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[onedoornet]

here's a word from the house staff.

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due to our different schedules and respective priorities, the house staff is unable to keep managing this network to our fullest capabilities. we'd like to apologize for the late notice.

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[astrae4]

FACING MY FEARS SO I CAN BOND WITH MY BOYFRIEND’S CHILDREN! (KITTY EDITION) | Park Sungho

pairings. boynextdoor’s sungho x reader

genre \ romance, slice of life, established relationship

warnings. none \ wc. 800

note. this was a req from this anon!! Also new…format.? Not sure if I’ll stick to this but I’m trying to find a new one for 2026!!!

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

SUNGHO TELLS YOU to take off your shoes at the door.

Not in a rude way—never that—but in the calm, gentle tone that somehow makes you straighten your posture anyway. Like you’ve just stepped into a space that matters. His apartment is spotless in that lived-in, intentional way: counters wiped, shoes aligned, throw blanket folded just so.

And then you hear it.

A soft mrrp.

You freeze.

Sungho, who had been reaching for your bag, pauses. Slowly turns to you. “They’re awake,” he says, like he’s announcing the weather.

They.

You clutch your cardigan tighter. “Sungho.”

“Yes?”

“I think one of your children just made a noise.”

He smiles. Not teasing—fond. “That’s Bori. She always announces herself.”

As if summoned, a fluffy gray blur pads into the hallway, tail held high, eyes curious and unbothered. She stops a safe distance away, sits, and stares at you like she’s evaluating your credit score.

You squeak. Quietly. Respectfully.

Sungho steps closer to you, not touching yet, just close enough that you can feel his warmth. “She’s just looking,” he murmurs. “She won’t jump.”

As if on cue, another cat appears—black and sleek, hopping onto the shoe cabinet with a graceful flick of his tail.

Sungho sighs. “Okay, that one might jump. That’s Taro. He doesn’t listen.”

“Sungho,” you whisper, panic rising. “Why does he look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like he knows I’m scared.”

Sungho’s hand finds yours then, fingers warm and grounding. He squeezes gently. “Hey. You’re okay. You’re doing really well already.”

You look up at him. He’s soft like this—eyes kind, voice steady—but there’s something else too. A quiet confidence. Like he’s used to taking care of things. Of them.

You breathe in. Nod. “Okay. I can do this.”

“That’s my girl,” he says without thinking, and the words settle into your chest like they belong there.

Later, you’re perched on a dining chair, feet tucked up, while Sungho moves around the kitchen.

He washes his hands for a full twenty seconds. Dries them. Ties his apron neatly. The cats sit in a line near the counter like they’re attending a lecture.

“Do they always… do that?” you ask.

“They know the rules,” he replies. “No counters. No begging. They wait.”

You watch him chop vegetables with precise, practiced movements. He glances over at you every so often, always checking in without hovering.

“You can sit normally, you know,” he says gently.

You glance down. One of the cats—Bori—is now loafed on the floor near your chair. Very close. Too close.

“I think this is normal,” you lie.

Sungho hums, amused. He walks over, crouches beside you. “She likes you.”

“I have been here for forty minutes.”

“That’s fast for her.”

Your heart does a weird flip. “Really?”

He nods. “She doesn’t warm up to just anyone.”

As if to prove his point, Bori stretches, then—slowly, deliberately—leans against your ankle.

You gasp. Sungho’s hand is on your knee instantly. “Breathe. She’s just saying hi.”

“I am going to pass away,” you whisper.

“You’re not,” he says, smiling softly. “I’ve got you.”

You survive. Barely. But when she pulls away and settles again, you realize something terrifying.

You didn’t hate…it.

By the time dinner is done, you’re sitting at the table, legs back down, posture relaxed. Taro is asleep on a chair across from you. Bori is… closer than before.

Sungho places a bowl of soup in front of you. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Thank you,” you say, then hesitate. “Sungho?”

“Yes?”

“…If I wanted to try… touching her. How would I do that.”

He doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He just moves behind you, guiding your hand gently. “Like this. Slow. Let her sniff first.”

Your fingers brush soft fur.

You don’t scream.

Sungho exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time. Proud. So proud.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “You’re doing amazing.”

You glance back at him, cheeks warm. “You’re very serious about them.”

“They’re my responsibility,” he says simply. Then, quieter, “Anyone important to me should feel safe here. Including you.”

Your chest aches in the best way.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, Sungho beside you, one arm around your shoulders. The TV is on, forgotten. Bori is asleep at your feet.

You catch Sungho watching you.

“What?” you ask.

He smiles, small and real. “I like this.”

“Like… me being terrified?”

“Like us,” he corrects. “Like home.”

You lean into him, heart full, fear softened into something gentler.

Maybe facing your fears isn’t so bad.

Especially when your boyfriend—and his very well-behaved children—are right there with you.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @custarzd @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ocemias @ivxae @chwrrydolly @mydearyeseo @gorgeoustimetravler

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[memorabxlia]

Kinkmas Day 4: Secret — 재현

genre: smut synopsis: You've been exchanging heated messages all week with Jaehyun, your secretive online lover, and when he finally visits your hotel room during a business trip, the tension explodes warnings: cheating, impact play (spanking & slapping), sensory deprivation (handcuffs & blindfolds), breeding, unprotected sex, oral sex, marking (hickeys & handprints), aftercare pairing: secretlover!jaehyun x fem!reader wc: 1.8k

The hotel room door clicks shut, and his presence fills the space before your eyes even adjust. Jaehyun. He’s taller than you imagined, his shoulders broader, and the look in his dark eyes is pure, undiluted hunger. All the filthy promises from your phone screen are made real in the tight set of his jaw.

“On the bed. Now.” His voice is a low growl, a vibration you feel in your bones. “On your knees, facing the headboard.”

You move without thought, the comforter soft against your shins. You hear the rustle of his suit jacket hitting a chair. A clink of metal. Handcuffs.

“Wrists together behind your back.”

You obey, the cool steel closing around them with a definitive click. The loss of control is instant, terrifying, and the most thrilling thing you’ve ever felt. You’re completely his.

“You’ve been such a good girl all week, typing all those pretty, dirty things for me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. His fingers work the buttons of your blouse open, one by one. “But I need to know if you feel as good as you sound.”

A sudden swath of black silk covers your eyes, knotting firmly at the back of your head. The world vanishes. Every other sense ignites.

You gasp as his palm lands on your ass, not a slap but a firm, possessive press through your skirt. “This sweet fucking ass has been driving me insane. I’m going to mark it. Every inch of it.”

He pushes you forward until your cuffed hands press into the pillows and your ass is raised in the air. The air moves, and you flinch an instant before the first real spank cracks against your right cheek. A sharp, stinging heat blossoms, so intense you cry out.

