wished he had been the one to make you laugh. By the time Mark has convinced himself of all this, class is almost over and he’s only able to mumble a “do you need any help?” to you, as you stare at him blankly, confusion drawn across your features.

“Are you talking to me?” you ask, head turning from side to side as you look at other classmates around you, even renjun a fellow friend of donghyuck shrugs before walking out the door.

“Yep” is the only thing Mark can manage saying, as he aggressively nods towards your computer screen, only slightly catching the smile that blooms across your face.

“I’d love that. I seriously have no idea what any of these buttons do” you sigh, waving dramatically towards the keyboard that sits on your desk, the computer screen blinking as the random notes you have placed create a jumbled picture.

Mark can feel his anxiety ease away when he gets near the keyboard. The way the keys work makes perfect sense to him bringing comfort, but the bubble you two have created as you start talking about the piece you’re trying to make. A piece you had first suggested that should be about your love for pizza which Mark had laughed at - a sound you had found to be equally adorable and contagious - but the look your teacher gave you made you rethink that. Though singing about how good cheese and pizza dough was would always be a dream of yours.

It is through music that your friendship blooms. Where a syncopated song has managed to catch up to each other even if it’s only for a small time, in order to greet each other.

When you two begin to hang out more often, at times at his place or maybe yours. At first the idea is to help each other on the song, Mark tells you about his fear, or more so the panic he gets when people listen to his work live. It’s strange to think that someone that talented had anything to fear really, he always looked so at ease whenever he was playing music that it had never fathomed that it might scare him to show it to the rest of the world.

Music you and Mark have both determined is the universal language. Music allows you both to express yourselves when the world seems to only grab at your words and throw them in the other direction so that no one else can see or hear.

iii. scribbles on the yearbook

The black marker is stark against the red page of your yearbook, as you flip through the pages. The room’s ac flipping the pages, landing on where Mark had signed your yearbook. A small note that has you slightly smiling at the boy’s visible awkwardness on the pages. Most of the signatures insignificant with the typical “hags” that you have seen over the years, you almost yelled at donghyuck who had written hags on your yearbook as a joke. Mark has it scribbled on the margins of the paper, surrounded by different colors of scribbles from the rest of your classmates until his comes along, reading “this is mark, and i approve of this message” only for it to be followed by another message right next to it “this is mark - and oh wait i already wrote something! I hope we make that pizza song one day :)”

It’s the small detail to the pizza song that has you staring at the message, a small smile on your face as donghyuck barges into the room you're in - that though technically his room has you yelling at him for walking in without any warning.

“Who has you smiling like an idiot?” the brown haired boy jokes, the rainbow highlights he just recently added into his hair catching in the light.

“No one” you force your voice to become an octave lower, trying to wipe the smile from your face with no actual success because donghyuck has taken your yearbook from his bed and is laughing. You start to speak, trying to explain to your friend that it was just that you two had finally started talking to each other and maybe he didn’t hate you.

“No way you like Jaemin?” He exclaims already picking up his phone and because you know he has Jaemin on speed dial you lunge across the room into him.

“What?! No!!” Though you’re both on the floor donghyuck is still grinning like an idiot, the brightness in his phone almost blinding you.

“Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!” The phone has been forgotten, and he’s clinging onto you as you try to sit up heck grabbing you by the arm, “come on, I’m your best friend you gotta tell me these things”

“I don’t like anyone dude” your words are accentuated as you unwrap hyucks hands from your arm before standing up, leaving a pouting donghyuck on the bedroom floor.

“Then who the fuck has you smiley?” You almost gasp at the curse word that leaves Donghyuck’s lips, he’d been saying them more often, and you stare at him trying to convey through it that it was none of his business. It is only because the doorbell rings that Donghyuck gets up, giving you a glare before he heads out to the door, yelling at his brother that it’s his turn to get the door.

You’re more than happy for the distraction, picking up the yearbook from the ground, the pages now slightly crumpled from the movement. The music that plays through your iPod has you bopping along, a dance move or two escaping your body at irregular intervals when the chorus hits or you attempt to lip-sync to the melodies of the cab.

The music has you too distracted to hear Mark as he walks into Donghyuck’s house, his laugh echoing around the house at something that Donghyuck said, clapping along until they enter the room you’re in.

Mark is happy that you don’t see him. He’s happy that you aren’t aware how concentrated you look as you look down at the yearbook finger tracing images or words he can’t see. words seem to fail him when he looks at you, smile present on your face and though the music you're listening to is strange to his ears he makes a slight effort to see what appeals to it - he doesn’t get very far but he tries. It’s a different expression from what he’s used to. Your music is heavier, the lyrics tend to be sadder than the music he listens to, John Mayer being a classic and the reason he picked up a guitar years ago, but he doesn’t mind it when he sees the way your face brightens up at it.

“Earth to Mark!” a snap in front of him shakes him from his thoughts as Donghyuck looks at him, a puzzled look on his face that is quickly replaced by a knowing grin. As if he knew something that had recently become very obvious to him and only him, a secret he would keep close to his chest until he decided the card was to be dealt. But then you’re looking up, yearbook discarded on the bed as you rush over to him and donghyuck asking him how practice was, and if he was staying over for japchae - a classic at the lee’s house that mark could never truly turn down - donghyuks grin only widening before mark had a chance to say anything about it.

iv. a catapult of zooms

The five words you’ve written down for your English paper on The Catcher in the Rye stares at you from the blinding white screen. Cursor blinking in and out to let you know that your computer is ready to type next, a constant reminder that you have only made it a sentence in for a paper due tomorrow. You type out another sentence hoping this one fits before deleting it, a cycle of movements you have been doing for the last thirty minutes you notice when you glance up at the time 11:30 pm.

An incomprehensible noise between a sigh and a scream comes out of your mouth before you look back at the book to your side, the annotations on the side of the pages mocking you with their information on the loss of innocence and youth. Looking back at your screen you switch tabs the current music playing through your headphones distracting you more than actually helping you as you sing along to most of the songs giving a small dance routine when you feel like it all to not write the damn paper in front of you.

It takes a small second for your eyes to adjust, the white screen of the google docs pages in stark contrast to the black grey of the spotify app as it shows you all the different playlist you have accumulated over the years. You can see on the top right corner what donghyuck and you had been listening to for the better part of the afternoon at his place when you’d both claimed having a dance party would have helped your inspiration for the english paper - spoiler alert if very much had not. Right below it you see mark’s profile the username “besquaremusic” making you slightly laugh, before seeing that he’d stopped listening to music twenty minutes ago but it’s the music that the boy was listening to that has your heart rate pick up a beat and your mouth split into a smile. Right under his username the song Free Love by Honne plays, from the playlist PIZZA SONG <3 a playlist you’d made for him a couple months ago during one of your hang out sessions.

You can’t seem to shake the smile of your face as you go over to your account, scrolling until you find your study playlist hope it never fades out and click play. The melody of i believe in you starting to play only to be immediately disrupted by the blaring sound of a call coming in. The Justin Bieber song playing too loudly on your headphones indicating mark’s call before you press the answer icon smile never leaves your face because though you had a paper to get too Mark did too and suffering together was better than suffering alone.

“Yo!” is Mark’s introduction, a smile present on both of your lips as he grabs his guitar playing random chords.

“Ayo! What’s up?” you ask, eyes only leaving your facetime call for a second in order to write the theme to your essay because you had finally found the quotes you’d been looking for in your overly annotated book.

“Wanted to show you a new song i learned and if you could tell me if it sounds too similar to the original or not” the proposal makes you perk up from the sentence you were writing, giving you full attention to mark who had begun to strum the intro chords to John Mayer’s Dancing in a Burning Room.

The moment Mark starts to sing you are lost. Just like you become lost in the music that plays through your earbuds most of the day, Mark's voice is able to capture you and lose you.

It is when the right melody finds itself paired up with a harmony that matches it. When that moment feels so right that the music can be seen when you close your eyes and you can imagine the world that the piece creates if only for the four minutes and two seconds that the song lasts.

There is a world that is solely music. A world where the only thing that exists are the chords and riffs as they are paired together with melodies and lyrics in order to ground one to that world.

You feel transported anytime you hear Mark play music. Taken to a place that is only yours, with Mark and his guitar - glasses usually on the tip of his nose as he strums the strings - and you as you nod your head along to the music listening to every note that Mark plays or sings. It is not often that you join in but when you are too giddy you mouth along the lyrics with him.

The last note of the song plays and you are already clapping, the slapping of skin against each other causing a yell from your younger brother to stop making so much noise. Your clapping stops but you are now whispering, yelling to mark, telling him how much you loved the cover, marks ears reddening at the compliments as they always do.

“There has yet to be a time i have no been impressed by your musical talent, i’m pretty sure haechan would agree”

“Haechan would only agree if you told him that he has the voice of angel”

You can’t help but laugh, though contradicting him slightly in which “but you better feature haechan in your first original, and i say your number one fan can’t help but agree”

Mark only laughs, hands clapping almost hitting his guitar before telling you he wants to show you some new music he’s found through “tiny desk” which has got to be the only youtube channel you think Mark knows if you don’t count Justin Birber’s or Bruno Mars’ music accounts.

The soft music plays in the background as you two talk about the week you’ve had, the world always seems to stop when you talk to each other. Zoom backgrounds change in order for the mood of the conversation. Where you had begun to discuss if Mark were to ever write an original song what it would be on and as a joke had given himself the bright yellow genius background.

The random lyrics to Honne’s Free Love in the background as mark presented them to you laughing after every sentence.

You’d stopped paying attention to the music, or the paper that was halfway done time marking almost one am, sole focus on the boy with brown hair and doe eyes in the pixelated screen of your beat up school laptop. It had been weeks since you two had called, and yet the moment the ring ring of the facetime call had been answered it was as if the world had just skipped over the last weeks that you hadn’t spoek as much. The world just waited to click play until you two would find yourselves with each other, laughing at dumb jokes or commentary at mark’s music as you helped each other with the english homework. Though homework mostly consisted of you writing and every couple of minutes reminding a distracted mark - who was riffing with his guitar, scales played up and down one chord to the next - to start his homework.

The last sentence to your paper finally ends as you click the period button on your keyboard. You are sure that the grade isn’t going to be the best, but you put it through grammarly so at least your periods and commas are placed in the correct places before you submit the document. When you look up at your screen the time reads 3AM and Mark is jotting down something you can’t read in his notebook. The doodles on the cover make you smile, from when you had gifted him the watermelon themed notebook for his birthday before entering senior year. His old one had been beaten down and you would often see him look for empty spaces every corner crammed with writing.

The question had popped up once, what was in the notebook he carried around everywhere but Mark had only turned red before changing the topic of conversation. He had told you once - though you are sure it was unconsciously - that his form of escape was writing and music. It took little for you to assume that he wrote his own songs in that notebook, that you wished you could hear. Attached by the USB he carried everywhere, a gift you’d gotten him for a birthday when you’d found out about his love for music. Maybe you’d thought that if he could have a place to store it he would be able to record it and share it with the rest of the world.

“What are you thinking about?” The soft voice interrupts your thoughts as your eyes focus on the screen. The light bouncing off his eyes, green hoodie making him look overwhelmingly soft. The pixelated mark on your screen, a smile on his face as he begins to strum his guitar again while looking down at the notebook has your stomach swarming. And all of a sudden you can’t think of anything else except how it would feel to hold Mark’s hand and kiss him just to make him giddy. The second the thought crosses your head you are avoiding it at all costs, shaking your head aggressively.

“Just how adorable you look and that i’m gonna have to hear that song you’re writing one day” you say the first part too quickly before you can stop yourself, and mark shrinks into himself and you can feel blood rush to your face.

“I-” there is stuttering on his side as he tries to compose himself, one hand covering his face as the other tries to hide the pages of his notebook.

“No song...um...i’m not writing anything,” Mark whispers, and your glad for you headphones that allow you to hear him say that so that you could let him know that it didn’t have to be now or even in a while but that you hoped one day you’d be able to listen to his music.

Mark knows his ears are red. Just like he knows that you can most definitely not read his journal that he cherished, because then you would find out how he felt about you. It was one thing he thought for you to hear him sing covers, his escape from the world and that he had slowly become more used to other people hearing him perform, but something completely different for the person the words written on the paper for to hear them.

Haechan had heard some of it, the lyrics had yet to be refined from a jumble of messy thoughts that streamed out of his consciousness anytime you would smile at him or remind him of something he liked and would bring it up. Haechan’s only feedback apart from that he had to be part of the vocal takes and a couple of jokes at mark’s inability to talk to you about his feelings was that he actually thought it was sweet.

It was the notes, one after the other that they could both hear in Mark's small apartment room that seemed to create a love sick melody. Haechan almost thinks it’s laughable if he didn’t feel bad that two love sick idiots weren’t able to confess to each other. A series of missed opportunities, where stolen glances were never seen by each other, and excuses to be closer were pushed off as acts of the friendship that had been blooming throughout years. The notes never quite reached the other and yet when they looked at each other and the notes were in sync the whole world knew of their song.

v. one song in a room full of notes

The room smells of cheap liquor and even cheaper perfume to try and mask the scent of the weed that had been smoked outside. It comes as a shock, the hiding and sneaking of alcohol that was most likely bought off from your school’s dealer Tony, a bottle of Japanese whiskey that Mark claims is not easy to come by. No one in the room has the heart to tell him that that’s the exact liquor that Tony sells to absolutely everyone, well Haechan does but you're able to stop him from saying anything when you tell him there’s a brownie buffet bar.

Maybe it’s because you’ve all just graduated, the room’s atmosphere is celebratory, everyone's had at least a couple of drinks, or the fact that in three weeks the chances you’ll all see each other again or so slim that if you do something today any repercussions might not last. It’s these thoughts that don’t stop your mind from wandering over to Mark who's sitting next you.

You’re a couple of drinks in, every point in your body that is touching mark arm to arm is alive. The music isn’t loud but the voices from your friends create a melody of their own as they tell stories of the past years. You wonder if maybe that’s why it feels like you and him are in your own bubble, chairs touching arms close together, fingertips only a breath from holding onto each other.

Maybe it’s the way you feel light and the world seems to end if you don’t let the boy next to you know how everytime you are near hear him your heart is in your throat, and you feel warm all over butterflies flapping their wings all around your body. Migrating from stomach to your heart to a constant beat of love. It’s seconds like these when your eyes meet and you can appreciate the way his hair curls at the back of his hair, and his eyes distant when watching the crowd in front of him turn to yours focusing. Lips tugging slightly upwards and he smells of the perfume used to cover the smell of alcohol that lingers in his breath only slightly when he speaks to you. Voice so low that you are leaning in slightly so that you share breath as you hear him ask you the single question that sends your heart into a paradiddle on on off on on off, faster and faster.

“Who do you think I wrote A Ring For No One for?” The question has you pulling back eyes searching across the room as your heart beats faster. You can feel the rush of blood in your ears, a dizzying effect, the single thought repeating over and over in your mind maybe it’s me. But you look around not realizing that Mark has kept his eyes on you and only you hoping you get the hint.

