writhyv

Latest Posts by writhyv

⋆｡°✩ in his warmth ✦ sim jaeyun

there's just something in the air when jake comes home all sweaty and tired –  honey-glazed skin and messy hair – there was definitely a storm brewing up inside…

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — sim jaeyun x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, then suddenly suggestive, and then ACTUALLY seggs soooo there's that, m!reader really wanna get that because who DOESNT, fun, y'all wanted this okay PART 2 !!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — I AM SIM JAEYUN DEPRIVED … I NEED HIM … minors or people who dont like male reader stuff LOOK AWAY DNI BYEEEE

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The door clicks open with a tired sigh, hinges groaning as Jake shuffles inside.

You see it before he even speaks—the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. His shoulders are slumped, the proud line of his spine bowed under the weight of a long practice, his movements slow, deliberate, like every step is an effort. Sweat glistens on his temple, his golden skin flushed, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead in messy strands.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just drops his bag with a dull thud, toes off his shoes, and stands there for a moment, swaying slightly, as if he’s too tired to decide what to do next.

Your chest tightens.

You know this version of him—the quiet, drained Jake who gives everything until there’s nothing left. The one who pushes too hard, runs too long, forgets to stop. The one who needs to be reminded that he doesn’t always have to be strong.

So you don’t speak. Just open your arms.

And he comes to you like a man collapsing into an oasis.

His weight settles against you, warm and heavy, his forehead pressing into the crook of your neck. His breath gusts against your skin, uneven at first, then deepening as he finally lets himself relax.

You can feel the tremble in his muscles, the faint shiver running through him as your hands glide up his back, soothing, possessive.

“Tired,” he murmurs, voice thick, muffled against you.

You hum in response, fingers tracing the notches of his spine, the damp fabric of his shirt sticking to his skin. He smells like salt and exertion, like the sharp tang of effort and the faint sweetness of his cologne, worn thin by hours of movement.

You press your lips to his temple—just a quiet reassurance. I’ve got you.

He sighs, melting further into you.

Then, after a long moment, his fingers tighten in your shirt.

“Jake?” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just shifts slightly, his breath hitching, like he’s wrestling with something. Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, almost hesitant—

“Wanna feel you.”

Your pulse stutters.

“F-feel? Like what—?” You asked, not with hesitation, but just surprise. After all, he was tired.

“Like … you know,” Jake mumbled. “Inside …”

It’s not the words themselves—it’s the way he says them. Not demanding, not teasing, just… raw. Needy in a way that isn’t about lust, but about connection. Like he needs to be close, to be filled, to be yours in the most intimate way possible.

For a second, you just hold him, letting the request settle between you.

"Okay just…" You glanced around, the urgency in the air thickening between you both—hungry, impatient. The bedroom was too far, and the floor was too hard. "Let’s at least get to the couch."

Jake exhaled through his nose, lips pressing together in a fleeting pout—so close, he was so close to having you, and the delay was torture. But he nodded, fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt as you guided him backward.

His steps were unsteady, his body already thrumming with anticipation, his mind dizzy with these selfish thoughts of you.

The couch welcomed you both, soft and familiar, but Jake barely registered it—all he could think about was you, you beneath him, your hands on him, your heat pressed against his.

The moment you sat, he was moving, shifting, his body surging forward before he could think better of it. He launched himself onto your lap, his weight crashing into you with a needy urgency, his thighs bracketing yours, his chest pressed flush against yours.

You chuckled, low and warm, and his stomach twisted. God, he loved that sound. Loved knowing he could pull it from you.

Your hands slid down, gripping his hips—steady, grounding—and Jake’s breath hitched. His fingers fumbled at your waistband, clumsy with desperation, trembling with the sheer want curling hot and insistent in his gut. He needed you now, needed to feel you, needed you inside him so badly his skin prickled with it.

"Fuck—" His fingers slipped, betraying him, and he let out a frustrated whine.

"Here," you murmured, voice rough and indulgent, and your fingers covered his, helping, guiding, freeing yourself for him.

The first brush of skin against skin sent a shiver racing down his spine. Yours. He was yours, and the thought alone made his pulse stutter.

He licked his lips, fingers flexing against your shoulders as he lifted himself just enough—just enough to press the head of your cock against his entrance, just enough to make his breath come in shallow, uneven bursts.

Then he sank.

Slow. Agonizingly slow.

Because he wanted to feel it. Wanted to savor the stretch, the burn, the way you filled him so perfectly, so completely. He bit his lip, lashes fluttering, throat working around a silent moan as he took you in inch by inch, his body adjusting, his muscles clenching around you as if to keep you there forever.

And then—then—when you were buried deep inside him, when he could feel you in his bones, he stilled.

His breath left him in a shaky exhale, his fingers digging into your shoulders like you were the only thing tethering him to this world. His lips parted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his eyes—glazed, half-lidded—locked onto yours.

Yours.

All yours.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Not moving, not rushing—just feeling.

His breath steadies. His weight settles. His forehead drops back to your shoulder.

“There,” he whispers, voice rough. “Just like that.”

And for a long, quiet moment, that’s all there is—the two of you, tangled together, breathing in sync.

No words. No demands.

Just this.

There’s no rush. No frantic rocking, no desperate chase for friction—just the two of you locked together, his body snug around yours, so warm and so right. His arms loop around your shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

His forehead rests against your collarbone, lips brushing your skin in lazy, open-mouthed kisses—not quite intentional, just the slow drag of his mouth as he nuzzles closer, drunk on your warmth.

“M-missed you,” he stutters, voice thick and sleep-soft, like the words are spilling out without his permission.

His hips shift in tiny, unconscious circles, barely enough to be called movement, just the faintest roll of his pelvis as his body seeks more of you. His rim flutters around your cock in quiet, involuntary pulses, each little clench pulling a low groan from your throat.

Jake whimpers in response, pressing even closer, chest to chest, like he wants to crawl inside your chest and stay there.

You tighten your grip on him, one hand splayed between his shoulder blades, the other cupping the nape of his neck. His skin is fever-hot under your palms, damp with sweat and trembling faintly with the effort of holding himself up. But he doesn’t pull away—just sinks deeper, his breath hitching as he adjusts to the stretch, the fullness of you.

“S’good,” he mumbles, words slurring together, voice wrecked already. “Just… just needed to feel all of you.”

It’s not about the sex. Never really was. It’s the way he breathes when you’re inside him—like his lungs finally remember how to work. Like he can only relax when there’s no space left between you, when he can feel your heartbeat against his own.

You stroke his back, tracing the damp lines of his spine, the ridges of muscle gone soft with exhaustion.

He melts further, boneless and pliant, his weight a perfect, grounding pressure in your lap. Time blurs—minutes or hours, it doesn’t matter. Not when Jake is like this, soft and sweet and yours, his body a living prayer against yours.

He shifts again, just slightly, and you feel the way his thighs tremble, the way his hole tightens around you as he chases the sensation—not for release, just for the feeling, the proof that you’re here, that he’s not alone.

“Don’t stop,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t pull out. Not yet.”

As if you could.

You press a kiss to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth—gentle, reverent. He sighs, blissed-out and hazy, lips parting under yours without demand, letting you take what you need. His fingers thread into your hair, not guiding, just holding, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

You could stay like this forever: sticky with sweat, slow and heavy, senses full of him in every way that matters. And from the way he clings to you—like you’re the only thing keeping him anchored—you think maybe he could too.

You keep him close, your hands moving in slow, soothing strokes down his relaxed back, feeling the way his body gradually loosens in your hold—like a knot unraveling, like tension bleeding out of him with every exhale. His breathing evens out, warm puffs against your neck, his fingers still tangled loosely in your shirt, still holding on, even now, even when he’s too exhausted to do anything but melt into you.

He’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The thought lodges in your chest, sharp and tender.

“You’re okay,” you murmur, lips brushing his temple, your voice so low it’s almost a rumble against his skin. “Just relax.”

Jake makes another soft, drowsy noise—half-sigh, half-whimper—his hips rolling in the faintest, laziest grind. It’s not deliberate, not really; just instinct, that part of him that needs you, that craves the proof of your presence deep inside him. His rim flutters weakly around your cock, and you bite back a groan, your fingers flexing against his back.

You could move. You could snap your hips up and chase your own pleasure, could fuck into that tight heat until he’s sobbing your name.

But this isn’t about that.

This is about the way Jake clings to you like you’re the only solid thing in his world. About the way his body opens for you so easily, so trustingly, like he was made to take you, like there’s no version of him that exists without your hands on him.

This is about love, slow and syrupy and aching in its sweetness.

“Love you,” he mumbles, barely audible, his voice thick with sleep, with you.

Your chest tightens. You press another kiss to his skin—his temple, the slope of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth—your hands sliding down to cup the curve of his rear, holding him steady against you.

“Love you more.”

Jake huffs a tired laugh, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Nuh-uh.”

You smile, but don’t argue—just let your fingers drift between his legs, brushing feather-light over where you’re joined. The barest touch sends a jolt through Jake, his rim fluttering around your cock, achingly sensitive.

Oh fuck.

He shudders, a quiet whine escaping him, his hips twitching forward like he can’t help it. The friction is electric, overwhelming—your cock still buried deep inside him, your fingers teasing the stretched, tender rim around it. His body pulses with it, every nerve alight.

"S’too much," he slurs, voice thick, wrecked.

But he doesn’t pull away. Couldn’t if he tried.

Instead, he presses closer, his body yielding, opening up even more, like he’s made for this, made for you. His cock twitches where it’s trapped between your stomachs, already leaking, already so fucking desperate for more.

He’s always been like this—so responsive, so easy, falling apart under the barest touch.

And you know it.

Your fingers trace his rim again, slow, deliberate, and Jake whimpers, his thighs trembling. He can feel everything—the way his body grips you, the way your cock twitches inside him, the way your fingers tease just enough to make his breath hitch.

"Want me to fill you up?"

The question is low, rough, and Jake’s stomach tightens.

Yes. Yes. Fuck, yes.

He nods, barely lifting his head, his lashes fluttering as he meets your gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, dazed, his lips parted around shaky breaths.

"Please."

The word is wrecked, raw with want.

You don’t make him wait.

But you don’t rush, either.

You roll your hips up, just once, slow and deep, and Jake gasps, his fingers digging into your shoulders. The drag of your cock inside him is maddening, the pressure building, building—

And then you do it again.

Fuck.

Jake’s mouth falls open, a silent moan caught in his throat. He can feel it—the way your cock pulses inside him, the way your grip on his hip tightens, possessive, needy.

He’s so full.

So yours.

And when you finally spill inside him, hot and thick, he shudders, his body clenching around you, milking every last drop like he can’t bear to let you go. A weak little moan slips past his lips, his cock twitching between you, untouched but so fucking close—

"Fuck," he breathes, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

Because this?

This is everything.

“There you go,” you murmur, rubbing his back as he slumps against you, completely spent. “All yours.”

He hums, already halfway to sleep, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. “M’yours,” he agrees, voice slurred.

And God, the way that settles in your ribs—like sunlight, like something too big to even name.

You kiss his forehead, holding him close as his breathing evens out, as his body goes slack and heavy in your arms. He’s out within seconds—warm, sated, and utterly content, still full of you in the best way.

And you? You don’t move. Not yet.

You’ll let him sleep just like this—sticky and sweet, your cum dripping lazily from his well-used hole, your cock still buried inside him, because Jake has always been clingy in the best way, and you wouldn’t have him any other way.

Because this?