“That’s one,” he growls. Another smack lands on the same spot, the pain layering, deepening. “You take that sting so well. Your skin is already getting so hot for me.”

His hand roams over the throbbing flesh, soothing and inflaming it at once. You feel his thumbs hook into the waistband of your skirt and panties, dragging them both down to your knees in one rough motion. Cool air hits your exposed, burning skin. You’re utterly exposed, completely vulnerable.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, his voice thick. “Your pussy is already gleaming for me. So fucking pretty and pink and puffy. I’m going to ruin this perfect little cunt.”

You hear him shift, and then his tongue is on you. A long, flat, wet stroke from your perineum all the way up to your clit. You jolt, a ragged moan tearing from your throat. He doesn’t just taste you; he devours you. His tongue circles your swollen clit, flicking it hard and fast before sucking it deep into the heat of his mouth.

“Oh god, Jaehyun!” you whimper, pushing back against his face.

“Stay still,” he commands, his voice muffled against your flesh. “You don’t get to fuck my face yet. You just take what I give you.”

He resumes his brutal, skilled assault. His tongue plunges inside you, fucking you with it, and you can feel your own slickness coating his chin. He laps at your inner lips, tracing every fold before zeroing back in on your clit, rubbing it in tight, relentless circles that make your thighs shake. The combination of the blindfold, the cuffs, and the searing pleasure is overwhelming. You’re crying out, a constant stream of please and yes and don’t stop.

Just as you feel the coil of your orgasm tightening, he pulls away. You whine in protest.

A sharp, open-handed slap lands on your inner thigh. The shock of pain is electric. “I decide when you come.”

You feel him move, his weight leaving the bed. The sound of a belt buckle, a zipper. Then he’s back, his hard, bare chest pressing against your cuffed hands. His cock, thick and veiny, slides through your soaked folds, the head bumping against your clit, making you gasp.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, his voice a raw scrape against your ear.

“I want you to fuck me,” you pant. “I want your cock inside me. Please, Jaehyun, I need it.”

“Need what? Use your words.”

“I need your fucking cock in my pussy. Now. I need you to breed me. Please.”

He lets out a guttural groan. “My good fucking girl.”

With no further warning, he slams into you. One hard, deep, perfect thrust that steals the air from your lungs. Your stretched walls clamp down around him, and he curses, his hips stuttering. “Fuck. You’re so goddamn tight. Gripping me like a fucking fist.”

He sets a punishing rhythm immediately, pulling out almost all the way before driving back in, his balls slapping against your throbbing ass with every plunge. The handcuffs bite into your wrists with each powerful thrust, anchoring you in the storm of sensation. You can hear the wet, filthy sounds of your bodies joining, the sound of his ragged breathing, your own choked sobs of pleasure.

His hand grips your hip, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises—marks you’ll cherish tomorrow. His other hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head back. “This cunt is mine,” he snarls. “You understand? This perfect, dripping pussy belongs to me.”

“Yes! Yes, it’s yours!” you cry out, your voice breaking.

His pace becomes frantic, animalistic. He’s pounding into you, hitting your cervix with each deep drive, a pain so sweet it borders on ecstasy. You can feel the pressure building again, higher and tighter than before, fed by his possessive words and the raw, physical power of his fucking.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he grunts, his rhythm starting to fracture. “Gonna pump my fucking cum so deep inside you. You want that? You want me to claim this pretty pussy?”

“Yes! Fill me, please, I want it, I want to feel you cum inside me!”

His roar is your undoing. As his hips piston against you, his release triggering deep inside your depths, your own orgasm detonates. It’s a silent, seizing shockwave that whites out your vision behind the blindfold. Your body clenches around his pulsing cock, milking him, your legs giving out completely as waves of intense pleasure crash through you, one after another, until you’re boneless and trembling.

He collapses over you, his weight a comforting pressure. You feel his breath, hot and ragged, on your nape. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your joint panting and the feel of his spend beginning to seep out of you.

Slowly, gently, he pulls out. You flinch at the hypersensitivity, a soft cry escaping you. He murmurs a soft “Shhh,” and carefully undoes the blindfold. The light is blinding. Then, the cuffs unlock, and he rubs your sore wrists.

He turns you over onto your back, his eyes soft now, the possessiveness replaced by a deep warmth. He kneels between your legs, his gaze dropping to where his cum is leaking from your well-used, swollen pussy. He leans down and presses a tender kiss to your inner thigh, right over the red mark his hand left.

“You were perfect,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “So fucking perfect for me.” He reaches for a towel from the bathroom, running it under warm water before returning to clean you up with a careful, almost reverent touch. The contrast to his earlier roughness makes your heart ache. He stretches out beside you, pulling you into his arms, his fingers starting to gently massage the soreness from your shoulders.

“Jaehyun…” you whisper, nuzzling into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” he says, his lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you now.”

He holds you closer, and you feel the warmth of his body surround you, steady and grounding, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world. His hands move in slow, comforting strokes along your back, careful like he’s touching something fragile.

Your fingers curl weakly at his shirt. He notices.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to do anything. Just stay right here.”

He presses his cheek against the top of your head, exhaling like he’s releasing tension he didn’t want you to see. His thumb sweeps a soft path along your arm, almost absentminded, like he needs the reassurance of feeling you there just as much as you need him.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod, but he doesn’t move. He waits.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

“I’m… still coming down,” you admit softly.

He hums, low and warm. “That’s alright. You take your time.”

Another kiss to your forehead. Slower this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes search yours instantly, like he’s checking for signs of discomfort, overwhelm, anything he should fix.

But all you can do is whisper, “You’re being so gentle.”

He smiles, small and warm. “Of course I am.” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye. “You think I’d ever be anything else with you?”

You swallow, leaning into his touch.

“Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you back against his chest when you start to drift away. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m not,” you protest weakly.

He laughs under his breath. “Sweetheart… you are.”

His fingers slip through your hair slowly, untangling the strands with a tenderness that makes your chest tighten. Every movement is slow, patient, purposeful. Like he’s trying to let your body know it’s safe before your mind fully catches up.

“You did so well,” he whispers. “I’m proud of you.”

Your breath stutters, and he hears it. His arms tighten protectively, and he shifts you, adjusting the pillow behind you so you aren’t straining.

“Better?”

You nod.

“Good. Just relax.” He kisses your temple again. “I’ve got you.”

You rest your ear against his heartbeat. It’s steady. Solid. A quiet anchor pulling you back to yourself.

He traces small shapes on your back with one hand. Circles. Lines. Patterns with no meaning except the comfort they bring.

Then, quieter, almost shyly, he says, “I’ve wanted to hold you like this for so long.”