You want to ask if it’s you. Want to know if there was some way that he might have felt the same way you had since that day in your free period when the world had crumbled around you and he had been there, your favorite song playing through his precious headphones the same easy smile on his lips. When he’d offered you the headphone so that you would each be listening and you were able to calm down because though the world seemed to be spinning out of control, Mark had been there to keep you grounded.

Instead you say the name of a friend who’s standing a couple of feet in front of you as she talks to someone else. Mark’s eyes slightly shift to your friend before he says “no”. For every no you get you can feel your heart beat louder, hands get clammy as the possibility that the only person you haven’t said is you.

You’re close to giving up, as you look at Mark he eyes looking everywhere but you and he wishes you had just said your name from the first second because now he was doubting you ever felt the same. No longer did he have the liquid courage that had prompted him to ask you the question in the first place. All he had left was a bundle of nerves that made his hands hot and clammy, fingers tapping on his leg over and over again, and zero confidence. He’d promised himself that today was the day he’d tell you, but when you were done listing the names of everyone, as if you couldn’t possibly be the one he’d been in love with, your eyes were full of light.

The room felt too small, too warm.

You could feel the shortness of your breath, the way air wouldn’t fully reach your lungs catching at your lips. No sense of stillness, just pure chaos raging on in your mind, your body as your hands - always cold now blazing - until the boy in front of you opened his mouth.

In three short words, constituent of less than a couple seconds before the world turns cold. His mouth forms a name, it slips from his lips, voice slightly pitched as he talks about the girl from theater he met only a couple months ago.

You wish you’d taken a hit of the joint. Wish you’d had a bit more of the sweet liquid that would burn down the back of your throat, maybe burning away the sickly feeling you felt. Replace it with liquor and fake sweetness from the overly sugary cocktails instead of the acid building up in the back of your throat.

One word, a name. Not yours on his lips that you’d tried one too many times to not think about. Eyes dazed, bright with the alcohol that still burned in his system when he looked at you that if you’d had more liquid you could have fooled yourself to believe that the admiration in his eyes was meant for you not the girl behind you who was fixated on what her friend was saying.

The world revolves around notes, you’d believed that if you were patient enough those notes would arrange themselves for you. Black and white keys playing a melody that only you and him would understand, crescendoing into confessions under cold nights, hands held together.

Not every song is a hit, because not all notes work together, cohesively to create a melody for your ears. This time the notes reach crescendo, as the burn at the back of your eyes threaten to yell, scream burst at their sockets. These notes don’t align, they don’t reach their conclusion, they rip your heart out with quick breaths, warm hands that wrap around yours in the middle of the night as you drag the other part of the melody across the city at night.

vi. one too many times to say goodbye

The breath in front of you curls around the night, wrapping itself around the sole lamppost that hasn’t flickered out in the street. A boy with brown hair stands in front of you, usb in hand the yellow neon post it wrapped around the stick and you can make out a couple of the letters.

The ring in your finger spins around and around your finger. Breath soft, almost not visible except for the way that it makes you squint your eyes slightly to catch onto the face of the boy you loved, love in front of you.

Two notes. Two opposing melodies on a cycle of crescendos and diminuendos never reach each other, only just half a beat, a quarter of a beat away from each other. Catching up, slowing down until the world moved by, continued to create new beats and rhythms around you for years until moment.

You can hear the constant click click as the boy in front of you opens and closes the stick in his hand, eyes looking everywhere except at you, the melody he keeps missing, the one note he can’t seem to figure out and doesn’t think he ever will.

It's almost as if for the first time since you two have met, the world is able to syncopate itself to your own rhythms, an eight note of a pause as you both take a shivering breath and breathe the cold air of the New York night catching up to you both.

A hand reaches out, always so warm against yours, the metal of the hard drive cold against your palm, and he mumbles words you’ve heard before. You’ve heard the word before, coming from haechans lips almost everyday since you graduated, the word from partners you’ve had each saying the word with different connotations. But this time you hear the word fall from his lips, as if he’s holding on to it.

A musician through and through, trying to convey a history of feelings and memories with just the melody that he says your name. But you whisper his name too, as paper crumbles slightly in your hand, eyes flickering slightly to the post it note, and you can mostly make out the words before his hand covers yours with a small shake of his head, a small smile grazing his features. Not now, it tells you, later it urges you.

The issue with later is that it is never specific, later was what you’d told yourself over and over when he broke your heart. Later was when you reminded yourself to not cry out against the world when you’d realized you’d fallen in love with your best friend but your world would never align. Later is what remains, when later becomes years down the line and you play back the usb. The engravings on the side bring a flash of memories, two kids in love sprawled on rocks as they talked about the way their hearts would only feel alive when next to each other. Later quickly becomes now, and the almost faded note on the post it note mark gave you years ago, the pizza song I never gave you but wished to show you only visible if you stretch your imagination and trace the dents on the faded sticky note, the tiny journal drawing you’d seen him carry around endless times a brown spot of the page.

Your notes, chords on chords, melodies on beats and rhythms creating layers to the soundtrack of your life, are played out by the usb drive as the rhythms that finally sync up with your own play in the background. One song, one melody you become but not in time, never at the correct time. Because music never has one right time, it has halves, and fourths, it has eights and sixteenths but never wholes. Wholes that you learn to create with time, creating your own melody a syncopation to your own beat and heart.

#mark imagine #nct scenarios #mark x reader #mark lee #nct 127 #nct dream #nct dream mark #nct imagines #nct scenerios #mark lee angst #mark lee fluff #dreamwritersnet

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mrkcore · 3 years

Text

“how much longer are you going to make me wait?” tears are streaming down your face as you raise your voice. renjun’s paint brush stops, and so does he.

“you said soon, that was a year ago!” tears are flooding your eyes once again. “you’re not communicating with me, we don’t spend time together anymore, hell, we’re barely even talking. all you’re doing all day is sitting in this damn studio and painting.”

“i’ve had an artist block, darling, i-”

“you’ve had this block for god knows how long, what happened to you?”

renjun can’t turn around. he wants to, he really does, but he can’t.

he knows he’s been in this slump for too long. his agent has been calling nonstop, he’s missed dozens of deadlines, and he’s missed plenty more art shows to get his works displayed.

“i don’t know.” renjun croaks, head hanging.

“are you kidding me?” you hissed. from the tone of your voice, renjun can tell you’re angry. “what kind of shit answer is that? don’t you think i deserve a fair answer?”

“i’m sorry, i know. y/n, i really am trying. please believe me.”

“what if it’s just not working anymore?” renjun’s heart sinks and he whips his head around.

“what is that supposed to mean?” he glowers.

you didn’t mean to blurt it out.

“you, painting, what if it’s over? have you ever thought about maybe that’s why?” your tone seems articulated, but you’re shaking and you know that renjun knows too.

“so what you’re suggesting is that i was like some sort of one shot wonder?” he argued furiously.

“maybe your creative juices ran out. your time is up.”

you’re bluffing.

you know what renjun is capable of, his beautiful paintings, strokes delicately caressed the canvas, depicting vast emotions and things you’d never think of.

but you’re just so pent up, you can’t stop.

“never thought the person who was behind me, the one who always supported me, could ever say this to me.” he scowls. you want to take everything back, but your brain and lips don’t coordinate.

“that was before you made me wait a year until you were ‘financially stable’ enough for us.” you reminded him. “now when is that?”

that struck a nerve.

“i-, i don’t know.” renjun stutters out, seemingly demoralized by your reminder.

“renjun, how can you say that, and think that this is all fair to me? i’ve been waiting for you for so long, and you’re holding me back from so many things and opportunities. so if this is how this conversation is going to go, there’s no use in me being here anymore.” you say, making renjun freeze.

what is that supposed to mean?

“i’m putting the ring on the table and i’m going to walk out the front door.”

no no no no.

“if you follow me out, it means that we’re going to continue on, like we were before,” you start. renjun’s emotions are all over the place. “however, you’re going to get an actual job, and our wedding will go as planned in august.”

you should stop.

this isn’t what you wanted either, but why does your mouth have a mind of its own?

“if you don’t follow me out, that means you chose painting. and i’ll be going, living my own life, and we won’t meet again.”

and you walk out.

hoping that renjun will follow you out, putting the ring back on your finger. the finger that feels extremely empty.

but while walking towards your own apartment, you don’t look back.

until you reach the front of the museum that renjun had his first painting displayed at. oh how you remember the excitement you had, and the joy on his face while walking around the exhibit, admiring the other artists’ creations.

you waited for a few minutes, thinking maybe renjun was just slow, and will come soon.

but he never did.

the realization that hits you feels cold.

you never meant to blow up at renjun like that, but it happened. and you don’t think you can go back to him after hurting him so much. so that’s what you did. you left.

2 Y E A R S L A T E R

another tinder man, another tinder date.

it took you a while to move on from renjun. as expected, since the two of your dated for 6 years. you didn’t look him up, you didn’t stalk him, because you knew that you needed to move on.

the first year and a half was agony, but you couldn’t tell anyone that.

you felt incomplete when you woke up. the warmth that he provided, never showed up again.

but you still had a life, you needed to move on.

your work life is going pretty smoothly, but the same can’t be said for your love life.

so you’ve resorted to tinder.

you’ve had many failed dates, many failed talking stages, you get the gist. but after months of talking to dejun, you think you’ve hit it off. (and yes, it really was a coincidence, you swear)

planning the date, he said it was going to be a surprise, so this was like the make or break for you. if he takes you to a sketchy bar, you’re going to break it off (known from past experience), but anything that is similar to what a normal date is, you really think it’s going to work out.

“surprise!” dejun says, handing you tickets to what seems like an art exhibit when you two walk into the museum nearby. “i saw a few of huang renjun’s early paintings on your walls. i’m a fan too, and it was so nice seeing someone appreciate his older works. coincidence that he was doing an exhibit this weekend, so i snatched some tickets.” he smiles.

you try to smile back, but you’re speechless, you feel numb and you can’t move your limbs anymore.

he notices the change in your mood and is immediately worried.

“are you feeling alright? oh maybe it’s the exhibit, we don’t have to go if you don’t want to, i totally get it if you don’t, sorry if i pushed this onto you.” he tries to reassure you.

“oh, haha, no it’s fine, i was just surprised! yeah i’m a big fan of renjun too so that’s why i was so shocked.” you tried to brush it off, and hopefully your act is convincing enough to get through the showing.

“okay great! it seems like renjun is here today to present his latest collection since he’s giving it to the gallery.” dejun exclaimed, obviously very excited.

but your stomach drops.

renjun is going to be here today?

there’s a lot of people here today, maybe he won’t see you in the crowd.

just your luck.

for your birthdays, anniversaries, pretty much everything worth celebrating over, renjun painted you a canvas of what he was working on recently. they were the start to final products, and you took pride in having the creative process, and kept them all. you never took down those mockups of renjun’s paintings because they felt so homely, and you had forgotten about them. it was a wonder that dejun didn’t notice how they were slightly different from the final products.

but your thoughts are interrupted as you’re escorted into a room with a stage and chairs.

you and dejun get seated as all of the other chairs get filled.

the atmosphere goes quiet suddenly, and you look up to see renjun, and a girl on his arm, walking into the room.

a familiar cold fills the room.

you zone out during his thank you speech, as he thanks his agent, his mother, his new fiance, and the museum. but you don’t want to hear it.

“and i’d like to thank a special someone, who will not be named, who helped me start this collection.” you look up, and renjun is staring right at you.

“they helped me get out of a nasty painting block, and provided me with so much more inspiration and growth. so thank you.” he finishes with a smile, all while still looking at you.

everything blurs to the showing of his pieces in the collection.

and for some reason, it feels familiar.

the yellows on the canvas danced freely in the first work, it looked so beautiful and comfortable; but when you got to the second one, blues and blacks and reds intruded the painting, and you felt yourself getting teared up.

maybe because you’ve known renjun for so long and seen his paintings so much, that you understand what the painting meant, and it will probably haunt you for the rest of your life.

but while moving onto the next few paintings, the blues and blacks and reds slowly faded, and a new colour abruptly pops up and the yellow disappears.

pink.

this is the first time you’ve seen renjun work with pink, and that must be something since you’ve known him since high school art class.

and you understand.

you follow dejun around to see the works closer, and you try to sink everything in, without getting visibly emotional. that would be something hard to get yourself out of.

you can’t hold yourself back from glancing at renjun, and his fiance.

she smiles happily as renjun shakes the hand of the museum director.

you’re not sure if renjun was actually looking at you while he said his speech, or even recognized you at all in the crowd, but it was impossible to not be selfish.

the progression of his works, discretely telling you that he’s moved on and that you should too.

but you can’t help but think, that should have been you, standing next to him happily wrapped around his finger as he talks about his paintings.

it would have all happened, if only you had waited.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: huang renjun x f!reader

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: artist!renjun

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: angst

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬): one swear word

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k (wow :0)

𝐚/𝐧: out of my own artist slump, i missed writing angst, i feel a bit musty. hope u enjoyed :)

i’d really like some feedback so feel free to reblog or comment anything about this one :D

send in an ask or comment here to be added to the oneshots taglist!

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neoskidz · 3 years

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22. — HAECHAN

a/n: angst | ex-best friend | <0.5k words

“Well, you know what? I’m not going to date an annoying girl like you if that what you hope from ruining everything!” You can’t help but flinches at Haechan as snapped at you.

He didn’t care anymore the whatever reason you had, he had enough of your antic. You always ruined the moments he had with other girls, following him 24/7 like you’re his girlfriend or something—which is not, and the stunt you pulled this morning was enough to snap all patient he had for you.

“Did you mean it when you said to leave you alone?”

Haechan halted, feeling a chill run down his spine. He just stayed at his place without saying anything. The lack of cheery in your tone made his chest tighten.

“Did you really mean it when you said you were never going to date me, ‘the annoying girl’? Though I never thought of it.” You muttered the last words. Your lips were pulled downward in a frown, not the usual warm smile you usually had on your face.

“I… I…” Haechan wanted to convey to you that no, he didn’t mean anything he said like that. He mentally punched his own head for not minding his own word before blindly shouted to you. It always at the time like this, always at times when things got serious and he had to ruin it by stuttering.

He was really angry right now. Not to you, but himself.

“I must be really annoying, huh. Never know when to stop or able to read the situation.” You had never sounded so broken than you did now.

How shocked he was when he turned to saw you, eyes red and teary as you trying to not looked him in the eyes. All the other times, you laughed loudly in his face, joking that you’re not sorry for what you did to him or even tease him. However never, never had he seen you this sad.

He replied you with an apology in his head, but upfront, his lips were zipped. He couldn’t say anything except a mutter of your name.

You let out a hollow chuckle, “I hope your happy with what you’re hoping for.”

Ever since that noon, Haechan rarely saw you. You only smiled at him and walked past him.

There was no warm smile, no teasing, no your cheery voice, no more usual you. It was like you two were never friends, like you had given up on whatever it was between you two. You really didn’t want to act pathetic like this, but enough is enough.