This is home.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay … bottom jake agenda .. ESPECIALLY THAT FUCKING DELICIOUS EDIT OF HIM BITING AND SITTING AND BEING ALL CUTIE PATOOTIE FUCKKKKKKKK okay sorry guys i … im unhinged … asjfgiaa

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

i saw a picture of jay and when i tell you i wanted to bite him right then and there ...

⋆｡°✩ [ch.5] for when you need me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 4.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, also AHH VIOLENCE IN THIS ONE, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

“You sure you’re okay?” Mira’s voice echoed as you got inside your townhouse, the sudden sounds of clicking locks and shifting gears of your front door echoing against the city ambience.

“Yeah.” You sighed.

Mira took a short time to breathe too before she prompted to leave you to rest. As soon as she said her goodbyes, you tucked your phone on your left pocket and walked straight towards your most beloved house possession—the fridge.

The weight of Mr. M's ultimatum pressed against your ribs like a second heartbeat as your hands traversed the cans of carbonated drinks inside the fridge.

“Should I even get cola today?” You pondered.

Outside, the city was bleeding from gold hour into twilight—windows glittering amber across brownstone rooftops, the Chrysler Building's spire catching the last fiery streaks of sunset.

God was it such a treat of a view.

You stopped at the floor-to-ceiling windows, pressing your forehead to the cool glass, watching your ghostly reflection blink back at you in the darkening pane.

“Hey, you.” You spoke, alone in the dim living room.

You twisted and curled your toes as you tried to think of anything amusing to say to your own reflection, yet there was nothing that came to your mind.

“You’re pathetic.” You muttered under your heavy breath.

Buzzing into existence, your phone rang from your side pocket.

Flipping through your messages, you see one notification from the only person in your mind right now.

Jay: Remember that bench back in Battery Park?

That message drew a smile on your face, memories resurfacing and thoughts flooding your senses.

You: Yea?

Jay: One hour?

The message burned in your palm. You counted the passing seconds by the throbbing pulse in your wrist—one Mississippi, two Mississippi—until the screen dimmed to black. Then lit up again.

Jay: There’s a new taco joint my students recommended me to. Got coupons for 50% off tacos. You down?

A punched-out laugh escaped you, fogging the glass. The condensation mirrored how your thoughts had been all day—clouded, unclear, slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you tried to hold on.

Without missing a beat, you quickly grabbed your spring jacket.

–––

“I guess it that time of the year already…” You spoke to yourself as you see petals pass above, below, and to your sides.

The park smelled like freshly cut grass and distant rain. Cherry blossom petals swirled through the air like pink snow, catching in your hair as you followed the familiar path—past the old elm with the gnarled trunk, around the fountain that never worked quite right, down to that one bench facing the harbor where the paint was chipped away from years of weather and restless fingers.

And then—like a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—there he was.

Jay sat waiting, backlit by the harbor lights beginning to flicker on across the water. Two glass-bottled colas sweated between his knees, their labels peeling from condensation. A grease-spotted paper bag sat balanced precariously on the bench beside him, the scent of cumin and charred corn tortillas cutting through the salt air. And it’s not even a Tuesday.

The sight knocked the breath from your lungs.

He turned at the crunch of gravel under your shoes.

"You came," he said, voice scraped raw like he'd been shouting. Or maybe not speaking at all.

You sat carefully, leaving exactly eleven inches of painted metal between you. The space felt both cavernous and infinitesimal. The thin tree beside the bench still bore the faint carving you'd made one drunken summer night — ME + JAY inside a lopsided heart. The memory of his laughter as you struggled with your metal fork warmed your cheeks even now.

"You asked." You said, accepting the cola he handed you.

His fingers brushed yours—just for a millisecond—but it was enough to send electricity shooting up your arm.

Jay took a long pull from his bottle, the muscles in his throat working. The fading light caught the shape of his bare face—still as soft, plump, and charming as you’ve last seen them. Behold them. Had them between the warmth of your palms.

"Naomi and I talked," he started, then stopped, jaw tightening.

It was weird. For a new dish from a new store in New York, the tacos smelled like lime and nostalgia. You focused on picking at the label of your cola instead of the way his shoulder pressed against yours, warm even through two layers of fabric.

"And?"

A harbor breeze ruffled his hair, longer now than in your days together as a bunch of cram heads. He watched a seagull swoop low over the water before speaking.

"She knew.”

Your face dropped the moment you heard him say those words.

“Before the article. Before Leah's wedding." His laugh was hollow, bouncing off the pavement. "Apparently I'm shit at hiding it when I..." He trailed off, fingers tightening around his bottle.

"When you what?"

Jay turned to face you fully, the bench creaking beneath him. The dying light caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.

"When I'm still in love with you."

It was as if the world has tilted on its axis. The cola bottle nearly slipped from your fingers.

"She said she'd always known," Jay continued, voice softer now. "Saw how I'd go quiet when your songs came on. Even down to how I kept that stupid festival wristband in my wallet from years ago."

His thumb traced the lip of his bottle, around and around. “Then she saw how I lingered on your music. How I’d go quiet when someone mentioned your name.”

The thought of it almost ruined you. Wrecked you.

From your recent conversations, you figured it was just nostalgia of a relationship past. The ‘miss you’s you’ve exchanged fleeting thoughts that echoed regret and nothing more.

But right now, it finally hit you. He still thought of you all this time.

Just like you did.

"She told me she also found the CD you made me years ago—the one with all our road trip songs—in my glove compartment."

A cherry blossom petal landed on his knee. He didn't brush it away.

"She said she wanted me happy," he murmured. "Even if it wasn't with her."

Your throat tightened.

You looked back as you remembered Naomi's hand on Jay's arm at the wedding—not possessive, but protective. The way she'd looked at you with something that wasn't quite jealousy, but instead resignation.

"And you?" you managed, voice barely above a whisper.

Jay set his cola down carefully on the bench. When he spoke again, it was like he'd ripped the words from somewhere deep inside.

"I dropped out of law school because of you."

The non sequitur startled a wet laugh from you. "What?"

"That day you left," he said, eyes fixed on the Statue of Liberty's distant torch, "I realized I'd spent all my years of living following a path my parents have built and paved for me.”

Jay grew quiet at that. “Just like you were about to do with Atlas."

You looked at him as he tried to say all this words without breaking.

His fingers flexed against his knees. "So I quit. Switched to music theory because I thought..." His voice cracked. "I thought if I couldn't save you, maybe I could at least be someone else's guide."

The confession hung between you, fragile as the spiderweb glistening on the bench's armrest.

You swallowed hard. Mira's voice echoed in your memory—"He teaches at NYU now. Music theory. I knew he was an ace but he’s actually good at it."

"You knew," Jay realized, watching your face. “… haven’t you?”

You nodded, the motion jerky. "M-Mira told me last week."

The harbor sounds filled the silence—waves lapping against the seawall, a distant ferry horn, the screech of gulls fighting over scraps.

“If there’s anything that made me realize after all this time, it was that …”

Jay shifted, turning fully toward you until his knee brushed yours.

"I never stopped loving you," he said, simple as sunrise.

Time stopped.

Four years.

Four years of platinum records and sold-out arenas and hotel rooms so silent you could hear your own pulse. Four years of telling yourself you didn't miss the way he snored softly through his nose when exhausted, or how he'd absentmindedly hum old radio songs in the shower, or the particular way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at his own jokes.

It all came rushing out in a single breath. "I thought about you every goddamn day."

Jay's breath hitched. His hand hovered between you, trembling slightly in the golden glow of the park lamps. Waiting. Always waiting for you.

And now, you bridged the gap.

His fingers laced through yours—calloused from guitar strings and piano keys, warm and familiar and right. The tacos tumbled forgotten to the side as you turned toward each other, knees knocking, free hands reaching.

Around you, the city pulsed with its usual relentless energy—car horns blaring, a street performer's violin carrying on the breeze, the million lights of Manhattan flickering to life. None of it mattered.

Not when, for the first time in four long years, the hollow space beneath your ribs finally felt full again.

Not when Jay's thumb was brushing your knuckles like he was relearning your topography. Your texture. Your temperature.

You.

"What now?" He put his forehead against yours as you leaned into him, breathing in the cedar-and-salt scent that had haunted your dreams.

“Now I take my time with you.” You said softly. “I’ve missed your warmth, Jay.”

Jay smiled, creasing his cheek with that one-sided smirk that complimented his features.

“Me too.”

And all that you ever needed was that, his presence, blanketing you in sweet embrace.

—

The studio was bathed in soft golden light, diffused through silk screens to eliminate harsh shadows.

You sat on a peach colored sofa that was firmer than it looked, the microphone clipped to your collar weighing heavier than it should.

Across from you, Claire Mercer—legendary music journalist with a reputation for extracting truths artists didn’t know they were ready to share—crossed her legs and balanced a leather-bound notebook on her knee. A steaming cup of black tea sat untouched on the glass coffee table between you, its scent mingling with the studio’s faint ozone smell from all the equipment.

Claire smile strategically, hoping to lure you into honesty.

"Let’s start with something light. Your fourth album just went triple platinum—an almost impossible feat in today’s streaming landscape. When you were eighteen, busking in Washington Square Park with a secondhand guitar, could you have imagined this?"

You chuckled, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your knee. "Of course not! Let’s be real. Back then, a good day meant making enough for a slice of dollar pizza and a MetroCard swipe.”

Memories flood your head as you remember making time to hang out on the Square, preparing hurriedly as Jay made sure to tune your acoustic friend finely before he left you for his morning classes.

“You didn’t touch the donuts I got you?” Jay asked as he held your guitar in his lap, all in the middle of tuning it to perfection.

“Donuts?” You popped a brow. “You mean the one’s from Monettan’s?”

Jay chuckled. “What else did look like donuts to you, genius?” He then pinched your ears right after.

“But that’s half my rent??” You crunched up your face.

The memory quickly passed by, all with a light unnoticeable chuckle. It was one of those days that Jay always looked out for you.

But even then, other memories flooded your mind, too. Everything was different back then.

“I remember this one afternoon—it was pouring rain, and I was playing under this sad little awning. Some guy tossed a five-dollar bill into my case and said, ‘Kid, you’re gonna be huge.’ I thought he was just being nice."

A quiet laugh rippled through the small crew behind the cameras.

Claire scribbled something in her notebook, the pen scratching audibly.

"You’ve spoken before about the loneliness of fame—how the higher you climb, the fewer people you can trust. Do you ever miss those early days? The rawness of playing for strangers who didn’t know your name?"

You hesitated, your thumb brushing the faint scar on your wrist—the one from the pancake incident with Jay. The studio lights suddenly felt too hot.

"Yeah," you admitted, quieter now. "There was something... honest about it. No expectations. No algorithms telling you what to play. Just me, my guitar, and people who either stopped to listen or walked right past. Sometimes, I’ll be onstage in front of thousands of people and... I’ll still miss that."

Claire nodded slowly, her sharp blue eyes catching yours. "That’s interesting. Because last week, photos surfaced of you at a diner with a man the internet’s been obsessing over. And in those photos..." She paused deliberately. "You looked happier than you have in years."

The air in the room shifted. Off-camera, Mira tensed, her manicured nails tightening around her tablet.

“Oh for fucking— that woman!” She muttered under her hot breath.

Claire leaned forward, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Who is he?"

For a second, you considered lying. You should lie.

“What if she slips in a naughty question?” You asked as you tried another outfits from the closet.

“How naughty?” Mira smirked.

“Ugh, I meant like … sneaky ones.” You sighed as you sat on one of the ottomans present beside you. “Like about me and Jay.”

Mira looked at you, exhaling deeply before getting her say.

“Just trust your gut. Talk, maybe.” You looked at her with a concerned glance.