“Jaehyun…”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmurs. “I might fall apart.”

You manage a small smile. “You?”

“Yes. Me.” A soft laugh leaves him, warm against your hair. “Believe it or not, I’m human too.”

His hold shifts, not tighter, just closer. Closer in the way someone pulls you in when they want you to feel their heartbeat against your back, their breath near your ear, their presence wrapped around every inch of you.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “You’re safe. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Good.” He presses another soft kiss to your cheek. “Now rest. I’ll take care of the rest.”

And you do.

Because in his arms, you finally feel like you can.

taglist: @1014b

nets: @blossomnet @onedoornet @daydreamnet

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

THE PAIN FROM CRAMPS IS KILLING ME, CALL MY BOYFRIEND, I NEED HIM NOW! | Han Dongmin

pairings — boynextdoor’s taesan x reader

genre — slice of life, romance, comedy (WC. 1.6k)

warnings — period pain & smoochies. if you dislike dramatic readers then this ain’t for you babes cus I LOVE dramatic readers

note — tweaked out while writing this bc WHY CANT I HAVE A BF LIKE THIS </3 genuinely pisses me off..

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU WERE DYING.

Okay, not literally, but you certainly felt like it. Your lower abdomen throbbed like someone was playing the drums with a vengeance, your back ached, and your emotions were dangling by a single frayed thread. The simplest things set you off—like the blanket being slightly crooked or the fact that your favorite mug wasn’t in the same direction you left it yesterday.

But worst of all?

Taesan wasn’t here.

He was supposed to be back from practice soon, but “soon” was way too vague for someone whose cramps were currently attempting manslaughter. So, naturally, you did what any reasonable, mature person would do:

You texted him fifteen times.

And called him.

Twice.

And left a dramatic voice message that you had immediately regretted but didn’t delete fast enough.

Still, the second you heard your apartment door unlock, you threw one arm over your forehead like a Victorian lady ready to faint and announced:

“I’m dying.”

Taesan stepped inside, hair damp from a quick shower at the company before he rushed over, backpack slung over one shoulder. He blinked at your sprawled-out figure on the couch—wrapped burrito-style in your blanket of emotional support.

“Baby…?” he said carefully, closing the door behind him. “You good?”

You lifted your head one centimeter, eyes glassy. “No. I’m dying. The pain from cramps is killing me. I want my boyfriend. I need him now.”

There was a beat.

Then Taesan’s lips curled into a very obvious smile he tried—and failed—to hide.

He dropped his backpack instantly. “Oh? Your amazing boyfriend, huh?” He walked toward you, voice dipping into that stupidly gentle teasing tone that made your toes curl. “Yes, yes, he’s here now. Why’s my baby whining?”

Your dramatic persona cracked, replaced briefly with indignation. “Because it hurts,” you whined louder, burying your face back into the couch cushion. “It feels like my uterus is folding itself into origami. The crane kind. The complicated kind.”

Taesan bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a laugh, but you saw it. You always saw it.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you grumbled, your voice muffled.

“I’m not,” he said, already crouching beside you. “I would never laugh at my suffering baby.”

You peeked up at him with the most pitiful expression you could conjure. “Taesannie… it hurts.”

And there it was—that instant shift in his eyes. The fondness. The softness. The “my partner is adorable and I must kiss them immediately” look.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, leaning down.

Then—mwuah.

A tiny kiss.

Then another.

And another.

And another.

Until your entire face was being smothered by a billion soft, rapid-fire smooches—cheeks, forehead, eyelids, nose, temples. He kissed everywhere except your lips, which of course only made you squirm more.

“Taesan—stop—why—are—your lips—so—cold—” You complained between attacks.

“That’s because I rushed over here,” he replied, voice light, lips still moving between kisses. “Didn’t even dry my hair properly. Had to come save my dramatic sweetheart from fatal cramps.”

“You’re making fun of me,” you accused weakly.

He paused, lifted your chin, and pecked the tip of your nose. “Maybe a little. But only because you’re cute.”

You groaned, flopping flat on your back again. “Ugh. I can’t even be miserable in peace.”

“Nope,” he said cheerfully, climbing onto the couch beside you and tugging you onto his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re dating me. Peace is not part of the package.”

You shifted until your forehead rested against his collarbone. “I need a heating pad.”

“I’m your heating pad.”

“I also need food.”

“I brought you snacks,” he said proudly, gesturing toward a convenience store bag he dropped by the coffee table. “Your favorite chocolate, banana milk, and those weird chips you only want when you’re in pain.”

“They’re not weird,” you murmured.

“They taste like sadness and seaweed.”

You glared weakly. “Still not weirder than the cereal you eat dry.”

He gasped dramatically. “You did not just insult my cereal choices.”

“You started it.”

You felt him sigh, chest rising beneath your cheek. “My poor grumpy baby.”

You felt a little flutter in your stomach that had nothing to do with cramps. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? It’s true,” he whispered, fingers scratching lightly at your scalp. “My baby. My dramatic, whiny, adorable baby who calls me like the world is ending because their cramps hurt.”

“I was in pain!”

“And I came running, didn’t I?”

You blinked up at him.

He really did. Without question. Without complaint. Without even asking if you were exaggerating. Taesan might tease, but he always took care of you like it was instinct.

“…Yeah,” you admitted softly.

His expression melted at the edges. “So now relax. I got you.”

You let out a deep, agonized sigh—mostly for dramatic flair, partially because the cramps really were awful.

Taesan chuckled under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you shot back lamely.

He kissed your cheek again. “I know.”

He helped you sit up just enough to slip a pillow behind your back, then pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, making sure your feet stayed tucked in. With one arm, he reached for the bag of snacks and placed everything within your reach like a full-service boyfriend.

“Water?” he asked.

You held up your hands. “Carry me to the sink.”

“Baby,” he stared at you. “It’s literally five steps.”

“I’m in pain.”

He shook his head but scooped you up anyway, one arm under your knees, the other around your back. You clung to him, partly because you were needy and partly because Taesan carrying you bridal-style made your heart do suspicious gymnastics.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he said as he set you on the counter.

“Hm. I am lucky,” you admitted. “I’ve got a hot boyfriend who takes care of me.”

His ears turned the faintest shade of pink. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why?” you teased. “Does it make you shy, Taesannie?”

He avoided your gaze, filling a glass with water. “No.”

“Liar.”

When he handed you the glass, you smiled sweetly—an expression that made him visibly lose composure for a second.

“This is emotional manipulation,” he muttered, leaning his forehead against your shoulder. “I’m suffering. You’re too cute when you’re like this.”

“You called me whining and dramatic five minutes ago.”

“Yes,” he said, taking your face between both hands. “But you’re cute when you’re dramatic. It’s a problem.”