Nothing could fix the your relationship anymore.

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chu-ni · 2 years

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[00:27]

a/n: WOW ive been gone for a hot min ㅠㅠ sorry guys university is just very crazy and im going to korea this september so ive been working my ass off which means i haven't had to time to sit down and write!! but im here now after a burst of inspiration at 11pm.... this aint proofread but i hope you like it <33

wc: 506

warnings: like. one mention of s*x but none is actually involved pls its just very hot n heavy but all they do is kith

the study is a serious room for serious business, haechan's father says.

haechan thinks having this rendezvous with you, the daughter of his father's mortal enemy, in his study, is quite serious business indeed.

“my lady,” haechan breathes, words dripping with want, “you are quite inconsiderate.”

his lips are a hair's breadth from yours. you know that in this moment, if you simply leaned a little closer, you could end the constant yearning between you.

“i think,” you reply, just as silent and softly as him, “you are quite greedy.” you lean away from him, just barely hearing his slight whine of disappointment.

you take his hand, play with his fingers. he lets you. eagerly anticipating your next move. “what you need,” you begin, tracing your hand up his sleeve, “is to learn,” you sit him down at the desk, stand up, walk behind him, and grasp his shoulders, massaging them slightly, “some patience.” you whisper in his ear, while your hands move to his neck.

haechan takes a deep breath, waiting. for what, he doesn't know.

careful to avoid his windpipe, your hands squeeze.

he makes an obscene noise, loud and wanton - for a second, before he regains himself.

you bite his earlobe. lightly, of course.

he shudders.

you coax him up again, eyes locked onto his like a predator and its willing prey.

this time, you curl your fingers in his hair, bring him in close. you expect him to complain again, but he remains silent. only the dilation of his eyes, visible in the firelight, and the glisten of his freshly licked lips against the firelight betray his desire. you stare at his lips for an achingly long time, bringing yours ever, painstakingly, closer. you brush your lips against his, and haechan's breath hitches. you move away, and he whines once more.

“must you tease me so?” he says, almost spent.

“no.” you reply, coy. “but it's fun,” you add, and draw him in for a real kiss this time. he almost melts in your arms, but you clutch his hair ever tighter, and he wakes up enough to inject his fervor into your veins. he leads you back towards the desk, prompting you to sit on it, and as he stands between your legs and grinds into you, haechan thinks it'd be so nice, so easy, if you so desired - so easy for him to just push aside your skirts and have his way with you.

pulling away for air is like hell on earth, and as he comes back for more, his own hands, once caressing your face, now steadily traveling south - a knock sounds on the door. you reluctantly pull apart, a string of saliva still connecting the two of you, and hurry to hide.

as you listen to haechan try and explain away the person at the door, you think to yourself on how this really was supposed to be a serious meeting. you also don't think you can find it in yourself to really care that it wasn't, though.

#dreamwritersnet #neowritingsnet #nctwriters #lee haechan x reader #haechan x you #haechan x reader #haechan x y/n #haechan blurbs #lee donghyuck x reader #lee donghyuck imagines #lee donghyuck scenarios #haechan scenarios #donghyuck imagines #nct donghyuck #haechan smut

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ispent5hrscreatingavalidblogname · 2 years

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"you're an idiot,no you are the idiot,no an idiot who reside in a so called idiot is infact the idiot,no an idiot who harbors an idiot inside him is the real idiot,well you're basically an idiot cause an idiot who thinks he's an idiot is definitely an idiot,nah buh an idiot who is an idiot but think he isn't is even more of an idiot".

So the main plot of this story I've gotten for now is set in the 1800s,Virginia-this lowly creature who suddenly finds itself in a world he knows nothing of-earth(no this isn't another space or alien story don't jump to conclusions yet!) the worst part about this is it remembers nothing about itself or where its from what it only has with him are the underlying emergency for him to complete a mission a mission given to him by the devil himself,the creature starts jumping from body to body taking possession of them,each time using his victims spiritual energy to fuel itself making itself more stronger,he leaves a trail of bodies in his wake building himself for what is to come what he has to do but his mission suddenly comes to a hold when he jumps into the wrong body,16 year old Finn Turner who proves to be slippery if not someworth too annoying is able to convince the creature to not kill him for the time being, working in the creatures personal interest the creature agrees and so they set off making all kinds of troubles for other people and for themselves,things takes an unexpected twist when the creature becomes quite attached to Finn and decides to continue his mission without killing him much to Finn's delight,only one problem though arises,well apart from the fact that they soon have a fleet of powerful and really pissed off demons on their tails ready to put them both out of their misery as consequences for deserting a highly sanctioned mission- it was the innevitability that this creature once in possession of a body cannot leave without harming it's host-that is without leaving it too dead to be useful.With this a train of events are set in motion which leads to them seeking help from a very seemingly incapable sorcerer ,a confrontation with satan himself and with this creature discovering not what but who he really is.

#dreamwritersnet #i am excite #excited #fiction #Plotread #supernatural fic #future fic #future diary #may 4th #may 4th 2022 #Virginia #Historic #historical fiction #Tumbrl fiction #my writing

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alicanta77 · 2 years

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[3:19am] - tw: blood, death, car accident

Jaemin was still sitting at the kitchen table, he hadn’t moved since he’d left the hospital. For the past four hours he’d sat there, staring at his hands. His gaze had never faltered, staying focused on the shaking hands in front of him, unable to get the picture out of his mind.

The entire world had faded into a blur around him and he wasn’t aware of anything. Jaemin wouldn’t have been able to tell you where he was, how old he was, how he was feeling, what he was doing, or if he was alone. In fact, if you had asked Jaemin anything, he wouldn’t have registered that there was another person around him.

Jeno was leaning against the doorway, watching his friend torture himself with these thoughts. He bit his lip, wanting nothing more than to be able to go up and talk to Jaemin, but having no idea where to begin. Jeno didn’t want to cry, he’d cried enough that night. He’d cried so much he though he was going to bleed to death because of the pain of it.

But Jaemin hadn’t cried yet.

Jeno slowly approached him from behind, placing a hand on Jaemin’s shoulder and squeezing. Jaemin showed no response, looking almost catatonic. Jeno grabbed him a bit harder, trying to make him see that he was there. It took Jeno shaking Jaemin for the broken boy to turn his gaze towards Jeno.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak, before shutting it again.

Jeno said nothing, and just looked on at Jaemin, waiting for him to try again.

And he did. And this time, Jaemin spoke. His voice was raspy, as if it hadn’t been used in a while, and it shook, threatening to break and give out on him completely. But what killed Jeno the most, was how he could feel the pure heartbreak through Jaemin’s words.

“I get it now... how people lose their minds by the image of blood on their hands. I understand why Lady Macbeth ran around the castle screaming until she eventually threw herself off it. And I wonder how she lasted so long? I finally get how the sight of blood drives you to insanity. Because I’m sitting here, staring at my hands, and no matter how many times I wash them, I can’t stop seeing her on them.”

Jeno didn’t reply. He didn’t know how to. There was nothing he could say. This pain is brutal. And the most wrecked part is, there is no metaphor to make it fancy or decorative.

They had left Renjun at the hospital. He and Mark had stayed to watch over you while Jeno tried to force Jaemin home to eat, shower and change clothes. Renjun and Mark looked into your room, seeing the machines keeping you alive.

One person. That was all it took to put you in here. One person, driving one car, had forced you to be in this position, fighting for your life in a hospital bed.

The sound of erratic beeping set Renjun’s nerves alight. His heart started racing and he tried to run towards your room. He was blocked by the three new doctor entering and the nurses that pushed him back, saying something about how he couldn’t be in there right now.

Mark grabbed Renjun by the shoulders, the two boys holding onto each other for dear life, praying that yours wouldn’t slip away from you. Renjun didn’t know when he started crying, but before he knew it he was shaking and if he didn’t have Mark to hold onto he would be a crumpled heap on the floor.

They watched as the doctor pressed on your chest, trying to bring you back. They pushed air into your lungs and shouted at you to wake up... but it was no use.

Memories flashed through Jaemin’s head. He remembered the first time he told you he loved you. He’d got fully dressed up and brought some flowers with him to your house, wanting to make the best impression, only to get caught in the rain and look like a drowned rat. You’d laughed at the sight of him and pushed him straight into the shower, placing the damaged flowers into a vase anyway. It wasn’t until later that night, when you were both lying on his sofa curled up together, that he finally said it. He whispered it and watched as your face broke out into the biggest smile he had ever seen. And he always loved seeing that same look in your eyes whenever he told you those same three words.

He loved how you would sit on the kitchen counter next to him, wanting to keep him company when he cooked. He laughed every time you used your legs to wrap around his waist and pull him in when you wanted a kiss. Jaemin loved how you always smiled when you found him again in the supermarket after getting lost. He loved how you made a point of showing off things he got you to your friends, loving them because they were from him. He loved how you would run your fingers through his hair after a long day, promising him that you would always be there when he needed you.

Jaemin brought his hands up to his head, rubbing them hard across his face before gripping his hair tightly, feeling the scream that had been building up inside him grow through his throat.

Miles away from him, Renjun and Mark watched helplessly as the heartbeat monitor holding you alive slowly descended into a flatline.

And at that exact moment, as if he felt his love leaving him forever, Jaemin broke.

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neoculturetravesty · 3 years

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take the damn hint

Image adapted from here.

Pairing: Jeno x Reader Genre: smut, pwp, literally just porn without plot, a little fluff Warnings: 18+, female masturbation, use of vibrator, nudes, unprotected sex, oral (male receiving), daddy kink Word Count: 2.5k

Summary: You are horny out of your fucking mind and your boyfriend just. Won’t. Take. The. Damn. Hint.

A/N: Literally just filth. No story whatsoever.

To put it politely, you were needy today. Nothing in this world was getting you to focus and of all days, today had to be the day your boyfriend decided to be a good student.

‘Hey babe, when does your class end?’ you texted.

‘In 10 min, then I’m headed over to Jaemin’s for the group project,’ he replied.

‘Meet me by the benches for a little 🥺’ you hinted.

'Babe, I can’t. I’ll see you tonight 😘’ he texted back frustratingly so you gave it up for a bit and decided to go about your day like a normal college student. You were a functioning member of society who could put a leash on her libido, no problem.

But as the day went on, the heat between your legs became difficult to ignore. You knew it was wrong to sit on the very edge of your chair in the lecture hall and expect it to provide some friction. You knew you sounded desperate when you texted Jeno in the middle of class yet again,

‘I miss you 😞💦’ just so he would take the damn hint but got an extremely frustrating,

‘Aww miss my baby, too. Can’t wait to see you when i get home xx’

You knew it was getting bad when you slid forward on your chair so the inseam of your jeans would push against your pussy. But when you began to grind against your own damn jeans right there in the lecture hall? That might have been what finally flipped the switch. You found yourself gripping the edge of the table so hard that your knuckles were strained, and now there was nothing else left to do. So you shot up and rushed to the bathroom. Because at this point, you were way too fucking horny for any sort of subtly.

You looked about to make sure no one was around, unbuttoned your shirt just enough so you could pop a tit out from above your bra, took a selfie in the mirror and sent it to your wonderfully unassuming boyfriend,

‘Headed home. Come fuck me or i’ll just have to go to town with my vibrator.’

You hit send, buttoned yourself up and rushed out the door with the urgency of someone about to miss the train. You had barely made it to the apartment you shared with Jeno before your clothes were off and you were laid over your sheets, vibrator in hand.

Fuck, it felt so good. You had the self control of a harlot today, but you didn’t care. Fuck, this was nice. The sheets were smooth and cool and the vibrator buzzed against your clit deliciously and made you properly wet, just the way you wanted to be. It wasn’t a good enough replacement for your boyfriend’s cock or tongue, but beggars can’t be choosers. So you laid back and grinded into the sheets while the toy gave you what the chair in the lecture hall or your own damn jeans did not. So what if you were missing class? The heat in your pussy was far more important than any sort of education you were going to get today.

You rolled your nipples between your thumb and index and knew you were horny out of your fucking mind when your hips lifted off the bed and air humped your vibrator. You wanted to be fucked. You needed a cock inside of your fucking pussy. Fuck, why hadn’t you bought the dildo when you had the chance? You had stupidly thought that you didn’t need one because you had a fucking boyfriend that could take care of that need. Fat load of good that did you, no pun intended.

Honestly speaking, you were horny enough that your eyes were darting all over your room for any cock shaped object, and at this point, your mind wasn’t above wondering if there were any cucumbers left over in the fridge because Jeno had bought some a couple of days ago to make a salad. Fuck, why wasn’t your stupid boyfriend here yet? Maybe the selfie hadn’t been enough motivation. Maybe you should make a video of yourself like this and moan his fucking name out and maybe that would make him start thinking with his cock rather than his brain like he’d been doing all day. Literally, what college boy in this damn world would turn down an extremely willing girlfriend that had sent him a nude, begging him to fuck her? He had to be some sort of a saint.

But before your mind could go to even pervier extremes, you heard the almost relieving sound of the door being unlocked. So what was a horny girl to do? You decided to give your boyfriend a show he would never be able to turn down. You shot up to grab what you wanted from his closet before you laid yourself down once again. You arched your back and spread your legs and pointed your dripping pussy towards the door so this would be the first thing he sees when he came in and you moaned out like all the porn girls you knew he watched. You grinded on the sheets sensually and you pumped a few fingers in to make sure your pussy dripped down as obscenely as you wanted it to.

And when Jeno walked in, he saw his girlfriend, laid out in nothing but one of his button down shirts, pleasuring herself with a toy. And despite his right mind, the sights and the sounds were going straight to his cock.

“Baby…” he gasped as he took you in and it pleased you immensely to see the bump already forming in his pants.

“Fuck me, baby, please…” you moaned as you stuck your chest out for him even more, willing to be as raunchy as it would take, “I’ve been waiting for your cock all day…”

“Babe, it’s literally… you had class right now…” his eyes were wide and his mouth ajar, even if his cock was getting stiffer. Because watching you touch yourself wearing nothing but his own damn shirt like a robe was a vision straight from his wanktasies.

“Yeah, but I kept thinking about you bending me over and fucking me so good, baby. I couldn’t concentrate on anything but that,” you moaned in your lie, because truth be told, it technically wasn’t the thought of your boyfriend in particular that had you air humping anything to give you relief all day. You were just a hornball that needed to get off.

“Baby…” Jeno whispered and hovered over you to kiss you because he couldn’t take it. A beautiful girl was laid out on his bed, masturbating and high strung and despite what you had thought, he was no saint. Also because this wonderfully needy girl, pussy dripping all over his sheets just so happened to be his girlfriend. So he climbed over you and kissed you and you kissed him back so hungrily that for a while, the toy buzzed between the two of you, forgotten, while you took his face in your hands. You kissed him like a woman depraved and you weren’t completely unaware of how sloppy you sounded in the moment. In the condition you were in, the mad sounds of your tongue in his mouth were only turning you on more, so you made the kiss even dirtier.