“Just… like that?”

“Yeah.” Mira smiled. “You’d do it anyway. I can’t stop you.”

You chuckled as she guessed you right to that. You are one heck of a defiant guy.

“Also wear this, we’ve got a deal to keep it all Dior ‘til April right?”

“Ugh, fine~”

The more you thought about it, the more you’ll keep hurting yourself.

Then you exhaled, looking directly into the camera.

"His name is Jay."

Claire’s pen froze mid-scribble.

"We met in college," you continued, your voice steadier than you felt. "He was—is—the reason I believed I could do this in the first place.”

Silence. The room was nothing but a sea of silence.

“And I left him to chase this dream." A wet laugh escaped you. "Funny how that works, huh?"

Claire’s eyes flickered—surprise, then something like respect. "So this isn’t just a reunion?"

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to.

—

Mr. M’s office was a monument to power—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, a desk polished to a mirror shine, a vintage whiskey decanter that cost more than most people’s rent.

Right now, it was also a crime scene.

The flat-screen on his wall replayed your Rolling Stone interview on mute—your face, your words, your defiance—looping endlessly. Mr. M stood motionless in front of it, his reflection superimposed over your image like a ghost.

His assistant, Ethan, hovered in the doorway, clutching an iPad like a shield. "Sir, the board—they’ve called an emergency meeting. They want you in the conference room. Now."

Mr. M didn’t turn. "Tell them I’m busy."

Ethan swallowed. "They said... they said it’s not optional."

Silence.

Then—

CRASH.

Mr. M’s crystal tumbler exploded against the wall, ice skittering across the floor. "Get out."

Ethan fled.

Alone, Mr. M stalked to the window, where your face—twenty feet tall—smoldered on a Dior advertisement at Times Square. Your eyes stared back at him, mocking.

"After everything I gave you," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass.

His phone buzzed—a text from the board chairman:

"Conference room. NOW."

Mr. M straightened his tie, smoothed his suit, and walked out like a man heading to the gallows.

—

Breathing in the conditioned air and holding yourself inside the elevator, Mira was already moving, her clipboard clutched like a battering ram against the inevitable circus outside.

It was already past 3PM when your interview ended, and as soon as it concluded— the headlines, the fuzz, the frenzy, and the notifications started to flood your phone.

“I’m seeing a lot of articles already.” You mumbled. “They work fast.”

“Well,” Mira sighed, “they are the devil.”

You both snickered a good laugh together.

Suddenly, the elevator slowed down gracefully and notified you with a calm voice.

“Ground Floor.” A silent hum then followed after.

"Don’t engage," she hissed, stepping in front of you with the precision of a bodyguard. "Head down, sunglasses on, and for fuck’s sake—just keep moving—"

The elevator doors slid open and Mira was already moving, her sharp elbow clearing a path. "No comments, no photos—"

Too late.

The second your shoe hit the lobby floor, the flashbulbs and shutters erupted. A wall of shouting bodies surged forward, iPhones thrust like weapons.

"OVER HERE! LOOK HERE!"

"IS IT TRUE THAT YOU’RE CURRENTLY IN A RELATIONSHIP?"

"WHO’S JAY! WHO’S JAY!"

Mira blocked a camera with her clipboard. "Move," she snapped at security, yanking your wrist so hard your shoulder jerked. You ducked low, sunglasses slipping as some asshole lunged closer—

"SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE BREAKUP, C’MON MAN!"

—and then your ribs connected with a stray elbow. The air punched out of you.

“Ow!” You couldn’t help but wince.

Mira saw it and boiled her blood to a hundred degrees, shoving the rookie paparazzi out of the way.

"Christ," Mira snarled, shoving a reporter back. "Call fucking backup—"

A hand clamped onto your bicep. Not Mira’s.

You whipped your head up, ready to swing—

Security. A rookie you didn’t recognize, wide-eyed and sweating. "This way sir—" he panted, hauling you toward a side exit.

Mira’s voice sliced through the noise. "NOT THAT WAY—"

But the crowd was already pivoting, a pack of hyenas scenting blood. You stumbled as someone grabbed the back of your jacket—

Then you saw him.

Jay.

Leaning against a concrete pillar near the exit like he’d been carved there, arms crossed, one ankle hooked lazily over the other.

The late afternoon sun cut through the glass lobby doors, gilding the edges of him—bleached hair mussed from running his hands through it, that stupidly perfect leather jacket clinging to his shoulders. He wasn’t even looking at the chaos brewing outside. Just waiting. For you.

Your breath locked in your throat.

The paparazzi spotted him half a second later.

"OH MY GOD, IT’S HIM!" A shutter exploded like gunfire. "JAY—IS THAT THE MYSTERY MAN?"

Mira’s grip on your elbow turned vice-tight. "Company van," she barked into her headset. "NOW."

Jay didn’t hesitate. He pushed off the pillar and closed the distance in three strides, falling into step beside you like no time had passed at all. His shoulder bumped yours—warm, solid, an anchor in the screaming storm of flashes and questions. "Eyes forward," he murmured, so low only you could hear.

Mira wrenched the SUV door open, shoving you both inside. The second the door slammed, the noise cut off like someone had hit mute.

Silence.

You turned to Jay, pulse hammering. "W-What are you doing here?"

No answer. Just his hand sliding over yours, calloused fingers lacing tight between your knuckles. A single squeeze.

I’m here. Whatever happens.

Mira exhaled sharply from the front seat, her phone already lighting up with a dozen notifications. "This," she said, voice clipped, "is a PR nightmare."

Jay’s thumb traced the ridge of your wrist.

At that point, all you ever needed was him—nothing else.

—

The Atlas Records boardroom was a tomb of glass and steel, the kind of cold that gnawed through suit jackets and settled in the marrow. Twelve executives sat around the onyx table, their faces carved from the same indifferent stone.

At the head, Eleanor Whitmore—61, razor-straight posture, a single pearl necklace against a charcoal blazer—rested her palms on the table. Her manicure was flawless, pale pink. It made the silence worse.

"Michael."

Her voice sliced the air.

Mr. M — Michael Aker — stood frozen halfway to his seat, his custom Tom Ford suit suddenly too tight across the shoulders. His smile was a brittle thing, cracking at the edges.

"Eleanor," he laughed, nervous, too loud, "whatever this is about, I assure you—"

"Sit. Down."

It was a command, not a request. The kind of tone that stops hearts.

He sat.

Eleanor tapped her iPad. The floor-to-ceiling screen behind her woke up in a blaze of light—emails, bank transfers, contracts, all stamped with his initials. A digital autopsy of his crimes.

Mr. M's throat tightened in an instant. His cufflinks caught the light as his hands trembled—just once.

"W-what is th—"

"For the past four years," Eleanor said, calm as a guillotine's descent, "you have been laundering money through our artists' royalties." A click. Offshore accounts, layered like Russian dolls.

Another click. "You manipulated streaming numbers to defraud investors and undermine the competition." A spreadsheet bloomed, numbers artificially inflated in red.

Then—the kill shot.

A contract. Your name. Page 37, Section 9b: a clause so predatory it made the room inhale.

"And worst of all," Eleanor murmured, "you enslaved our biggest star in a deal so fraudulent, it’s a miracle they haven’t sued us into oblivion."

Mr. M's laugh was a dry cough. "Eleanor, these accusations are—"

"Not accusations."

Daniel Cho, the CFO, slid a black folder across the table. It screeched against the glass. Inside of it was printed server logs, his personal encryption keys, a paper trail even his lawyers couldn’t burn.

"From your own servers," Daniel said. "We copied everything before you could ever think of wiping it."

Mr. M's pulse throbbed in his temple. His Rolex rattled against the table. "You don’t understand—I built this label!" His voice splintered. "And that … I made that ungrateful brat a star! I gave him everything!"

Eleanor sighed, the way one might at a child’s tantrum. "You're fired. Effective immediately."

In a heartbeat, the air turned viscous.

Mr. M stood so fast his chair slammed backward, crashing into the glass panels of the room. Outside, your face loomed on a billboard—standing tall, smirking down at him like fate itself.

"YOU CAN'T DO THIS!" Spittle flecked his lips.

Eleanor pressed a button under the table. The doors hissed open.

Two armed guards stepped in, hands already reaching.

"Watch me," she said.

They grabbed him by the elbows, dragging him toward the elevator. His Ferragamos scraped grooves into the hardwood.

"ELEANOR! ELEANOR, YOU BITCH—"

The doors closed. His voice muffled, then vanished.

Silence.

—

The townhouse was eerily quiet when you stepped inside, the click of the door too loud in the hush. Jay flicked on the lights, but the silence pressed in anyway—heavy, like the air before a storm.

Mira lingered in the foyer, her fingers worrying her car keys. "You sure you’re okay? I can stay—"

You waved her off. "We’re good. Thanks, Mira."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Call me if anything happens."

The door shut behind her, leaving you and Jay alone.

Quiet. Only the peaceful sounds of the city streets rushed through your ears and outside the window.

There, you stood by the entrance. And with you? Jay, smiling at you like there was no tomorrow.

“You’re gonna tear off your face if you keep smiling like that.” You spoke.

Jay then hugged you from behind, breathing onto your next with a sigh of relief.

You kicked off your shoes, laughing weakly. "Remember when we thought my dorm was haunted?"

Jay smirked, toeing the edge of the rug. "You screamed because a moth flew into your hair."

"It was huge!" You shoved him, and for a second, it was like nothing had changed.

Then—

BANG.

The sound was deafening.

The vase beside your head exploded, glass shards raining onto the hardwood. Your body moved to shove Jay out of the way before your brain could process—gunshot—and then Jay was moving, lunging toward the shadow in the doorway.

Mr. M.

Pistol raised, his face twisted in fury.

"You ruined me!" he snarled.

“H-how did you-”

“I know everything about you!” He raised his voice. “I built you! MADE YOU!”

Suddenly, Jay crashed into him, knocking him back.

“JAY!!”

A whittling commotion can be heard as Mira pried your door open.

“What’s the-”

“IT’S MR. M!” You shrieked. “He’s fighting Jay!”

“F-FIGHTING?!?” Mira shouted like her lungs depended on it.

“Should I-”

“YES!” You didn’t let fear scramble you as you took Mira to the side. “NOW!”

Mira didn’t hesitate and brought her dial to her ear, waiting for the other side to pick up.

The second gunshot tore through the air like a crack of thunder, and suddenly—BANG.

White-hot, searing through your side.

You gasped, the sound more of a wet choke than breath, your back slamming against the wall as your legs gave out. Your hand flew to the wound, fingers coming away slick and red.

“What the fuck—” You coughed, and agony lanced through your ribs—each spasm cost you air, cost you thought, cost you everything.

Mira was on you before you hit the ground, her hands clawing at your shirt, her voice a frenzied mantra.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—”

She dragged you backward, your heels scuffing bloody trails across the floor, her grip bone-crushing as she hauled you behind a toppled conference table.

“Stay with me—stay with me—!”

“Fuck it hurts…” You winced as you felt the hot bullet still searing your muscle.

Your vision spotted black at the edges, but you forced your head up—because Jay was still out there.

“HAH!!” Jay had Mr. M pinned against the shattered window, the quaint city street a fractured backdrop behind them. The gun lay kicked aside, but Mr. M was far from done.

“You ruined me!” Mr. M spat, his face a rictus of sweat and fury, shooting a glance towards you.

“I made you! Everything you are—everything you have—it’s because of ME!”

Jay’s grip on his collar tightened, his voice low, lethal.

“You stole from him. You lied to him. You used him”

Mr. M laughed, the sound hysterical, unhinged. “And you let me!”