Before you could respond, he kissed you again—slow, lingering, warm—just enough to make you forget the pain for a moment.

You sighed into it, melting a little.

Then the cramps stabbed you again and you gasped. “Ow—okay nope, still dying.”

Taesan pulled back with a sympathetic wince. “Alright, alright. Couch. Now.”

He carried you again, this time with the determined energy of someone rescuing a wounded princess from a castle. When he settled you back onto the couch, he grabbed a heating pad from your drawer, plugged it in, and placed it gently over your abdomen.

The warmth seeped in slowly, easing the worst of the ache.

You let out a relieved groan. “Oh my god. I love you.”

Taesan sat beside you and tucked you into his side. “I know. You tell me a lot when you’re in pain.”

He brushed your forehead with his lips. “Want to watch something?”

“Something comforting,” you mumbled. “No angst. No plot twists. No complicated storylines. My brain can’t handle it.”

“So… kids’ cartoons?”

“Yes.”

He snorted but grabbed the remote.

Soon you were curled against him, heating pad in place, snacks open, and a cartoon theme song playing softly in the background.

Your cramps still hurt. Your back still ached. You were still emotionally unstable enough to cry at a cereal commercial if it came on.

But Taesan’s arm was around you. His thumb rubbed circles into your shoulder. Every few minutes he leaned down to kiss your head. And every time you whimpered even the tiniest bit, he kissed your cheek in apology on behalf of your uterus.

At one point, you shifted and murmured, “Thank you for coming.”

He rested his chin on top of your head. “Always.”

“You don’t have to deal with all this, you know,” you said quietly. “I know I get really… over the top.”

“Yeah, you do,” he agreed without hesitation.

You smacked him weakly.

He grinned. “But I like taking care of you. I like being here. And honestly…”

He kissed your temple.

“…you being dramatic is cute.”

You rolled your eyes. “Everything I do is cute to you.”

“That’s because everything you do is cute to me,” he countered easily. “You’re my baby.”

You groaned. “Stop calling me that.”

“Never.”

You looked up at him, cheeks warm despite the cramps.

He smiled.

Then he peppered your face with smooches again—just to prove a point.

You whined, squirming. “Taesan! Enough!”

“Never enough,” he said between kisses. “You need all the healing smooches.”

“No—stop—your lips are cold again!”

“That means you need more kisses to warm them up.”

You pushed his face away gently, laughing despite the pain. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” he said, grabbing your chin to plant one more kiss on your forehead, “are my favorite person to take care of.”

You went quiet for a moment, curled closer to him.

“…Okay. Maybe being dramatic isn’t so bad,” you whispered.

“See?” he said smugly. “My baby knows.”

You glared. “Say ‘my baby’ one more time.”

“My—”

You put your hand over his mouth.

He laughed into your palm, eyes crinkling with affection.

And despite everything—the cramps, the discomfort, the melodramatic misery—you couldn’t help smiling too.

Because Taesan, in all his teasing, gentle, heart-squeezing softness, was here.

Your boyfriend was here.

And somehow that made everything hurt a little less.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @custarzd @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ocemias @ivxae @chwrrydolly

NETWORKS: @k-records @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill's new piece

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[hollyoongs]

⤷ THE GIFT YOU FORGOT YOU WERE

시놉시스┆idol!jaehyun, ─────⠀f!reader 𓂅 𝑤.𝑐: +2k ꒰ ⌗ angst to fluff ꒱ ↷ ℰditoral ! 𓂂 #DAY4 SYNOPSIS: As Jaehyun’s birthday arrives, you prepare something that is meant to lift his spirits during a time that everything has made him dim his usual brightness. What was meant to be a simple celebration quietly unfolds into a moment of honesty, comfort, and warmth, where both learn how much love can heal when words fall short.

─────⠀emotional distress, depictions of burnout and exhaustion, mentions of online hate, cyberbullying, and negative comments

You rolled the sleeves of Jaehyun’s hoodie, collecting all the pieces you have made since November alongside the glue, and bits of colored ribbon. The scent of cinnamon and apple from your candle is lingering in the room as you organise all the pages of the journal you had on your desk.

December was a special month for obvious reasons, but the day that was extra special is December 4th—your boyfriend’s birthday. 

And despite that important date, he could only talk about Christmas as if it were magic itself. You made sure to engrave in your mind the look of his eyes lighting up, and his smile showing the pure joy he felt when speaking about your date before his activities at the award shows or his family party.

You missed seeing the joy in his face.

You pressed your lips together as you arranged the pages and polaroids, your thumb caressing one picture in particular that you took when the group was shooting “If I Say I Love You”. His no-teeth smile, his nose scrunched in that familiar way whenever he felt warmth from the people surrounding him. Lately, though, even that had faded from your camera roll.

He still smiled, of course. But the boy who used to interact with people who supported him and made their time worth it now came home quieter, heavier, which scared you and the members. You could feel it in hugs; they were tighter than usual, and far from those that come of full affection. The comeback was a full success; they were on the charts, the songs were doing well, and the fans loved it.

But online, the silence was loud. People started twisting his happiness into something performative, most of the comments saying the word “too much”—he was too much in general. The worst part? The same people were the ones who knew by heart that the hate that mocked someone for being genuine was the one that hurt most. Of course, he hasn’t said it out loud, but you couldn’t turn a blind eye to how he’d scroll through his phone in silence before going to sleep. Lips pressed thin, and his smile faded too soon.

You were tired of the smell of the glue, of the few cuts you got on your fingers, and how they felt numb after cleaning and decorating your heart out. Every single part of your last gift made sure he could see from your point of you how he mattered, because he truly did.

You heard the bell, and your heart immediately jumped.

“Oh my God, I forgot he would come early today.” You put the gift in the Christmas bag you had before rushing to open the door. You grabbed a towel when you walked by the kitchen, cleaning any traces of glitter from your hands. 

You smiled at the view of your boyfriend, his hood was up, mask halfway down, hair was damp from the snow.

“Hey, princess,” he greeted softly. You could see the eye bags caused by the lack of sleep due to the rough hours of practice, yet he smiled at you.

“Hi, birthday boy.” 

That caused him to chuckle, stepping inside as you helped him remove his scarf. “I thought you forgot.”

“As f I could,” you said, “you’ve been counting down to your birthday since last week. Plus, the city is surrounded by birthday messages.”

He grinned faintly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, you usually make it feel even more special.”

You couldn’t ignore the crack in your chest at his tone, but you decided to sit him on the couch, and grab the remote to lower the volume of that random lofi playlist you found. You placed the small blanket that was sitting on the corner of the sofa on his lap.

