[idubiluv]

(on hiatus) hi i’m arya, a 21 year old writer :) thank you for stopping by! grab a cup of coffee or tea or whatever drink you enjoy and wind down with my attempts at writing romance <3

masterlist. about me.

more info under the cut!

about the blog! my works are sfw and with a gender neutral reader unless specified otherwise

dni/dnf! if ur a hinduphobe ur sick and need to stay miles away from me

networks! @kflixnet , @k-labels , @caratsland

please do not plagiarise, publish or translate my works in any manner without my permission.

© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED idubiluv 2025

[feelbokkie]

📚Non-SKZ Shelf📚

🌞Feelbokkie M.list🌞

Key:

📙 = fluff 📘 = angst 📕 = 18+ newest recs in green

📚 Ateez📚

feverish (hongjoong) by @hwaightme 📙

crushing on you (ot8) by @rmview 📙

you're hyper independent (hyung line) (maknae line) (ot8) by @acciocriativity 📙📘

comforting you after you have a rough week (ot8) by @mingoooossii 📙📘

finding out their s/o has self harm scars (ot8) by @starry-nights-garden 📙📘

caring for you: chronic illness edition (ot8) by @kiestrokes 📙

their s/o is overworked (ot8) by @cheeseceli 📙

📚 Big Ocean📚

coming soon...

📚 Enhypen📚

emergency contact (sunghoon) by @hoonatic 📘📙

📚Seventeen📚

how they take care of you (ot13) by @waldau 📙

"silent treatment prank" on their s/o (ot13) by @babyleostuff 📙

when you look at them with love and adoration (ot13) by babyleostuff 📙

kissing them mid argument (ot13) by babyleostuff 📙

13 ways to say "i love you" (ot13 mini series) by @mingtinys 📙

first time using pet names (ot13) by @wooahaes 📙

teaching you choreography (performance unit) by wooahaes 📙

beach body (seungcheol) by wooahaes 📙

right here beside you (seungcheol) by wooahaes 📙

i need an angel's hand (seungcheol) by wooahaes 📙

present tense (jeonghan) by wooahaes 📙

the act of caring for another (joshua) by wooahaes 📙

nightmare (joshua) by wooahaes 📙

to weather together (jun) by wooahaes 📙

tiger stripes (hoshi) by wooahaes 📙

squish (hoshi) by wooahaes 📙

shelter (wonwoo) by wooahaes 📙

lonely hearts club (wonwoo) by wooahaes [series] 📙

dress (mingyu) by wooahaes 📙

lonely but not alone (minghao) by wooahaes 📙

of your choosing (vernon) by wooahaes 📙

how seventeen act with their writer s/o (ot13) by @fairyhaos 📙

how seventeen help their mentally tired s/o (ot13) by fairyhaos 📙

to be loved is to be changed (seungcheol) by @wqnwoos 📙

lover duties (jeonghan) by wqnwoos 📙

how svt would comfort their stressed s/o (ot13) by @idubiluv 📙📘

care (seungkwan) @blue-jisungs 📙📘

relationship quirks (95s) (96s) (97s) (maknaes) (ot13) by @juniperdugong 📙

a fluffy dad!cheol moment with his baby girl (seungcheol) by @pochaccoups 📙

charmed (smau) (???) by @kkami-writes 📙📘

i don't understand but i love you (wonwoo) by @straylightdream 📙📘

📚TXT 📚

coming soon...

📚back to rec list📚

[dxnheng-deactivated20251203]

the odds.

pairing. yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

summary. in which you and yoon jeonghan, the tributes from district four, must fake being madly in love in order to ensure your survival. only, it seems like the odds are never in your favour.

contains. romance, angst, implied smut, action, best friends to lovers, fake dating!au, the hunger games!au. profanity, violence, blood, injuries, death, etc. word count. 9.7k a/n. this is a birthday gift for my dear best friend, @idubiluv! i know you bias jeonghan and i also know your favourite book series is the hunger games, so i wrote a little something for you :) happy 21st, and here’s to many more years of friendship!!! 🥂 ilysm. song rec. can’t catch me now by olivia rodrigo

“Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.” – Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games.

Yoon Jeonghan knows he’s screwed the moment he hears your name being called at the reaping.

It’s spoken into the hot, briny air with a clarity that leaves no room for him to pretend he misheard. The syllables fall from the District Four escort’s painted mouth like hooks into deep water, sinking straight into his chest.

The world stops moving. The breeze dies, the gulls fall silent, and even the waves rolling in toward the docks seem to hold still. Then, the square breathes again—mothers clutching children, boots scraping on cracked stone, the official clearing her throat to say your name again, slower this time, letting it echo across the district square.

Jeonghan doesn’t hear the murmur of the crowd or the metallic creak of the microphone stand. He doesn’t hear the call for you to come forward. All he hears is the rush of blood in his ears and the single thought that anchors itself with terrifying certainty: She can’t go in there alone.

The crowd parts for you, an instinctive ripple of distance, and you walk through it with your chin high, steps unhurried. You don’t look back; you’ve never been one to flinch. But Jeonghan notices your hands. Even from where he stands, he can see the tension in your fingers, the way they curl into fists. You’ve always been braver than him. Braver and far too stubborn for your own good. That same stubbornness has carried you across open water in storms, dared you to dive from the tallest cliff into the shallows below, and pushed you to speak out when others swallowed their words. Now, he realises with a hollow twist of his stomach, that bravery is going to get you killed in the arena.

He blinks and you’re halfway to the stage already. His pulse spikes, fast and erratic.

The escort’s voice rings out again, bright and formal. “And for our male tribute…”

The name that follows barely registers. Some boy a few years younger than him, one Jeonghan vaguely recognises from the fishery. The kid’s shoulders hunch as he takes a step forward. He’s pale, shaking, terrified—and for a brief, selfish moment, Jeonghan thinks, At least it’s not me.

His gaze finds you again.

You, standing alone in front of the square, your figure small against the vastness of the stage. You, about to step into a place where the Capitol sends children to die for sport. You, who will be gone from his life in a matter of weeks if he doesn’t do something now.

His body moves before his brain catches up.

“I volunteer!”

The words rip from his throat, raw and sharp. Heads turn instantly. The boy stops mid-step, relief flooding his face as if Jeonghan’s voice is a lifeline he didn’t expect. There’s a beat of silence—two, maybe three heartbeats—before the escort beams and gestures him forward.

“Wonderful!” she trills. “A volunteer! Name, please?”

“Yoon Jeonghan,” he says.

The crowd stirs at the sound of his name, a ripple of recognition through the mass of bodies. He can feel their eyes on him, heavy and questioning, like the weight of a net full of fish dragging him down. Jeonghan ignores them. His gaze is locked on you and the way your expression flickers—confusion first, then something harder to read, a fleeting mix of disbelief and anger.

The stage creaks under his boots as he climbs the steps. The heat hits him differently here, pressing against the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there stick to his skin. He forces his breathing to stay steady, because if the Capitol cameras catch him faltering now, they’ll play it back over and over for the entire nation to see.

He takes his place beside you. You don’t turn to look at him. He stands close enough that the edge of his sleeve brushes yours. Neither of you move away.

The escort’s voice soars over the square, syrupy sweet, rehearsed to perfection. “And there we have it—our two brave tributes from District Four!”

There’s polite applause from the crowd, thin and hollow. Jeonghan doesn’t hear the rest of the escort’s speech. His mind is already spinning ahead—past the cameras, past the applause, to the hours ahead. The Justice Building. The train. The Capitol. The arena.

The anthem begins to play, tinny through the old speakers mounted on either side of the stage. Jeonghan leans just slightly toward you, enough for his voice to be swallowed by the music, and whispers, “The odds are in our favour.”

You flinch imperceptibly. “Why did you—”

“Later,” he cuts in, because if you ask now, he might tell you the truth. That he couldn’t stand the thought of watching you walk into that place alone. That every instinct in him screamed to go with you, even if it meant dying there. 

The anthem ends. The escort claps her hands together, teeth flashing white. “Now, let’s get our tributes inside to prepare for their journey to the Capitol!”

Peacekeepers step forward, guiding you both toward the side entrance of the Justice Building. The crowd parts again, their faces blurring into a wash of muted colours: sunburnt cheeks, salt-cracked lips, eyes that won’t meet his.

The train’s motion is constant, a low vibration through the mattress, through his bones, through the body pressed into his side. Outside the window, the ocean rushes past, a silver-black smear broken only by the flash of a lighthouse beam every few minutes. He watches the coastline fade into nothing until his eyes ache, then lets them drift back to you.

You’re curled against him like you used to when you were small, your knees drawn up, and your hand bunched lightly in the front of his shirt. You don’t cling, exactly—you never have—but there’s a weight to the way you rest against him, a trust that sits heavy in his chest. His arm is wrapped around you, palm splayed between your shoulder blades, holding you in place without thinking about it.

It’s been years since you last slept like this, but his body remembers. He remembers the orphanage beds, the rough wool blankets, the sound of the rain battering the roof while you shivered in your sleep. He remembers curling around you so you’d stop shaking, whispering stupid things just to make you snort quietly and forget, if only for a few seconds, that you’d both been left behind.

Now, the bed is Capitol-soft, the sheets so clean they don’t smell like anything at all, but it’s still the same. 

You breathe slowly, but he knows you’re not asleep. He can feel the tension in you, the way your fingers flex faintly in his shirt. He wants to tell you it’s going to be fine, that you’ll walk out of the arena alive. But even though he’s a good liar, he knows you’d never believe him anyway.

“You should rest,” you say, voice muffled against his chest.

“And miss the chance to watch you drool on me? No thanks.”

The corner of your mouth lifts, but you don’t look up. You swat at his ribs, a half-hearted little tap that barely connects before he catches your wrist. He doesn’t mean to keep it, but his fingers close around yours and don’t let go. It’s thoughtless, instinctive. His thumb begins tracing slow circles over your knuckles, and the rhythm soothes something restless in him.

The train sways gently, the dim lights overhead casting soft shadows across your face. He listens to your breathing, catalogues the way your shoulders shift with each exhale, the warmth seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. It would be easy to close his eyes and pretend you were still kids, still small enough to curl up on the same narrow bed and hide from the world in each other’s shadows. But the world is bigger now, crueler, and hiding has never been less possible.

His mind turns over the same truth he’s been chewing on since the reaping: the arena doesn’t reward the strongest or even the smartest. It rewards the ones who can make people watch. Make them care.

He tightens his grip on your hand. “You know, we’ve got an advantage.”

That gets your attention. You lean back just enough to glance up at him, suspicion and exhaustion clouding your gaze. “What are you talking about?”

“In the arena, people need a reason to root for you,” he says. “Fighting skill only gets you so far. It’s the stories that keep you alive.”

Your brows knit, but you don’t pull away.

“Two tributes from the same district? That’s nothing new. But two people so in love they’d rather die than be apart?” Now his eyes meet yours, sharp and searching. “That’s the kind of thing they’ll eat up. The kind that makes them send help when we need it. We play it for the cameras. Make them believe it. If they believe it, they’ll keep us both alive. That’s the only way this works.”

You study him for a long moment, and he wonders if you can see through him, see the part that’s already tangled up in you, the part that knows pretending might be harder than the truth.

But you only let out a slow breath, your hand still trapped in his, and settle back into his chest.

Jeonghan swears he stops breathing when he sees you in your dress for the interviews.

The noise from the prep team—stylists gossiping, cameras being adjusted—fades into nothing, as though someone pulled the plug on the entire world. All that’s left is the sight of you.

The dress is nothing like what you would ever wear back home in Four. Back home, it’s all salt-stiff linen and sun-bleached cotton, the hems frayed from saltwater and sand. But here, under the Capitol’s ruthless eye, you’re a vision in fabric that catches the light like the surface of the sea at dawn. It clings where it should, drapes where it needs to, every movement sending ripples though a thousand tiny beads that shimmer like fish scales. The neckline dips just enough to make his mouth go dry, though the design is too clever to be anything but purposeful. Your hair, usually wind-tangled and smelling faintly of brine, has been coaxed into sleek, deliberate waves, threaded through with glints of silver and aquamarine.

You look unreal. Untouchable.

Jeonghan hates that the first thought in his head isn’t about how stunning you are—it’s about how the audience will see you. How the cameras will drink you in. How the Capitol will turn you into something else entirely: not a girl from the docks, but a prize to be won, a jewel to be admired before it’s stolen away.

You meet his eyes across the room, and for a moment, you’re just you again—chin tilting up, the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of your mouth, the same look you’ve always given him when you’ve caught him staring. It’s enough to drag air back into his lungs.

“You’re going to get us killed,” he says under his breath when you’re close enough, though there’s no real bite to it.

You glance sideways at him, lashes low. “In a good way, I hope.”

His lips twitch, but the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. He forces himself to look away, busying his hands with the cuffs of his own interview suit—polished, tailored, nothing like the suits he’s used to. His stylist had wanted something “romantic,” something to pair with you on stage, and Jeonghan hadn’t argued. The pale shirt, the sea-green jacket, the glints of silver threat—they all make him look like he belongs at your side. That’s the point.