The words stung silently, your eyes never taking off Jay’s fazed look. ****

“Where were you, Jay? Huh? Off playing hero while HE bled for my profit?”

“Jay, don’t listen to him!” You shouted, the wound still throbbing hot in your flesh.

Yet Jay flinched—just once—but it was enough.

Mr. M twisted, driving a knee into Jay’s ribs, and broke free. He lunged for the gun—

“JAY!” Your voice ripped raw from your throat.

Jay tackled him, their bodies crashing into a desk, sending your books, papers, glass flying—

BANG.

A third gunshot.

Jay staggered back, his hand pressing to his side, blood welling between his fingers.

“N-No!” Mira caught your hand as you sobbed, clutching you tighter.

Mr. M scrambled to his feet, panting, wild-eyed—

But Jay was faster.

He slammed Mr. M’s head into the floor, once, twice, until the man went limp.

Then—silence.

Jay’s breath was ragged, his shirt stained crimson, but his gaze found yours across the wreckage.

“Still… here?” he managed, voice threadbare.

You choked out a laugh, even as Mira shook you, screaming for help.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Still here.”

Mr. M wrenched free, panting—then bolted, the front door slamming behind him.

Jay dropped to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

You crawled toward him, vision swimming.

"Please … stay with me," you begged, pressing your hands to his wound.

Jay smiled, his eyelids fluttering. "Worth it."

Mira was already on the phone, her voice frantic. "Ambulance! NOW!"

Your tears fell onto Jay’s face, mixing with his sweat.

"Don’t you dare leave me again." You cried. ‘’Don’t you DARE!!”

His fingers found yours.

And there was only a smile on his face, before he let out one gust of precious air from the pain.

“Jay? Jay …. JAAAYYY!!!”

Outside, sirens wailed.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i gotta admit this is too fast for an update and i was supposed to publish a ni-ki fic but THIS IS MY MAN'S DAY SO WE GOTTA CELEBRATE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BELOVED POOKIE ROCKSTAR RAAAAAAAAA LYLYLYLYLYL MAWMAWMAMWA

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

?!!?!?!

im not depriving you am i ?! yall really want me exposing my tastes 😭

THE POWER JAY AND JAKE HAS??!! KSNSJSNSNS!!!! EVERYONE IS SLAYING ??? 😭😭😭

[ENHYPEN] DESIRE Concept Cinema Poster Ver.1

⋆｡°✩ a gift from japan ✦ nishimura riki

he's not getting boring is he? he's not being too different from what you were before right? even if you say things to reassure him, it'll just bug his mind over and over … maybe he needs some ideas to spice it up? hmmm … i mean googling about it shouldn't hurt …

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — nishimura riki x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, lil cracky, will be suggestive, implied male!reader, implied long time relationship with riki, childhood friends (?), something's definitely going to happen and I will be SEATED

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — UHHH just know that ni-ki did this to himself, this is his FAULT for being so fuckin cute AFAGFRGFHRGHHGHHH!!!! dissapears from the face of the earth

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.3k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

You sighed, rolling your stiff shoulders as you pushed open the front door, toeing off your shoes with a tired groan. Work had been a beast—endless meetings, last-minute revisions, and a client who seemed allergic to the word "deadline." All you wanted was to collapse onto the couch with your boyfriend and forget the world existed for a few hours.

But the moment you stepped inside, the air shifted.

The usual clutter of Ni-ki’s dance gear and half-empty water bottles was gone. The living room was dim, lit only by the warm glow of candles—real ones, not the battery-operated ones you usually kept around because someone had nearly set the curtains on fire last time. The scent of something—was that garlic?—drifted from the kitchen, mingling with something floral. Roses?

Your eyebrows shot up.

"Riki?"

No answer.

A quick sweep of the apartment revealed the dining table—set with your good plates, the ones you only pulled out for special occasions. A single red rose lay across your napkin. The pasta in the center looked… charred at the edges, but the effort was unmistakable.

Your chest warmed. Anniversary. You’d completely forgotten.

A rustling sound came from the bedroom. And then, a thud.

Oh have you already figured it out.

"Riki?" you called again, voice laced with amusement. "If you’re hiding in there, I swear—"

The door creaked open.

And then—

Holy shit.

There he stood, bathed in the golden light of the bedside lamp, completely naked—save for the disaster of red ribbons haphazardly wrapped around his body.

As the door creaked, he turned towards you, face struck with disaster seeing you seeing him still not ready.

A stash of ribbon looped around his waist like a belt, others tangled around his biceps in a way that looked more accidental than artistic.

A single bow sat crookedly on his hip, barely clinging on. His face was flushed, his usually confident smirk wobbling into something painfully unsure.

"Shi- I mean ... Surprise?" He said, voice cracking.

You blinked. And then, you lost it.

A loud, unfiltered laugh burst out of you, doubling you over as you clutched your stomach. *"Oh my god—*what—what is happening right now?!"

Ni-ki’s expression flickered between mortification and defiance. "I—I researched this!" he insisted, gesturing wildly—which only made the ribbon around his wrist slip further. "It was supposed to be romantic!"

"Romantic?" you wheezed. "You look like a craft store exploded on you!"

"I panicked!" he whined, trying—and failing—to adjust the mess of fabric. *"The tutorial made it look easy, but then I couldn’t—why is this so complicated?!"

"Tuto- they have this on Youtube?!" You wheezed.

"Tumblr, okay? Tumblr!" Ni-ki whined, his art piece moving around as his frame did.

You wiped tears from your eyes, stepping closer. "Okay, okay—let me help." You gently tugged at a loose ribbon near his collarbone. "This one’s just… hanging here. Were you trying to tie it like a scarf?"

Ni-ki groaned, hiding his face in his hands. "I give up. This is the worst anniversary surprise ever."

You bit back another laugh, cupping his cheeks. *"No, no—it’s perfect."

He peeked, slowly, through his slender fingers. "...Really?"

"Really," you grinned. "I mean, yeah, it’s ridiculous—but that’s you. My ridiculous, over-the-top, adorable boyfriend who—" You paused, eyes trailing down. "—somehow thought ribbons were the key to seduction."

Ni-ki pouted. "It worked, though."

You snorted. "Did it?"

"You’re looking," he pointed out smugly.

"Hard not to when you’re basically a present with a bow on your—" You gestured vaguely. "—well, everything."

He laughed then, bright and unrestrained, the sound melting into the apartment's quiet. For a moment, the absurdity of it all faded—the ribbons, the burnt pasta, the fact that you’d forgotten today was special. None of it mattered.

Because he was here. Yours.

You brushed a thumb over his cheek, voice softening. "You didn’t have to do all this, you know."

Ni-ki leaned into your touch, his earlier bravado fading into something quieter. "I wanted to. You’ve been working so hard… I just—" He hesitated. "I didn’t want you to think that ..."

'That?" You looked at him, with his eyes reciprocating a yearning gaze.

"That I was ... getting boring."

Your heart clenched.

"Hey," you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. "You could never be boring. You’re the guy who came up to me first when I was a new kid and showed me around Shibuya even though we hadn't told our parents about it."

Ni-ki laughed. "The same day too—"

"The same day too!" You chuckled. "That was my first day, and I went with the popular kid on a trip downtown!"

Both of you laughed at the memory, Ni-ki beating your arms as his body couldn't contain his laughter.

"Also, who proposed to me with a pack of those golden Haribo gummies he so hardly earned after a week and cried when I said yes. Who still tries to make me carry him to bed even though he's taller than me now—"

"You can still do it!" he protested.

"You're past 6 foot!"

"And I'm light as a feather—"

You kissed him.

Slow, sweet, lingering—until the tension in his shoulders melted away, until your hands found his waist, pulling him a bit closer.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were warm, his smile small but real.

"I love you," you whispered. "Ribbons or no ribbons."

Ni-ki exhaled, resting his head against your shoulder. "...Even if the pasta’s burnt?"

"Even then."

A beat of silence. Then—

"...So," he drawled, fingers tracing idle patterns on your hip. "Since you do like the ribbons…"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh my god."

"Wanna unwrap your gift?" His voice dropped, lips brushing your ear. "I hear it’s one of a kind."

You groaned, half-exasperated, half-aroused. "You’re impossible."

Ni-ki grinned, all teeth. "But you love me."

And as the candles flickered, as the pasta sat forgotten, as his hands slid under your shirt with far too much confidence for someone literally tangled in ribbons—

You couldn’t argue.

"Yeah," you breathed, tugging him back toward the bed. "I really do."

Right there, you could feel his warmth once again, bathing your lips in such sweet harmony.

The kiss deepened, slow and syrupy, his mouth against yours. The ridiculousness of the ribbons faded into the background—now all you could focus on was the way his hands slid up your back, the way his breath hitched when you bit his lower lip.

You pulled back just enough to murmur against his mouth, "So. These ribbons."

Ni-ki grinned, all mischief. "What about them?"

"They're everywhere," you laughed, plucking at the one draped over his shoulder. "How did you even manage to find the time and prepare all this?"

He huffed, but his cheeks flushed darker. "I just had time, you know? Also, it's harder than it looks." His fingers twitched against your waist. "Maybe you should... help me out."

"Oh?" You arched a brow, dragging a fingertip along the ribbon circling his wrist. "You want me to fix this mess?"

Ni-ki’s breath stuttered. "I want you to take it all off."

Your stomach flipped.

Slowly, teasingly, you tugged at the loose end of the ribbon around his wrist. It unraveled with a whisper of silk, pooling at his feet. Your fingers trailed up his arm, following the path of another ribbon—this one looped haphazardly around his bicep. You tugged, and it slipped free, revealing the smooth, sun-kissed skin beneath.

Ni-ki watched you with half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling just a little faster now.

"Like what you see?" he murmured, voice rough.

You smirked. "I might."

Another ribbon, this one slung low around his waist, barely holding on. You tugged it free with a slow pull, letting your knuckles graze his hipbone. His breath caught.

"Tease," he accused, but he didn’t stop you.

You hummed, stepping closer, your chest nearly brushing his. "You wrapped yourself up like a present," you murmured, fingers skimming the last ribbon—the one pretending to cover him, tied in a loose bow at his hip. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

Ni-ki’s throat bobbed. "This," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Your fingers curled around the final ribbon.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered back—

And pulled.

 EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i just had too THAT RECENT CLIP OF HIM RINGIN THE BELL AND PRESENTING HIMSELF?!?! HEAD TO TOE AS A GIFT?!?1 YES PLEASE?!?! so here is a fic based on that, you are SO welcome sahjfahfjas

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

can i be honest with you? i loved your sunghoon fic so much that now i can't stop think about f*cking him in prison guard position, admiring his biceps and back muscles

literally looked it up (don't if you're NOT stupid 😭) and ?? yes ?? YES I FUCKING AGREE ?!

who doesnt love a muscly man being railed down wtf 😭 like I DO I DO

⋆｡°✩ just a little bite ✦ park sunghoon

you can't just contain it can you? biting onto something so forbidden ... god fucking dammit forbid your lover has meaty guns for arms holy fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park sunghoon x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — fluff, then suddenly suggestive, implied male!reader down bad for sunghoon, cuddles, intentions to fuck but we'll see, you see i wrote this just looking at sunghoon's arms, and y'all wanted it okay !!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — erm the urge to hold this man down because his arms are fucking thick what the fuck

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.2k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ looking for my main masterlist? — here's the legacy one!

The low hum of the television is a distant murmur, barely registering beneath the weight of Sunghoon’s presence beside you.

The documentary plays on—some sweeping shot of Arctic tundra, glaciers groaning under their own weight—but the screen might as well be static for all you care.