“Give me two minutes, okay?” you said before darting to the kitchen just to come back a few seconds later. “Happy birthday to you…”

His lips parted slightly before smiling, that genuine smile you loved. The small birthday cake was homemade and slightly uneven to your misfortune. There was only one candle on top, which made it easier to walk with it.

When you finished the song, he looked at you. “You made this?”

“Of course, love,” you smiled, “we both know you’ll have plenty of fancy ones later with your group, so I decided to make this one just ours.”

He chuckled softly, the warmth returning to his face for a moment. “It looks good.”

You set it down on the table in front of you. “Make a wish.”

He looked at the candle, then at you, and for a second, he didn’t blink, but held your hand in the process. “I already got it,” he murmured. But he blew the candle anyway. 

You had to clap softly to prevent him from seeing you blush, an useless attempt to something that he already saw, and softly touching your cheek.

After sharing slices of cake and a conversation to distract him from your nerves, it was time. You left the empty plate on the table, grabbed the Christmas-themed gift bag from under the tree, and placed it beside him.

“I know it’s your birthday, but since you’ll be busy for the holidays and we can’t celebrate it properly, I wanted to do our exchange today.”

He tore out the tape that was keeping the bag together, blinking in surprise. “You made me something?”

“The cake, this, and something else, actually,” you said, trying to hide your excitement. “Go on, open it.”

Apparently, your excitement was contagious. The first thing he took was the graphic T-shirt you made in a workshop. It was simple, but printed with a design you made of all their albums. He grinned immediately.

“This looks so good,” he said, flipping it over.

“They taught us how to screen print. Take care of it, it’s a limited edition,” you joked. He chuckled at your comment; you could see the corners of his eyes softening as his thumb ran over the ink.

“Thank you so much,” he said, folding the shirt carefully and placing it on his lap as if it were something fragile.

“Well…” 

He blinked. “There’s more?”

Instead of answering, you reached into the bag again, pulling out the reason for the cuts on the tips of your fingers. The journal had a handmade leather cover, tied together with twine, decorated with small pressed flowers that had taken you embarrassingly long to align.

“This one took a while,” you said, offering it carefully. “You can open it whenever your heart feels like it.”

He frowned in mock suspicion but opened it. The first page was titled ‘And if I say 100 ‘I Love You’s’’

He was silent for a long time, eyes scanning your handwriting, the pasted polaroids of all the moments, the notes that held a reason alongside a story, and a random thought that popped out that day.

You wrote about everything. His laugh, his way of never giving up, his patience when helping others, even his dumb jokes, those that weren’t captured on camera but were engraved in your heart.

By the time he reached reason number seventeen, he paused. 

You watched the exact second his expression faltered. His throat bobbed, seeing how his eyes turned glassy, though he tried hiding it by lowering his head. His fingers trembled as they hovered over a picture of him hugging you backstage during their tour, face with undeniable happiness, and one of your favorites.

“Hey,” you whispered, touching his shoulder. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Simply closed the journal gently and placed it over the T-shirt. When he finally looked up, he could see your worried look.

“You wrote all of this for me?” his voice cracked at the last word. He exhaled shakily after you nodded. “Why?”

Your heart tightened at his question, more at the fact that you knew he meant why would anyone go through this much trouble for me? For a boy that the internet had spent weeks convincing he was “too much,”

You cupped his cheeks gently, your thumbs brushing away the faint dampness at the corners of his eyes. “Because someone needed to remind you of the truth before the noise drowned it.”

He moved everything he had on his lap to pull you onto it. His arms wrapped around your waist as your fingers slid into his damp hair, still cold from the snow. His forehead leaned against your chest.

“I’m so sorry, princess,” he murmured. “I’ve been coming home like a ghost, yet you always see me even when I can’t.”

“You’re allowed to be tired,” you assured him softly. “But you’re not allowed to face it alone. Not with me here.”

He nodded slowly, breathing in deep, settling in your warmth as if your hug could stitch him back together. You held him until his breaths evened out, feeling the tension in his shoulders loosen.

After a long moment, he sniffed once and straightened. “Okay,” he whispered, wiping his eyes sheepishly. “My turn.”

You blinked. “What?”

“My gift,” he said. “We are connected because I also made you something.” He rubbed his neck awkwardly. “It’s not as beautiful as what you made, but…”

“Jaehyun,” you warned playfully, “I will fight you in your living room.”

That earned a soft, breathy giggle you hadn’t heard from him in weeks. He reached into his backpack and pulled out something wrapped in brown paper tied with red yarn.

Your brows rose. “This looks handmade already.”

“That’s the point,” he muttered.

You sat back onto your knees and carefully untied the yarn. 

“Oh my God,” inside was a wooden music box, completely hand-carved, delicately sanded, and decorated with etched constellations. Now it was your turn to have your vision blurred by the tears piling up. “It looks exactly like the one I had as a child.”

He nodded shyly. “I asked your family if they had a picture of your old music box, and started to do it from scratch, took me several months.” His eyes softened. “But I finished, so I can see that smile.”

You opened the lid, welcomed by a soft melody that began to play. ‘Can’t Help Falling In Love’ was rearranged into something that sounded exactly in your head when you were with him.

He rubbed the back of his ear shyly. “I asked our composer-hyung to help me arrange it. Then I learned how to tune the mechanism myself.”

Your heart felt like it flipped.

“Jaehyun…” You swallowed. “This must have taken forever.”

“I wanted it to sound like home,” he murmured. “Because that’s what you feel like.”

You nearly dropped the box, but you looked at him, the glimpse of the boy who’d been trying so hard to stay bright in a world determined to dim him. And the boy who had carved constellations into wood just so you could hear your song play from something made by his hands.

You set the music box down gently and cupped his face again. “Come here.”

He tilted his head. “What—”

Your kiss cut him off, filled with everything words couldn’t carry, mixed with the faint flavor or your tears. He melted into you, fingers gripping the hem of your sweater as if anchoring himself. When you pulled away, he was really smiling. The characteristic nose scrunched with how his eyes turned into crescent moons.

The spark was back. Even if it flickered, it was there.

“Thank you for making everything better,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Thank you for making it worth it,” you replied, brushing your nose against his.

He looked at the journal again, then at the cake plate, the shirt, and the tree lights reflecting in your eyes.

“You’re my favorite thing I’ve ever loved,” he whispered. You smiled, cupping his head with your hands, brushing your thumbs over the ends of his eyebrows, the way he secretly loved.

“And you’re my favorite thing I’ve ever been given.” 

He pulled you back into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder, his warm breath against your neck, his warmth wrapping around you tightly enough that you squeaked.

“Jaehyun—air,” you laughed between words.

“Nope,” he muffled dramatically. “I live it here now.”

“Oh, really?” you chuckled, lightly tapping his back. 