When Caesar Flickerman calls your name later, and you glide onto the stage beneath the blinding lights, Jeonghan’s stomach twists. You’re smiling now, perfectly measured for the audience: sweet but not timid, confident but not brash. Every answer you give lands exactly where it should. The Capitol will adore you. They’ll fall for you. They’ll remember you when you’re bleeding in the dirt.

When it’s his turn, Jeonghan’s steps feel heavier than they should. He shakes Caesar’s hand, smiles in that lazy, effortless way that’s always gotten him out of trouble, and answers the first few questions smoothly. But he knows that moment he’s been waiting for—the one he’s been planning—arrives when Caesar leans forward, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial.

“There’s been a lot of talk about you and your district partner,” Caesar says, eyes sparkling as he gestures toward where you’re seated offstage. “Care to comment?”

Jeonghan doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence stretch just enough for the audience to feel the suspense. Every second he waits is another second the Capitol leans closer, waiting to be fed. He shifts in his seat, one arm draped loosely over the backrest, the other resting on his knee.

“Care to comment?” Caesar repeats, arching an eyebrow. The glitter on his cheekbones catches the stage lights.

Jeonghan glances toward you.

You’re sitting just off to the side of the stage, your hands folded neatly in your lap. The bright interview lights make every detail of you stand out—the glint of beads on your dress, the faint silver threading in your hair. He wonders if the cameras will catch what he sees: the sharp set of your jaw, the tension in your shoulders, the tiny shift of your thumb against your other palm. 

He gives you the smallest, laziest half-smile he can manage.

“I could comment,” he says finally, turning his attention back to Caesar, “but I think it’s better if I tell you a story.”

“A story, you say?” Caesar leans forward. “Oh, I do love a good story.”

Jeonghan leans in too, his voice lowering just enough to make it feel like a confession, even though he knows every single Capitol citizen will hear him.

“I met her when we were just kids,” he begins. “Our parents worked together—fishing boats, out on the water before dawn, back after sunset. You grow up fast when your life’s measured in the weight of the day’s catch. But then one night, a storm came in quick. Not the kind you can outrun. A few of the smaller vessels didn’t make it back.”

He pauses, letting that hang. The Capitol loves tragedy—it makes their victors and their lovers all the more precious to them. He knows that. “That night,” he continues, “we both lost our parents.”

“They sent us to the orphanage. It was overcrowded, noisy, full of kids. I didn’t know anyone there. Didn’t even talk the first few days. But then…” He glances back at you again, and this time there’s no hiding the way his voice softens. “She sat next to me that first night. Handed me half a bread roll. Didn’t say anything, didn’t ask me for anything. She just… stayed.”

The audience sighs collectively. The Capitol loves moments like this—small, human, easy to package into something pretty for their broadcasts.

“I think that was the moment I decided she was my person,” Jeonghan says, and it’s not entirely a performance. “Years went by. We grew up together. She’s braver than I’ll ever be. Smarter, too. I used to think I’d spend my whole life just trying to keep up with her. Maybe make her laugh enough that she’d stick around.” 

He lets out a short, almost self-conscious laugh—just enough to make him seem a little less polished. “But here’s the thing. When you’ve spent your whole life with someone like that, loving them stops being a choice. It’s not something you start or stop. One day, you just… realise you’d do anything for them. Even follow them into the arena.”

Caesar’s eyes widen slightly. Jeonghan can see the way you shift in your seat, your expression tightening, but you don’t look away from him.

“I’m not here to win for me,” Jeonghan says simply. “I’m here to keep her alive. And if I can’t…” He swallows, but his tone doesn’t waver. “Then at least I’ll know I was with her until the end.”

The studio goes still. The only sound is the faint whine of the lights and the click of a camera shutter somewhere in the crowd. Then the applause starts—a slow swell that builds into a roar, cheers echoing through the room. Your names are shouted together, chanted almost like a blessing.

Caesar laughs, clapping his hands together. “Well, if that isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard on this stage! Ladies and gentlemen, our District Four star-crossed lovers!”

The phrase catches instantly, repeated back by the audience as though it’s always belonged to you both. Star-crossed lovers. The Capitol will make sure it’s all over the broadcasts tomorrow. Jeonghan knows exactly what it means—more sponsors, more sympathy, more eyes watching your every move in the arena. It’s a strategy, yes. But it’s also the truth, and that’s what makes it dangerous.

The interview wraps up after that, Caesar expertly steering the conversation back to lighter questions, drawing laughs and easy smiles from Jeonghan while still circling back to you whenever possible. By the time it’s over, the audience is on its feet, waving banners, shouting for the two of you. The lights dim slightly as Caesar bids the viewers goodnight, and Jeonghan rises from his seat, his pulse racing.

He catches sight of you again as he steps offstage. The cameras are still rolling, so he plays his part—an easy smile, his hand reaching out to touch your elbow. But his voice, when he leans in, is low and meant only for you.

“They’re going to believe it,” he mumbles.

You lean into his side and press a kiss to the place where his jaw meets his cheek.

The arena is blistering hot.

It’s not just the sun overhead—it’s the ground beneath his boots, radiating heat like it’s been baking for centuries, the air shimmering in waves above the cracked earth. The second the gong sounds, Jeonghan feels it: the thickness of the air, the way each breath tastes like dust and iron, how the light blinds more than it illuminates. Even the Cornucopia in the centre of the clearing looks like it’s been set on fire, its curved metal glinting so brightly it forces him to squint.

He’s aware, dimly, of the other tributes breaking into motion, but his focus narrows to one thing—one person. You.

You’re three paces to his left, your body tenses like a bowstring, eyes locked on the pile of mid-range packs just off to the side of the Cornucopia’s mouth. You’d argued for going straight in—better weapons, better supplies—but he’d convinced you otherwise with the memory of the year District Four lost both tributes in the first two minutes.

The gong’s echo hasn’t even died before he’s sprinting, the soles of his boots slipping on loose dirt. The heat makes everything feel sluggish, but adrenaline drags his legs forward.

A flash of movement—District Two’s boy, broad-shouldered and charging the Cornucopia with an axe. The air rings with the metallic clang of weapons and the wet, terrible sounds of flesh meeting steel. Someone screams to his right, high and shrill, and is cut off in an instant. He forces himself not to look.

He spots you in the chaos—already at the edge of the Cornucopia’s shadow, snatching a sand-coloured pack and slinging it over one shoulder. He lungs for the one beside it, nearly losing his grip when a smaller tribute from Nine tries to wrench it away. A sharp elbow to the ribs sends the boy stumbling, and Jeonghan takes the moment to grab your wrist.

“Move!” he shouts.

Something whistles past his ear. He doesn’t need to see the knife to know how close it came; he feels the air part around it before it thunks into the dry ground inches from your boot. You don’t flinch. You just keep running.

The heat off the ground is so strong that Jeonghan swears he can feel it through the soles of his boots, like walking across a stove. The Cornucopia’s shadow falls away, replaced by a haze of dust and scrubland at the clearing’s edge. The air smells scorched, the earth split into jagged fissures where hardy tufts of thornbush grow.

A figure bursts into your path—a boy from Eight, clutching a length of rusted pipe. His eyes are wild, his movements frantic. He swings for you, but Jeonghan’s already shifting the pack in his hand, swinging it hard into the boy’s gut. The breath whooshes out of him in a choked sound, and you’re already slipping past before the boy can recover.

Every muscle in Jeonghan’s body is burning now, and not just from the sprint—it’s the heat, the sun pressing down like a shackle, the way each inhale feels hotter than the last. The sounds of the bloodbath fade as you push into the scrub, the branches clawing at your arms.

When you finally stop, you bend over, bracing your hands on your knees, your breath ragged but steady. Your pack slips halfway down one arm, and Jeonghan’s there instantly, pulling the strap back into place.

“You got it?” he asks.

You nod once, still catching your breath. “You?”

He pats the heavy pack on his back. “Enough to keep us alive for now. If we’re careful.”

The light here is strange, filtered through a thin veil of dust kicked up by the melee behind you. It makes the sun look even more merciless, a molten disk in a pale, cloudless sky. The Cornucopia is still visible if he turns his head, a smear of gleaming metal far across open ground, but the bodies around it are harder to see now.

A faint breeze shifts, carrying with it the scent of blood, sharp and unmistakable, and the faint metallic clang of weapons still being swung. Jeonghan clenches his jaw.

“We can’t stay here,” he says quietly. “No cover, no water. The heat will kill us before anyone else gets the chance.”

You push damp hair from your forehead, the strands sticking stubbornly to your skin. “Then where?”

“High ground,” he says, scanning the horizon. “Or shade, if we can find it. And we need water before the sun’s overhead. My guess? The Gamemakers will have it somewhere hard to get to.”

He adjusts his grip on the pack and waits for you to fall into step beside him. Together, you start moving deeper into the scrub. The ground is uneven, litters with pale, brittle stones that crack under your boots. The thornbushes grow denser here, forcing you to weave through narrow gaps.

Sweat runs down Jeonghan’s spine, soaking into the fabric of his shirt. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, and he knows it’s only going to get worse. The heat in District Four was humid, softened by sea breezes. This is different. This is an oven with no escape.

You walk in silence for a while, the only sound the crunch of your boots and the distant cries of birds circling high overhead, no doubt already feasting on the fallen. Every so often, Jeonghan glances over his shoulder, making sure no one’s following.

Eventually, a cluster of rock formation rises ahead—nothing huge, but enough to break the monotony of the flat land. More importantly, the tallest rock casts a sliver of shadow. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a short break. You drop into the shade first, pulling the pack into your lap and unfastening it. Inside: a half-empty canteen, a coil of thin rope, a few ration bars, and a hunting knife. Not much, but better than nothing.

Jeonghan sinks down beside you, tugging his own pack around. His haul is slightly better—another canteen, a folded tarp, a set of matches in a waterproof case, and a handful of dried meat wrapped in waxed paper. He exhales slowly.

“We can work with this,” he says. “At least for the first night.”

You take the canteen and drink, careful to only take two small sips before passing it back. He does the same, forcing himself not to drain it despite the dryness in his throat. The sun creeps higher. The heat radiates even from the rocks, but at least here, in the sliver of shade, it’s bearable.

Jeonghan leans back against the stone, closing his eyes for a moment. The image of the Cornucopia flashes in his mind again: the chaos, the blood, the knife spinning past you. His stomach knots, but he swallows it down.

The cold is merciless.

It doesn’t just nip at fingers and toes; it sinks deep, gnawing into marrow, leeching warmth until every muscle aches and every joint feels stiff enough to snap. The Capitol’s arena is a sadist’s masterpiece: blistering, heatstroke-inducing days that bake the ground into cracked, red dust, followed by nights so frigid the air bites like broken glass. It’s a cycle designed to wear the tributes down, to strip away endurance as surely as food and water.

Under the makeshift shelter—just the thin, crinkling tarp from Jeonghan’s pack stretched low over two crouched bodies—it feels like he’s losing the fight. The rocks holding it down barely keep the wind from slicing underneath, and every breath is a puff of vapour that disappears almost instantly. Jeonghan lies on his side with you tucked into him, your legs tangled, your forehead pressed against his collarbone. Even like this, with your combined body heat, the chill refuses to loosen its grip.

He’s trembling hard enough that the movement is probably visible to the cameras. His teeth knock together like chattering shells. He tries to control it, but the harder he fights, the worse it gets.

“Jeonghan,” you whisper, so quietly it’s almost lost under the wind’s keening. “You’re freezing.”

He forces out a hoarse chuckle. “Good thing you’re here to keep me warm, then.”

The joke doesn’t land. You don’t smile. Instead, your fingers flex faintly where they’re curled in the fabric of his jacket, brushing the ribs beneath. He can feel how cold your hands are, how tense your frame has gone.

“This isn’t sustainable,” you say, voice tight.

Jeonghan swallows, the movement slow, because he already knows what you’re thinking. “No. Not unless something takes pity on us.”

“Not pity,” you say, shifting just enough to tilt your face toward his in the darkness. “A reason.”

You don’t have to explain. You’ve both seen the Games for years—you know exactly what makes the sponsors open their wallets. Not skill. Not strategy. Not even desperation for its own sake. They want a story. Something they can romanticise.

Star-crossed lovers in peril.

Jeonghan lets the idea linger on his tongue before he finally says, “You think they’ll buy it?”

Your breath brushes his jaw when you answer. “They already have. You’re a good actor.”

He huffs out a faint, amused sound despite the cold slicing through him. “Flattery in this weather?”

“Just do it, Jeonghan,” you say, and there’s that stubborn edge in your tone that he’s known since you were children—since you were both orphans packed into the same damp, salt-scented dormitory, looking out for each other when no one else did.

So he does.

Jeonghan shifts closer until every inch of you is pressed into him, until the cameras can’t mistake the intimacy for anything else. He cradles the back of your head in his palm and tucks your face under his chin, curling around you like you’re the only thing in the world worth guarding. His breath is ragged and visible, the shivering in his frame impossible to hide, but he lets that vulnerability stay. If they want tragedy, he’ll give them tragedy.