Because Sunghoon is warm.

Not just warm—radiant, like the sun itself had curled up next to you on the couch instead. He’d come home later than usual, hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of that body wash you always tease him for buying.

It’s ridiculous how good it smells on him. Like something expensive and forbidden, clinging to his skin long after he’s stepped out of the steam.

And now here he is, in that tank top—that specific one, the one you know he wears on purpose because it clings to every dip and curve of his shoulders, the fabric thin from too many washes, nearly translucent where it stretches over his chest. His arms are bare, his skin still flushed from the heat of his shower, and when he’d pulled you against him without a word, you hadn’t even pretended to resist.

How could you? This was your lover we’re talking about. Your warmth itself.

His arm is heavy around your own, slowly tracing down with his fingers tracing absent circles into your hip. You can feel the flex of his forearm every time he shifts, the muscle tightening unconsciously as he adjusts his grip.

Your cheek rests against his bicep, and the warmth of his skin seeps into yours, slow and syrupy.

Your body molds to his effortlessly, your head finding its usual spot against his bicep, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his thigh. Sunghoon hums, content, his arm tightening around your waist as the documentary drones on in the background.

You can hear his breathing, steady and deep, but when you glance up, his eyes are already on you—dark, amused, knowing.

He’s not really paying attention either.

Because you—you were staring.

He can feel it—the weight of your gaze, the way your fingers flex against his leg, the quiet, hitched breaths you think he doesn’t notice. Sunghoon smirks to himself, tilting his head just enough to catch the way your eyes linger on the curve of his arm, the way your teeth worry at your bottom lip.

Cute.

"You’re not even watching," Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low, rough at the edges like he’s been laughing too hard at practice. His thumb strokes over your abdomen, deliberate, and you swear he presses just a little harder when your breath catches.

You hum, pretending to consider the screen. "Polar bears," you say, deadpan. "Very educational."

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest, and you feel it where you’re tucked against him, the vibration of it sinking into your ribs.

"Liar," he accuses, but there’s no heat in it—just that familiar fondness, the one that makes your stomach flip. "I’ll melt if you keep looking at me like that."

You could deny it. You should deny it.

He expects you to deny it, to swat at him, to roll your eyes and call him cocky—but instead, you press your lips to the inner seams of his arm—just a brush, barely there.

A soft, pliant kiss upon his silken complexion.

Sunghoon goes still, his fingers twitching against your side.

Your mouth is warm, soft, and when your teeth graze over his skin—just the barest hint of pressure—his breath catches, his fingers twitching against your side.

"Ticklish?" you tease, your voice muffled against his skin.

His exhale is shaky. "Y-you know I’m not."

But you do know.

You know the way his breath stutters when you touch him like this, the way his pulse jumps under your lips when you linger just a second too long. You know the way his grip tightens when he’s trying not to pull you closer.

So you do it again—this time, letting your teeth graze lightly, just to hear the sharp inhale he tries to stifle.

Sunghoon jolts, his arm flexing instinctively under your mouth. His grip on your hip tightens, fingers digging in just enough to make your stomach swoop.

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, and his eyes are dark, his lips parted, his chest rising just a little too fast.

“I felt your teeth right there …”

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

Sunghoon exhales, slow, his free hand coming up to tangle in your hair, fingertips scratching lightly at your scalp. "You’re mean," he mutters, but his voice is thick, rough around the edges.

"First you ignore the documentary, then you come kiss me and bite me—"

You do it again. Harder.

This time, his breath catches, a quiet, punched-out sound escaping him.

Sunghoon flinches, his whole body jerking beneath you—muscles tensing, breath hitching—and before you can even process it, his grip slips. Just barely, just enough to send you both tumbling off the couch in a tangle of limbs, landing in a heap on the floor.

The fall knocks the air from your lungs, but you barely feel it. Not when you’re half on top of him, your chest pressed flush against his, your face burning, your pulse hammering in your throat like it’s trying to escape.

Sunghoon blinks up at you, dazed, his lips slightly parted, his dark hair mussed from the fall.

The dim glow from the TV flickers across his face, catching the curve of his cheekbone, the faint sheen on his lower lip where he’d bitten it earlier.

And then he laughs—soft and breathless, his chest shaking beneath yours, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll pull away.

“You—” He lifts a hand, rubbing at the faint red mark you’ve left on his bicep, his grin lazy, molten. “You marked me.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. “Didn’t mean to.”

“Liar,” he says again, but there’s no bite to it—just that same rough-edged fondness, the kind that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers trail up your spine, slow and deliberate, sending shivers skittering across your skin. “You’ve been eye-fucking my arms since I came out of the bathroom.”

You could argue.

Instead, you press your lips to the mark again—lingering this time, letting your tongue dart out to soothe the sting, just to feel the way his breath stutters.

And in an unprecedented fashion, you travel your lips damply onto his arms—guiding it thoroughly until your reach collarbone, his jaw, and eventually, his parted lips.

Sunghoon shudders, his fingers tightening in your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rougher now, darker. “Do that again.”

So you do—this time with teeth.

He gasps, his hips jerking beneath you, and suddenly his hand is on your waist, flipping you over with barely any effort, pressing you into the floor.

All he had was a dominating form on top of your waist, his chest heaving, and his pupils blown so wide his irises are nearly swallowed by black.

“You,” he breathes, leaning down until his lips brush against yours—close enough that you can taste the mint on his tongue, the sweetness of the energy drink he’d gulped down earlier.

“—are dangerous.”

You grin up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his arms, the swell of his biceps, the way his muscles tense under your touch. “You love it.”

Sunghoon exhales, shaky, his nose bumping against yours. “Yeah,” he admits, voice rough.

“I do.”

And then he kisses you—deep and passionate, his tongue sliding against yours, his hands gripping your chest down to your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

His body presses you into the floor, solid and unyielding, and you pull him down closer without thinking, chasing the heat of his skin, feeling his tantalizing weight gripping you down tightly.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are red, his breathing uneven.

“More …” he murmurs, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip, smudging the wetness there.

“Please…”

And you don’t even argue.

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — ASKFJKAJSFKLAE!!! yes im a freak for his arms bro have you seen?! him !? flexing it?! ever since i saw him being all proud of it since paradox i was like … fuck you have GOT to be kidding me WHAT THE HELL!! so yeah, here it is … me just writing how it owuld feel to just .. have this man like be with you so warm like RAAAAA and it won the poll so don't judge me YOU'RE THE SAME !?!

my masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

NOOO, I CAN'T PUT THE SPONGEBOB PIC.

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭💔💔💔🖕🖕🖕😭🖕💔🖕😭🖕😭🖕🖕😭🖕💔💔🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭😭🖕🤗🖕💔🖕🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭🖕💔🖕🖕💔💔🖕😚💔🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭😭🖕😭💔💔🖕😭🖕😭💔💔🖕😭🖕😭🖕😭🖕💔💔✊⛓️🖕💔💔😭🖕✊⛓️😭🖕💔✊⛓️😭🖕✊💔😭⛓️✊🖕😭

rawr

jay ... slaying as always .... but jake?! the SLUT jumped out wtf (my hands is one screen away from grabbing exposing his collarbone) 😭☝️

IG : billboard

Hi, how are you love? 💕 I miss you! I really liked the jealous boyfriends! ILYSM MWAH! 🩷

AAAA THANK YOU SMMMM!! I also love the idea of them tbh! Although personally and based on the vibes, I don't really think Jay would be a jealous person BUT Jake on the other hand... he's a scorpio. I don't believe in astrology as much as peeps do but we're pretty jelly and I know him just from that HSJFKHFAJSFS and uhh, really itching to do some story revolving them two in a love triangle ... WAHAHAHA

⋆｡°✩ jealous boyfriends [ jay, jake, sunghoon, ni-ki ]

jealousy is a disease (and they are sick!)

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairings — park jongseong x male!reader + sim jaeyun x male!reader + nishimura riki x male!reader + park sunghoon x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, bestfriend!enhypen x lgbt!reader, smau / texting, fluff, lil' cracky, suggestive content, jealousy !!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, implied relationships, swear words, innuendos, author's interpretation of the people in this series might not always reflect them irl

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ u got texts : the full masterlist (revamped and reorganized)

[ builtdiff.png ]

[ no1aussieboy.png ]

[ lovelyhoon.png ]

[ certifiedkiwihater.png ]

EN—D

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — OH THEYRE SO JEALOUS anyway i was racking my brain to come up with something BECAUSE i just have too much ideas on what they'll be jealous about and i just can't take it asfjhkfas

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ exclusive story taglist — want to get the latest updates on this story? i do frequent posts so just be warned! just leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates~

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

omg is he covering it because of that infamous open eye pic of him of what 😭

[SUNGHOON] Jjongssaeng HBD~

Would love to receive just something nice today 😭🖐️

WHAT THE FUCKKK!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭

250419

Hi, I just came to tell you that I love you so much!! By the way, I love your stories. 🩷

(I wanted to include a picture of Jay , but it won't let me.)

MWAH! 💋

AAAAAA LOVE YOU TOO SHYOKO!! one of the best writers out there and im GLAD to be chaotic even if you're just so chill when we talk 😭🖐️ Hopefully get to see more of your fics !! I LOVE THEM 😭🩵

⋆｡°✩ [ch.4] for when you know me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 2.2k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The studio smelled like overpriced candles and desperation—vanilla and bergamot masking the stale coffee and exhaustion clinging to the air.

You slumped in the vocal booth, headphones pressing into your skull once more like Atlas' hands around your throat. Your forehead was drenched with nervous sweat as you stared at the lyric sheet through blurry eyes.

"Again," the producer's voice crackled through the intercom, not looking up from his screen where waveforms pulsed in hypnotic patterns. "From the bridge. And this time, I need you to feel it."

“Again?” You tried to retort.

“Don’t you dare. We’ve barely got any material.” The rude operator just kept on going.

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you closed your eyes and sang the same hollow lyrics for the seventeenth time that day, your fingers twitching against your thighs with each forced note.

"I don't need your love, I don't need your touch—"

A lie. Every word.

With every inch of her might, she pushed the heavy studio door to crack it open. Ariana Grande slipped in like sunlight through storm clouds, her quaint dress complimenting her petite frame.

The scent of her perfume momentarily cut through the studio's stale air as she caught your eye through the glass and mimed playing a small violin—her signature this is torture face, complete with exaggerated pout.

You choked back a laugh that threatened to turn into something more fragile.

"Break time!" she announced, marching in before the producer could protest. Her manicured fingers plucked the headphones off your head with practiced ease, the sudden absence of pressure making your ears ring.

“For real?” You asked.

"Come on, superstar. Five minutes won't kill your track." She winked. "Unless we're aiming for that post-crying vocal texture?"

“That’s a you thing.”

“Blah blah, just get outtt~”

The second you were out of earshot, she shoved a matcha latte into your hands. The cup was still warm, condensation beading on the cardboard sleeve.

“You got this from Mira?” You asked, hesitating at first as you received the cup.

“I’m appalled.” She muttered under her breath. “I know your blend. I’m a Grande, if that helps.”

You rolled your eyes as you rolled with her puns and so.

It was as if a lifetime ago when you were only dreaming of getting tickets to one of her shows. Now, you were rubbing elbows with one of the industry’s finest. You could say it was one of the perks of being an artist, to get a glimpse of those who really have inspired you since the beginning.

As for why she’s here, it’s complicated. At one point you babbled to a bunch of staff people that you’d die to get your favorite artists on your next album, projected by almost any stat person to be a Grammy nominated album at minimum.