“Yes,” he said, all this while still hiding. “This is my home. I’m one with the sweater.”

You snorted, trying to pry him off, though your strength compared to his was laughable. “Jaehyun, you’re crushing me.”

“That’s the point,” You laughed harder, head falling back against the cushion. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible to resist,” he corrected smugly without lifting his head.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “You’re back.”

He finally peeked up, “There she is,” he teased, tapping your chin. “My favorite human who makes dangerously adorable birthday cakes.”

You pushed his shoulder lightly. “It was charming.”

“It was slanted.”

“JA—”

He cut you off with a quick kiss full of the spark you’d been missing. When he pulled back, he was smiling, really smiling.

“I feel lighter,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your cheek. 

You cupped his face gently. “Good to have you back, sir.”

He grinned, pulling you closer again, but this time not crushing you, just holding you. “Well then,” he whispered into your hair, “get ready.”

“For what?”

He nuzzled your temple, voice full of playful warmth.

“I’m going to be annoyingly affectionate before my promotions; you have been warned.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling at the only exception you gave hugs. “Can’t wait.”

He kissed your forehead, “I love you,” 

“I love you more.”

And in that cozy December glow, wrapped in his arms and the soft hum of the music box, you knew—your Jaehyun was truly back, slowly, maybe some features won’t change, but you knew that spark would come back for good and stronger.

─── ONEDOOR UNITED! first collab ever, and i'm so glad it's with all these amazing people joining us with JAW DROPPING drabbles, please give it lots of love and happy December. Here's my masterlist! @onedoornet

taglist: @ivxae @moesthinking @coriihanniee @wooahoe

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out viviana's new piece

— don't forget to reblog and leave feedback to support the author!

[astrae4]

SONG OF BARDS AND BERRIES | Park Sungho

DAY 3 OF THE DOORSTEP DAILY: A DECEMBER ISSUE

In a small market town, you’re just the fruit seller’s daughter until Sungho, a wandering bard, starts writing songs across from your stall. When you accidentally help him finish a lyric, he keeps coming back—asking for your thoughts, your voice, and slowly, a place in your quiet life. Between your daily work and his restless travels, the two of you form an unexpected connection, crafting songs together as a gentle romance begins to bloom.

GENRE — Romance, medieval era fiction, fluff, slight angst, soft yearning, and as slow burn as 4k words can get me…

WARNINGS — Reader has a lot of internal problems with what she wants vs what’s realistic to her. (WC. 3.9k)

NOTE — hi everyone!!! I’m so glad you all seem excited for the collab! It’s been something I’ve worked on since the week before the bnd x dc collab was even posted, and I’m so glad it’s paying off <333 as usual no one took the first posting date haha so I’m posting first!! I hope you have a great upcoming holidays and I wish you all a very onedoor Christmas!

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU FIRST NOTICE HIM because he doesn’t move like everyone else.

The market is all motion—voices rolling over one another, carts rattling by, hands exchanging coins and produce. Your world is small and well-defined: crates of fruit, your mother’s voice, your father’s back as he lifts heavy baskets. You know where to stand so people don’t bump you. You know how to smile just enough to sell more apples but not enough to invite anything else.

And then there’s… him.

A boy—no, a young man—sitting on the low stone wall directly across from your stall. Boots dusty, hair a little mussed, a lute leaned against his leg, parchment balanced on his knee. He’s still, but not idle. His quill taps the page. Tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. His brow furrows. He sighs. He stares at the sky like it offended him.

You’re supposed to be sorting plums.

You’re absolutely not supposed to be watching the way his lips move silently, like he’s testing lyrics in his head.

“Stop staring,” your mother murmurs from behind you, not even looking up. “You’ll drop the fruit.”

“I’m not staring,” you say, nearly dropping a plum.

“Mm.”

You turn away, cheeks hot, and focus on your hands. Fruit is easy. Firm vs. soft. Good vs. bad. One goes in the basket, one goes in the discard crate. You understand that.

You do not understand the boy with the lute who looks frustrated at paper.

Later, when the lunch rush has faded and the sun hangs lazily above the rooftops, you hear him again. Not music—just a groan of pure despair.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, voice just loud enough to carry. “Why is this so bad?”

You sneak a glance.

He’s leaned back, head tilted, eyes narrowed at the parchment like they’re in a fight. From this angle, you can just barely see ink on the page. Lines. Words. One half-finished sentence that your brain, traitor that it is, tries to read.

The girl in the market, framed by the sun–

Your heart stutters.

You shouldn’t be reading that. That’s not your business. He could be writing about any girl. Probably is. The market is full of them. You clutch a plum too tightly and feel the skin give under your fingers.

“Stupid line,” he sighs. “It doesn’t even mean anything.”

Without thinking—without meaning to—you mumble, “It does.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you freeze.

He heard you.

His head turns. Eyes—warm, dark, surprising up close—land on you. He blinks.

“Oh,” he says.

You consider sinking into the cobblestones.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, hands flying up. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t reading, I just—heard you, and I— I’ll stop talking now.”

He just… laughs. Not meanly. It’s light and a little breathless, like he wasn’t expecting to be entertained by the fruit seller’s daughter.

“It’s alright,” he says. “I was sort of yelling at it. Kind of hard to miss.”

You stare down at the plum in your hands like it holds the secrets of the universe.

“I just meant,” you say quietly, “that it did mean something.”

His attention sharpens. He sits forward a little, quill still between his fingers. “Yeah?”

“It’s… a picture,” you say, feeling incredibly foolish. “You can see her. The sun, the market. It’s not meaningless.”

He lifts the parchment, squinting at the line. “Hm. Maybe. It just feels… empty. Like I’m pretending to know her.”

You swallow.

Your eyes flicker to the words again before you can stop them.

The girl in the market, framed by the sun—

Hands stained with sweetness, a story begun…

Your brain quietly offers an ending: Too busy to chase the dream she’s spun.

You snap your gaze away. Absolutely not. No.

“Maybe…” you say instead, voice barely audible, “it’s not that you don’t know her. It’s that she doesn’t think she’s worth knowing. So it feels incomplete.”

He blinks. “That’s… strangely specific for a hypothetical.”

You flush. “I sell fruit,” you mumble. “I make up stories in my head sometimes. That’s all.”

He stares at you for a long breath.

“What was that line you just thought?” he asks.

You choke. “What line?”

“The one you didn’t say,” he says calmly. “You looked at the page, then you looked extremely offended at yourself. There was definitely a line.”

You grip the edge of the stall. “It was nothing. Just stupid.”

He stands.

You instinctively step back, heart hammering, but he only walks those few steps to your stall and holds the parchment between you, setting the scene like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Can I hear your ‘stupid’ line?” he asks, eyes honest. “Just once. If it’s truly terrible I promise to mock it kindly.”