“I can’t lose you,” he says, pitching his voice low, roughened with cold and something else. “Not here.”

You play your role flawlessly—soft inhale, trembling hands fisting tighter in his shirt, a whisper that’s almost a plea. “Then stay with me. Please.”

He lets his eyes close, letting the moment sit heavy, as if the beat of his heart is keeping him from answering too quickly. He hopes the cameras are eating this up. He hopes someone, somewhere in a warm Capitol penthouse, is leaning forward and thinking: Send them something. Keep them alive.

The wind shifts again, a jagged gust that rattles the tarp and makes him shake harder. He buries his face into your hair, letting the silence become something intimate. “We’ll get through this,” he says at last, letting his voice tremble just enough. “We have to.”

For a while, there’s only the rhythmic, uneven sound of your breathing and the distant rustle of the arena’s dead grasses in the wind. His body feels like it’s shutting down in slow increments. Fingers first, then toes, then the ache in his knees settling deep into bone. He’s so focused on keeping you in his arms that he almost misses it—

A faint, metallic clink.

His eyes snap open.

Above, the moonlight catches on something small and silver drifting down from the sky. A sponsor parachute. It’s so delicate in the way it floats, the ribbon curling as it descends, but the sight hits him like an electric jolt.

He doesn’t think—just moves, crawling out from under the tarp with the reckless speed of someone who’s suddenly found hope in a hopeless place. The wind bites harder without you against him, but he pushes through, snatching the package from the ground before it can roll away. The little bag bears nothing but the District Four seal.

By the time he ducks back under the tarp, you’re propped on one elbow, eyes locked on the bundle in his hands.

“Well?” you whisper, urgency threading through the syllable.

Jeonghan rips the seal with stiff fingers, the cold making every movement clumsy. The package opens to reveal something sleek and silvery, folded tight—a sleeping bag, but not like the bulky ones they’d use back home. This one was Capitol-made. Paper-thin, but lined with reflective tech that would trap your combined heat and multiply it.

He breathes out a shaky laugh, the first genuine one all night. “Guess they couldn’t resist.”

Your answering smile is small but bright against the dimness. “Guess you’re as good as you think you are.”

It takes effort to get the thing unrolled, his hands clumsy from the cold, but when he slides inside and you follow, the transformation is immediate. The warmth is subtle at first, a gentle pulse, then it swells—heat radiating back into his skin, into his bones. The violent trembling starts to ease, replaced by a slow, almost dizzy relief.

You let out a sight against his chest, your body going slack for the first time since the sun went down. “Better?”

“Much.” His voice is quieter now, softer, the urgency burned away by the new cocoon of warmth.

The bag is barely wide enough for one person, so the two of you are pressed together shoulder-to-ankle, your legs tangled, your breath mingling in the narrow space between your faces. He can feel your heartbeat against his ribs, strong and steady now that you’re not losing heat.

He tips his head to press his lips into your hairline, just for a second. “We keep this up,” he whispers, “and they’ll keep sending things. They’ll keep us alive.”

You him in quiet agreement, already sounding drowsy now that comfort has replaced the cold. “We just… have to keep playing the part.”

Jeonghan doesn’t say that maybe he’s not playing anymore. That maybe, lying here with you warm against him after thinking he might never feel warmth again, there’s no pretending left in him at all.

The watering hole is the kind of place that would’ve gone unnoticed if you and Jeonghan weren’t desperate, half-hidden by a low ridge of sun-baked rock, no bigger than a fishing boat back home. The water is brackish, dark, with a faint slick of green on the surface, but in the arena, it’s the closest thing to a blessing they’ll get.

Jeonghan spots it first, but it’s the tracks that keep him still. He crouches low, eyes tracing the deep indentations in the mud. Large paws, claws pressing deep into the earth, the edges still damp. He touches one, and the mud clings to his skin. Fresh.

Something was here—something alive.

He calls your name quietly, not loud enough to carry beyond the clearing. You appear between the brittle grass and scrub, hair clinging to your cheeks in the heat. He tilts his chin at the ground. “These weren’t here long ago.”

You follow his gaze, eyes narrowing. “Animal?”

“Probably. Might be food. Means there’s a water source, too.” He jerks his chin toward the hole. “We’ll fill up while we can, but—”

“I can set a snare,” you interrupt, already swinging your pack forward. “It might circle back.”

He watches you pull out the coil of rope you’ve been hoarding, your fingers already working without hesitation. He remembers you like this before the Games—knee-deep in fishing nets, fixing frayed cords in the shade of the docks, the tang of salt drying on your skin. Even now, the motions are sure, neat. You find the right branch to anchor the rope, measure the distance by sight, and work with a kind of confidence he could never fake.

While you work, Jeonghan kneels by the water, scooping it into the canteens. His reflection is just a blur beneath the rippling surface, but the way the sun’s setting, painting the world in deep reds and golds, makes his pulse quicken. Both of you shouldn’t be here when the light fades.

He’s about to say as much when the hairs on the back of his neck lift. A faint sound—not an animal’s scuffle, but the deliberate push of a foot through grass. He glances up, catches your eye. You’ve frozen too, your head turning toward the far treeline.

It happens fast.

The figure bursts from the brush, a flash of movement cutting through the golden light. For an instant, Jeonghan thinks it’s the animal—until the sunlight glints off a blade in their hand.

The stranger charged forward—and straight into your trap.

The rope snaps tight with a brutal, whiplash motion, yanking the figure’s feet off the ground. They hit the air hard, the cord biting into their throat. The sound that comes out is sharp and wet, choked off before it’s fully formed.

It takes Jeonghan half a second to understand.

Not an animal. A tribute.

Your eyes go wide, horror replacing the quick, focused sharpness from moments before. You lunge for the knot, fumbling at it with frantic, shaking hands. “Wait—wait—”

Jeonghan is already moving toward you, grabbing your shoulders and yanking you back. He can feel the tremor in your muscles through your shirt. “Stop—”

“She’s choking!”

“She’s already gone.” His voice is flat, but inside his chest, something twists.

The tribute’s face has gone mottled, her kicks slowing, hands clawing weakly at the cord before falling limp. The cannon that signifies a tribute’s death cracks through the air, deafening in the sudden stillness.

The body drops into the dirt with a dull, final sound.

District Eleven, Jeonghan recognises faintly.

You stand frozen for half a heartbeat before your knees give out, and Jeonghan’s there to catch you without thinking. Your breath comes ragged, wet-sounding, your hands curling into the dirt.

“I didn’t—” The words scrape out of your throat, breaking halfway. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” He keeps his grip steady on you, even though his own pulse is hammering hard enough to make his hands ache. “She was following us. You saw the knife.”

Your head shakes violently. “That’s not what I meant to—”

“You meant to keep us alive.” He doesn’t say it gently. Gentleness will only make it worse. “That’s what you did.”

The hovercraft’s shadow sweeps over the clearing, cold and sudden, blotting out the last of the sun.

You flinch when the claw descends, the metallic hiss cutting through the dry air. Jeonghan feels you stiffen against him, your breath hitching again. It’s quick—almost mercifully so—the steel fingers closing around the limp body, the slight lift before the hovercraft pulls away, vanishing back into the dim sky. 

Now there’s nothing left of her. Just two sharp impressions in the dirt where her heels hit, the faint scrape where she’d kicked in panic, the rope still swaying from the branch like it’s mocking you.

Jeonghan takes it down. He doesn’t even think about it, just moves towards it and works at the knot until the rope comes loose. He winds it up, slowly, as if giving you time to get your breath under control. His fingers work methodically—loop, twist, tuck—like he’s fixing fishing lines back home. He doesn’t look at you while he does it.

When he finally finishes, you’re still crouched down, hands curled into fists in the dirt, your shoulders trembling.

“We can’t stay here,” he says, stepping closely.

You don’t answer. Your eyes are locked on the patch of ground where she’d fallen, unblinking. He doesn’t need to guess what’s going through your head—your first kill, and you didn’t even know her name. Didn’t know she was there until she was gone.

He crouches down beside you, close enough that your knees brush. “Listen to me.” His voice is low, steady, the way it gets when he’s coaxing you into a plan. “If you freeze now, you’ll die. And I’m not watching you die. So you’re going to stand up, and we’re going to keep moving.”

Your breath shudders, but still, you don’t move.

Jeonghan leans in until you have to look at him. The light is fading fast, shadows painting his face in sharp lines. “This wasn’t murder,” he says, and it’s not meant to comfort you—he’s simply stating it like a fact. “It was survival. If it wasn’t her in that trap, it would’ve been us in the hovercraft and someone else walking away.”

That finally pulls your eyes to his. They’re glassy, rimmed red, but still alert.

“Get up,” he says again, and this time he offers his hand. 

Your fingers are cold when they slide into his, even with the heat still heavy in the air. He pulls you to your feet, steadying you when your knees falter. 

It’s only when you’re well past the ridge, the last gleam of water out of sight, that he glances at you again. “She would’ve killed us,” he says, not accusing, just reminding. “Don’t forget that.”

The branches above creak with the first stirrings of wind. Night will come fast now, and with it, the cold. He can already feel the change in the air, the way the heat is bleeding out of the ground. He adjusts his grip in your wrist—light, but enough to guide you—and heads deeper into the undergrowth.

He knows you won’t forgive yourself tonight. Maybe not ever. But in the Capitol, they’ll twist this moment into a story. The first taste of blood for the star-crossed lovers from District Four. The snare that saved you both. The sponsors will eat it up.

And Jeonghan—who has always been better at lying to a crowd than to himself—will feed them every word they want to hear. Because every gift they send is another day you stay alive.

The heat hasn’t just become unbearable—it’s become a living thing.

It presses on Jeonghan’s skin with the weight of molten iron, searing every exposed inch, chasing sweat out of his body before it can even cool him. His hair is plastered to his neck, his breaths ragged and shallow, each inhale dragging grit into his lungs. His head feels too light and too heavy at the same time, tilting and lolling as though gravity keeps changing its mind about him.

The two of you have been moving in silence for hours—not because you want to, but because even something as simple as breathing feels like too much effort. The air itself tastes scorched. Every plant you pass is the same: brittle, twisted things that crumble if you touch them, offering nothing but dust. The roots you dig up are getting smaller and drier, the last meagre drops of water wrung from them days ago.

It’s when he stumbles for the third time in ten minutes that Jeonghan realises something is slipping in his head. The edges of his vision shimmer. His thoughts keep snagging, replaying the same moments without connection. He shakes his head to clear it, but that only makes the world sway.

He’s not in the arena anymore.

He’s back in District Four.

The sun here is warm, not lethal, filtered through a gauzy morning haze. Salt hangs thick in the air, the tide pulling at the docks with a lazy rhythm he’s known since birth. Ropes creak against wooden posts, gulls squabble over the guts of a fish someone’s tossed into the water. It’s home.

And you’re there.

Not the you of the arena—dust-streaked, dehydrated, haunted—but you in a faded linen dress, hair tangled by the sea breeze. You’re sitting on an overturned crate by the pier, bare feet swinging above the water. In your lap is a small boy with dark curls and your smile, clinging to a seashell. Beside you, a girl of maybe five—older, bold—has her hand wrapped firmly around your wrist.

The girl spots him first. “Papa!” she calls, her voice bright and sure. She barrels toward him, sand scattering under her feet, and he drops to his knees without thinking, catching her in his arms. She smells like sun and salt and something sweet he can’t name. The boy giggles from your lap, and you look at him like he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

Jeonghan’s chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with thirst.

You rise, the boy balanced easily on your hip, and you smile at him, squinting against the sun, tired but content. “You’re late,” you say. “We saved breakfast for you.”

It’s perfect. There’s no fear, no Capitol, no arena. Just the dock, the smell of fish drying on racks, the sound of you humming softly to the boy in your arms.

“...something each tribute needs…”

The voice is faint, distant, like it’s coming from underwater. Jeonghan frowns, glancing over his shoulder. The gulls are gone. The water’s gone still.

“...waiting in the Cornucopia…” Caesar Flickerman’s voice, rich and warm in the way only a practiced liar can be.

The dock wavers. The children’s laughter stutters. He can still feel the girl’s weight in his arms, but his hands are empty now. The world ripples, distorts.

“...life or death… only for those willing to take it…”

The pier dissolves into baked, cracked earth. The sea breeze is gone, replaced by the taste of dust on his tongue. And you’re here, not smiling on the docks, but crouched in front of him, your hair stuck to your cheeks with sweat, eyes sharp with worry.

“Jeonghan,” you say. “Look at me.”

He realises belatedly that he’s swaying. You grip his arm hard enough to steady him, the pressure grounding him just enough to keep him upright.

“You’re burning up,” you mutter, already pulling him towards a meagre patch of shade cast by a cluster of stunted, thorny trees. The shadows they throw are thin and broken, but you push him down against the largest trunk anyway, dropping to your knees in front of him as you dig through your pack.

“There’s nothing left,” you say after a moment, your voice flat in that way it gets when you’re holding yourself together by will alone. “Not a drop.”