“I’m gonna need your cock inside me, baby. I promise I’ll suck you good later,” you gripped at his shirt and lifted it over his head and he nodded and you thanked the heavens above that your man finally understood that your need was urgent and you’d been so fucking horny all morning and you’d been playing with yourself so long that you could give piss all about foreplay. You needed him to stop being a fucking gentleman, because fuck, you just wanted to be dicked down, and you were pretty sure that wasn’t a lot to ask.

Finally, you felt the air shift and saw your boyfriend’s eyes darken and almost screamed for joy, because fucking finally, he was growing some balls and taking control like you’d been subliminally begging him to do all morning. He used the strength in his arms to flip you over and you squealed out and earned a strong hit to your ass that made you moan and grin from ear to ear.

“Mmm Daddy…” you moaned high pitched to egg him on. You’d seen the kind of porn this boy was into. He wasn’t that slick. And you had no problem playing his fantasy in this moment, not if it meant that it would get him to fuck you like you’d been dying to be fucked all morning.

“My baby just wants to be taken like a slut, hmm?” he talked in a strained voice as you heard him unbuckle his pants behind you. He grabbed a fistful of your hip with one hand and pushed his bare cock against your needy, dripping hole with the other. He moaned thickly when he sank in full to the hilt; then his hands found their anchor on your tits and then finally, he began fucking into you. You screamed out because fuck yes, you finally got him where you wanted him. He wasn’t being sweet or considerate or careful and just moving like he wanted to fuck your brains out and that is what you had wanted all fucking day from your sweet, loving boyfriend. You didn’t want any trace of the sweet today. You played the raunchy slut with your words and voice so he would take the hint and fuck you like one.

“Ahhh, yes, yes, yes, Daddy, YES!” you moaned like a slut, not holding back anything you were feeling. Jeno was used to your wild phases in bed, even if your neighbors were not, but you didn’t give a flying fuck, not today. Today, you just wanted to be railed till you saw stars and your pussy was sore and happy.

“Fuck, my baby’s been waiting for me to come fuck her, huh? My baby wanted to be fucked so good by my cock?” Your demeanor was giving Jeno increasingly more confidence. Just as you had known it would. So you played into his fantasy even more to give him more motivation and moaned in voices you knew would drive him crazy. You trained him into taking control with your horny sounds and your needy movements and by playing his goddamn fantasy, and if you would go to hell for it, so be it, because the pleasure in your pussy was worth any consequence you’d face. Jeno clutched your tits and pulled you back so you’d be pressed against his chest and his cock would fill you up more completely.

“Yes, Daddy, I wanted your big cock to slam into my tight pussy!” you gripped onto the headboard as he fucked you faster and now, you didn’t have to play anything up. Now he was really fucking you hard and fast, exactly how you wanted, so your mind was blank and all you felt was this crazy horny desire that you had created.

“Does my baby want me to rub her clit?” Jeno kissed your cheek and your neck repeatedly.

“Yes, Daddy, please!” you turned your head to kiss his lips and Jeno brought his fingers to your clit and rubbed you and you lost any shred of right mindedness you may have been holding onto. The pleasure was so fucking decadent that you nearly let go of your body so Jeno put an arm around your neck and pulled you in so were sitting back on his thighs with his cock filling you up and his fingers strumming you so good that you all but screamed out. Jeno knew that you could be a screamer. Jeno would usually lose his damn mind any time you let go of everything and moaned and screamed for him this way.

So he rubbed you raw and used his strong arms to keep you in place on his cock. “Bounce for me, baby,” he growled in your ear and you complied, while he rubbed and rubbed till you were screaming his name out and coming all over his cock and quivering in his hold. You’re been holding out for so long and Jeno had used his cock on you so good that you came hard. The orgasm lasted so long that you felt your vision blur to white before it came back. Jeno held you down then and fucked you hard and fast till he came as well and you both laid on the bed side by side, panting and staring up at the ceiling, almost as if in shock at what the two of you had done.

You grinned wide then and rolled over so you could kiss your poor boyfriend’s lips while he laid there, spent.

“You’re not going to any class today,” you announced as you hobbled off to clean yourself up and laughed as you heard him groan behind you.

The two of you had always been an odd couple. Jeno had always been the sickeningly sweet boyfriend. He was the kind to bring you flowers, give you random back hugs and sleepily make life changing confessions at night on his pillow. In contrast, your love had always been more physical and a little bit more wild. But somehow, it all made sense.

So you pulled your boyfriend by the hand and took him to the living room couch because you knew he had needs as well. You put on a show he liked in the background and cuddled into him and you let him kiss you slow. Because Jeno needed the sweet, wholesome warmth of romance just as much as you needed the carnal, crazed fire of instinct.

“You know I love you, right?” he crooned into your neck as he held you. You smiled. This boy always needed to give you the reassurance that his heart was true even after his cock had been satisfied. Maybe he needed that reassurance, too, and you needed to step your game up, because he sure had for your sake.

“Mhmm. And I love you, too. I’m all yours,” you kissed the tip of his nose and let him hold you and kiss you for a while. Because as soon as you felt his focus shift from his cuddles to the TV, you took your chance once again and kissed down his chest till you were on your knees between his legs. You sucked him sloppy till he was a moaning, groaning mess and the debt from earlier had been paid. And then the two of you fucked all day. There would be other times when you could be responsible, well-adjusted college students. When you would attend your classes and go to your study groups and be on top of your assignments. But today was not going to be that day. Today you were going to fuck all day, all responsibilities and life and realities be damned.

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navyhyuck · 3 years

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𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄.

↳ when your high school’s programming club launches a new application, it sends up roars in the teenage population. at first, it’s used as a gag gift, and jisung receives handfuls from friends and teammates alike. but the only one that has his mind running in circles is the sudden ping of a true confession of love.

pairing | soccer player!jisung x field hockey player!reader (female)

genre | humor, angst, fluff, mystery, rivals/enemies to lovers!au, high school!au

warnings | swearing, sexual humor, to be added!

status | discontinued :’(

00 | 00.5 | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10

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byunbaekby · 3 years

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title — the things i know pairing — soccerplayer!jisung x female reader genres — angst, fluff, high school au, strangers to lovers au, first love au, long distance relationship, hurt and comfort, coming of age overall warnings — underage drinking, cancer, character death, language, mentions of hickeys, fainting, mentions and descriptions of hospitals, soccer inaccuracies, lots of angst (you’ve been warned!) word count — 14.8k summary — jisung has never been keen on growing up, or even understanding what adulting means. at seventeen, all he knows is: he loves soccer (and he’s damn gifted at it), and girls are very pretty but also plenty scary. then he met you, his first love who turned his life upside down and made his stomach roll like the soccer balls he loved to kick around the field. but when your cancer comes back after years in remission, jisung thinks, he doesn’t really want to grow up anymore. playlist — falling, harry styles ; your guardian angel, red jumpsuit apparatus ; my first and last, nct dream ; bye my first, nct dream ; orchid, jeremy zucker

additional — for the heartbreak hotel collab hosted by @nct-writers. my concept in the five stages of grief was “acceptance and hope.” thank you to my babes @suh-insane and @astroboy-lele for proof-reading!

The thing about knowledge is that you never know when or what you’re going to learn. There’s no way for you to predict what will be of your mind when you fall into bed that night, surrendering to the moon. In the morning, there’s no telling what knowledge your brain will choose to store away for remembrance over the course of the night, and what your brain will decide is unnecessary. What you decide not to remember is a memory you can’t even miss.

When you wake up every morning, you don’t know if you’ll go to bed having met someone who will change your life forever.

At seventeen, there are two things that Park Jisung knows. One, he loves playing soccer (and he’s damn good at it, the way his long legs carry him across the field in what seems to onlookers like seconds). Two, girls are very pretty but plenty scary as well.

The day starts out normally, like any other away game that the team plays.

He wakes up at six o’clock on the dot, and eats a large breakfast to hold him over for the game, then packs a few granola bars into his soccer bag and lets his sister know he’s leaving before he jogs the way to the park where the bus is waiting for his team. The ride is normally an hour long, so he either tucks his earbuds into his ears and tries to get in a short nap or he converses with his teammates.

Today though, the bus ride is three hours long. Crossing his hoodie-clad arms across his chest to act against the cold air of the bus, he focuses his gaze outside and watches as the town goes by.

“Yo, Jisung, check this out!”

At the sound of his name he turns his head, blinking when he sees a number of his teammates in the surrounding area nudging him closer. A few of them are leaning in towards a particular teammate, who displays a proud expression. “What’s up,” asks Jisung as he too leans forward toward his team member, curiosity slightly piqued.

Jaemin, the teammate in question, tugs the collar of his jersey down to reveal his skin. On the milky white curve of Jaemin’s collarbone, he sports a dark purple bruise, surrounded by a perimeter of yellow where the skin seems to be healing. There’s no question as to where that mark came from, and it definitely wasn’t from soccer.

“Ew, man, that looks sick!” comes from Donghyuck, along with a few comments from others, either approving or disturbed.

“Where’d that come from?”

Renjun slaps Mark on the chest, eyebrows furrowed at him. “Obviously, it was from Anne! Didn’t you see the way they were all over each other at last week’s game?” Jaemin grins, eyes going lovesick at the thought of his girlfriend.

Jisung’s expression contorts into one of disgust. “That’s disgusting, man,” he comments, nose still scrunched in distaste as he leans back into his original spot on the bus seat. Another thing he’ll never understand is why people are so desperate to grow up, as if giving hickeys and sneaking vodka into their Hydro flasks makes them somehow more adult.

He slips his earbuds into his ears, playing some light muzak to lull him to sleep with his head leaned rather uncomfortably against the cold window.

Jisung doesn’t think that he’s exceptionally smart; he’s gotten passing to above average grades his entire life. He’s not musically talented, nor is he particularly a smooth talker.

But hearing people call him gifted is a feeling he relishes every time.

With his long legs and strangely large and spacious lungs, soccer called the boy’s name from the time he could run. He dominated the peewee league, then the club teams until this point, at the ripe age of seventeen waiting to be scouted for college teams.

He wasn’t usually one to brag but today, he had shot the winning goal.

Everyone has their thing, the one thing that they excel at. For Picasso it was painting, for Yiruma it was piano, for Renjun it’s spending four hours every night researching alien conspiracy theories. For Jisung, it’s soccer. But he’s never been exceptionally good at speaking to people.

“What’s your name?” He hears a voice, cheery and upbeat, behind him as he’s grabbing his bag on the side of the field. The game is over, and the crowd begins to dissipate while the team members are gathering their things to return to the bus. Turning over his shoulder he sees you, wearing a bright smile. Cautiously he responds, “Jisung Park.”

“Oh, so you’re Korean then. I’m gonna write that down, okay? How long have you been playing soccer?” You ask next, and now Jisung’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“Write what down?” He asks, trying to keep his tone as polite as possible. Even so, how is he supposed to react to a random person at a game suddenly appearing to ask him questions? As he wipes his forehead with his towel he adds, “Who even are you?”

Quickly you say, “I write in the high school newspaper, and wanted to get a close-up of today’s star.” It’s then that Jisung realizes the camera slung around your neck and the notepad in your hands.

“Why are you writing about me? I don’t even go here.”

“Because,” you say, a slight sigh creeping into your voice now. “Our team sucked today. You straight up stole the show, and no one wants to read about a team that lost. I’d rather give them a peek at the star.”

“14!” His coach yells his number once, causing Jisung to look over his shoulder to the source of the voice, where his teammates are already beginning to pile onto the bus. The boy in question slings his bag over his shoulder and tucks his soccer ball under his right arm before finally getting a good look at you. “Shouldn’t you be writing something to raise your team’s spirit or something? Giving them support, maybe?”

You shrug. “I don’t like underdogs. Don’t like writing about them. I’d rather read about the heroes. So how long have you been playing soccer again?”

“Jisung!” Now it’s Chenle calling after him, and he really needs to go. Eyes flickering to the street where his teammates are gesturing for him to hurry, he looks back to you. Your eyebrow is raised expectantly, right hip popped out as you wait. Before he starts to run off, he manages a small, “I’ve been playing eleven years. Um… bye.”

Then he turns away and his long legs carry him to the bus a few meters away. Even so, behind him he can hear your loud, proud voice yelling after him with the name of your high school: “Check the online newspaper! You’ll see my article!”

What a weirdo, he can’t help but think as the team cheers for their star player getting on the bus back home.

A week later, it’s another Saturday night following a victorious win against another team in the local area when Jisung gets a call from Chenle. “What’s up,” he asks immediately, leaning back in his desk chair to throw his soccer ball up in the air and catch it with one hand.

“Wanna party tonight? Celebrate our win a bit?”

“Where?” asks Jisung. He’d never been big on parties. For one, his long legs that were great for running weren’t exactly skilled in dancing or anything of the like. Secondly, he’d definitely be expected to talk to girls and he’s not really in the mood to make a fool of himself.

“Taeyong’s house. Me, Mark, Hyuck, and Jaemin are going. Renjun’s busy, and Jeno wants to spend time with his cat. What do you say? Wanna join?”

Jisung sighs. He was honestly just exhausted. “Think I’ll pass. My sister’s been getting on me about my bio grade.”

Chenle groans on the other line. “Lame.”

“Next time, promise,” says Jisung.

“Fine. Have fun studying, looooser!” This is the last thing Chenle says before hanging up, leaving his best friend alone to shake his head with a small laugh. Then he remembers something, some words that a stranger had yelled out to him a week before.

Sitting up at his desk, Jisung opens his laptop and types in the name of your high school, along with your town. A few clicks around the website finds him at the online news section, plus a scroll or two past some questionable articles, there it is: a picture of him mid-kick, the winning one if he remembers well enough. His nose is scrunched in concentration and strands of dark hair cling to his forehead.

Soccer Superstar from the opposing team steals the show and the win!

A small scoff leaves Jisung’s lips, trying to humble himself as he reads over the first few paragraphs.

Our school’s boys soccer team faced a devastating loss on Saturday in the face of the opposing team’s ace player (pictured above). The game ended promptly when the superstar player confidently kicked in the final shot, though the result had been clear from the first half of the game.

A short interview with the hotshot player revealed that he has been playing soccer for eleven years! A senior from Neo Culture Prep, it is clear as day that the school is very lucky to have such a prodigy on the team.

Who is this superstar player, you ask?

His name is Jisung Park.

Geez, Jisung thinks. He knew he was good but not that good. The article did a good job of spicing him up, making him look like he was a lot better than he really was. There’s too much fluff; sure, he’s skilled and he knows it, but—he touches his cheeks. They’re warm—the article makes him sound like a soccer god, and it’s beyond embarrassing. Who even are you?

A scroll to the bottom of the page tells him all he needs to know.

Article written by: (Name) (Last Name).

He doesn’t return to your town for almost two months. There’s a tournament today, the hours lurching between games giving him more than enough time to psych himself out about how he’ll play.