You’re acutely aware of your father on the far end of the stall and your mother sorting crates behind you. They’re not paying attention, but they could, at any second. Your throat feels tight.

“It’s really not—”

“Please?”

He says it softly, like he actually cares about your answer.

You take a shaky breath.

“Just… maybe…” you whisper, “…‘too busy to chase the dream she’s spun’?”

It sounds worse out loud. You wince, already regretting it.

He goes very still.

“That’s—” He lets out a startled laugh. “That’s good.”

You stare at him. “What?”

“‘Too busy to chase the dream she’s spun’,” he repeats, trying the rhythm. “It fits. And it gives her something. A conflict. A reason. That’s so much better than what I had.”

“It was just a thought,” you say quickly.

“And sometimes thoughts are lines,” he says, like that’s obvious. “I’m stealing it.”

He snatches his own quill up before you can argue and scribbles the words onto the parchment.

You watch, hands still hovering.

“You don’t have to use it,” you mumble. “It’s not… I’m not a—”

“Bard?” he supplies, glancing up with a crooked smile. “I noticed. We tend to come with instruments.”

You huff despite yourself.

He holds his ink-smudged hand out. “Sungho,” he says. “Line thief. Bard. Occasional nuisance.”

You hesitantly put your hand in his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful.

You tell him your name.

“Nice to finally meet you,” he says, and you realize with a jolt that he’s noticed you before. “You should come to the inn tonight. I’ll sing your line.”

Your brain short-circuits. “I– what? No. I can’t. I have to be up before dawn, and the stall, and—”

He lifts his hands in surrender. “Alright. Busy girl in the market. Just thought I’d ask.” Something sparkles in his eyes. “But I am using the line.”

“Thief,” you murmur.

“Proudly,” he says. “I’ll credit you under my breath where no one can hear it.”

He gives you one more bright grin and melts back into the flow of the market, like a piece of music fading into the background.

You stare after him, a little dazed.

Your mother nudges you with a crate. “He’s trouble,” she says lightly.

“He’s a bard,” you say.

“Same thing,” she replies.

You don’t disagree.

But you do spend the rest of the day with the rhythm of too busy to chase the dream she’s spun echoing in your head.

…

You end up at the inn.

You tell yourself it’s because your father needed someone to bring over a late basket of peaches. That’s not technically a lie. The innkeeper did send a boy with a message. Your father did grumble about the timing.

You didn’t have to be the one to deliver them.

The common room is loud and hot, full of voices and clinking cups and smells you could categorize with your eyes closed: roasted meat, spilled ale, burning wood. You keep your grip tight on the basket. It anchors you.

“Ah, perfect, just in time,” the innkeeper’s wife says, taking the peaches from you. “Your father spoils us.”

You murmur something polite, shifting your weight, half turned toward the door already.

And then a familiar voice lifts above the murmur.

“This one’s new,” he says, adjusting his grip on the lute. “About a girl in the market who doesn’t know she belongs in a song.”

Your head snaps up.

When he starts to play, the noise dims like someone’s turned down a dial.

He meets your gaze across the room. Doesn’t look away.

Your heart stutters.

His voice is… warm. That’s the first thing you notice. Not overly polished, not distant and perfect like some traveling minstrels. It’s raw and bright and alive, threading through laughter and clinking mugs with an ease that makes you think of sunlight slipping through shutters.

The first verse is his. You can tell by the flow, the way the imagery unfurls a bit grandly. But then he reaches the second part, and you hear your words.

The girl in the market, framed by the sun,

Hands stained with sweetness, a story begun,

Too busy to chase the dream she’s spun—

Your breath catches.

He changed a few words, smoothed the line, but it’s still undeniably yours.

You feel exposed and hidden all at once. No one here knows. To them, it’s just another verse, another charming detail. But to you, that line is a secret, whispered in the space between you and the fruit crates, airing now in the open like laundry on a line.

The song goes on, painting a picture of a girl who’s always working, always giving, always putting herself last. A girl who thinks dreams are for people with lighter baskets and fewer responsibilities. A girl who doesn’t realize someone is watching, writing, turning her into something worth singing about.

He never says your name.

He doesn’t have to.

When the song ends, the room applauds. You clap too, hands moving automatically, even as your chest feels too tight.

He bows. Looks at you again. His eyes are gentle.

He’s not laughing at you.

He’s trying to tell you something.

That thought is almost scarier than the idea of being mocked.

You try to avoid him the next day.

It’s not that you’re upset. Exactly. It’s just that you don’t know what to do with the way your stomach flips when you think about that song, about your line, about the fact that he saw you so clearly when you’ve spent most of your life trying not to be seen at all.

So you focus on work. On stacking fruit. On counting coins. On anything that is solid and simple and won’t look you in the eyes and ask you to sing your own fears out loud.

It’s a good plan.

It lasts until mid-morning.

“Busy girl in the market,” a familiar voice says. “Do you ever take breaks?”

You jump, nearly dropping the basket of pears. “Don’t do that,” you hiss, heart racing.

Sungho raises his hands in surrender, eyes wide with harmless innocence. “Sorry,” he says. “I would have announced myself with a fanfare, but the lute isn’t exactly… subtle.”

“I noticed,” you mutter, remembering the way his music filled the inn.

He leans against the stall, folding his arms. He’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday, sleeves rolled and laces loose, but there’s a new piece of parchment tucked into his belt. His fingers tap an absent rhythm against the wood.

“So,” he says. “Did my performance earn your approval, oh mysterious critic of lines?”

You busy yourself with rearranging apples that don’t need rearranging. “You used it.”

“Of course I used it,” he says, scandalized. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrug. “It was just… an example.”

He tilts his head. “Did you hate it?”

“What? No! I just…” You bite your lip. “It was strange. Hearing it like that. In front of everyone.”

“Good strange?” he asks, softer now.

You want to say yes.

You also want to say no, because if you admit it felt good, you’re admitting something bigger: that a part of you liked being seen. That a part of you liked the idea that your thoughts could matter beyond the stall.

You settle on, “I don’t know.”

He nods like that’s an acceptable answer. “Fair.”

Silence falls, but it’s not uncomfortable. He watches the crowd. You watch him watching the crowd.

“New song?” you ask before you can stop yourself, nodding at the parchment.

“Trying to be,” he sighs. “Yesterday you made it seem so easy, I thought maybe you cursed me. The muse only visits when you’re nearby.”

Your ears burn. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a thread of sincerity underneath. “It’s true.”

You fidget. “What are you stuck on this time?”

He brightens instantly, like a candle catching flame. “You are going to help me, then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you asked,” he points out, grinning. “That’s practically an invitation.”