His lips stick when he tries to speak. “Cornucopia.”

“No,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “It’ll be a bloodbath.”

Jeonghan swallows, his throat working uselessly. “Caesar… said something for each tribute there.”

You don’t look away. “Medicine and water for you,” you say quietly.

The thought clicks in his head, even through the haze. Of course. The Capitol never misses a chance to bait a trap. They’ve been watching him stumble for hours. They’ve seen the way your eyes keep darting to him when you think the cameras can’t catch it. They’ll dangle what you need right in front of you—water, medicine, hope—and wait for you to come and fight for it.

Your hand is still braced on his shoulder. Your fingers twitch like you’re already weighing every possible risk, calculating every route in and out. “It will be a bloodbath,” you say again.

Jeonghan forces his eyes open. The hallucination is gone now, but its ghost still clings to him—the sound of the girl calling him Papa, the boy in your arms, your smile in the sunlight. It’s almost enough to make him want to close his eyes and go back, even knowing it isn’t real.

“They’ll expect us to hesitate,” he rasps. “We can’t.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, and he thinks—hopes—that you understand he’s not just talking about the Cornucopia. You nod once, and the decision is made.

The Cornucopia looks like it’s breathing.

That’s the first thought that crosses Jeonghan’s mind as the two of you crest the ridge and the thing comes into view—its curved, metallic flanks swelling and shrinking in the heat haze, like a lung pulling air. He knows it’s not alive, but his brain isn’t right anymore. Hasn’t been right for days.

The heat bakes him hollow in the daytime, and the cold splinters him at night. His lips are cracked deep enough to sting with every breath, and his skin feels like parchment stretched over brittle bones. The lack of water has him floating somewhere between waking and sleep, reality and the sweet, impossible warmth of dreams.

He blinks hard, but the Cornucopia still wavers, glinting in the sun like it’s underwater. The ridge beneath his boots is loose and sandy, crumbling a little more with each step. His legs feel like they’ve been carved from driftwood—light in the wrong places, heavy in the wrong places—and every movement has a lag, like the heat has slowed the air between thought and action.

The smell here is wrong, too. No salt like home, no clean tang of fish nets drying on the dock. Just baked dust, iron from the blood long since spilled on this clearing, and the faint oily reek of the Cornucopia itself, shimmering at the arena’s heart.

You’re a step ahead of him, your figure wavering in his vision like a mirage. He’s half-convinced you’re going to disappear entirely if he blinks too long. His hand twitches towards you, but he doesn’t quite grab you.

It’s quieter than it should be. No wind. No rustle of trees—there aren’t any, not near the Cornucopia. Just the faint buzz of insects that have somehow survived the Games and the dry rasp of his own breath.

In the corners of his mind, where the hallucinations live, he hears voices. Light and airy, layered over the scene like a broadcast. Something each tribute needs is here, Caesar Flickerman’s tone says, faint but unmistakable. His smile is in it. Jeonghan hates how easily he can picture it.

His knees threaten to give out on the downhill slope, and for a few seconds he’s not in the arena at all—he’s back in District Four, barefoot on the weather-worn dock. You’re there too, your hair tucked back beneath a wide sunhat, your hands busy knotting rope while a little girl with your eyes clutches his leg and begs him to come look at the fish she’s caught.

The image is so sharp it makes his chest ache. He knows it’s not real, but his body wants to believe it more than it wants to breathe.

He shakes his head hard enough to make the world sway, trying to anchor himself back in the heat and the dust. His throat is so dry that when he swallows, it’s like grinding sand between his teeth.

The Cornucopia looms larger with each step, polished metal twisted into that great curling horn, its open mouth yawning before him. In the glare, he catches flashes of colour: packs, boxes, gleaming shapes that might be weapons. He knows the medicine has to be here. The thought drives him forward even when his body feels like it’s moving through syrup.

But there’s movement at the edges of the clearing. At first, he thinks it’s another hallucination—a ripple in the heat haze. Then it resolves into forms. Six of them, not human.

They’re shaped like dogs, but their gait is wrong, their legs too long, their heads stretched unnaturally. Their eyes catch the light in ways no dog’s should. They spread in a slow arc, herding, driving anyone who dares approach towards the Cornucopia’s centre.

Jeonghan’s skin prickles, but not from the heat. These muttations—mutts, the Capitol’s twisted genetically modified animals—aren’t meant to just kill. They’re meant to corner, to keep the tributes in sight. Somewhere beyond them, he can make out other shapes—moving, armed. The last of the competitors.

His vision flickers again, the scene tilting between here and there, now and then. He sees the Cornucopia, but he also sees the sunlit porch of a house he’s never owned, with you leaning in the doorway, smiling like the world’s not something you have to survive.

He blinks, and the mutts are still there. The smell of dust and metal is still in his nose. His mouth tastes of blood from where he’s bitten the inside of his cheek without noticing.

He knows he can’t last much longer. Every muscle in his body feels sluggish, but there’s no stopping—not with you ahead of him, not with medicine somewhere in that horn’s gleaming belly.

He finally reaches for your wrist.

When Jeonghan wakes, the first thing he notices is the absence of heat. No blistering sun peeling the moisture from his skin, no grit grinding between his teeth, no dry, burning air clawing at his throat. The world is cool now—cool in a way that feels almost unreal. There’s the faint scent of antiseptic in the air, clean and sharp, the low hum of unseen machinery, and a stillness that feels foreign after days of constant danger.

The second thing he notices is the texture under him. Sheets. Smooth, almost slippery, nothing like the scratch of tarp or the roughness of the sleeping bag. His body sinks into something soft enough to cradle his battered frame, and for a moment, he wonders if this is the afterlife the Capitol tells children about: painless, cold, and white.

The third thing is the weight. Not heavy, but present, warm and familiar. He tilts his head and finds you sprawled over his chest, cheek pressed against his chest where his heartbeat thuds. One of your hands is curled in the thin cotton just over his ribs, knuckles pale, as though you’ve been holding on for days and couldn’t bring yourself to let go—not even now.

The quiet is strange. For the first time in what feels like forever, there’s no cannon, no rustle of pursuit, no metallic screech of mutts, no ragged rasp of his own breath while the world tilts and darkens around him. Just the low mechanical hum, and you.

He’s still trying to reconcile the stillness with the last thing he remembers—your voice shouting in his ear, the press of your hands forcing something bitter down his throat, the taste of blood in his mouth—when a voice interrupts his thoughts.

“I’d recommend you not move too much, Mr. Yoon. You’re still recovering.”

Jeonghan turns his head toward the sound. A man in a Capitol-white coat stands beside a wall-length counter, a slim data pad in his hand, posture crisp. His hair gleams under the sterile lighting, combed so precisely it looks painted on, and his smile is small and practiced—an expression honed for delivering both good and bad news without betraying opinion.

Jeonghan’s throat is a ruin, dry and sore, but he forces a rasp of sound. “...Where…?”

“You’re back at the Capitol,” the man answers, eyes flicking down to scan something on his pad before looking back. “You’ve been here for a little over twenty-four hours. You were brought in directly from the arena. Severe dehydration, acute heatstroke, and an electrolyte imbalance that left you moments away from full systemic collapse.”

The words sit heavy in Jeonghan’s ears, slow to take root. He blinks once, twice, letting the sterile white walls and the soft give of the mattress anchor him. His brain feels fogged, but one thing cuts through—your weight still draped over him like a shield that hasn’t yet been lowered.

The doctor notices where his gaze goes. “Your… partner,” he says, with just the faintest tilt of his lips, “refused to leave your side. Even when our retrieval team attempted to separate you for treatment.”

Something in Jeonghan’s chest shifts. He imagines it easily: you, jaw set, eyes fierce, body angled in front of his.

“In fact,” the doctor continues, lowering his tone just slightly, “your survival was not guaranteed. By the time you reached the Cornucopia the four remaining tributes had already fallen. She retrieved the medicine kit, but when you collapsed, she…” The man pauses, as if searching for the right phrasing. “She made it clear to the cameras, and therefore to all of Panem, that if you were not brought back alive, she would end her own life before crossing the finish line.”

The images come to him in flashes—your body bending over his, your voice pitched low but steady. He can almost hear the Capitol commentators, their tones threaded with mockery and delight.

“Protocl,” the doctor goes on, “would have declared her the victor immediately. But with the muttations still active, the closing minutes still being broadcast, and the… unfortunate optics of losing our last tribute live on-air, the decision was made to retrieve you both. She refused to relinquish the medicine until you were stabilised. Against precedent, you were both declared victors.”

The word victors lands oddly in Jeonghan’s mind. It feels like something sharp and hollow, not like triumph.

The doctor glances briefly at the monitors beside the bed, then back to him. “A romantic ending, Mr. Yoon. One the audience adored. Two tributes surviving against impossible odds—because of each other. The Capitol will celebrate it for years.”

Jeonghan doesn’t answer. He doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of too many truths at once.  He keeps his eyes on you instead—the way your breathing is slow but steady, the way your hair shifts slightly with each rise and fall of his chest. His hand lifts, sluggish, until it covers yours.

You stir faintly at the contact, your fingers curling instinctively tighter in the fabric of his gown, but you don’t wake. It’s as if some part of you is still in the arena, unwilling to let him go out of reach.

The doctor speaks again, almost as an afterthought. “You’ll remain under observation for several days. After that, the preparations for the Victory Tour will begin. I suggest you rest while you can. The Capitol loves a love story—but they’ll want to see you both play it to the end.”

“It’s not pretend,” Jeonghan says, raspy and hoarse, but the doctor walks away before he hears it.

It’s not hard to amp up the romance for the Capitol—it was never hard, Jeonghan thinks. He likes being close to you, craves your skin and your touch even more now that he’s survived the worst possible thing anyone could have gone through. The Capitol learned to drink the romance even more; it was a performance he’d grown good at and, secretly, loved. 

It takes three years for the rebellion to die down, but when it does, you and Jeonghan step off a slow transport and smell salt and real air and home.

District Four is smaller now in the best possible way: a house with a sagging porch, nets drying on a line, mornings that begin with coffee and the sea and the low, ordinary, mundane tasks he missed out on for three years. The two of you cook the fish you pull in, argue over how to mend a torn net, laugh until your stomachs hurt. Jeonghan wakes to your shoulder warm against his chest; you wake to him brewing tea and whistling badly. Evenings are for wandering the pier hand-in-hand, for kissing until the sky goes ink-deep and the lights of the Capitol are a distant, ridiculous memory.

He knows you well now, knows you better than he did before the Hunger Games. He gets to do things like kiss the softness of your stomach where no one else has ever before, hear you whisper his name into his ear while his fingers curl in that one spot that makes you quiver. He can call you his, wholly and fully, and know that the hallucinations he had while dehydrated and half out of his mind back at that godforsaken arena can be more than just images his ailing mind conjured up. He can hold you in his arms, and smooth back your hair, and kiss the tips of your fingers simply because he wants to.

Sometimes, the nightmares take you; your body jolts and you retch into the bucket you keep by the bed and Jeonghan knots your hair back murmurs nonsense into your ear until the bile is gone and the tremors fade. Sometimes they take him; he stares into the dark and sees the Cornucopia swell and the mutts’ eyes gleam, and you whisper silly things to drag him back. There is a language of touch between you now, an index of pressure and pause. Fingers that squeeze to stop a panic, a palm pressed flat to a back to anchor, foreheads rested against each other to count the breaths you take.

Somehow, despite it all, Jeonghan thinks maybe the odds really were in his favour.

[gojover-deactivated20250727]

thank you for tagging me @jeonwiixard! ily 💖

make your oc with this picrew and answer this quiz in character to see what cursed compliment they’d receive!

tagging @mahowaga, @idubiluv & @m1ckeyb3rry (no pressure!)

[idubiluv]

thank you for tagging me @fxstpace 💗

make your oc with this picrew and answer this quiz in character to see what cursed compliment they’d receive!

tagging: @etherealyoungk @weird-bookworm @starshuas <333

[idubiluv]

HELP MEEEE i should have spoken to The Guy when i had the chance 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 i’m regretting it now curse my social awkwardness ☹️👎

no because i would’ve done the sameee i get u 😭😭😭 why are we like this smh

but dw we shall hunt him down tmrw during break and make ur friends introduce u (WITHOUT MAKING IT OBVIOUS) to him!! 😝😝

[idubiluv]

@ my internship our mentor walked in on my friend & i while we were locked in on papa's wingeria chat are we so cooked..

[gojover]

WOULD THAT I.

he has spent four lifetimes repenting for his sins and searching for you. in the fifth, he finally gets it right.

pairing: jinu x fem!reader tags & warnings: romance, angst, hurt/comfort; reincarnation!au, previously established relationship!au. changes to canon. mentions of death & sins, blood, injuries, past lives, jinu remembers all his lives but learns how to love you in each one, profanity, alcohol consumption, historical inaccuracies, implied sex, etc. inspired by hozier’s would that i. word count: 8.7k

SEOUL, KOREA. EARLY WINTER, 1936.