It’s noon, the sun shining overhead causing a sheet of sweat to amass on Jisung’s forehead. His team has just won their second match of the day, and in waiting for their next game, his eyes are scanning the bleachers set up for observers on the side of the field. It’s not hard to find you, same camera hanging around your neck.

With his long legs, he jogs over to you towel in hand. You’re not at all focused on him, eyes pressed into the camera’s viewfinder as you attempt to capture a good shot of the current game.

“I don’t like the stuff you said about me in your article.”

His deep voice suddenly intrudes your thoughts, and you jump in your place. As you turn to him and drop your camera from your face, he catches sight of the way your eyes widen at his appearance. A flood of recognition replaces the shock before you tilt your head. “Why? It was all good stuff.”

Patting at his forehead with his towel, Jisung responds, “Yeah, exactly. I’m not that good. I could’ve played better that day.” This brings a small snort from you. “Really! They were narrowing the angle on me, I should have flanked or lofted.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s—”

You cut him off before he can explain. “You’re good. Why are you so shy to accept that?”

“Why do you keep trying to paint me as the main character of the team? Everyone works hard together.” He questions, eyebrows furrowed.

“Because you are,” you respond matter-of-factly, focused enough to press your eye into the viewfinder again. A few seconds pass, and Jisung recognizes the click of the camera as you capture something on the field. “You’re clearly the best player on the team by a long shot. You’re the main character, the hero.”

At your response, Jisung shakes his head in disbelief and scrunches his nose. There’s really no getting through to you. “I’m more than the hero you think I am.”

You turn to him, facial features contorted into a mischievous expression. “I’m sure you are.” Jisung realizes then that you’re holding something out to him. Taking it, he observes it. A… business card? With your name and number on it. “(Name). Aspiring journalist.”

“You have a business card? Aren’t you like, seventeen?”

You shrug, smile tugging on your lips. “Never hurts to be prepared. Call me.” It’s the last thing you say before you flitter away on quick feet, leaving to interview the team which has just won their match. He watches you leave, wondering if you know what kind of effect you have on people.

“I don’t know, man. She seems kinda crazy,” says Hyuck from the seat next to him, leaning his head back. However, a sudden bump in the road causes the bus to jump, startling the boy a bit. Jisung had just shared his thoughts about asking you out with his friend, who immediately made a face and shook his head.

“Crazy?” Sure, you’re a bit forward and maybe slightly reckless, but he doesn’t think you’re… crazy. It’s been a few weeks since he last saw you and from the conversations you’ve shared over text and phone… he thinks he likes you. Like, really likes you. It’s goddamn terrifying.

“Yeah, we all saw her article,” Chenle speaks up from the seat behind him. “She’s obsessed with you.”

Jisung rolls her eyes. “It was one article. That doesn’t mean she’s obsessed.”

“I think you should do it. It’d be funny to get on camera in case you fail,” snorts Renjun.

Jaemin pipes in from in front of them. “But if you do ask her out, she lives three hours away. That’s a lot of distance.” He’s the only one in a relationship, so maybe he has the only opinion that Jisung trusts.

“Other people have done more distance.”

Now, it’s Jeno’s turn to pipe in. “But you’re not other people, you’re Jisung Park. You’ve never had a girlfriend.” Should he feel insulted? Chenle also adds, “Jeno’s right. You’re a senior! It’s your year, and you wanna spend it tied down to some girl who lives three hours away?”

But you’re not just some girl. Mark’s the only one who hasn’t spoken, and most of the time, he’s the most level headed. Jisung turns to him with a sincere expression and asks, “What do you think?”

Though he had been trying to stay quiet throughout the conversation, he stretches a bit in his seat before finally saying, “I think you should go for it.”

“I think you should too!” Jaemin says. “But I think you should be prepared for what it means.”

“Whatever you decide to do, we’ll hype you up.”

“I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?” Jisung asks. “If she rejects me, at least she’s three hours away, right?” There’s murmurs of agreement around the seven of them. He tries to sound relaxed, but the thought of asking a girl out for the first time causes his heart to thump loudly in his chest. Oh god… should he do it?

“So?” asks Hyuck after a few seconds of silence, and it’s then that Jisung realizes everyone’s looking at him. “Are you gonna do it?”

He gulps. “... No idea.”

A collective groan emerges from the group of boys. Hyuck, ever the genius, straightens his back with a glint in his eye. “How about this? If we win, you ask her out. You’ll be riding on a winning spree and it’ll give you confidence. If we lose then… there’s more girls back home.”

That… doesn’t sound like a bad idea. But oh god, he doesn’t know which option he wants.

For the first time, Jisung feels like his legs are knotting into each other, tumbling over his feet.

Soccer had always come easily to him, like breathing. But for some unknown reason, he’s totally off his game today. He knows the play, his strengths, and even the weaknesses of his opponents, but he trips over his feet.

No, that’s a lie. He definitely does know the source of his nervousness, and it lives in the form of a girl with a camera and a notepad sitting in the bottom corner bleacher. His breath is frantic as he zips back and forth across the field. The sounds of the game are ringing loud in his ear, and he can hardly even focus on the black and white ball being kicked around, let alone what the coach is screaming at them. They’re so close, one more goal should do it.

He knows what’s going to happen. Jisung Park had always been known for his ending kicks.

But what if he messes it up? What if he fumbles the kick or whiffs it?

Then again, does he even want to win? That’s a dumb quesiton—of course he does—but the question is: is he ready for what comes with the win? He really shouldn’t look, shouldn’t peek for just one look at you, but he does. You’re scribbling in your notepad, and he swears in that millisecond that you look so pretty.

Yeah, he wants it. He really wants it.

He’s ready, and—oh god, Sungchan is passing the ball to him. Suddenly Jisung is on high alert, winding up toward the goal. He captures Sungchan’s ball with ease, no longer tripping over himself as he makes his way to the end goal.

One kick, just nail this one kick.

He winds up, turning his body to the correct angle; he kicks it and…

Please go in, please go in, he’s begging.

The ball flies in straight past the goalkeeper, who jumps toward it but there’s no use. It all happens so quickly, and suddenly his team erupts into celebration when the referee blows his whistle. Still standing there, Jisung catches his breath and stares into the goal.

He won.

That means… He glances at you. You’re wearing a huge smile on your face, and without noticing it himself, Jisung has his own proud smile on his. His momentary peace is interrupted by his friends running toward him, nearly knocking him over in their celebration.

“Yeeahhh, Jisung Park, you’re the man!”

A few minutes later, Jisung tries to calm his nerves after thanking the opposing team for a good game. When he returns to the sidelines where his stuff is, he can barely get some water down his throat before Chenle is pushing a soccer ball into his hand. “Good luck, dude,” he says, and Jisung can feel the others’ eyes on him. Oh no, it’s time.

He steals a glance at you, and—Oh. You’re looking at him too. A bashful smile spreads over your lips and you turn away, focusing back to your conversation with your friend. His heart is beating so loud, but Jisung doesn’t think it’s because of the soccer game. Turning back to his friends, he groans, “I need a pep talk.”

“Okay, uh,” Mark attempts. “You got this, you know you’re the man. Um… if she rejects you, then it’s okay, there’s other fish in the sea!” A groan erupts through the group. “That’s not a pep talk, Mark!”

“Listen,” says Chenle suddenly, grabbing Jisung’s shoulders to stare at him. “She’s not gonna reject you. You’re Jisung freaking Park! The star of the team and my best friend! Go get ‘em, and don’t take no for an answer!” With this, he gives Jisung a small push in the girl’s direction.

“Actually, uh—I think no means no,” pipes in Jisung but everyone cuts him off with a collective, “JUST GO!”

Pink spreads across his cheeks as he slowly walks in your direction. At a good distance away, he places the coveted soccer ball down on the ground and winds himself up for a kick. Okay, he just shot the winning goal of the game. If he can do that, he can do this. Running forward the slightest, Jisung gives himself a silent pep talk as his foot taps the ball. It goes moving from its spot, flying through the air… and that’s when Jisung realizes his mistake. Instead of gently tapping against your ankle like he had planned, the ball flies straight in the air, knocking the side of your head rather harshly.

“Not that hard, genius!” Chenle chastises from behind him, and Jisung has to hold back the desire to actually groan in that moment. He immediately runs toward you, hands out in surprise. “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he repeats, reaching out for you. You’re rubbing the spot on the side of your head where the ball had hit, and he wants to disappear right there.

He never should have done this.

Why was he born again?

“I’m so sorry,” he says again for the nth time, feeling shame and humiliation speed up his spine at the way you wince when you touch the side of your head. “Oh my god, go get me an ice pack,” he demands over his shoulder at his friends.

“No, no I’m okay,” you reassure everyone. Now all the eyes are on the two of you.

A few moments of silence pass as you eye the soccer ball which has rolled some distance away, crouching down to pick it up. Ball in hand, you scan the outside of it… and destroying all of Jisung’s hopes and expectations, you burst into laughter.

You laugh so hard, the boisterous sounds leaving your lips so vehemently that you have to cover your mouth with your hand. Jisung furrows his eyebrows. “I just kicked you in the head and you’re laughing?” Oh god, he must have done more damage than he thought. You don’t answer, the only sounds leaving you are giggles and guffaws. It’s only making him feel worse; geez, he wishes he wasn’t so tall so he could positively disappear right now.

You finally look up at him and meet his gaze, your own eyes crinkled in delight. Flipping the ball over in your hands, you present to him the ball. Written on one of the large white spots reads a firm, “Go out with me?” in black marker.

“This is why you kicked me in the head?” You ask, still chuckling the slightest. Bashfully, Jisung nods. You laugh again. Every time you do that, he feels like getting smaller and smaller. “Of course I’ll go out with you.”

Wait, really?

He says these words aloud, eyes wide at your ease. He hadn’t expected you to actually say yes! “Sure,” you respond with a smile. “Though I could’ve gone without the head injury.”

This brings a laugh from the both of you. He really had been worrying so much about nothing. His frame instantly relaxes, taking the ball back from you. “You sure you don’t need the ice pack?”

“No, I could definitely use an ice pack.”

The first date happens two weeks after that game, and it’s his first real date so he has no idea how to act. Everything goes fine—he takes you to the local arcade in your town, and though he’d deny it to the ends of the earth, you beat him in foosball.

“Ha!” You had screamed. “Superstar soccer player Jisung Park, and you can’t beat me in table soccer?” His cheeks had burned pink at the sound of your voice reverberating around the public arcade, but honestly the mirth in your eyes was worth it.

His cheeks are red but the air is cold on the walk home to your house. He had promised to have you home by nine, and it’s—he checks the time on his phone—8:45.

A look at you, holding the giant stuffed teddy bear that you had won (he hadn’t won it for you, because lord knows he’s horrible at skee-ball), and Jisung can see the air leaving your lips. “Hey, you cold?”

“Nah,” you shake your head, though you scoot closer to him on the sidewalk. His tongue laves over his bottom lip quickly, and he almost wants to hold your hand. But that wouldn’t do much to keep you warm.

He purses his lips, then immediately his hands are working at taking off his hoodie. That’s a cute thing, isn’t it? Boyfriends giving hoodies to their girlfriends? “Here, take this.”

When you take one look at the hoodie in his hands and roll your eyes, Jisung knows he’s in for it. “Seriously? You can’t fool me with some cheesy rom-com moves,” you laugh.

Ouch.

That hurt his pride. He was just trying to be nice, maybe a tad bit romantic, but you clearly weren’t having it. He should have known you would be so tsundere, and maybe he does.

He knows you act strong, like there is no way on the face of the earth that you would ever swoon for his lame attempts at flirting. But when you reach upward on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek before you step into your house, he knows you like it just as much as he does.

For the longest time, it’s been just him and his sister Naeun.

His parents passed away shortly after his birth, so they stayed under the custody of their aunt. When his sister became an adult, she became his legal guardian. Since then, it’s been the two of them against the world.

Though kids had sometimes made fun of him for not having a mom or a dad, Jisung never paid those kids much attention. Sure, he didn’t have a dad to teach him how to drive or a mom to attend his parent-teacher conferences, but he had his sister and she was all he’d never need. Naeun gave up everything for him: she didn’t go to college, she traded nights out with her friends to help him with her math homework, she worked two jobs so he could play soccer. She had worked so hard, perhaps sheltered Jisung so much that he had always lived a comfortable life.

It never occurs to him just how much she had struggled until the morning she asks him to get a job.

She sits across the dining table at breakfast, and over his cereal, Jisung notes how shaken and guilty she looks. There must be something on her mind, but that’s how his sister’s always been; she doesn’t like to worry him, and speaks up when she’s ready. When she finally tells him, he blinks, confused.

“I can’t pay the bills alone. Not with soccer getting more expensive, and the landlord raising the rent—that bastard,” she mumbles under her breath, surprising Jisung. She hardly cursed. “It’s… It’ll just be for a short time. I promise.” She has tears in her eyes. Jisung furrows his eyebrows; she must feel guiltier about this than he thought. Immediately he nods in understanding. “It’s fine, Noona. Don’t worry about it. I’ll, uh, go out looking this weekend.”

He takes another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, thinking that the conversation will end there. But it doesn’t, his sister’s quiet voice reaching his ears. “Promise me you’ll go to college, Sung. Promise me you’ll make it. Make it all worth it.”

And it’s in that moment, in the way that his sister’s voice is on the edge of breaking, that it occurs to him just how much his sister has sacrificed for him. How quickly she had to grow up, having become his parent at eighteen, just a few months away from how old he was now. And he was nowhere near as responsible as her.

He swears in that moment that he’ll uphold his promise. He’ll get a scholarship, he’ll help his sister out. He’ll pay back everything she’s given up for him.

Finally, today you’re in town.

It’s the first time you’ve come to visit him in his town, and he’s so excited to show you everything: his school, his favorite ice cream place on the corner of the street from his apartment building, and even the park he grew up kicking soccer balls at. Even after all these years, him and his friends still came here to practice their soccer technique.

Today, the two of you are sitting underneath a tree at said park, his head in your lap. You’re running your hands through his dark hair, and wow, he’d never admit that it feels so good.

There’s a small laugh heard from you as you comb through his locks. “You should dye your hair.”

“Suddenly?” He asks. “I don’t even know what color I’d dye it.”

“You should do like, a blue or something. Oh, purple! Purple would be nice!” Your excitement causes him to roll his eyes promptly, sitting up. “I’ll dye my hair purple if you dye your hair purple,” he retorts to you.

“Maybe I will,” you say, standing onto your feet now that he’s gotten off of you. Wiping the grass from your legs briefly, you nod toward his soccer ball a few feet away. “C’mon, let’s play.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You wanna play soccer.”

“Yeah, is that so surprising?”

“Um, yeah, a little bit considering the fact that you said it’s boring and that you complain having to get up to go to the fridge at two in the morning,” quips Jisung with a laugh. You only roll your eyes in response. “I never said soccer was boring, I just said it’s only interesting when you play. And you’re gonna teach me right now, so stand up,” you say, extending a hand to him.