Atlas heard, and Atlas gives. You could say you were thankful for them being greedy to get someone as Grande. It was a dream come true made reality for you.

"Breathe," she murmured as she sat on one of the round chairs, her usual bubbly persona dropping for a rare moment of sincerity as she studied the dark circles under your eyes.

You took a grateful sip, the familiar bitterness grounding you as it burned your tongue. "They're gonna fire me."

Ari rolled her eyes so hard it looked painful, leaning against the leather couch that had seen brighter days. "Please." She flicked your forehead lightly, her diamond ring catching the studio lights. "Atlas would sell their firstborn to keep you."

When you didn't smile, she nudged your knee with her own. "You're their only cash cow this decade, and we both know it. Remember Tokyo?"

The memory surfaced—Dior's store opening, the two of you hiding in a dressing room with smuggled champagne, laughing until your stomachs hurt about all the industry nonsense.

That had been...what? Eight months ago? It’s a crazy world to be an artist in.

The studio door cracked open again. Mira hovered in the doorway, her tablet clutched to her chest like a shield. The fluorescent hallway lights backlit her frazzled bun. "Uh...sorry to interrupt, but—"

Ari waved her off without looking away from you. "Five more minutes, Mira. The man's about to have an aneurysm." She gestured to your white-knuckled grip on the latte cup, where your nails had left crescent moons in the cardboard.

Mira hesitated, biting her lip hard enough to leave marks, then stepped fully inside. The door clicked shut behind her with ominous finality.

"It's...it's really urgent. Mr. M's waiting upstairs. He said—" She cut herself off, glancing nervously at Ariana, her fingers tightening around the tablet.

Ari raised one perfectly arched eyebrow but didn't press.

“Ah. Him again?”

“It’s always him.” You sighed.

Looking at you, she squeezed your shoulder, her touch warm through the thin fabric of your t-shirt.

“Have you been working out?” She blurted.

“You know I do—”

"Go," she murmured, just for you. "We'll pick this up later."

As you stood, she added quietly, "And text me if you need an alibi. I've got a great story about a karaoke bar and three backup dancers ready to go."

“Wait, three?”

“It’ll be five if you agree on a time today.” Ari winked with mischief.

–––

The elevator ride to the executive floor felt like ascending to the gallows. Each passing floor number blinked accusingly, the mirrored walls reflecting your tired expression back at you from infinite angles.

You fixed your hair with trembling fingers, tucking the loose strand behind your ear, but it was a losing battle—you looked exactly like what you were: exhausted.

Mr. M's office was all sharp angles and cold light—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan that did nothing to warm the space, a massive oak desk that probably cost more than your first car, its surface polished to a mirror shine.

He didn't stand when you entered, just gestured to the chair opposite him with the gold-plated pen in his hand, the overhead lights glinting off his Rolex.

“New watch?” You flick your gaze to his wrist, smirking. “Let me guess—gift from HR after they finally capped your sexual harassment complaints?”

The air conditioning kicks on. Or maybe it’s just the ice in his stare.

“Cute.” He doesn’t blink. “You’d need a personality to weaponize before it’d land, though.”

You lean in, sugar-venom sweet: “And you’d need a dick to compensate for before I’d care.”

His knuckles whiten around his coffee cup. There it is—the crack in the armor. You file it away for later. Also, you killed that delivery though.

"Sit."

You remained standing, your back straight despite the ache between your shoulders.

“Difficult artists…” Mr. M muttered rather underhandedly as he slid a tablet across the desk with one finger, the movement precise and controlled.

The TMZ article glared up at you—grainy but unmistakable, the timestamp reading 3:17 AM in the corner.

You and Jay in that diner booth, his hand hovering near yours like he couldn't quite help himself, the neon sign casting both of you in pink light. The headline burned your retinas:

ATLAS’ GOLDEN ACE SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY MAN! Insiders say the late-night meeting has Atlas execs "concerned"

Mr. M tapped the screen with his pen, circling the title with the sound so crisp it nipped at your ear.

“I’m taking it their talking about you?” You tried to lighten the mood. “You do look ‘concerned’.. time isn’t kind to those like—”

"You’d do well to quit the quips and explain, boy." Mr. M huffed.

You kept your voice level through sheer willpower.

"An old friend."

Oh, joy.

"An old distraction," Mr. M corrected, his Italian loafers hitting the carpet as he leaned back, the leather chair creaking under his weight. "Do you know how much we've invested in you? Your image? Your brand?" His fingers steepled, the diamond pinky ring catching the light.

"Jongseong Park—former law school trust fund kid, now what? A music theory professor?" He scoffed, the sound dripping with disdain. "How...quaint."

He didn’t have to force that into your throat, the bitter fact that Jay made such a decision.

Just for the sake of you, needing no confirmation from him.

You knew Jay would do anything for you, but it still ached you. Ached your heart.

He really loved you that much, and you felt undeserving of all of it.

Your nails bit into your palms, the pain the only thing keeping you grounded. "He’s a respectable professor at NYU."

"Exactly." Mr. M's smile was all teeth, the kind that never reached his eyes. "And you're here. In the big leagues." He stood abruptly, circling the desk with slow, measured steps.

You couldn’t help but shoot a glare at the man before you—but what of it?—you’re stuck in this golden pit he’d call his home.

"We own your voice. Your face. Your story." His hand landed on your shoulder, heavy as a shackle. "And your story doesn't include some washed-up law school dropout playing teacher."

The words hit like a slap, each syllable a hammer blow to your ribs.

"Damage control," Mr. M continued, straightening his cufflinks with a practiced flick of his wrists. "Rolling Stone next week. You'll say he's … consulting on new material." His smile turned razor-sharp, the kind that promised consequences.

He inched a bit closer to you, much to your disdain.

"You'll smile when you say it."

—

The last student trickled out of the lecture hall, the door swinging shut behind them with a hollow thud that echoed through the suddenly empty space.

Jay slumped against the piano, his fingers absently tracing the keys without pressing down—a habit he'd picked up after quitting law school, when the weight of his parents' disappointment still sat heavy on his shoulders and the only comfort was the familiar topography of black and white ivory.

The late afternoon sun’s rays slanted through the high windows of Steinhardt, painting the hardwood floors in gold. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling around sheet music left abandoned on stands. The air smelled like rosin and old books, with the faintest hint of lemon polish underneath.

Jay closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The lecture had gone well—better than well, actually. His students had been engaged, asking thoughtful questions about modal interchange that showed they'd actually done the reading. It should have felt like a victory.

Instead, all he could hear was your voice cracking on that diner's cheap speakers last night, singing words you'd once whispered against his skin like secrets.

"Professor Park?"

Jay turned, expecting another eager undergrad with questions about their midterm or perhaps the department secretary with paperwork.

Instead, Naomi stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the sunlight streaming in from the hall.

Her crisp navy blazer was wrinkled from travel, her usually impeccable ponytail slightly askew. A rolling suitcase stood at her side, its wheels still damp from New York's unpredictable spring showers.

"Surprise," she said softly, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she approached. The sound was measured, precise—like everything Naomi did.

Jay's stomach dropped. She wasn't due back from Washington until tomorrow. He'd planned to—well, he didn't know what he'd planned.

Clean the apartment, maybe. Buy flowers.

Pretend last night hadn't happened.

“You could’ve called me.” Jay forced a smile on his features. “Feeling alright?”

There were no words—nothing but silence that only drowned their presences together. There was no way to measure the volume of how deafening it was.

Naomi’s gaze did look longer as she always did, slowly leaning in as she reached into her briefcase, her movements deliberate.

The leather creaked as she pulled out a folded tabloid, sliding it across the piano lid without a word. The paper made a soft scraping sound against the polished wood, the movement sending a few sheets of music fluttering to the side.

The New York Post, its cover page loaded with one giant headline image.

The grainy photo stared up at him—you and him in that diner booth, caught in some unguarded moment he couldn't even remember. Your fingers had been inches from his, your face tilted toward him in the pink neon glow like you were sharing a secret. The headline was bold and brutal:

MIDNIGHT RENDEZVOUS! Who is the mystery man stealing pop's golden ace's heart?

Jay's throat closed. His fingers twitched toward the newspaper, then pulled back, leaving it lying there like an indictment.

Naomi didn't yell. Didn't cry. There was no trace of any emotions that tore her face anew.

Just studied him with those keen lawyer's eyes that missed nothing—not the way his breath hitched, not the flush creeping up his neck, not even the promise ring he suddenly found himself twisting around his finger.

The silence stretched between them, taut as a high wire, the only sound the distant chatter of students passing in the hall outside and the metronome-like tick of the classroom clock.

"I know." She said simply.

And that was worse than any accusation.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — okay i gotta admit this is too fast for an update and i was supposed to publish a ni-ki fic but THIS IS MY MAN'S DAY SO WE GOTTA CELEBRATE AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BELOVED POOKIE ROCKSTAR RAAAAAAAAA LYLYLYLYLYL MAWMAWMAMWA

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

HAPPY BDAY TO YOU MY LOVE SVHUABIRVOIASUHWERI RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭💙💙💙

HAPPY BIRTHDAY JAY! 🎉🎂❤️ OUR ROCKSTAR ✨️

i miss ryu sunjae 😔🖐️

oh pookie 😭🖐️🩵🩵🩵

ENHYPEN <EN-LOG> AirDDrop "JAY"

no one will know which one it is.

⋆｡°✩ [ch.3] for when you want me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 2.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

The cold Manhattan air gave you a chill as you walked towards the path from East 5th. Swimming through the dozens of people that got to their own businesses for the day, Jay’s business card only felt like burning a hole in your side pocket.

You hadn’t slept.

Not after the bar. Not after you met him.

The card was still there when you woke up—creased from how tightly you’d gripped it, the edges digging into your palm like a guilty secret.

You should’ve thrown it out, yet here it is..

Instead, you found yourself standing outside Yves' Bean Over Eat, the café you and Jay used to haunt during finals week. Back then, the place had been a refuge—scented with overroasted beans and the sharp tang of sharpie ink on disposable cups.

Now, it was polished. Trendy. The kind of place you assumed Naomi would approve of.

"The usual?" The barista—new, unfamiliar—smiled expectantly.

You hesitated.

"...Yeah."

The lie tasted bitter. There was no usual anymore. Not since Jay left. Not since you traded slow mornings for studio call times and press junkets.

Luckily, they got your order right. You took a seat by the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray and gold.

Resting your back on the wooden furniture, your phone buzzed.

Mira: Atlas wants you in the studio by 11. New single’s getting pushed up.

You exhaled through your nose.

You: I’m asleep.

Mira: Clearly you’re not.

You: I’m sick?

Mira: Don’t ask me now?

You: Family affair?

Mira: What family?

You: Tell them I’m dead.

Mira: They’ll prop your corpse up on stage with a backing track.

You snorted into your matcha.

Then the bell above the door chimed.

And suddenly, Jay was there.

Blond hair slightly windswept, glasses that fit onto his face so perfectly, and a dark loose turtleneck kept in wraps under a plaid sleeve clung to his shoulders like it was made for him.

At that one second, his eyes locked onto yours, wide with surprise—as if he hadn’t spent the last 24 hours lying awake hoping you’d come.

As if he hadn’t spent the last four years regretting everything.

Slowly, he walked himself up to where you were, hesitant at first to really know if it was really you.

With enough courage to muster, he spoke words like it was his first time doing so.

"H-hey," he said, his voice rough.

Your grip tightened around the cup. "Hi."

Jay hesitated, then slid into the seat across from you. Close enough to touch. Too far to reach.

"...You came."

You shrugged, staring into your matcha. "I like the foam here."