It’s become a habit now, for Jinu to walk the alley behind Hwaryeohan Cha-jip every morning. He tells himself he’s just passing through, just out for air, but his feet always take the same turn—past the ink shop, past the frozen rice fields. The snow came early that year, dusting the rooftops of Bukchon in white. Jinu walks until he finds the teahouse, half-tucked between two aging hanoks, with its faded wooden sign and wind chimes made of porcelain spoons.

You work there. He knows this now.

You sweep the floors with your hair tied up in a red ribbon, humming songs no one else seems to know. You boil water in the back room, your sleeves rolled up past your elbows, wrists red from the heat. Sometimes you lean out the window to shake out a cloth, and Jinu watches from across the street, heart in his throat, as if looking at you might somehow unmake the curse.

It doesn’t.

Gwi-Ma’s words still echo like older thunder in his ears. One lifetime for every sin, the demon king had said. He doesn’t remember what he did to deserve this; only that it was enough for the king to curse him with memory, and longing, and you.

You, who never remembers him. You, who are always just out of reach.

Still, this life feels different. He’s not a lonely musician. He’s just Jinu. Just a man in a wool coat with frayed sleeves and too many lifetimes folded into the lines around his eyes.

Somehow, that compels him to step inside.

The bell above the teahouse door is delicate and cracked, like it’s been broken and glued back together a dozen times. It tinkles faintly as he enters, and you glance up from behind the counter. He orders ginger tea. It’s too hot, a little bitter. He drinks it anyway.

You don’t say much to him at first, just slide the cup forward with a polite nod, fingers dusted with flour, and return to kneading dough in the back. Jinu sits in the corner, watching steam curl from the rim of his cup, pretending to read a book he’s read a thousand times before.

He returns the next day. And the next.

Sometimes you smile at him now. Sometimes you ask if he wants something sweet with his tea. He always says yes, just to hear your voice again.

“Do you work nearby?” you ask one morning, wiping your hands on your apron.

“No,” he says. “I walk a lot.”

You tilt your head. “Even in the snow?”

“Especially then,” he says, and you laugh. The sound cuts through every century he’s lived without you. It makes something ancient in him ache.

You tell him your name one day. He already knows it, of course, but he pretends it’s the first time. He says it softly, rolls it on his tongue like a promise.

He brings small things sometimes: a book of poems; a silk ribbon the same colour as the one you wear; once, a tiny jade rabbit charm that he leaves near the register when you’re not looking. You find it later and keep it in your purse. You never ask if it’s from him, and he never tells you.

Some days, he helps. He carries water from the well; repairs a broken chair leg; teaches you how to fold paper cranes when the shop is slow. You sit across from him at the low table, your hands awkward at first, and he watches you fold the wings silently.

You crease the edge of the paper with your thumbnail, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jinu doesn’t laugh, though the sight of you furrowing your brow over something as simple as a paper crane is enough to pull a smile to his mouth. He leans forward and gently adjusts the angle of the folded wing.

“Like this,” he says quietly.

Your fingers brush, briefly, barely. It’s nothing—but to him, it’s everything.

After that, you start leaving out an extra cup when you brew tea in the morning, even before he walks in. You stop pretending not to notice the way he always sits in the same corner seat. You learn that he prefers ginger tea with honey, that he likes his bread warm and his jam unsweetened. You listen to him hum under his breath when he reads, even though his eyes don’t always move across the page.

He learns that you braid your hair when you’re nervous, and that you’re saving up for a trip to Busan, and that you talk to the teapot when you think no one’s listening.

Sometimes, when it snows harder than usual, you don’t get any customers and the city stays quiet. On those days, you sit across from each other on the heated floorboards, sipping tea and listening to the wind rattle the windows.

Once, you fall asleep like that—cheek pressed to your folded arms, exhaustion shuttering your eyelids. Jinu doesn’t wake you. He watches the snow gather on the windowsill and thinks about how peaceful your face looks in this life. 

He wonders if this is enough. If friendship is enough.

You wake, embarrassed, and he just smiles and tells you to rest more. You blink at him, still sleepy but shake your head, so he asks if you want to learn how to fold a lotus next. You do.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

It’s your honeymoon. At least, that’s what the world thinks.

The hotel is charming in the way French hotels are supposed to be—wrought-iron balconies, velvet drapes, and wallpaper the colour of old pearls. The floorboards creak under his feet, and the hallways smell faintly of orange blossoms and candlewax.

Below, the Seine coils through the city, meandering long and slow. Gondoliers shout in lilting voices from the water. The bouquinistes have already opened their green boxes along the banks, selling secondhand poetry and crumbling maps to tourists who still believe Paris belongs to lovers.

Maybe it does. Just not to the two of you.

Jinu stands by the window, shirt half-buttoned, tie discarded somewhere near the settee. The silk catches on the carved wooden leg. The breeze lifts the edge of the curtain, letting in the sound of clattering dishes from the café downstairs.

The light falls soft on your face where you sit at the vanity, brushing your hair in long, even strokes, the red ribbon that you’d used to tie your hair back wrapped around your wrist. Your nightgown is lace-trimmed and far too sheer for the cool morning. He thinks it must be uncomfortable. But you wear it anyway, spine straight, chin lifted, always composed. You don’t look at him. You haven’t looked at him all morning.

There are two coffee cups on the table. One is untouched. You didn’t like the roast, but you won’t tell him that. You’ll let it sit there and grow cold because indifference is your sharpest weapon, and you know exactly how to wield it.

The lace shifts again as you move, bare shoulders catching the gold light. It’s almost enough to make him forget; almost enough to believe this life could be different. Maybe, if he just reached out—if he touched your shoulder, softly, just once—you’d remember something. The way your fingers once curled around the fabric of his hanbok, or the way you said his name.

It’s your honeymoon, and you can barely stand to be in the same room.

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE WEEK AGO.

Jinu promises to take you to see the cherry blossoms after work.

You’re half-asleep on the sofa when he tells you, legs tucked beneath you, your blouse rumpled and your slacks creased at the knees. Your fingers are curled around a mug of ginger tea you’ve forgotten to sip from, the steam long faded. The apartment glows in the evening light—low and golden, brushing everything it touches with warmth. It rests on your cheek, your collarbone, the line of your neck.

The window is cracked open just enough for the air to carry the sound of birds and distant footsteps. Someone laughs downstairs—the neighbour’s kid, maybe, or a passing couple. In the kitchen, the rice cooker clicks off with a soft chime, and the smell of jasmine rice begins to mingle with the faint perfume of laundry soap and honey.

The sakura have started blooming early this year, soft clouds of pink dusting every street, like the city’s been dipped in blush and left to dry slowly. He noticed them that morning on his walk to the train: the way petals clung to the sidewalk like confetti, the way one landed on the shoulder of your coat and you didn’t notice.

“Don’t forget,” you mumble without opening your eyes, voice warm and worn out, lips brushing the rim of the mug. Your feet are bare, and you wiggle your toes sleepily when he sits beside you.

“I won’t,” Jinu says, and he means it.

He never forgets, not in this life.

He reaches over and gently lifts the mug from your hands, careful not to spill it, and sets it on the coffee table beside your phone and a half-finished crossword. Your handwriting is in blue pen—curvy, a little impatient. He glances at it, then turns his attention back to you.

“You should change out of your work clothes,” he says.

“M’comfy,” you whisper, not moving an inch.

He laughs softly. “You say that. Then you complain about the wrinkles in the morning.”

You hum noncommittally, already slipping towards sleep. Your head tilts until it rests against his shoulder. He shifts a little to make it easier. Your hair smells like lemongrass shampoo and the rose spray you use in early spring. Jinu leans his cheek gently against the top of your head.

“Are we going tomorrow or Saturday?” you ask.

“Tomorrow,” Jinu says. “I want to go before the crowds come.”

“You hate crowds,” you agree, nodding.

“You hate them more.”

You smile. “Smart man.”

Jinu slides his arm behind your back, warm and solid and steady. He closes his eyes and listens—to your breath, to the tick of the clock on the wall.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. EARLY SUMMER, 1972.

Jinu slings his arm over your bare waist, and thinks that this might be the life.

Maybe Gwi-Ma took pity on him. Maybe this is a loophole, and it comes with jazz and heat and the way your lipstick smeared against his collar an hour ago. Maybe it’s not a trick. Maybe, for once, he gets to stay.

Your breath is steady now, but your skin is still flushed, slick with the last traces of sweat. The cotton sheets stick to your thigh where it’s thrown over his hip, and your fingers twitch against his ribs, still restless in sleep.

He lets his hand drift up the slope of your side, slow and gentle, the way a man touches something he knows will leave him. He watches your lashes flutter, the corner of your mouth twitch as you stir.

“Are you awake?” he asks.

You hum without opening your eyes. “Barely.”

He presses a kiss behind your ear. “Should I stop?”

“If you’re asking that, you already know the answer.”

So Jinu doesn’t stop. His hand moves, slow and familiar now, tracing the curve of your hip. You shift closer, still half-asleep, until your leg slides between his and your mouth brushes against the underside of his jaw.

It’s easy like this. Too easy.

Your bodies know each other even if your minds don’t. There’s no fumbling anymore, no pretending. Just heat and breath and the memory of your name whispered into the crook of his neck, again and again, like you’re trying to brand yourself into him. Maybe you are.

He holds you afterward, and listens to the rain starting up again outside the window—soft at first, then steadier. Jazz spills in from the bar two floors down, muffled by distance and glass, but still there. Like everything in this city, it lingers.

“You’re staring,” you say eventually, not unkindly.

“I do that,” Jinu says.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason?”

You make a soft sound in the back of your throat, somewhere between amusement and disbelief, and burrow deeper into his chest. Your fingers trace a line over his collarbone, idle and absentminded, like you’re not really thinking about what you’re doing.

“You always act like you know something I don’t,” you mumble. “Like you’ve been waiting for me to figure it out.”

Jinu swallows. “Figure out what?”

“Whatever it is you keep hiding behind your eyes,” you say. “You always look so sad, Jinu.”

His arm tightens around you just slightly. 

You’re not wrong. You never are, not in any life. Even without memory, your intuition is as sharp as it’s always been. You’re like a compass that always swings toward the truth, even when the truth is something you have no idea about. 

Jinu considers lying, or laughing it off. But you shift again, and your thigh brushes against his. You’re close—so close, close enough that he almost lets the truth slip past his teeth. You’ve died in my arms before. You’ve looked at me with your last breath. I’ve been cursed to find you again and again and again.

Instead, he says, “Maybe I just like the way you look when you sleep.”

“Poetic.”

“I try.”

You lift your head to look at him. There’s mascara smudged beneath your eyes, and a tiny crease on your cheek where it pressed against the pillow. Your mouth is a little swollen from kissing, and your voice is hoarse in the way that drives him insane.

“You know this isn’t forever, right?” you say, softly, like you’re offering him a kindness by saying it first.

“I know,” Jinu says.

You nod, like that’s what you needed to hear. “Good.”

But you don’t move. You don’t pull away. You rest your chin on his chest and look at him like you’re memorising the shape of his nose and the colour of his eyes.

“God,” you whisper after a while. “This would be so much easier if you were an asshole.”

Jinu laughs and says, “I can be, if it helps.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re good. That’s the problem.”

He kisses your forehead and tries not to think about the way your voice cracked.

JOSEON, KOREA. WINTER, 1798.

It is snowing the first time Jinu sees you, and your name forms on his mouth like habit.

It’s not the name you carry now—not the one assigned to you by court records and a royal appointment, or the one embroidered into the hem of your hanbok in gold thread. It is the name you’ve had in your previous lifetime. The name he’s whispered into your skin, into your dying hands.

Jinu doesn’t say it aloud. He doesn’t dare.

He watches you from the far side of the courtyard, where the snow has muffled the world and the stone paths disappear beneath white. His breath fogs in the air. A court servant speaks beside him—something about a grain levy in Jeolla—but Jinu isn’t listening. He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You walk gracefully, holding a lacquered tray to your chest, with your back straight. Your hair is pulled into a sleek bun, adorned with a single ornamental binyeo shaped like a plum blossom. It is the sign of a new concubine: favoured and untouched. The wind catches your sleeve and flutters it gently, and his chest clenches at the sight of your wrist. A thousand memories flicker through his mind like reeds in the current.

Yet, your face is unfamiliar in this first life. Younger, and softer. Your eyes don’t carry memory. You don’t look at him with recognition or contempt. You don’t look at him at all.

You pass through the courtyard, and Jinu stands frozen under the shadow of a ginkgo tree, as though time itself has collapsed.

Later, in his private study, he asks about you. He pretends it’s nothing—an idle inquiry wrapped in courtesy, spoken to the right eunuch over warm rice wine.

“The girl who came last month,” he says, carefully. “The concubine gifted by the Governor of Gangwon. What do we know of her?”

“The new Lady?” The eunuch says your new name, the one that doesn’t feel right in Jinu’s mouth. “She is quiet and well-mannered. Literate, I believe, though she comes from no family of rank. She entered the palace under the northern court’s petition—her village suffered a flood, and her people sought mercy. The Governor offered her as tribute.”