He takes your hand, rising to his feet before picking up the ball. “Fine,” he relents, a smirk making its way onto his face. “Try to keep up.”

For fifteen minutes, the two of you race up and down the park’s open grass field, chasing the ball in every direction. He evades you, long legs carrying him and the ball while you chase after him.

“Wait,” you say mid-sprint, slowing to a stop. Your chest is heaving, and slowly Jisung stops his running also. “You good?” He asks from a few feet away.

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly, reaching a hand up to wipe at your forehead. “Just… gimme a sec.” A minute passes of you catching your breath, but Jisung doesn’t pay it much attention—a person who didn’t play soccer and have trained lungs like him would struggle.

“Okay, okay,” you finally say, shaking your head a bit. “Let’s go again.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, worry seeping into his tone.

“Yeah, yes! Just—just go.”

So he does, beginning to kick the ball down field as he chases after it, stopping past center field to pass the ball to you. You’re racing after him, and though the ball is coming your way, you trip over it, falling straight onto the floor.

Your head hangs low, and he immediately rushes over to you.

“Hey, hey! You okay?” He asks, kneeling down but your eyes are closed. He swipes a hand over your forehead, and it’s that moment when he realizes your eyes are closed. Did you pass out? Had he pushed you too far? “(Name)?”

No response. Oh god, what is he supposed to do?

Is he supposed to check if you’re breathing? Where can he check for a pulse again? In his moment of inadequacy, he pulls out his phone and calls his sister.

She’ll know what to do, but it pains him that he doesn’t.

His sister arrives quickly, and immediately takes you to the hospital. According to her, you do have a pulse and you probably just had heat exhaustion. He sure hopes so…

For a few hours he sits in the waiting room as he awaits the arrival of your parents. They rushed over from your town, four hours away, and this definitely was not the impression he wanted to have on them. Head in his hands, he can’t help but worry about you.

You do wake up, eventually but he can’t see you until your parents arrive.

They take you back home. You’re walking and talking again, but as you shoot him a weak smile from over your shoulder, walking down the hall and out of the hospital, Jisung can’t help but feel that something has gone terribly wrong.

He swears he’s never been so tired.

Working at McDonald’s isn’t horrible, per se, it’s just different. But it definitely takes more out of him than soccer ever did. The second he walks into his room Jisung drops his backpack on the bean bag next to the door and almost collapses on his bed. Throwing his work cap on the floor, he runs a hand through his hair and pulls out his phone.

The best thing about coming home from work, is coming home to you.

He immediately fishes for his phone from his pocket and opens it to speed dial. Pressing on your contact, Jisung presses the phone to his ear and waits for his girlfriend’s voice on the other end. The line picks up.

“Hey,” he says, a smile spreading over his lips without him even knowing.

“Hi…”

Something’s wrong. Your voice is missing its signature excitement, the snarkiness he had grown accustomed to. He sits up in bed, eyebrows furrowed. “Is everything okay?”

Yes, you’re supposed to say. Everything’s fine. Everything’s just peachy.

But you don’t. “I got a call from the hospital.”

After you had fainted the other day playing soccer with him, the hospital had run a few tests to make sure you were okay. He knew this, you both did. They were supposed to say that you had been dehydrated, that you hadn’t eaten in a few hours. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Jisung…”

“What, what is it?”

There’s a momentary silence on the other side, then a shaky breath. “When I was ten… I got really sick. I was always having nosebleeds, always tired—some days I didn’t even want to get out of bed. They took me to the doctor and they told me that… I had leukemia.”

Jisung releases a heavy breath, staring into his sheets. No… don’t say it.

“I fought it for two years, and I beat it. God, it was… it was really hard, and I got through it. It’s been five years now but—but the hospital called and…” Please, no. “My cancer came back.”

Jisung’s never felt this way before; like all the air in his lungs have been pulled from his chest, lost to the universe. Not even when he sprinted across the soccer field, not even when he had gotten punched in the chest. All those times, his chest burned with fire, be it anger or passion. But now… his chest feels empty and hollow and numb. He manages to spit out a few words.

It’s not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to be okay, you’re supposed to go to prom together. Graduate. He’s supposed to get a soccer scholarship, you’re supposed to study journalism at the same school, and the long distance would cease to exist. You were supposed to be happy. “But it’s gonna be okay, right? You’ve fought it before, you can do it again.” Perhaps it was a bit selfish of him to ask for consolation when you were the one with the illness. But you were a journalist, never a liar. Your voice is weak, like you’ve already given up.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s up with you?” Chenle’s voice is almost worried, but Jisung wouldn’t be able to tell because his eyes are focused on the ground. He’s been kicking a soccer ball around with Chenle and Mark for a while now, but there’s clearly something very off about the teenager today.

“Yeah, is something wrong?” Mark asks.

Jisung blows some air into his cheeks. Should he tell them? It’s your private information but technically, you’re his girlfriend right? The news has been troubling him for a few days now, and he’s had no one to talk to. Surely, he can’t talk to his sister about it.

He should just spit it out. “(Name) has cancer.”

It’s like the world stops, his friends taking in his words. “W-What? What did you just say?” Chenle speaks first, then Mark quickly follows. “Did you say (Name) has cancer?”

Keeping his gaze on the ground, Jisung nods and gives the ball a small kick in Mark’s direction. “Yeah. She had leukemia when she was younger, and… the other day she went to the hospital and they said that it came back. Her cancer came back.” When he looks up, both his friends are looking at him with genuine concern etched across their faces.

“Seriously? Cancer? And you’re still dating her?” Mark asks, causing Jisung to raise an eyebrow in confusion. Did he just insinuate what he thinks he did?

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Chenle speaks up next, trying to defuse the sudden tension. “Jisung, you guys have only been dating like, a couple months. It was just like yesterday that you kicked her in the head asking her out!”

“And?” Jisung asks pointedly. Suddenly he’s in front of Chenle, and though he technically towers over the latter in height, Chenle’s chest is straight as he makes his point.

“Is it really worth it to stay on a sinking ship?”

Jisung’s voice reaches a new level of low, erupting from a place deep inside of him that he’s hidden away. It’s a place of rage, of anger sizzling and bubbling in his stomach. Suddenly they’re both chest to chest, unwilling to back down. “Now, I know you’re not talking about my girlfriend.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Mark interrupts, hands coming between them to tear the two boys apart. “Calm down. Both of you.”

“He started it,” accuses Jisung quickly, dark eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “My girlfriend is not a sinking ship. Neither is my relationship, and I don’t need you to comment on it.” He looks to Mark for guidance. Mark had always been the most logical one, the one he would look to for help, and though he thinks that Mark will agree with him, he almost looks guilty.

“But it’s true, Jisung. We’re worried about you. She’s just a girl. Is she really worth hurting yourself over?” He had trusted Mark to be on his side, but now Jisung just releases a scoff. He had been hoping for his friends’ support, but it seems like he’ll be going through this alone, then.

You’ve been avoiding him.

Of course, there’s not much that can be done to avoid him when you live hours away from each other. But you haven’t been responding to his texts, and when you do, they’re mostly short and taut. You’ve been cutting your phone calls short, often saying that you’re tired. Maybe you really are, but it hurts hearing the line cut off, not knowing how you’re really feeling.

Jisung can’t help but feel like he’s failing. He should be doing better.

It’s like your relationship is an hourglass, running out of time with every day that he spends going to school, work, or soccer practice. Like you’re getting further and further away with each short text message.

His entire life has been spent running. Speeding forward center field like a lightning bolt, long legs carrying him far ahead everyone else. But for the first time, Jisung feels like he’s falling behind.

It only takes a three hour bus ride (four, with the added stops) but in Jisung’s mind, it’s all worth it. It won’t be the first time he’s gone over to your house, but it is indeed the first he’s ever showed up unannounced, which is a strange appearance given that he lives three hours away. But with everything happening, he’s willing to give up the day and six hours worth of travel for you.

Sitting on the bus, he pulls out his phone. It’s early, like nine in the morning, but he knows you have a doctor’s appointment in a few hours so you’re definitely awake. He presses the facetime button, but you quickly reject his call. His eyebrows furrow, but lighten with an incoming text from you.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : jisung, i’m using the bathroom rn. call you back in a bit.

He nearly rolls his eyes, but it’s a sweet one. You’re always so candid.

[ message to : (Name) ♡ ] : you act like you’ve never facetimed me on the toilet before.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : wow, call me out more why don’t you

[ message to : (Name) ♡ ] : pick up my call, brat ♡

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : no, You pick up My call :p

Seconds later, his phone is lit up with an incoming facetime screen. A laugh almost leaves him at your tenacity before accepting the call.

The call opens up to the visual of his girlfriend, you in your PJs fixing the phone up against the mirror in the bathroom. He sees himself reflected in the mini screen, hoodie on and earbuds in wearing a boyish grin. “Hey pretty girl. Make sure you wash your hands.”

You roll your eyes at his remarks. “Hey ugly boy. I’m already doing that. What are you doing?”

“Just making sure, because I don’t think you brushed your teeth after you fell asleep on call the other night,” he teases, clicking his tongue as you’re the only person he can tease so easily. “I’m on the bus to practice.” A lie, but a white one at that. “What are you up to?”

You wack your still dry toothbrush in front of the camera, nose scrunching up in the slightest. It’s a habit of his that you’ve picked up. “I’m also doing that right now.” You wet the brush, putting some toothpaste on it. “I thought you didn’t have practice this Friday? Or was that next Friday?”

Your actions bring a low laugh to his lips, and his eyes momentarily focus on the passing landscape outside the bus window as he’s now three hours out of his normal perimeter. “Uh, Coach wanted to add in a practice today. Don’t you have a doctor’s appointment today?”

You nod at his answer, toothbrush in mouth. “I do, I think it’s like, in a hour or something.”

“Oh, okay,” he replies simply as the bus comes to a stop, your house only a short walk away. He stands, gathering his bag. “Gotta go, but I’ll talk to you in a bit, pumpkin honeysuckle,” he snorts, making his way to the front of the bus.

Your brows furrow as you give him a disapproving look through the screen, shaking your head slightly before moving to rinse your mouth. “Talk to you soon, don’t get hurt at practice or I’ll fight you.”

He scoffs as he steps out of the bus, into your neighborhood. “Like you could take me. Later.” You probably could, given your determination, but he gives you a nose scrunch before ending the call. He’s only taken a few steps when his phone rings with a text message.

[ message from : (Name) ♡ ] : you and i both know i could take you :)

A snort leaves him. Classic (Name).

When he arrives a few minutes later, he hesitates at the door, only praying that the person who opens up is you, not your parents or god forbid, your brother. It only takes a few hard knocks before he hears your voice on the other side, determined to see just who the hell had the nerve to interrupt your laziness this early in the morning. “Who the fu—”

He tsk’s in distaste. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the first words to leave his girlfriend’s mouth are cuss words. “You potty mouth. I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he says, opening his arms.

Jisung’s not quite sure what he expected. For you to jump in his arms? What a delusional boy. You blink for a few seconds, then suddenly you’re throwing yourself at him, fist first to land a deserved punch to his arm. “I thought you had practice? What are you doing here and why do you look so much cuter than when I last saw you?”

“Well, I lied,” he snickers, patting your head. “I’m here to annoy you, obviously. But you look too. For a—” A person dying of cancer, but he can’t say it. He won’t. “—person who barely got up twenty minutes ago.”

Your hand immediately begins rubbing the spot that your fist landed, worried that it might actually bruise in a bit. Jisung asks, “So are you gonna invite me in, or?”

“What are you, a vampire or something? I’m pretty sure you weren’t given permission when you entered my heart so just come in and cuddle me before my appointment.”

Your response catches him off guard so he blinks before entering in silently, sticking his hands back into the loose fitting pocket of his hoodie. Even after six months, he’s still not used to you saying those kinds of things. Hell, he still gets sweaty holding your hand.

“Hey Mom! Dad!” You’re grabbing onto his arm, tugging him into the kitchen. “Jisung’s here!”

After a small breakfast and conversation with your parents, he’s given the permission to go with you to your doctor’s appointment. The two of you take the bus, hands interlaced as you sit, and Jisung smiles awkwardly when an elderly woman compliments the two of you, calling you a cute couple.

He’s never really been in a hospital before.

For an arduous soccer player, he’s lucky enough to never have suffered a pain great enough to warrant a visit to the hospital, nor had he ever been sickly enough to send him there. It’s for that reason that he feels slightly out of place, tucked in his hoodie whilst trying his best not to gaze at the others in the waiting room. Instead, he tries to keep his gaze focused upon his girlfriend as you remain bright despite their surroundings. Your hands intertwined, he feels a comfortable warmth seeping into his veins, gold in color and feeling. Gold like the ring on your finger, and like your heart.

He’s so lucky to have you.

“I don’t really have anything planned,” he says softly, giving your hand a slight squeeze. It’s true that your itinerary is next to nonexistent for this impromptu date, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. If anything, a hospital is a strange starting destination for a date but your relationship is a bit strange. Quietly, he says to you, voice low in the hopes that no one overhears, “Don’t hospitals scare you?”

He knows that you spent a good portion of your time here; surely you must have grown accustomed to it, but Jisung was not. Hospitals were cold… white and bleak and much too quiet.

“Nah, not really,” you answer with a shake of your head. “Except for all the souls wandering around.”

Jisung blinks. “Souls?” He gulps.

“Yup. The souls of the passing.” You click your tongue, along with a wink in his direction now that you’ve successfully managed to creep him out. Do you ever stop making jokes?

The door to the waiting room opens and a medical assistant calls your name. “Hey, I’ll be right back,” you tell him, standing and releasing his arm. He gives a hesitant nod, watching as you leave through the door and disappear down the hall.

When you emerge, some forty-five minutes later, the mirth is gone from your eyes.

He knows right away: you didn’t get good news. His heart is pumping in his chest, like he’s waiting for you to collapse right there. Years could pass, and Jisung swears he’d never be able to erase that memory of you. “Are you—” Okay, he wants to ask. But you just give him a small smile and shake your head. It’s not the time. He cuts himself short, reaching a hand out to you with a small, albeit forced, smile. “Let’s go on our date.”

It’s a long afternoon, spent in the arcade where you had had your first date—this time, for memory’s sake, he gets another ring from the claw machine—then McDonald’s and ice cream. He treats you to lunch, courtesy of his employee discount, and the entire day is filled with laughter and mutual teasing. Everything feels like it’s okay again.

Jisung enjoys these moments the most.

The moments where he doesn’t feel like he has to be anybody: not the star soccer player, not the kind understanding younger brother, or a kid trying to look grown up at an adult party. With him he’s just you, awkwardness and quirks altogether. You’ve never hid yourself from him, and now he doesn’t have to hide himself either.

Now that the day is touching evening, the two of you sit at a park, relaxing mindlessly on the swings next to each other. Now that the romantic buzz is gone, the two of you have fallen into a comfortable silence.

“Thanks for coming this far, Ji. This was… nice.”

A small smile spreads over his lips. “It was nothing. I wanted to do it for a long time.”