A lie.

Jay knew it.

Somehow, he always did.

His fingers tapped restlessly against the table—a habit he’d never kicked.

"Listen, about last night—"

"Don’t." You cut him off, sharper than intended. "Just… don’t."

Jay flinched.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Outside, a taxi honked. A couple laughed. Life moved on.

Then, softly—

"I miss you."

Your breath hitched.

Jay wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at his hands, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the table. "I know I shouldn’t say that. I know it’s—fuck, it’s selfish. But I do."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile as spun glass.

You could shatter it with one word.

Instead, you whispered—

"I miss you too."

Jay’s head snapped up, eyes searching yours like he’d misheard. Like he’d dreamed this moment a thousand times and still wasn’t prepared for it.

Then his phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller.

The damage was done.

You stood abruptly, chair screeching against the floor. "I should go."

"Wait—" Jay caught your wrist. His touch was warm. Familiar. "Please."

You froze.

His thumb brushed over your pulse point—once, twice—before he let go. "...Can we try this again? Just… us. For real."

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to run.

In the end, you did neither.

"I’ll think about it," you murmured.

Jay exhaled, slow and shaky. "Okay."

You left before he could see your hands tremble.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The studio lights were blinding.

You squinted against them, headphones crushing your skull as the producer’s voice crackled through the intercom.

"One more take. From the bridge."

You clenched your jaw.

This song was garbage.

Poppy, soulless, manufactured—everything you’d sworn you’d never make. But Atlas had quotas. Algorithms. A bottom line that didn’t care about artistic integrity.

You took a breath.

And sang.

The lyrics tasted like ash.

"I’m over you, I’m over us—

don’t need your love, don’t need your touch."

A lie.

The worst kind.

When the track finally ended, you ripped the headphones off, tossing them onto the console.

Mira arched a brow from the corner. "Dramatic, aren’t we?"

"Buzz off," you laughed dryly.

She tossed you a water bottle. "So. Jay."

Your throat closed.

Mira smirked. "You’re worse than a telenovela, you know that?"

"I hate you."

"Liar." She nudged your shoulder. "Talk."

You slumped against the soundproof wall, sliding down until you hit the floor. "...I don’t know what I’m doing."

Mira joined you, stretching her legs out. "Do you want to know?"

That was the problem.

You did.

And it terrified you.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The call came at 2 AM.

Your phone lit up the darkened bedroom, Unknown Caller flashing across the screen like a ghost.

You stared at it.

Let it ring.

On the last vibration, you picked up.

"Hey." His voice was rough with sleep. Or something else.

"...Hey." You could hear relief at some point by the way he answered you.

A beat. Then—

“Sutton Place, was it?”

Your face crumpled in curiosity. “Say that again?”

"I’m outside."

Your heart stopped.

Slowly, you padded to the window, peeling back the curtain.

There he was.

Leaning against his car, face tipped up toward your townhome. The streetlight caught the gold in his hair, the curve of his jaw.

God did he look so beautiful.

You swallowed hard. "...Why?"

Jay’s breath crackled through the speaker. "Because I can’t stop thinking about you."

Simple. Honest.

Devastating.

You closed your eyes and made your choice.

The predawn air bit at your exposed ankles as you descended the townhouse steps, the wrought iron railing cold under your palm.

Jay stood exactly where you'd seen him from your bedroom window—not under the glow of the streetlamp like some romantic cliché, but half-shadowed where the light didn't quite reach, as if even now he couldn't fully step into the light.

"You came down," he said, voice scraped raw. His hands flexed at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, like they'd forgotten they weren't allowed to anymore.

You tugged the sleeves of your sweatshirt nervously, fingers curling into the worn fabric. "You called. And here I am, against my better judgment."

A taxi rumbled past, its headlights catching the hollows under his eyes, the new sharpness to his jaw. This Jay was both familiar and foreign—the boy you loved sanded down into a man by time and choices and the kind of regret that carves itself into bone.

The Bentley parked haphazardly behind him gleamed under the streetlights, but neither of you mentioned it. Some truths didn't need saying out loud.

"You shouldn't be here," you said, but your feet stayed rooted to the pavement.

Right there, he can only reciprocate a breath — eyes tracing your tousled hair, and even the worn NYU sweatshirt you’d stolen from him years ago.

You tightened your arms around yourself. "You’re blocking a five-million-dollar driveway, by the way."

Jay snorted, raking a hand through his windswept hair. "Still can’t believe you live here. When I saw the address on your tour rider, I thought it was a typo."

You sighed, knowing full well how he was able to get that kind of information. He was always smart when it came to you and your whereabouts.

“Leah?”

“Sarah, actually.”

“Oh …. that also makes sense.” You laughed it off.

The city air was quiet, almost as if it was drowning you both in the most tender moment between night and dawn.

"Atlas pays well for selling your soul," you said, watching his smile die.

Jay exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "You would say that."

The first time he'd shown up unannounced back at your old dorm, it had been 2 AM after a fight with his father. Now here he was again—your personal ghost, arriving at the most liminal hour between dusk and dawn.

"Let's go somewhere," he said, nodding toward his car.

You could have said no. Should have, probably. But the look in his eyes—that quiet, shattered hope—had always been your undoing.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The diner was nearly empty, the vinyl booths cracked with age and the air thick with the scent of burnt coffee. You slid into the corner seat—your seat, the one you’d claimed a lifetime ago during late-night study sessions and stolen kisses over shared milkshakes.

Jay paused by the table, his fingers brushing the chipped laminate. "Jesus. They still haven’t replaced these?"

"Some things don’t change," you said, watching as he eased into the seat across from you. The booth was smaller than you remembered. Or maybe you’d just forgotten how close you used to sit.

The waitress—Marge, according to her nametag, though she hadn’t been here last time—dropped two menus on the table without looking up. "Coffee?"

"Please," Jay said.

"Cola." you added. Jay looked at you with concern etched on his features.

Marge grunted and shuffled off, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the tile.

“At three in the morning?”

“You know I stack up Diet every day for this.” You smiled. “That small fridge we had was my lifeline.”

“To this day?” He spat in shock, but not surprised. Almost as if just taken aback of the old habit.

“I mean, I can afford a mean inverter double door refrigerator.” You jest. It is true, you can definitely afford that luxury now.

“I wasn’t talking about the amount of colas you can stack in a fridge.” Jay sighed, your usual bickering setting the tone for the conversation—familiar, easy, the kind of back-and-forth that used to mean something more.

But it didn’t mean that now.

There was no playful shove after, no rolling your eyes just to hide a smile. No lingering glances that said I’m only joking, teasing to see your face crumple so cutely.

Before, this would’ve been the part where you leaned in, just a little, brushing your lips against his cheek before he could finish his next sentence. Before, he would’ve reached under the table, fingers threading through yours like it was nothing, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Now, it was just words. Just two people talking, nothing hiding between the lines.

And that was the worst part—knowing exactly what it wasn’t anymore.

“It’s better than whiskey.” You retorted. Jay can only look at you with a simple gaze.

Jay drummed his fingers against the table — still the nervous habit he’d never kicked.

"So."

"So."

Another silence. The kind that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. The kind that felt like picking up a conversation you’d only paused.

Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don’t know where to start."

"Try the beginning," you said softly.

He met your gaze then, his dark eyes searching yours. "The beginning’s messy."

You huffed a laugh. "Since when have we ever been squeaky clean?"

Something in his expression fractured. For a second, you thought he might reach across the table. Might bridge the distance with his fingertips like he used to.

Instead, he folded his hands together. "I was wrong."

The words landed like a punch.

"About what?" you asked, though you already knew.

"Everything." Jay’s voice cracked. "The band. The label. You. I thought—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I thought I was protecting you. From the industry. From selling out. From … losing yourself."

Your chest ached. "And instead?"

The words sat there, heavy between you, like waiting for a wound to finally bleed.

"Instead—" He stopped, jaw tightening like the words were sharp in his mouth, like they might cut him on the way out. His voice dropped lower, rough at the edges.

"I lost you."

Just like that. No take-backs, no pretending it didn’t happen.

Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. You could hear his breath, uneven, like he’d been holding it too long. Like he hadn’t meant to say it—or maybe he had, and that was worse.

And there it was, laid out between you: the truth, bare and ugly. With no way to get it back.

Marge returned with your drinks, the mugs landing with a sharp clack against the worn formica. The drinks you’ve ordered sloshed over the rims, bearing no noise as the silence surrounded you. You waited until she’d shuffled off, her orthopedic shoes squeaking against the linoleum, before speaking.

"You didn’t lose me," you said, so quiet the words barely carried over the hum of the neon sign outside. "You let me go."

Jay flinched like you’d struck him. His fingers tightened around his mug, knuckles whitening, but he didn’t look up.

Outside, a garbage truck groaned past, its headlights cutting through the diner’s grease-smeared windows. For a second, the light caught the lines around Jay’s eyes—new ones, ones you didn’t recognize.

The clock above the counter ticked, each second louder than the last, marking time you couldn’t get back.

Funny, how everything kept moving. The world didn’t stop just because something broke.

He stared at the chipped mug the waitress dropped in front of him. "I dream about this place," he admitted quietly. "Wake up reaching for you across cold sheets."

Your breath caught. Four years. Four years of radio silence, of carefully curated distance, and he says this like it's nothing. Like the words weren't grenades.

"Why now?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jay's fingers traced along the table napkins he has on the table—around and around in a nervous circle. "Because I saw you play last week. Really play, not that polished Atlas bullshit." His eyes met yours, dark and desperate. "And back at the wedding? You forgot the lyrics to 'Way Back Into Love' again. Just like you always did."

The admission hung between you, fragile as the morning light beginning to creep through the diner's grimy windows.

Jay reached across the table, his fingers hovering just shy of yours. "I thought I finally nailed it and I was doing the right thing. Letting you chase your dreams without me holding you back." His throat worked as he swallowed.

"But watching you up there in person again after all this time—you looked just as trapped as I felt."

The truth of it lodged in your ribs. Atlas's golden cage. The songs you didn't write. The versions of yourself you'd whittled away to fit their mold.

Jay's phone buzzed—once, twice—lighting up with Naomi's name. He didn't reach for it.

"I should go," you said, standing abruptly.

Jay caught your wrist, his grip feather-light. "Please, stay."

Two words. That's all it took for the walls to crumble.

His request hung in the air, simple yet devastating.

The radio in the kitchen crackled to life with your latest hit—all polish and production, nothing like the raw songs you used to write. Then your voice floated through the static, singing lyrics you barely remembered writing. The label had polished every rough edge off that song, sanded it down until it was shiny and hollow. A hit, but not yours. Not really.

Jay’s grip on your wrist tightened slightly, his thumb finding the flutter of your pulse.

"You must hate that song," he murmured.

You swallowed hard. The chorus swelled, saccharine and overproduced. "I hate most of them now."

Jay stood slowly, his free hand lifting—hovering near your cheek, close enough that you felt the warmth of his palm but not the touch. Waiting. Always waiting for your permission, even now.

The diner’s door chimed as another customer entered, the bell jangling. A gust of cold morning air rushed in, carrying the smell of the city streets and exhaust. Neither of you moved.

"Call me," you whispered, pulling away. Your voice barely carried over the radio. "This time, when you’re really ready to talk about … us."

You stepped out into the dawn, the weight of his gaze following you like a second shadow. Behind you, the phone buzzed again—persistent, impatient.