“Tribute,” Jinu repeats, tasting the word like ash.

“She was chosen for her beauty,” the eunuch adds. “Nothing more.”

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

You married him because you had to.

It was a bargain struck behind closed doors, a compromise made with fathers and fortunes and convenience. He had wealth, and you had a family in debt. It was all very civilised, very French. The papers printed your photograph beside a headline that called it a union of elegance and fortune. They didn’t print the part where you refused to meet his eyes.

At dinner, you speak to him in French, formally, like a woman who doesn’t wish to be misunderstood, and doesn’t care to be known. You order for yourself. You never ask if he’s read the books you quote. You let the silence stretch until it breaks and sip your half-finished wine instead.

Jinu lets you. He nods when appropriate, smiles when it seems polite, swirls his wine, and pretends not to watch the way you cut your food too carefully.

He thinks about how different your voice sounds in this life. How your laughter is a stranger to him. He remembers the you who laughed easily, the you who danced barefoot in the snow, the you who wrote him letters in the margins of books and left pressed flowers between the pages. That version of you isn’t here.

In this lifetime, you wear gloves to dinner and never once let your fingers brush his.

But you’re beautiful. God, you’re beautiful.

It kills him a little, every time.

You look like a painting he’s seen before and can’t quite place; one he’s spent lifetimes trying to find again. Now that you’re here—flesh and blood, name and ring and contract—you’re more unreachable than ever.

You don’t sleep in the same bed. The suite has two, and that’s something you requested specifically. He remembers the clerk glancing at him with a look that hovered between pity and apology.

The bellboy had asked, “Madame, shall I draw the curtains between the beds?”

“Yes, thank you,” you had said.

You don’t ask him questions: not about his work, not about his past. Not about the faraway look he sometimes gets when the light hits the Seine just right. He doesn’t ask you, either. The truth is, you are not his, in this life.

He wonders if you dream of him. He wonders if somewhere deep in your chest, beneath the silk and bone and flesh, something stirs when he says your name. He wonders if you ever wake in the middle of the night with a pang in your heart that you don’t understand.

Jinu hopes so, because he has woken up like that every night of this life.

SEOUL, KOREA. WINTER, 1937.

By the time Seollal passes and the paper lanterns are taken down, the people in the neighbourhood begin to notice—not with suspicion or idle gossip, but with a kind of slow, blooming fondness. They don’t whisper behind their hands or snicker when Jinu walks by. Instead, they smile.

The old woman with the parrot—Madam Kwon, who lives above the fermented soybean shop—starts referring to Jinu as your shadow. Every morning, as she feeds her bird sesame seeds and counts her prayer beads in the sun, she croaks out, “Your shadow’s early today,” when Jinu turns the corner near the tea shop. The parrot repeats her, mangled and gleeful. Sha-dow, sha-dow!

You glance up from the window, smothering a smile.

The boy from across the alley, barely thirteen, who runs errands for the ink shop, has started tipping his cap at Jinu each morning. One day, when he passes, he calls out with the overconfidence of youth, “She likes persimmons, you know. Bring her some. The kind with the wrinkly skins.”

Jinu hides his amusement behind a polite nod. The next day, a small cloth pouch of dried persimmons appears on the tea shop counter. You don’t say anything, just tuck them into the cupboard—but you save one, and when Jinu comes in at closing, you place it on a small plate beside his tea without a word.

The grocer, Mr. Baek, an older man with a permanent frown and a weak knee, lets Jinu pick through the fresh vegetables first whenever he sees him on the path to the tea shop.

“You work too hard, boy,” Mr. Baek grumbles as Jinu hoists a basket of firewood onto one shoulder.

“He’s not a boy,” Madam Kwon snorts from her usual perch. “He’s a man, Baek. Can’t you tell?”

“A man, huh?” Mr. Baek eyes Jinu’s hands, callused from helping with the heavy work around the shop. “Well, even a man needs to rest his back before it breaks.”

Jinu only smiles. “I’ll rest after I’ve swept the steps for her.”

They all approve of him, though none say it directly. The world is starting to tuck Jinu into your corner of it without him needing to ask.

One afternoon, while the snow still clings to the gutters but the breeze carries a hint of plum blossoms, an elderly couple walks in from out of town. They speak in slow dialect, asking for ginger tea and warmth for their aching bones. Jinu is seated by the window, sketching quietly in his notebook. As you prepare the tea, the woman glances at him, then at you.

“Your husband doesn’t say much,” she remarks.

You nearly spill the water. “He’s not— I mean, we’re not—”

Jinu looks up, and the couple laughs kindly. “Ah, forgive us,” the man says. “You have that look about you.”

“What look?” you ask, wary.

“The look of people whose silence with each other is comfortable.”

You don’t respond, but when you set the tray down in front of them, you notice Jinu watching you closely. After they leave, you go to clear the table. There’s an extra coin left on the tray, and the old woman has pressed a paper fortune beside it: “Love that arrives quietly stays the longest.”

You crumple it without thinking.

But later that night, after the shop has closed and the windows are shuttered, Jinu finds it smoothed out on the back counter, your handwriting scribbled in the margins: “Don’t get any ideas.”

He smiles.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1971.

Jinu finds you by accident, really. 

He’s searching for a bar—any bar—on an unnaturally rainy Friday night, his collar turned up against the warm drizzle, the air thick with the smell of sweet olive trees and fried catfish. The city hums with life even in the storm. Neon flickers on puddles like oil slicks, and brass spills from half-opened windows.

He’s already passed three places too crowded, one too quiet, and a fourth that reeked of stale beer and cigarette ash, when he turns down a narrow side street he doesn’t remember the name of.

He finds a wooden door, warped with time and painted a moody red. It sits beneath a hanging sign with chipped cursive that reads: The Red Ribbon. A string of paper lanterns hangs overhead, glowing soft through the rain like a trail of fireflies.

Inside, the bar is low-lit and warm, a haven from the storm. The air smells like cinnamon smoke and lemon rinds, and something old—like velvet curtains and perfume that clings to skin. There’s a quiet hum of conversation, the clink of glass on glass, and music.

No—not music. A voice.

Low and rich, not quite singing, not quite speaking. Like honey melting in a warm cup of tea. It curls around the room before he sees you; dips into the cracks between shadows; holds him still.

You’re on stage, beneath a gold spotlight, wearing a black satin blouse tucked into high-waisted pants, one heel perched on the edge of the stool as you croon into the microphone. Your voice doesn’t beg for attention. It commands it, slow and sultry and effortless. You sing a cover of I’ll Be Seeing You, but it’s yours now, softer, smokier, as if the song’s always belonged to you.

In your hair, tied just above your ear, is a red ribbon.

Jinu stops breathing.

You’re older in this life. Sharper. Your voice curls like cigarette smoke, and your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. But it’s you. Of course it’s you. He would know you in any century.

You don’t see him. You never do, not at first.

The room fades. Jinu’s heart hammers.

Gwi-Ma’s curse, so old now it’s half-forgotten, curls tight in his ribs like a warning. This is the fourth time, he thinks.

The bartender is young, with freckles scattered across his nose. “What can I get you?”

“What’s her drink?” Jinu asks, nodding toward the stage.

“She switches it up sometimes. But mostly it’s gin and tonic. Extra lime.”

“Then one of those. And whatever you recommend.”

He carries both your drinks over when you step off the stage, undoing the ribbon in your hair deftly and shaking your head. You wrap the ribbon around your wrist and raise an eyebrow when he stops by your table. 

“That for me?” you ask.

Jinu sets the gin and tonic down. “Extra lime.”

“Let me guess,” you drawl. “First time here, heard me sing, got curious?”

“Something like that,” he says.

JOSEON, KOREA. SPRING, 1799.

It is well past curfew when you slip into the old library pavilion.

The moon is high, its light diffused through the paper lattice windows, casting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The scent of old parchment and ink wafts through the air. Outside, the plum trees stir in the breeze, petals tumbling like tiny, perfumed ghosts.

You shouldn’t be here. No one comes here anymore—not since the roof began to rot, not since the scrolls were moved to the new annex.

But you know the door that creaks just slightly less. You know which floorboards to avoid. Most importantly, you know no one will be looking for a concubine in the archive of forgotten histories.

You light a single oil lamp and walk the aisles barefoot, your skirts brushing against shelves of neglected poetry and old Confucian texts. You’re looking for something. You don’t know what; only that your chest has been heavy lately with something unnamed, and that reading makes it easier to breathe.

You’re so engrossed in a worn volume of Tang poetry that you don’t hear him until it’s too late.

“What are you doing here?”

You whip around, heart slamming in your chest, the book nearly slipping from your fingers. 

Jinu stands in the doorway—half-lit by moonlight, half-shadowed, like something conjured from the very pages you were reading. He’s shed his ceremonial robes for the evening, wearing only a dark overcoat tied loosely at the waist. His hair is unbound at the nape, a sign that he, too, thought the night would pass without interruption.

You gasp. “I—I didn’t think anyone—”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, though there’s no bite to it. Just curiosity, and a hint of wariness.

You lift your chin. “Neither are you.”

He arches a brow, and you realise your mistake. Of course he’s allowed anywhere he wishes—he’s one of the King’s closest ministers. But instead of correcting you, he steps further inside, eyes never leaving yours.

“What are you reading?”

“Poetry,” you say.

“May I see it?”

You hand him the book with reluctant fingers. He takes it carefully, as though it’s precious. You watch as he scans the open page. His lips move as he reads silently. Then, softly, aloud:

“In the quiet night, the moonlight before my bed perhaps is frost upon the ground. I raise my head and see the moon, then lower it and think of home.”

You say nothing.

“You miss it,” Jinu says quietly. “Your home.”

“You can’t miss what you barely remember,” you say, shrugging.

“Still, you’re here,” he says, closing the book. “Risking punishment for poetry.”

“I thought this place was empty.”

“It is. Mostly. You’ve been here before,” he says.

“Will you report me?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.

He watches you for a long moment, and shakes his head. “No. But if you’re going to read by lamplight, you shouldn’t sit so close to the paper screens. It casts a shadow.”

TOKYO, JAPAN. SPRING, ONE MONTH AGO.

On Jinu’s birthday, you surprise him with a picnic beneath the sakura.

It’s a Tuesday, technically a workday, but you convince his supervisor to let him off early and drag him, half-confused, half-laughing, onto the Marunouchi Line. You refuse to say where you’re going, only grin over the rim of your coffee and tap your knee against his like you’re buzzing with a secret.

He figures it out by the time you’re walking down the path at Shinjuku Gyoen, past couples and families and students with cameras, every tree dripping in soft pink petals. The wind is light, enough to lift your hair and scatter a few blossoms onto his shoulder. You swipe them off with a delicate touch, fingers brushing his collar.

“Here?” he asks, looking around.

You point to a quiet spot beneath a tall cherry tree, where the ground is dappled with sunlight and pink. “Here.”

He watches you set the blanket down and unroll the bento boxes you packed that morning, tied in checkered cloth, still warm. Tamagoyaki, onigiri, simmered daikon, the pickled things he likes. There’s even a small chocolate cake hidden in your tote, which you keep sneakily tucked behind your legs like it isn’t obvious.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he says, sitting beside you. His voice is warm. He never quite knows what to do with being loved like this—not when it’s freely given.

“I know,” you say. “But I wanted to.”

Jinu looks at you for a long second. You’re wearing that soft blue sweater he likes, the one that slides off your shoulder when you’re not paying attention. The sunlight hits your cheekbones and catches in your lashes, and he thinks—like he always does—that you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

You open a thermos, pour him tea, and he raises it in mock solemnity.

“To thirty-three,” he says.

“Thirty-two,” you correct.

“Am I?”

“You always forget,” you say. “You’ve been forgetting since we met.”

He laughs. “Feels like I’ve lived a hundred years already.”

You don’t say anything. Sometimes, when the light hits his face just right or he says something echoes in your mind, you wonder.

You’ve always had strange dreams: places you’ve never been, languages you’ve never studied, and a man who always looks like him, even when he wears a robe, or a bloodied uniform, or a wool coat in the snow. You never tell him this. You’re afraid it will break the spell.

Instead, you offer him another onigiri and press a kiss to his cheek.

“Happy birthday,” you whisper. “I’m glad you were born.”

Jinu closes his eyes and laces his fingers with yours, lets you lean your weight into his side; lets the breeze scatter petals in your hair; lets the warmth spread down his spine like he’s standing in the sun after a long, long winter.

MANCHURIA. WINTER, 1944.

It comes as no surprise, then, that when the war begins, you and Jinu get married and business at the teahouse dwindles with every passing day.

The papers are signed quietly one late afternoon, in the cramped back office of the local administration hall: two names written in black ink, side by side, binding you together not by love but by survival. There is no time for anything else. The world is already falling apart.

The Japanese occupation deepens its grip. All around you, men vanish into forced conscription, women into labour camps, into silence. The air grows tighter with fear. Propaganda posters replace the poetry on the streets. The teahouse shutters for good.