“No, really,” you say, turning to him with a thankful smile. Your eyes are serious now, and Jisung feels the sunlight seep into his skin. “I really missed you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. This moment feels heavy, like he’ll remember it for years to come. “... I missed you too. A lot.” You both turn back to face the sunset, watching the sun fade behind a hill. It’s setting, streaks of gentle reds and soft-spoken oranges staining the empyrean firmament. It’s then that Jisung feels his heart begin to sink, like the sun, into the pit of his stomach.

“Are you scared?”

A moment passes without you saying anything, then you speak up beside him. “Not really. I mean, it’s just the hospital. The only thing that’ll suck is not being able to leave. I never thought I’d say it but, I’m really gonna miss going to school.”

Did you think you were never going to return? “Are your chances good?”

The implications from earlier at the hospital return. What are the chances that things aren’t looking up? “They say so,” you breath out.

That’s not good enough. Anything could happen. Jisung needs clarification, confirmation. He doesn’t want to lose you. “What if you—”

“I might.”

A beat of silence.

Jisung feels like crying. It gathers in the back of his throat. “What would I do without you?”

There it is: the implication that you’ll be gone. That one day, Jisung will have to wake up and face a world without you in it, a world with less happiness and less passion. A world where there isn’t someone who will call him ugly when really they think he’s the cutest to walk to the earth, or where there isn’t someone to make fun of him the way you do. A world with less love.

Your voice is dry as you speak.

“You’d move on.”

“I don’t know if I’d ever love anyone like you,” he finds himself saying.

“L-Love?” You suddenly say, voice the smallest he’s ever heard. You’ve always had the loudest voice, most prominent in his brain, but his words seem to have caught you off guard. “Do you? Love me?”

He doesn’t know what love feels like. He’s just a teenager, what is he supposed to know about love? About loss? Is it all-consuming, like in the movies? Is it meant to hurt? “... I think I do. I think I love you.”

There’s a sniffle next to him, and he turns immediately, alarmed that he may have made you cry. There are tears in your eyes, but they don’t fall. Being a writer, you talk too much. Your words are eloquent and true, though sometimes Jisung has a hard time getting you to stop talking. But this time, you choose to abandon words altogether, instead leaving your swing to stand in front of him. Compelled by nature, he stands too. Instead of speaking, you reach upward on your tiptoes once more. Except this time, you kiss him.

Your lips meet, and everything is golden.

And against the backdrop of the setting sun, it feels like the closing scene of Jisung’s very own romance movie. But this isn’t the end, he knows.

When he walks you home, he offers his sweater again.

This time not out of obligation or the desire to appear more romantic than he is, but because you’re cold. Really cold. You’re shivering, arms wrapped around yourself not giving enough warmth.

“Here,” Jisung says, already beginning to take off his hoodie, but you stop him with a hand and a pointed look, though your chattering teeth cause you to stutter. “S-Still trying to woo me with cheap rom-com tricks?”

You’re stubborn. You’re so stubborn and he hates it.

“Just take it,” he says, pushing it into your arms.

“No,” you argue. “You have a three hour ride home, it’s late and you’ll be cold.”

It’s obvious your illness has made you even more sensitive to the cold, and for that reason, Jisung’s fine facing the biting cold as long as you’re okay. “You’re freezing, please just take it.”

“Jisung, I said no.” Your voice is stern now, and he gets the feeling that he’s upset you. He gives up, gnawing on his bottom lip in deep thought. He just wants to make you feel better, doing what he thinks will help but with you, it never does. You’re so independent, too much so and much too stubborn to admit you need his help… “Fine,” he says before putting his hoodie back on. If you won’t take his warmth, then he’ll give it to you.

He lifts his arm, placing it fully around your shoulders and pulling you to him so your bodies meet. “At least let me hold you,” he mumbles. Your frame freezes in his for a moment, until you wrap your arms around the circumference of his chest.

Burying your face into his side, you relent into him. “Okay, fine.”

And later, he finds that you’re right. When he sits alone on the dimly lit train, he realizes that the warmth he had been feeling earlier, bathing in the sun’s rays with your lips, is long gone. All he feels now, is cold.

“You skipped practice the other day.” Jisung looks up from where he had been sitting on the bleachers, tying his shoes after practice. It had been a tough practice; he had missed quite a few passes and whiffed more than just a couple shots. He can only blame himself. He’s been distracted; alongside his worries about you, he also has a job to attend to and even more, the results for his dream school’s soccer scholarship is supposed to come out soon. His gaze falls on all six of his closest friends, looking down at him.

“Yeah, something came up,” he says easily.

“More like, someone,” retorts Donghyuck easily. “We know you ditched to go see your girlfriend.”

“And what about it?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you, man. You never want to play ball with us anymore, you don’t want to hang out with us. Whenever you invite you to a party, you raincheck. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” Chenle spits out, arms crossed over his chest.

“Chenle,” says Renjun carefully.

“No,” interrupts the boy in question. Chenle looks straight at Jisung, who stands now to meet the others’ heights. “He needs to hear this. Ever since that girl came around, it’s like you’ve lost your way. You used to be all about soccer and friendship. Now you always have her on your mind, and—did you see the way you played earlier?—she’s messing you up. Your head’s not on straight.”

“Chenle, stop.” Donghyuck speaks up now, voice low as he tries to stop the younger from going off. “You’re not the same Jisung I met in peewee camp, and I don’t know if I like who I’m seeing,” Chenle finishes.

That’s enough for him. His voice comes out before he can stop it.

“You know why I never party with you anymore?” Jisung suddenly says, voice booming and clearly at his limit. “Because I’ve always hated partying. Because I have a job now, and because I don’t want my sister to stay up worrying about me while I’m getting piss drunk. I hate drinking, I hate trying to look cool while actually looking fucking stupid, because I don’t know how I can even think about partying when my girlfriend is fucking dying.”

A hearty scoff leaves his lips, as though he can’t even fathom the words he’s faced today. “You don’t even know me anymore? That’s where you’re wrong, because you never knew me. Not all of me. You only see me as the star player who’s gonna get you your win. She knows me, she knows all of me, and she doesn’t try to change me. Well, sorry that I’m not the same kid you met years ago who let everyone walk all over him. I thought you guys were my friends, but clearly you only want me around for as long as I can play.”

Those are the last fiery words to leave Jisung’s mouth before he turns on his heels, storming off the field and away from everyone else. He just needs to get out of here, away from everything before he ruins it. Mark and Hyuck follow after him, while Jeno and the rest hold Chenle back.

“Don’t listen to him,” Mark says, ever level headed. “We know what you’re going through.”

Though he appreciates their concern, Jisung spits, “No, you don’t.”

Both of them stop walking, no longer chasing after him as Jisung pulls out his phone.

A new email.

He immediately opens it, eyes glazing over the text.

Dear Jisung Park,

Thank you for applying to our university’s soccer scholarship. We reviewed every application with our utmost dedication and attention. Unfortunately, we regret to inform you that we cannot accept your application at this time. Our soccer program is one of the most competitive at this school, however we encourage you to reapp…

What a load of shit.

The past few weeks have been horrid.

Soccer is as tense as ever, though Jisung would be lying if he said that his fight with Chenle didn’t fuel him to work even harder during practice. His job sucks, especially after someone spilled a bucket of old oil on him (it was cold, thank goodness but still gross nonetheless). So far he’s gotten another rejection. Who knew that getting into college would be this hard?

He wishes that he could say his relationship with you is the saving grace, but it’s really not. You’re in the hospital now, and the two of you have been talking less and less. Even now with his feud between his friends, he feels even more alone. Today when he calls, you sound even more tired than usual.

“Hey, chocolate honeycomb bunny,” Jisung says, giving his absolute worst at giving a cringe-worthy nickname. It seems you’re too tired to even give a repulsed response.

“Hey.” You’re quiet for a moment, only your breathing heard across the line. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” sighs Jisung, running a hand through his dark locks. “Just exhausted. My coworker is getting on my last nerve.”

“The same one you talked about last week?”

“Who spilled the dirty oil on me? Yeah,” he responds with a roll of his eyes. “We’ve both been working the same amount of time, I just want to know why he’s so slow to pick it up.”

It’s characteristic of you to agree, seeing as complaining is one of your favorite past times. But you don’t, voice only coming out softly across the call, “Maybe just give him some time.”

“Yeah, I don’t know,” he sighs. “How about you? Are you feeling better?”

“About the same,” you respond truthfully. God, you sound so tired. He almost feels bad for making you talk to him when you clearly sound exhausted. “Any more results?” You ask, regarding his college acceptances.

“No,” he shakes his head. He doesn’t understand. He’s a good student, he’s done community service. Just what more do they want from him? “You said I was special, but I don’t think the colleges see that.”

He can almost see your small smile in his mind. “You are special. Just ‘cause they don’t see it doesn’t you aren’t.”

“Eh, I don’t know,” Jisung says, playing with a loose thread on his bedsheet.

What you say next catches him off guard. “Maybe we can both be college-less, together.”

“What?” He asks, brows tightening in confusion. “Didn’t you get into the journalism program at that one university?” He’s caught you. You’re silent on the line for a few long seconds, but the quiet is deafening for him.

“I did, but Jisung, I…” You hesitate. “I’m not going.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?” He asks.

“I… I don’t know if I want to.” In a small voice, you continue, “I don’t know that I’ll make it that long.” What are you saying? What are you implying? Heart racing, Jisung tries to decipher these words in his mind. To him, it just sounds like the end.

“You’re giving up already, I hear it in your voice.”

“I’m not,” you say, a broken promise. “I just… want to be prepared for the worst.”

“The worst isn’t coming. You’re going to get through this. You’re going to beat it. I know you are.” It becomes blatantly clear in this moment that the person Jisung is trying to convince, is himself.

His pleas fall upon deaf ears, because you argue back in what seems like the strongest voice you’ve made in months. As though you’ve amassed all your remaining energy for this conversation. “I’m not a hero, Jisung. I’m not cut out for this. The doctors said it’s not looking good.”

“Then prove them wrong. You’re gonna beat it.”

“I don’t want to be the underdog either, Ji. You know I hate them.” What you say next has his blood boiling. “I don’t deserve it anyways, no one would want me to come back.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Jisung raises his voice now, volume growing with each word.

“No one likes me,” you spit out across the line, and he doesn’t need to see you to imagine how incensed you are at the moment. “I’m rude, I’m loud, I cross boundaries and I say things that hurt without caring about who it touches. And before you yell at me that no one thinks of me like that, these are things I’ve heard from other people.” Your voice breaks, as does Jisung’s heart. “If this were a movie, no one would root for me to survive.”

“I do,” Jisung says, voice strong. “I’m rooting for you. Every. Single. Day. And who cares about how other people see you? You’re rude? You’re crass? I like you because of those things, because you’re different from me. Am I not enough?”

“You’re different,” you relent, voice tired. “You’re the only one who matters. But I—“ You choke up. “I’m just tired of fighting. I don’t want to go to sleep every night not knowing if I’ll wake up the next morning. I want to be strong, and I want to face every day knowing that it could be my last… I don’t want to leave anything behind—”

“You’re not leaving,” he cuts in.

“—and I can’t go through every day letting you think that everything is okay, because they’re not. But I’m ready to let go, Ji. Because I’m happy with what I had, with what we had, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Tears are falling down his cheeks now, suiciding off the surface of his face and staining his bed sheets. He doesn’t know if the tears are the result of sadness, anger, or the pain of loving someone the universe would never let him have, yet it hurts all the same. “But I love you! I told you that I loved you.”

“I love you too,” you cry, and the sound is heartbreaking. “But I just wish that were enough.”

A pregnant silence consumes both of you. All that can be heard is the sound of your mutual crying, along with your breathing that Jisung had learned to fall asleep to. When you speak again, your voice is steady. You had always been the stronger one. “I don’t think you should call anymore.” A few sniffles. He can’t even speak. “Goodbye, Jisung.”

Then the line dies.

It’s Christmastime. He knows it’s cold, probably even colder in the hospital where you are.

Now, Jisung knows you don’t want anything from him. You don’t want him around. In the past weeks he must have become someone even he wouldn’t want around. And though he gets the feeling that you’ll never need him again, he figures you could use a sweater. It’s nothing much, and really he thinks it could be better.

A hoodie, not fit to your size but slightly larger because he knew you well enough to know you’d like it like that. On one sleeve, near the wrist, a patch of a soccer ball. He had learned how to sew it on himself. On the other, his initials. JS.

He sends it in the mail, in a box to the hospital with your name and room number on it. There’s no letter, nothing. Just his bare soul in the form of an oversized cotton hoodie. He’d send it himself, appearing at the door to your hospital bed, but something tells him he’s run out of things to say.

His phone rings at three in the morning.

He knows what it means.

February 2nd, at 2:39AM. The world lost you.

It would never be the same again, and neither would he.

Grief is an interesting thing, someone once told him.

He doesn’t quite remember who it was, whether it was his sister comforting him after the death of their goldfish, the guidance counselor at his school giving him a required appointment after the passing of a student, or yourself. But as the hours go by, it feels more and more like a weight in his chest that has been sitting on a hollowed place in his heart.

Grief is indescribable, and Jisung doesn’t know if this is because his limited seventeen year old vocabulary hasn’t collected enough fitting words to even begin to verbalize his emotions, or if because it really is indescribable.

The first few days had been hell.

He had almost become someone that he didn’t know, barely stepping out of bed and perhaps worrying his sister out of her mind. It was his way of ignoring the world, dissociating himself from the irrefutable truth that you weren’t really gone. You were still laying in bed, three hours away as usual, struggling but still fighting. If he could lay in bed, sleeping the days away and ignoring his text message condolences from his friends, he could pretend for some time that things were the way they were, eight months ago.

Eight months before it.

Eight months before he lost you. Before your relationship, a burgeoning dandelion in the nook of spring. But dandelions represent rebirth, the reappearance of hope like a beacon after an arduous winter, and you would never have another spring.

He could not pretend, because every morning the sun rose again, and he would have to reach his head out from the burrow of blankets he had buried himself in. He would need to face it for himself that he woke up, and you didn’t. His friends texted. His sister knocked on his door and begged him to eat, even going as far as to cook his favorite foods as a means to lure him from the darkness of his corner. He ate. But it was never the same.

Messy bedheads, earbuds tucked in with muzak playing gently like the thrum of his heart which beat enough for the both of you, tear-stained pillow cases, knees to the chest, light failing to shine in through the blinds which remained closed, counting the seconds between each breath, dreaming insubordinate dreams.

The first few days went like that. Empty.

Then he was angry.

Angry because the world had given him a love worth changing for, then ripped it from his inexperienced hands. He had never had anything in his life! Not a mother, not a father. Could he not have this one lily, this flower which sought to remind him of the fragility of life? And even more so, he was angry for you. You were a fire—you were a bottle of passion bursting at the seams, a well of untapped potential, a boldness which no one else could emulate—and the universe crushed you beneath its foot.

And suddenly, the emptiness of your hollow space reflected upon him.