You didn’t look back.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — THIRD ONE OUT!!1 ive got a week off and i'm sooo gonna rest, but ofc i an't forget my duty as a humble writer, and so here it is!! the third chapter ... oooh fascinating developments~ we'll see how it boils down!!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

⋆｡°✩ way back into love ✦ park jongseong

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ start — APRIL 9 2025

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ status — ONGOING

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ masterlist

✦ — for when you miss me

✦ — for when you see me

✦ — for when you want me

✦ — for when you know me

✦ — for when you need me

✦ — ???

✦ — ???

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — YOOOOOi never thought this day would come BUT does this qualify for angst? i'm not too sure cuz i've never really dove into the trope in terms of writing and also just had this asone of those dream fics i really wanted to write basedon tropes from the 2000s movies I oh so loved to watch RAHHHHH BUT I HOPE YOU ENJOY ITTTTT !!!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — get in here and request down below!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

legacy masterlist! | made by writhyv 💘

𝑠𝑜 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡𝒉 𝑦𝑜𝑢 ♪

oh my god he looks so delectable 🥴

Instagram update (billboard)

⋆｡°✩ [ch.2] for when you see me

Songs on the charts, sold-out shows, the kind of career most musicians dream about—everything’s perfect. But success doesn’t fill the emptiness. And then, just when you think you’ve moved on—there he is. Your past, standing in front of you like a love song you never finished.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ pairing — park jongseong x male!reader

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ word count — 1.8k

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ tags — male reader, jay x reader, estranged exes to lovers, famous singer!reader because we're built like that, is this angst? i have no clue, memories of your past together just hits hard ughhhh, jay has a new lover omg the drama-mama-mamah, you are dramatic as hell but we love you for you, you are insane to still think of him, i understand though you are in love with jay we see each other WE SEE EACH OTHER, more to come!

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ warning + notes — use of male pronouns, has some implied relationships, swear words, mentions and use of alcoholic substances, author's interpretation of the people in this fic might not reflect them irl, story update lengths may vary~

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love: the full masterlist [PREVIOUS CHAPTER]

The whiskey still burned in your chest when you woke up. You hated the feeling of alcohol within your system, but god does it soothe your tangled mess of a head.

Sunlight stabbed through the blinds, unforgiving. You groaned, rolling onto your side, half-expecting the bed to dip under someone else’s weight. But the sheets were cold. Empty.

Just like always.

The CD player had long since shut off, but the song still looped in your skull.

You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes until colors burst behind your lids.

Pathetic.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Leah’s name flashed across the screen, followed by a string of texts:

Leah: u alive?

Leah: also sarah says sorry abt last night. she didn’t know it was ‘that song’

Leah: …u gonna answer or am i sending mira over?

You typed back with one thumb.

You: i’m fine. don’t worry.

A lie. But what else was new?

The boxes in the corner taunted you. You’d only opened one last night, and already it felt like picking at a scab. The rest were a minefield of old playlists, ticket stubs, and the kind of photos that made your ribs ache.

You kicked the nearest one under the bed. Out of sight, out of mind.

The day was bright and bold. You set yourself up on your feet and got ready. Today is work day.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

“Going to Floor 26.” The pristine elevator voice echoed around you as you got in it.

The studio was your sanctuary. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Atlas Records had given you the space after your first album surprisingly went platinum immediately after it was released (only days before it went double.) It was a token, a ‘reward,’ they’d called it. As if the pristine soundboards, the premium tech setup and gears, and some Grade-A acoustic paneling could make up for the fact that they owned you.

You slumped into the chair, scrolling through the latest track list your producer had shoved at you: that and a mere bunch of memos from the people upstairs.

Upbeat. Radio-friendly. More of what’s working, just like last cycle.

You crumpled the stupid paper into a ball and threw it straight into the can.

"Rough night?" You almost flinched as you heard a booming voice behind you.

Mira, your manager, leaned against the doorframe, sipping a matcha latte with extra foam. Walking just enough meters beside you, she offered another cup with the same taste — your favorite.

"Something like that," you muttered, taking the cup and popping the lid off instantly. You smelled the fresh aroma, before sipping soundly.

She arched a brow. "Leah’s wedding, right? Tell me about it."

You strummed a dissonant chord on the nearby guitar. "Played ‘Wonderwall.’ The crowd loved it."

Mira didn’t laugh, sitting with her back against one of your designer chairs. "Liar liar, pants on fire."

You shrugged. "It’s in my contract. Must lie convincingly to press."

“Press!? We lived in the same roof for a year and that’s all I am to you?”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m famous.”

She groaned, taking it lightly. But then her eyes flicked to your hands—the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly against the strings.

"Who was it?" she asked, softer.

You didn’t answer. You could feel her eyes burning through your thick skull as if almost reading the contents of your brain.

She exhaled. "Take the day, hmm? Sleep it off. We can push the schedule to—"

"I’m fine." You grabbed the nearest lyric sheet, jaw tight. You sat across her in your leather chair, focusing on sorting out the busy contents of your workspace before speaking yet again. "Let’s just work. We’ve got three hours before we go, yeah?"

Mira studied you for a long moment before nodding. "Yeah.”

After taking a long winding breath, she slowly went to the door to take her leave.

“If you start crying into the microphone later, I’m charging you for ruined equipment." She retorted one last second.

“Blah blah, go do your manager things!” You smiled as you tried to throw a crumpled sheet to her.

“Alright, alright!” She shut the door gently, leaving you alone on your vices.

Right ... you were going to sing today. A lot.

When you least expected it, the skill you had fun as a hobby had already become a chore.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

The neon sign outside flickered—YE OLD TAVERN—in all its peeling, ironic glory.

You hadn't set foot in this place since your university years. Back when sticky tables and cheap beer felt like an adventure, not exhaustion. Back when he was still beside you, laughing into his drink as you butchered a karaoke song.

Now, the bar was packed—word had spread about the "intimate, unplugged" tour Atlas had forced you into. Authenticity sells, they'd said. Fans eat this shit up.

You just wanted nothing but sleep.

"Five minutes," Mira muttered, nudging you toward the old stage—a vintage relic of this bar’s storied past, all with a single mic stand waiting.

The crowd was a blur of your fans; young adults like you, some adults that you remind of their youth, and a lot of younger people that definitely fit the criteria of modern fans, holding up LED signs and phone screens. You adjusted the guitar strap digging into your shoulder and forced a smile.

Your signature voice flowed through the space like a gentle autumn breeze, carrying warmth and nostalgia with every note. The raw emotion in your delivery resonated deeply with your supporters, who hung on every word and inflection.

You can definitely see it in their eyes. They were enamored by you.

Your voice filled the room with a simple kind of magic. The crowd melted into the music as you sang, each word honest and raw. This wasn't just another show - it was real, and everyone could feel it.

Then you saw him.

Blond hair, roughly swept back to the side like he'd run a hand through it one too many times. Broad shoulders under a fitted black shirt. That face—sharp, unfairly handsome, watching you with an intensity that made your fingers twitch against the strings.

Jay.

Right there. On the side of the bar area, sat on a comfy wooden stool.

Your breath caught. And his too.

He hadn't meant to come.

But then he'd seen the posters outside the tavern—your name in bold letters—and suddenly he was nineteen again, sneaking in with his new ID just to see you play again and not miss his shot.

Now, he‘s frozen as he sees you perform so whole heartedly under the might of a single incandescent light.

You looked beautiful. Real.

Not the polished version from magazines or Leah's wedding—where you'd stiffened the second Sarah requested that song. Where your voice had cracked on the chorus, raw in a way no studio could autotune.

Where he’s just able to see you again.

And now here you were, strumming the opening chords of something new—voice low, rougher than he remembered. The crowd swayed, but Jay didn't move.

Couldn't.

Not when you glanced up mid-verse, gaze snagging on his like a caught breath.

˚　　✦　　.　. 　 ˚　.　 . ★⋆.　　✦　.　　.　 ˚　.　　✦　˚ 　　 ˚　.˚

You finished the set in a daze.

No one noticed the way your hands shook. No one except him.

Backstage—if you could call a storage room with a large old leather loveseat a ‘backstage’—Mira shoved a bottle of branded distilled water into your hands. "Good crowd. Atlas'll be happy."

You didn't answer.

Mira sighed, looking at you with that same concern yet again. She knows your situation, and she feels bad being so helpless and useless to ease your pain the way you want.

She taps your shoulder and presents a light grin back at you. "Van’s out back. Avoid the fans, yeah?"

You nodded, seeing her leave the room shortly.

Until when can you stomach this feeling? This sensation? Being trapped in world you dreamed of was never in your plans, yet here you are, sitting inside your gilded cage.

As you took a deep breath, you fixed your hair and showered yourself in your favorite perfume yet again. You took a faithful step and approached the exit.

When your senses met the stench of New York’s streets opposite the alley door, Jay was already there. Leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed, like he'd been waiting for years.

"Hey," he said.

The streetlight caught the gold in his hair. God, he looked good.

"Hi." Your voice came out hoarse. You walked slowly, approaching him with some needy caution. Just for yourself.

A beat of silence passed. Then Jay pushed off the wall, stepping closer. "You killed it in there."

You scoffed. "It was a dive bar, Jay."

"Yeah. Our dive bar."

The words hung between you. Quiet, and more of that still silence.

“The dim lights suit your features.”

You shot up a glance towards Jay, hearing him say such a ridiculous thing in the middle of your self-inflicted turmoil.

You could say the same for him.

Right then, you forced yourself to look away. "Shouldn't you be with … Naomi, right?"

Jay's jaw tightened, his hands flexing against his sharp jaw. "I … wanted to see you."

Why?

You didn't ask. Couldn't possibly.

Instead, you watched as he pulled something from his pocket—a crisp white card.

PARK JONGSEONG, with some unreadable fine print at the side you couldn’t see much under the street lights. His name is embossed in sleek black and accents of regal purple.

"If you ever want to grab matcha," he said, holding it out. "No pressure."

You stared at it. Four years ago, you'd have taken it without hesitation.

Now?

"Jay," you said softly, "what about … her?"

As he opened his mouth—

Ring.

His phone lit up. As your curious eyes darted over, the name span the screen. Naomi.

Jay cursed under his breath, still not answering as he held out for your advise.

"I should—"

"Yeah." You stepped back. "I don’t mind."

He hesitated, card still extended. "Just please... think about it."

Nervous as you can be, you took the card in hesitation.

“A card, huh?” You flipped the sheet of stiff paper on your fingertips.

“Yeah.” Jay perked up his one-sided smile, genuinely happy at the gesture. You couldn’t help but smile back — it was contagious when you see Jay act that way.

“Park Jongseong … got your whole government name here too, hehe.” Jay couldn’t help but chuckle a little at that comment, and neither could you.

Then he was gone—turning by the corner—swallowed by the city lights.

You stood there, fingers clenched around his card, until Mira honked the car horn.

“Drive or bust, superstar!”

Lost in thought, his voice played like a broken record in your head.

Think about it.

As if you could do anything else.

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ kai's notes — HAHAHA THE GODS HAVE GIVEN ME THE SIGN SO ITS UPDATE TIME AND OH WE'RE IN CHAPTER 2!! what is all the juice abouttt, find out next chapter~ also excited for en-chella!! GO TEAM WOOOOOO

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ story taglist — tagging @kaiyunsim @firstclassjaylee @ryes-brownies08

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ can i join the masterlist? — sure! i do frequent posts and updates so just be warned! leave a reply on any posts and i'll add ya in the future updates, much love~ 

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✦⋆˚ way back into love : the full masterlist [COMING SOON]

[PREVIOUS CHAPTER]

my masterlist! | don't forget to reblog! | made by writhyv 💘

TEAHFUAEIFHUAIHFUAHFUAEHU!!!!!