You and Jinu are sent away within the month. He becomes a soldier. You become a nurse.

You are not the only married couple split between posts, but somehow, impossibly, the army places you both near the front. You meet sometimes between camps. Once every few weeks, maybe. Sometimes longer.

Each time, your reunion is brief and practical. You sew up the tears in his uniform. He shares what little rations he’s stashed away for you. He never forgets to hand you a pair of gloves or wrap your scarf tighter, or tie your hair back with that red ribbon with shaking fingers. You always insist he sleep for at least two hours before returning to his unit.

There is no time for affection. There is barely time for sleep.

But sometimes, when you are alone—when the tents are quiet and the snow piles against the canvas—he touches your face in the dark, and you lean into him without a word. Sometimes you rest your forehead against his shoulder, and Jinu runs his hand up and down your back.

The night you die, it is snowing.

The war has reached a new fever. There are no longer clear lines, no longer rest stations or warning signals or predictable patrols. The world is burning in patches, and no one can remember what day it is.

Jinu is stationed near the ravine when the call comes—medics down, supplies hit, critical injuries. He runs before they finish speaking.

He doesn’t recognise the wreckage of the medic tent at first, just the shape of it, torn open by gunfire and winter wind, canvas flapping in the air. The snow is tinged red. Bodies are scattered everywhere.

You’re still alive when he finds you, but barely.

You’re half-buried beneath another nurse, shielding her even in unconsciousness. Your side is soaked through with blood, spreading dark and fast across your uniform. Your breathing is shallow, more rasp than breath. Jinu drops to his knees beside you.

“Hey,” he says, voice breaking. “Hey—look at me. It’s me.”

Your eyes flutter open. Focus. Unfocus. Finally, they find him. “...Jinu?” you breathe, your voice thready.

He laughs, because it’s either that or scream. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. You stubborn woman, what were you doing here? You were supposed to be safe.”

“I stayed.” You cough, wet and small. “One of the children… the boy with the bad leg…”

“I know,” Jinu says. He does know. He always knew you’d stay. He presses his hand to your wound. His other hand cradles the back of your head. Snowflakes melt on your cheeks.

Later, they find him still holding you, long after the snow has buried your boots and the blood has dried stiff on his uniform. He won’t speak for days, won’t eat. When he finally returns to his post, he doesn’t say what happened; he only writes your name on the inside of his sleeve in black ink, where no one else can see.

Years later, when the war ends and the country forgets the names of its dead, Jinu does not. He leaves a folded paper crane at every teahouse he passes, and he never remarries.

PARIS, FRANCE. SUMMER, 1890.

On the third day of your honeymoon, Jinu takes you dancing.

It is a Friday evening, and the city glows with the kind of gold that never quite fades, even as dusk creeps in. From the hotel balcony, the streets below shimmer with laughter, carriage wheels clattering against cobblestones, parasols twirling, violins warming up in salons beyond shuttered windows.

He waits for you in the sitting room, dressed in pressed trousers and a charcoal waistcoat, a pale lavender cravat at his throat—the one you picked, absentmindedly, on your first day in the city. The silk still smells faintly like you.

You emerge from the bedroom without a word, gloves drawn tight over your wrists, gown cinched neatly at the waist. You’re beautiful, but distant.

Always, always distant.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.

The carriage ride is quiet. The air smells like summer rain and perfume, and Jinu watches your profile in the glass—the slope of your nose, the way your eyes follow the shape of the Seine like it’s memory. You haven’t touched him since the day you arrived. Your hand rests lightly on his arm now, like you’re afraid even weight might give too much away.

He wants to ask about the letters.

The ones you receive from a different postbox. The ones you tuck away before he enters the room. He’s never opened one, but he doesn’t need to. The handwriting is always the same: slanted, and familiar only to you. He doesn’t ask. He never does.

Tonight, he only wants to pretend.

The ballroom is in Montmartre, crowded and warm, lit by chandeliers that make the dust shimmer. The band plays slow waltzes, the kind that linger in your throat even after the music fades.

Jinu places a hand on your waist. You let him.

Your fingers rest against his shoulder, delicate as frost.

He draws you closer, searching for something in your eyes. He finds nothing. Nothing but the practiced smile of a woman doing what is expected.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, voice low.

You look away. “I’m tired.”

“Of dancing?” Of me?

You don’t answer. Jinu guides you in a slow circle. You follow, graceful, perfect. A doll in silk and pearl. Yet, every few beats, your gaze slips towards the doors; towards the windows; towards something far away. He’s used to it now. Gwi-Ma’s curse has hardened him, but just because he is used to it, it does not make it any easier to be the consolation prize in this lifetime that never belonged to him.

“Do you love him?” he asks suddenly, before he can stop himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say.

You’re right. It doesn’t. Not in this life. Not in this world where your father sold your hand to erase a debt, and his name was the one on the contract. Not in a marriage made of cold sheets and polite lies.

Jinu exhales slowly. “It does to me.”

You meet his gaze, then, and something flickers in your eyes. Not love, or forgiveness—just sadness, deep and quiet, like the kind that seeps into your bones and never quite leaves.

“You’re not a bad man,” you say softly. “You just aren’t mine.”

He closes his eyes. The music swells. Couples spin around you both like falling leaves.

Jinu doesn’t say another word. He just holds you a little tighter, for as long as the song lasts. Because after tonight, you’ll drift further away. He can feel it, that tide pulling you towards a life you’ll never have and a man he will never be.

But for this dance—just this one—he lets himself imagine you’re his.

The next day, the divorce papers are finalised and the money is settled. You move to Vienna the week after.

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA. AUTUMN, 1972.

The bartender tells Jinu you moved to Chicago.

He says it like it’s nothing, like you didn’t leave a hollowed-out space where your voice used to sit on stage at The Red Ribbon, smokey and golden and soft as dusk.

“Packed up two weeks ago,” the freckled boy says, polishing a glass. “Didn’t say much, just left a note for Missy in the back. Said she got an opportunity, somethin’ better. Maybe a record label.”

Jinu doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them.

He nurses his bourbon in silence for a while, and lets the saxophone on the radio spill into the half-empty room. The walls feel thinner without you—less velvet, more echo. The stage is dark now, the piano covered in a wrinkled sheet.

When he asks for your address, the bartender raises an eyebrow. “You a friend?”

“I was her lover,” Jinu says, and it’s not wrong.

The man shrugs and writes it down on the back of a bar napkin, sliding it over with two fingers. It’s smudged at the edges, ink bleeding from moisture left behind by someone else’s glass. But the words are clear.

South Side. Chicago. Apartment 2B. ℅ Langford Records.

Jinu stares at it for a long time. He folds it once and pockets it.

That night, in his apartment above the bakery on Dauphine Street, he sits at the kitchen table with a cigarette burning low and a single lamp flickering behind him. Rain taps gently against the window, steady as a metronome.

He finds a sheet of paper, ivory and heavy. He doesn’t plan to write much.

October 12th, 1972 New Orleans

You left without saying goodbye.

That’s not a complaint. Just… an observation.

The bartender said Chicago. He said you packed light, but you always did. I used to wonder how someone could carry so much in them and still leave so little behind. I guess I have my answer now.

I keep thinking about that night on the balcony. You, with your lipstick smudged and your heels kicked off, humming some Ella Fitzgerald song that only you knew all the words to. You asked me if I believed in fate. I said no. You laughed like I was missing the joke.

I think I get it now.

Maybe it wasn’t fate. Maybe it was just timing. Bad, as always.

I don’t know what you’re chasing up there—music, love, a version of yourself you can finally live with—but I hope you find it. And if you don’t, I hope it finds you anyway.

I won’t write again. This feels like enough.

But if it ever rains in Chicago, and you think of me, just know I was thinking of you too.

– J.

Jinu folds the letter carefully and slides it into an envelope but doesn’t seal it. He stares at it for a long time. Then he sets it on the counter beside his keys and goes to bed without turning out the lamp.

He never mails it, but every now and then, when the rain hits just right, he reads it again.

JOSEON, KOREA. LATE SUMMER, 1799.

They charge you with treason.

No matter how many times Jinu kneels before the King, no matter how many sleepless nights he spends rewriting every record, begging the court historian to leave your name out of the final script, no one listens.

It is easier to silence a concubine than to question a minister, easier to blame a woman for sin than to hold a man accountable for love.

So, on the last evening of your life, they dress you in white: a shade meant for funerals; for forgetting.

Your hair, once combed and oiled and pinned with mother-of-pearl, hangs unbound down your back now. The servants didn’t bother with ceremony. They gave you water, and left you in a corner of the gardens, as if you were already half-gone. You sit on the edge of the low stone wall, staring at the lotus pond, legs tucked neatly beneath you and wrists bound.

The ropes around your wrists bite into tender skin—tight, too tight—but you won’t ask them to be loosened. The guards know better than to keep an eye on you. You’re not dangerous, just inconvenient.

You know he’ll come.

You don’t look surprised when Jinu appears between the carved columns, breathless, his topknot hastily tied and robes disheveled. His boots make no sound against the wooden floor as he drops to his knees before you.

“Please,” he says, his voice shredded down to the bone. “Please tell me you’ll hate me for this.”

You blink slowly. Your lashes are damp with the humidity. “Would that make it easier?”

“No.” Jinu shakes his head. “But I want you to have something.”

There’s no moon yet, but the light from the lantern by the steps is enough to see him properly. His lips are chapped. There’s ink on his sleeves, on the soft crease where his palm meets his thumb. He hasn’t stopped writing letters, then. Petitions. Pleas.

“You should go,” you say quietly. “If they see you—”

“I don’t care.”

“They’ll strip you of your title.”

“I don’t care.”

His hands are trembling when they reach for yours. He cups your bound wrists with reverence. His touch is a contradiction—soft, but desperate. His thumbs brush over your bruises. You don’t flinch.

Between his palms, you feel something cool press against your skin, smooth and weightless. Your fingers twitch, instinctively curling around it.

A jade rabbit. 

The kind children carry for luck. The kind lovers carve when words aren’t enough.

You remember once, weeks ago, a charm just like it left behind on the counter behind the Queen Dowager’s quarters—no note, no name. You’d tucked it into the folds of your robes and told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Now, you understand. You clutch it tighter.

“You said once,” Jinu whispers, “that you didn’t believe in reincarnation.”

You manage a faint smile, remembering his stories of the demon king and the curse of love and memory because of sins past. “I still don’t.”

“Well.” His eyes close briefly, lashes dark against his cheek. “I’ll believe for both of us, then.”

The cicadas outside scream like they know how little time is left.

“It’s just a story,” you say. “No one remembers their past lives.”

“I do,” he says, and something deep in you twists, aching. “And I will. I’ll find you again.”

“I don’t want to be remembered like this,” you whisper.

“I won’t remember the ropes,” Jinu says. “I’ll remember the way you fold paper cranes, and recite poetry, and the sound of your laugh when you think no one’s listening.”

Your throat tightens. There’s a sob there, buried deep, but it won’t surface. You’re too tired for crying. “Don’t—”

“I’ll remember,” he says. “And one day, somewhere—when you are free and unafraid—I’ll press this rabbit into your palm again, and you’ll know.”

“Jinu—”

He leans forward slowly, and presses his forehead to your bound hands. The lantern’s light glows between you. The cicadas hush. Far in the distance, a temple bell rings the hour. It’s almost time.

TOKYO, JAPAN. PRESENT DAY.

These days, you find it harder to sleep. The dreams are worse now, beguiling and long and sad. They stretch like old film reels behind your eyes, full of half-familiar cities and names that slip away when you wake. They end with Jinu, always Jinu—but not Jinu at the same time. He wears different clothes, speaks in languages you don’t remember learning.

You shift in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, one arm heavy and warm across your waist.

This version of Jinu sleeps with his mouth slightly open, his breathing even, steady. His chest rises and falls against your back, his palm curled gently beneath your navel. The window’s been left ajar, and the scent of sakura drifts in on the night air. You press your hand over his absentmindedly. His fingers twitch in his sleep and close tighter around you.

You sigh. Your forehead presses into the pillow. It’s too early or too late to be awake, and you’re tired—so tired—but your body doesn’t know how to rest anymore. Not when your mind insists on wandering. Not when you wake up crying into a man’s arms and can’t tell him why.

You almost speak, but he stirs before you can.

“Mmh,” he mumbles, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder. “You okay?”

“I… had that dream again,” you tell him.

Jinu lifts his head. He’s groggy, eyes swollen with sleep, but he’s already frowning. Already reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“The one with the snow?” he asks.

You nod. “And the red ribbon. And a jazz bar.”

He doesn’t laugh, though you’d expect anyone else to. Instead, he kisses your shoulder. “Come closer.”

“I’m already close.”

“Closer,” he says again, like the space between you could ever be enough to stop the ache. Like if he holds you tight enough, he can keep the dreams at bay.

You turn to face him, legs brushing his under the blanket. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Do I do something wrong in the dream?” he asks.

“No,” you say. “But you’re sad. Like… you know something I don’t.”