He should have been better, should have done more. A soccer ball proposition? A sweater? It was laughable; that was the least he could give? If only he had called, if only he hadn’t listened to you like the meek child he was, things could be better.

And above all, he was sad.

What would he do without you?

Moving on seemed useless. A light at the end of a dark tunnel which stretched for ages. An epiphany that you would never reach.

He just hoped that it was not cold. That you left the world in a ball of light, surrounded in the warmth of family and love, not the rigidness of the unforgiving world. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he hoped that the soccer ball sleeve had been clutched to your chest, and that his hoodie could have provided just a little bit of that warmth.

The walking pattern outside his bedroom door is different from his sister’s. So is the knock on the door; his older sister’s is much more quiet, reserved, as though she was afraid to wake him. This one is harsh, and it reverberates through the room before the door opens.

The air in the room is still for a moment.

“Jisung.”

It’s Chenle. And Mark, Renjun, Jeno, Donghyuck, as well as Jaemin. They all take their seats either on the end of his bed, the floor, or his beanbag, but Jisung doesn’t move from his place underneath the blankets.

“What do you want?” He manages to groan out in a small voice.

Someone places a hand on his leg, a comforting gesture. He thinks it’s Jaemin from the gentle touch. “We’re here for you.”

Donghyuck comments, “You haven’t been to practice this week.” Of course that would be what they would mention first. Jisung scoffs. “I’m kind of going through something.”

“And we’re here.” Mark’s voice.

“We wanted to apologize.” Chenle speaks now, and despite being best friends since they were five, he’s the last person Jisung expected to say sorry. In their decade-long friendship, Chenle was the confident one, the one who charged forward without consequence while Jisung trailed behind, cleaning up his mess. “We’ve been… assholes, simply put.” Had he been in higher spirits, Jisung would have snorted. “We thought we understood what you were going through, and we thought it was dumb. To let yourself get hurt over some random girl… but we were wrong. We didn’t understand your point of view.”

“Not even a little bit,” says Donghyuck, head hanging low.

“Yeah, we’re supposed to be your friends. Your team! We’re supposed to lift you up when you’re down and… well, we haven’t been doing that. And we’re sorry. I’m sorry.” Chenle says. Slowly, Jisung lifts his head from below the blanket to face his friends. They all wear a variety of expressions, all somber. “And we know now… she’s not just some random girl.”

Yeah, they’ve all been assholes, some more than others, and Jisung can’t exactly say that they were any help in his struggle. But perhaps this was something he needed to go through alone. At the time, he needed you. But now… he just really needs his best friends.

Tears sting at his eyes for the nth time.

“Come here, you crybaby,” says Jaemin, opening his arms.

It’s Monday, meaning he has to go back to school today. He’s not ready, how could he be? It hasn’t even been a week since you… left, but he knows he has to go back. His sister, God bless her, had let him take the first few days off but now that the weekend has ended and school has rolled back around, he has no choice.

“You look like shit.”

Donghyuck has always lacked a filter. It would hurt if Jisung didn’t know that Donghyuck meant that in the best way possible. You look like shit, he says. So I’m glad you found it in you to come to school, is what he doesn’t say.

Jisung closes his locker with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” snickers his friend, and Jisung turns his head to find Mark and Jaemin approaching. “Morning,” greets Jaemin as he taps the top of Jisung’s head, despite being shorter.

“Hi,” responds Jisung quietly, clutching his chemistry textbook to his chest. The three of them look at him with quiet and somber eyes, but don’t say anything. Mark places a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a small rub.

“You got this.”

The truth is, he can’t do this. The world feels quiet and empty, lacking a particular passion that you used to always embody. It could be worse. Thank goodness your relationship was rather private; he doesn’t know how he’d be able to function at school had there been curious eyes on him, if you had gone to the same school as him.

The day goes rather slowly, and Jisung busies himself with catching up on his work that he had missed. He could almost pretend like things are normal. It’s not until fifth period calculus that something strange happens.

An office TA pokes her head in and scrambles over to the teacher, who was in the midst of a very enthralling lecture on integrals that Jisung was definitely not paying great attention to. The TA whispers something into the teacher’s ear, then hands her a piece of paper. Mrs. Huang nods, then suddenly Jisung finds her eyes on him. “Jisung, Mr. Moon wants you in his office.”

Him? Why him of all people?

Mr. Moon is the guidance counselor at their school, and Jisung has a moment of internal panic—had he somehow found out about you? Should he prepare himself for a lecture about grief and moving on?

With a gulp, he nods.

Mr. Moon is a fairly nice man, with a friendly smile and a reputation for being a pushover teacher. Jisung had met with him a few months ago to discuss his desire to pursue a soccer scholarship but he highly doubts that’s the case now.

When Jisung enters Mr. Moon’s office, the first thing he sees isn’t Mr. Moon but a tall man with a stoic expression standing behind his desk. In contrast to the stranger, Mr. Moon wears his trademark smile. “Jisung, good to see you. Still getting a kick out of that old ball?”

Of course, Mr. Moon doesn’t know that Jisung skipped practice all last week to mope in his bed, but Jisung nods politely. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” responds the teacher with a smile. “Take a seat.”

He gestures to the chair in front of his desk, and cautiously does Jisung take a seat. The tall, bruff man is still standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, having not yet said a single word. Somehow the atmosphere is tense, and Jisung’s quite sure he knows what this is about.

“Now, Jisung, I’ve called you in today because—”

“Is this about (Name)?” Perhaps it’s a bit rude of him, but Jisung doesn’t want to be prodded at, at least not by people who think they know him. The last thing he wants is pity.

Mr. Moon’s eyebrow raises just the slightest, and he leans forward on his desk. “Why, yes, it is. How did you know?”

A scoff leaves Jisung’s lips, but it’s much weaker than he would like. “My question is, how did you know? Who told you?” Who was it that shared information on his personal life? Was it his sister? His friends?

“Nobody had to tell me, Jisung. (Name) sent the letter to me herself.”

Wait… what?

Jisung blinks, hands falling slack on his lap. “W-What? What letter?”

Perhaps his staring is a bit too obvious, for Mr. Moon gestures to the stranger in question with a hand. “Jisung, this is Johnny Seo.” Finally, the intimidating stranger has a name. “Johnny is the head coach of the soccer team at Greenwood University—” Wait, Greenwood University? That’s Jisung’s dream school—well, it was his dream school, until they rejected his application for a soccer scholarship. What would they want to do with him? “—and he wants to offer you a full-ride scholarship.”

What?

Jisung’s mouth falls open. What? What the hell? Hadn’t they just rejected him three months ago? His eyes must be bugging out of his face, so he blinks repeatedly, trying to find the words to say.

“W-Wait, what? A… A full ride?” He stammers, unable to find his tongue.

The man named Johnny only nods. “Full ride. Covered tuition, dorming, and soccer costs. All you have to do is keep your grades up and keep scoring those fancy goals of yours I’ve heard about.”

“But—But, you rejected me… why now?”

For the first time, Johnny gives a small smile. “Because of the letter.” There it is, that letter again that Jisung has no idea about. He looks to Mr. Moon for guidance. All the counselor does is open his desk drawer and pull out an envelope, which he slides across his desk. “(Name) (Last Name) wrote a recommendation letter to the university, and honestly, it was stunning. It was enough to make the admissions board… bend a little, to say the least.”

Reaching forward, Jisung grabs the envelope and examines it in his hands. It’s opened, but yes, on the front is your handwriting. He’s cried so much this past week that he doesn’t know how many times tears have touched his eyes, but they sting once more. This time, he doesn’t let them fall.

“She… wrote a letter. For me?”

“That she did,” responds Mr. Moon.

“She’s right,” says Johnny suddenly. “In our work at the university, we’re always looking for the best of the best. We should look deeper, sometimes.” The words sink in the room, and Jisung finds himself staring down at the envelope in his hands. What things had you had to say about him?

Honestly, all he can think about is his failure. How he failed to be there for you, how he cowarded in your presence when you told him to leave you alone. He bites down on his lip.

“So? Will you accept our offer?”

Jisung looks up again, meeting Johnny’s expectant eyes. “I…” His mouth suddenly runs dry. “I don’t know, I… I need to think about it.”

“You’re not graduating for another four months. Take your time.” Slowly, still in glassy-eyed disbelief, Jisung nods. His fingers find the edge of the envelope, tracing its pointed edge. You wrote that for him. From across the desk, Mr. Moon speaks up. “You should read that letter, Jisung, and realize what’s coming for you: good things.”

To Whom It May Concern,

Hello. My name is (Name) (Last Name), and I am a high school student writing this letter to appeal a rejection by your university. Not of my own application, but of an extraordinary person with the name Jisung Park. In my humble opinion, I believe that your institution has made a grave mistake in not offering a scholarship to Jisung. So, I write this letter to appeal such a rejection, and to do something that he hated, though it was what I always did best: write about Jisung.

Now, Jisung is a humble person who never speaks up about his struggles, but the truth is that of all students, I believe he is the most in need of this scholarship. His parents passed when he was young, and he grew up in the care of his older sister who raised him. Their small but strong family made sacrifices, gave up luxuries, and endeavored to survive.

In the midst of this crisis, Jisung found his one savior: soccer.

He is, without a doubt, the best soccer player I have ever seen in my entire life. He can sprint across the field in half a normal player’s time, and I’ve never seen him miss a goal or a pass. But his soccer prowess isn’t what makes him great. Moreover, Jisung is the person you want on a team. He believes in teamwork, but is always striving to be better. He doesn’t want to stand out, but does so anyways. He is never arrogant, nor boastful. If there is one person who deserves this, it’s him.

But, I am sure that you are thinking: why should this letter mean anything to you? I’m not a highly valued individual in the community, nor have I done anything significant for my name to mean anything. I’m only a seventeen year old student, a struggling journalist.

The answer to that question is, I know Jisung Park. You only see his grades, the shallow things on his application. You will never get to see the Jisung Park that I knew and loved.

In my time alive, Jisung Park made an impact on my life that will never be forgotten. Even when life seemed the darkest, not a beam of light in the field's view, Jisung picked me up and made me see the sunset. I know now, the sunset is beautiful, warm, and comforting—everything that Jisung is. He never left my side, and never for a single moment did I ever feel alone in his presence. The world often overplays the saying “a heart of gold,” but the truth is that Jisung has one.

I used to think that love would be red, like the burning of one’s lungs racing down a soccer field, or black and white, made to be simple. But the truth is, love is golden. Golden like the sunset painting streaks against the floor, golden like Jisung. It’s a warmth that covers you from head to toe, relenting into a future that you don’t know.

He is my golden boy, and he can be yours too.

I may not have a future, but if there’s one thing that I know, it’s that Jisung deserves one.

I’m a journalist. I don’t write love letters, but perhaps this is the closest I can ever get. And should Jisung ever read this letter, I hope he knows that with this, I dedicated my last spark of sunlight to him.

Sincerely,

(Name) (Last Name)

Your funeral occurs on February 13th, a week and four days after your passing.

Jisung stands in front of the bathroom mirror, nose scrunched in concentration as he makes a feeble attempt on his necktie. This is surely not as easy as throwing on a soccer jersey. “Ugh,” he groans, fingers getting confused again.

“Need help?”

His sister’s dainty voice calls him from the bathroom door. Dressed in all black, she’s ready too. Turning his head, Jisung sighs. “Please.” She makes his way toward him, fingers coming to work on his tie already with steady hands.

“You’re too tall now,” she says softly, with a chuckle. It’s true; he used to look up to her, physically and figuratively, but now he’s an entire head above her. “You’ve grown up a lot.”

It was his eighteenth birthday just a few days ago but to be quite honest, he hadn’t had the heart to celebrate it. If anything, he had always thought that his eighteenth birthday would be like an epiphany for him. As though he would wake up the morning of, feeling like an adult with all the answers to the world.

The truth is, he’s eighteen now and he still feels like he has no idea what he’s doing.

“I don’t feel any different,” he admits. “I thought eighteen would mean something.”

“You’ll get there, trust me. And anyways, I always told you not to grow up too fast.”

For a moment there’s a silence as his sister swoops the tie in and out, weaving it to form the perfect knot. Feeling something scratch at the back of his throat, Jisung speaks. “... I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologizing for, silly? I was the one who never taught you how to knot a necktie,” she chuckles.

“Not for that,” he says. “For last week. I… probably scared you.”

Suddenly, his sister is wearing that demure smile of hers again. The one that is small and polite, but always seems to carry more weight in it than he can see. “No. It’s okay, I knew you’d be better.”

Naeun finally finishes the knot, tightening it the slightest around Jisung’s neck. “There you go.” He offers her a small thanks as he turns to look in the mirror, and she begins to leave. A sigh leaves him; there’s no avoiding it now, he’s ready to go.

“You know, Jisung,” she suddenly speaks up from the doorway. “I’m glad that you met her. Even if it ended up like this… you’re different. In a good way, and I think she had a lot to do with it. Even if you don’t feel different… you are.”

In the months of your relationship, Jisung had come to learn your insecurities. You were loud and proud, but with that confidence came an unwavering insecurity that you were unliked by those you spilled your tongue to. At the funeral, Jisung sees that that’s not at all true.

People give speeches for you, place flowers on your grave. The school newspaper had even written an article to commemorate your presence on their team, and the president of the club reads it aloud. A number of hospital staff make their appearance.

Even Jisung’s friends show up, despite the clear memory of them calling you crazy early on. Maybe they were right, maybe you were crazy. But he probably was too.

It doesn’t rain a single drop, though it had been pouring for three days before. Instead, the sun peeks through the overcast clouds, gifting sunshine.

Jisung smiles.

He probably looks like an idiot, carrying the soccer ball around the entire funeral but he knows what it means to him, and what it means to you. When he places it on your grave, the grass still fresh, his eyes catch the carefully written words on a singular white spot.

I love you.

He knows that he means it.

At eighteen, there a lot of things that Jisung still doesn’t know. But even so, there are a handful of truths that he can hold onto forever. One, he’s still an incredible soccer player and girls are still very scary. But like soccer, maybe that just takes time and practice.

Two, growing up isn’t about a number. It’s not about partying or drinking, nor is it about rushing into relationships that have little meaning. For years Jisung had wanted to grow up, to face the world with no fears and be able to cruise through. But he knows now that growing up is about being strong in the face of sadness, pain, grief. About waking up every morning even if you feel like you have no reason to.

Love is the same.

Love isn’t about making out on the bleachers after practice or trying to copy the coy clichés seen in romance movies. It’s about the sacrifices, like four hour bus rides. It’s about communication and connection, like a recommendation letter traced in gold. Because of you, he’s moving forward. He can go to college, and the day will never come when he stops being grateful toward you and everything you’ve done. That’s love, and he will spend the rest of his life loving you. Maybe the love will change but it will always be love.

It hurts that you’re gone, it really does. Jisung doesn’t think it’ll ever stop hurting.

But the last thing he knows is that things will be okay.

Life moves on, and he will too.

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