His throat works. His thumb runs along the apple of your cheek, just once. “Maybe I’m dreaming it too.”

You stare at him. It’s too dark to read his expression clearly, but something in you catches at the thought. Maybe he’s dreaming it, too: the same ink-stained hands, the same gardens, the same unfinished goodbyes.

“You think so?” you whisper.

He nods. “Remind me,” he says. “I found this antique rabbit made out of jade yesterday at the market. It reminded me of you. Remind me to give it to you.”

“Okay,” you say, and bury your face against his chest and let him wrap both arms around you. You press your palm over his heart. 

“You talk in your sleep, too, sometimes, you know,” you murmur into the dark. “Who’s Gwi-Ma?” 

You’re teasing, mostly—half-asleep, your words loose around the edges—but there’s a small, curious lilt to your voice that makes Jinu still for a fraction of a second. Barely perceptible, just long enough for you to notice.

You continue, lightly, unaware. “Should I be worried?”

He should’ve prepared for this. He’s had five lifetimes to come up with a better answer. Five lifetimes of choices and mistakes and prayers spoken into temples and alleyways and bomb shelters. Five lifetimes of watching you slip through his fingers, of losing you just when he thought he might have a chance.

He should’ve been ready.

Jinu exhales slowly, lets his palm slide a little higher on your stomach, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin. Your breathing is calm now. You trust him.

He leans in and kisses your shoulder again, and says, “No one.”

You shift a little in his arms, not entirely convinced. “Sounds like a someone.”

He smiles against your skin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just a strange dream. One of those names that sticks for no reason. You know how it is.”

“We’re weird,” you mumble. “I mean… you and me.”

“I know,” Jinu says, and he means it more than you’ll ever understand.

You don’t see the way his gaze always rests on you in the dark after you drift off. You don’t feel how tight his arms become, how he pulls you closer like he’s afraid you’ll vanish in your sleep.

You don’t know that he remembers everything.

The snow in Bukchon. The teahouse. The library in the palace. The battlefield and your name on the inside of his sleeve. Paris and silence. New Orleans and the ribbon in your hair. The prison courtyard and the jade rabbit you clutched until the rope took you. All of it.

He remembers the taste of your ginger tea; the colour of your blood on his hands; the sound of your voice in French; the way you looked at him in a jazz bar in 1972 and said, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

Too late, he’d wanted to say. Too many lives too late.

Now, in this quiet Tokyo apartment, with your fingers unconsciously curled into the fabric of his shirt, he knows Gwi-Ma has finally allowed him to keep you. The king has grown tired of watching him suffer. That was the promise, that in this fifth and final life, he can keep you safe and warm, tucked into his side, where the only real concerns are whether he’s put the laundry to dry, or what to cook for dinner.

Jinu watches the sky begin to pale through the window, watches your lashes flutter in sleep. He watches your mouth part like you’re about to say his name, even here, even now. He thinks about the red ribbon he keeps tucked inside his coat pockets, and worn-out letter in his dresser, and the jade rabbit he keeps underneath his pillow, and he smiles into your hair.

a/n: hi! thank you so much for reading :) i watched kpop demon hunters on sunday and i could not stop thinking about how little we know about jinu’s past and about how rumi’s mother met and fell in love with a demon. that little thought about jinu’s past turned into a full-blown fic that i wrote imagining that jinu’s past sin was abandoning his family (except i obviously tweaked it) & that gwi-ma is more like hades in terms of punishment as opposed to like. a demon king. the poem that jinu reads out aloud is a translated version of quiet night thought by li bai. have a wonderful day!

[idubiluv]

hi i’m so bored

hellooo same i am bored out of my mind HELP ME

[idubiluv]

HI ARYA ML MY QUEEN HOW ARE U !!! i miss u sm :((((

AMELIAAA im doing great bb imysm too 🤧💘 my 2nd yr of uni just ended (still feels surreal !!) so i can finally breathe in peace after wtv the hell these past 2 months of internals and endsems were 😍 thinking of coming back to tumblr as well ! wbuu how's everything going w u <33

[starshuas]

TUMBLR COMEBACK???? i prayed for times like this 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

OMG YIPPEE !! ur free !!!!! im still trapped with school (mainly finals) till june 26.. AND i have summer college classes starting jul 1 (im cooked)

but i have a lot of fun things planned soon so im loking forward to those heheheh

[idubiluv]

LMAOAOA ur so cute bye 😭🫶🏼💗

Omgg atb for your finals and summer classes babes, I’m sure you’ll do so well <333 🫂

Hope you enjoy all the fun things you’ve planned, keep me posted heheh 😚👉

[idubiluv]

Followed you because of your writing but your geopolitical views suck ass. Your anti-Pakistan rhetoric is honestly embarrassing considering your PM is the butcher of Gujrat and your silence over Hindutva violence against Muslims is equally appalling. India killed a child in their attacks on Pakistan, but of course you used the Isr*eli tactic of covering the atrocity up with the bullshit excuse "oh but that was a terrorist area what was the child doing there ☝️🤓" I wouldn't even care about sending you this if it weren't for your egregious disregard for a child's life. Humanity comes before being Pakistani or Indian. Seems like the majority of Indians have forgotten this. Disappointed.

Hi, kindly get your facts straight, I’m not anti anyone, nor did I ever claim to be. There’s a difference between simply condemning the terrorism exhibited by the people of a certain country and hating an entire country. Please learn how to differentiate between the two before throwing false allegations in people’s faces.

Secondly, my reblogs were restricted to the Pahalgam attacks so that will only be the extent of my reply.

When a child’s life was lost you ask where the humanity is, and rightfully so. No innocent child must ever face such a death no matter which country they hail from.

But what about those 30 Indians who lost their lives at no fault of their own?

They were somebody’s fathers, brothers, sons, just out celebrating a holiday with their loved ones, taking in the greenery of Kashmir before it was aggressively stained crimson.

So I ask you, what about the boy who helplessly watched his own father get shot before his eyes as his father’s lifeless body fell at his feet? What about the daughter whose guttural screams echoed through the valleys as she watched her father get killed in cold blood, simply for being unable to recite the verses of the Kalma? What about the newlywed who was turned into a widow just a mere week after her wedding, when she saw her husband, a soldier, get humiliated and undressed before finally being shot to death? How do you suppose they carry on with their lives? Are they not human beings?

Why were they targeted for being Hindus? Why were their pants pulled down to check for circumcision in front of their wives and children? What about these atrocities? Where is your humanity then?

You expect Indians to mourn the death of the Pakistani child, to not let religion and nations behold us from prioritising humanity, but not once did I witness a Pakistani express devastation over the innocent lives lost in my country.

Pakistani terrorists have facilitated attacks on India countless times in the past, and so many innocent children, just like the one in Pakistan, have died. When India decided to retaliate this time around, why is it that this gives a spark to your humanity when all these years you all decided to keep mum? Do only Pakistani children and citizens reserve the right to live? Are Indians destined to die cruel, unjust deaths? What sort of double standards are these?

Also, do not try to spin the Israel-Palestine narrative here. Pakistan is NOT Palestine and India is NOT Israel. Stop victimising yourself, when Indians have always been victim to the disgusting crimes committed by Pakistani terrorists.

Lastly, I suggest you educate yourself before attacking people who are simply mourning the loss of their innocent countrymen. No one wants war. Seems like a majority of Pakistanis have forgotten this. Disappointed.

[idubiluv]

enhypen’s reaction to you waking them up when you can’t sleep

genre fluff warnings none wordcount 800 not proofread! please reblog if you enjoy !

heeseung

actually won’t ever be asleep before you, rather always be up in his gaming chair with his headset on no matter how late into the night it is

‘ hee~ heeseung~ ’ when he doesn’t respond for like thirty seconds you have no other choice but to chuck a pillow at his head, his headphones flying off with a boing ‘ HEESEUNG! ’

turns towards you with the biggest doe eyes and abandons his game immediately please

‘ omg sorry baby, why are you still awake? ’

‘ i cant sleep >:( ’

would offer to make you ramen or sing for you but honestly you just want to cuddle so he obliges and you don’t even realise when you both fall asleep in each others’ embrace <3

jay

is tucked into bed and fast asleep by like 10 pm please he’s like a grandpa

is a bit grumpy when you wake him up

but only the tiniest bit, 'cause while he does love sleeping, he loves you a lot more, so he softens up in like two seconds lol

jumps out of bed to make you tomato soup and grilled cheese and you’re all ??? because it’s literally 3 am and no way he has the energy to cook you a whole meal (he does)

will not let you toss and turn in bed on an empty stomach even if it means staying up on a work night because watching you go to bed all happy from his cooking makes his heart full <3

jake

lets out a confused ‘ hmm? ’ in the sleepiest voice

is not even fully conscious but pulls you close nonetheless, until you’re suffocated by his warmth

tries his best to mumble out replies to your inane questions when his brain is not processing anything except for the fact that he must squish you in his arms

‘ babe, what language do babies think in? ’

‘ french. that’s why they’re like ooh lala goo goo gaga ’

shuts you up with a peck when you open your mouth to pop another question you should be asking google instead of him at this hour ‘ also- ’ ‘ shh tomorrow. go to sleep now ’ <3

sunghoon

is basically in a comatose state you’ll have to resort to violently shaking him awake

wakes up like a mom helppp he’s all ‘ *gasps* wHAT WHAT ’

is a tad bit disappointed by the motive behind the felony you just committed ‘ y/n, darling, light of my life.. just because you can’t sleep doesn’t mean i'm not allowed to. y’know, i almost married ScarJo in my dream ’ please he’s sobbing

spends the next twenty minutes convincing you he’d rather marry you than ScarJo because now you’re sobbing and he was just making a silly little jokey joke

‘ i’m sorry, my love ’ offers an apology bathed in kisses and tackles you into a hug before you fall asleep tucked safely into the crook of his neck <3

sunoo

gives you the stink eye the minute you wake him up because now why would you do that..

throws everything he felt five seconds ago out the window when you suggest wearing face masks and watching mean girls :3 ‘ sun, aren’t you mad? ’ ‘ yolo baby! ew. break up with me if i ever say that again ’

is suddenly running around making avocado smoothies and kettle corn and turning on the led lights in your room to “set the mood”

runs his hand through your hair when you lay in his lap as you both marvel over how much of an absolute icon regina george is

ten minutes into the movie and you’re both asleep on the couch, limbs splayed out in all directions but your pinkies are somehow intertwined <3

jungwon

is all smiles and understanding and not the least bit bothered by being woken up bless him

‘ oh sweetie, you can’t sleep? i know just what will help ’

pulls out the big guns– your harry potter collection

you both take turns reading out loud, giggling while using silly intonation and highly inaccurate accents

‘ yer a wizard, har- babe? ’ looks down upon hearing faint snores to find you drooling over his shoulder. kisses your head before placing a bookmark where you left off for another sleepless night <3

riki

‘ mm.. five more minutes ’ ‘ riki, it isn’t morning yet ’ ‘why are you making me rise and shine then do you hate me ’

also a bit of a grump but immediately caves when you suggest watching mukbang videos and cuddling

you press play on a video you find suitable while your faces are squished cheek to cheek

turns his head to bite said cheek ‘ OW! what was that for?! ’ ‘ you woke me up and now i’m hungry ’

soon enough, some mukbanger munching on a cheesy corndog and riki on a bag of goldfish crackers is reduced to background noise, while you lay asleep on top of him with his arms wrapped warmly around you <3

tags: @kflixnet @k-labels @weird-bookworm

[idubiluv]

HI ARYA ML MY QUEEN HOW ARE U !!! i miss u sm :((((

AMELIAAA im doing great bb imysm too 🤧💘 my 2nd yr of uni just ended (still feels surreal !!) so i can finally breathe in peace after wtv the hell these past 2 months of internals and endsems were 😍 thinking of coming back to tumblr as well ! wbuu how's everything going w u <33

[tyunni]

🍓。⎯⎯ boyfriend texts with riki... f!reader , fluff, MASTERLIST

📨 : (this is very short and rusty TT forgive me im still trying to get used to memimessage on ios & I haven’t posted in a while! next post will be better, trust!)

©tyunni please don't copy, translate or repost any of my work!

taglist is open, feedback & reblogs are appreciated!!!

[memories]

surprise, fellow kids. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of idubiluv

[daldhokli-deactivated20250714]

if you see me listening to a tall guy whos wearing a black shirt, analog watch yapping about his interests dont save me im exactly where I belong

[livelaughlovechai]

None of these gora pakodas talking about Kashmir will put into view how young Kashmiri men are groomed into terrorism by men of terrorist groups FUNDED by Pakistan. None of them will either utter a word about Kashmiri Hindus or Sikhs either. They are so willing to brush over the deaths of civillians to paint the death of terrorists as civillan deaths.

[magedoesstuff]

a lil' appreciation post for men of colour 'cause i saw a tiktok talking abt how average white men get more attention, and me personally i refuse to be a part of that culture

(also just a reason to put these beautiful, beautiful men on everyone's feed, feel free to reblog and add to the list i'd love to see them)

hounourable fictional mentions