He pulls the parchment free and smooths it on the counter between the baskets. You lean in despite yourself, breathing in the faint scent of ink and paper beneath the heavier smells of fruit and market dust.

“It’s supposed to be a duet,” he explains. “Two voices. One who travels, one who stays. I’ve got the traveler.” He taps one side of the page, where lines are already spilling down in neat, slanting script. “I don’t have the one who stays.”

Your fingers hover over the blank half of the page.

The lines he’s written are full of wide roads and open skies, cities and seas and songs sung in far-off taverns. They’re beautiful. They’re everything your life is not.

“What would someone staying even say to that?” you murmur.

“That,” he says softly, “is exactly what I want to know.”

You exhale slowly. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I really should be selling these peaches,” you say weakly.

“No one’s here right now,” he counters. “I swear on my lute, the moment a customer appears, I’ll move aside and let you overcharge them for the best plums in the kingdom.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smiles, not denying it.

Your gaze drifts back to the page.

I walked a hundred roads and still I roam…

You hear a reply in your head, soft and stubborn at once: I’ve never left this town and still I call it home.

You clamp your mouth shut.

“Anything?” Sungho asks, watching your face like he’s trying to read the lyrics there.

You shake your head, stepping back. “I don’t— It’s not my place.”

“Who decided that?” His tone isn’t sharp, just curious.

“It’s just… I help here,” you say, gesturing to the stall. “My parents need me. I don’t have time for songs.”

He studies you for a long moment.

“Is that what you want,” he asks quietly, “or what you’ve accepted?”

The question knocks the breath out of you.

“I should get back to work,” you say, voice tight.

He nods, pushing the parchment away without argument. “Alright,” he says lightly. “But if any lines happen to wander into your head while you’re stacking cherries, feel free to send them my way.”

“I won’t,” you say.

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

And then he’s gone, weaving back into the market.

You stare at the empty space he leaves behind.

I’ve never left this town and still I call it home, your mind whispers traitorously.

You do not write it down.

…

The push and pull becomes a rhythm of its own.

Sungho appears at your stall nearly every day after that, always at the edges of rushes when you’re too busy to talk much—or when you’re just idle enough that he can steal your focus without feeling like he’s truly stealing it.

He brings half-finished verses, humming melodies under his breath. Sometimes he asks you specific questions: “Does this sound too dramatic?” “Is this image too silly?” “Do you like ‘narrow street’ or ‘winding lane’ better?”

Sometimes he just talks about nothing in particular: a funny thing he saw in the next town over, a song an old man taught him by the riverside, a story he’s heard about lands beyond the mountains. His life stretches far beyond the boundaries of your familiar streets, and every time he shares, you feel your world expand just a little more.

You never mean to help.

It just… happens.

But as he encourages you more,

“I have to work,” you say, your favorite shield. “That’s the life I have.”

“Lives can have more than one song,” he says softly.

You don’t answer.

But when he leaves that day, you find he’s “forgotten” a scrap of parchment on your stall. It’s small, folded once, a little messy.

You unfold it that night in your tiny room, lamp flickering.

I walked a hundred roads and still I roam,

You’ve never left this town and still you call it home.

Your breath catches.

He wrote it.

The line you refused to say.

Your fingers tremble as you trace the ink.

Without meaning to, you whisper the next line aloud.

“I carry all these places in my chest,” you murmur, “but you’re the only place that ever feels like rest.”

You fold the parchment back up like a secret and tuck it under your pillow.

Just for tonight, you tell yourself.

It stays there for many nights after.

…

The budding romance doesn’t appear all at once. It grows in the quiet spaces between songs and stalls.

You don’t talk about it. Not directly. There’s no confession, no dramatic declaration under the moonlight.

Instead, there’s this:

“It’s almost time for me to move on,” he says one day, voice light but eyes careful as he plucks at his lute near your stall. “Another town, another inn, more people to torment with my endless verses.”

Your chest tightens. You focus on polishing a pear that doesn’t need polishing.

“Of course,” you say. You knew he was a traveler. You’ve always known that this… whatever it is… exists in a bubble that would eventually pop.

“You’ll have to write without me,” he says, trying for teasing. “I expect at least three new songs about the market when I come back.”

“Who says I’ll be here when you come back?” you joke weakly.

He falters.

“You leaving?” he asks quietly.

You look at your hands. Your parents. The stall. The town you’ve never left.

“I don’t know,” you admit.

It’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to say that out loud.

He watches you for a long moment.

“You could,” he says. “You know that, right? You’re allowed to want something else.”

“I don’t know how,” you say. “I’m… scared.”

He nods.

“Then start small,” he says. “Write with me today.”

You blink. “That’s small?”

“It’s a step,” he says. “And steps add up.”

You look at the market. It’s busy, but your parents are handling the other side of the stall. No one is at your counter right now. The world hasn’t ended in the five minutes you’ve stolen before. Maybe you can steal a few more.

“Just… a verse,” you say again, like a charm.

“Just a verse,” he agrees.

You work on the duet. On the lines between leaving and staying, between roads and doorsteps. He suggests something grand; you temper it with something grounded. You offer a quiet image; he finds the way to make it sing. Your words start to weave together, no longer easily separable into his and yours.

Your shoulders brush, and neither of you move away.

When you laugh at one of his more ridiculous rhymes, he looks at you, really looks, and the sound dies on your tongue as your eyes meet.

The world narrows down to ink and parchment and the space between your faces.

He leans in, just a little.

Your heart stutters.

Then someone calls your name from the other side of the stall, and the moment breaks like a soap bubble.

You jerk back, face burning. He clears his throat, fingers fumbling with the quill.

“Right,” he says, a little hoarse. “Duty calls.”

You force your thoughts back to baskets, coins, weights on scales.

But the line you write together that afternoon stays with you more than any sale.

You wander, I anchor, yet somehow we find,

A home in the verses where our worlds intertwine.

…

He leaves a week later.

Not for good, he promises. “I’ll be back when the stories here have grown without me,” he says with a lopsided smile. “Can’t have you out-writing me while I’m gone.”

You hug your arms around yourself, trying to hold yourself together.

“You’ll forget,” you say before you can stop yourself. “New towns, new songs, new… girls in markets.”

His expression softens.

“Hey,” he says, stepping closer. “Look at me.”

You do.

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a bundle of parchments. You recognize some of them—the duet, the girl in the market song, half-finished verses you helped shape. Others are new.

“These,” he says, pressing them into your hands, “are ours. Keep them safe for me, alright?”

Your throat tightens. “Ours,” you repeat quietly.

“Ours,” he confirms. “Proof that you’re a bard, whether you admit it or not.”

You clutch the papers like a lifeline.

“And this,” he adds, reaching into his pocket, “is for when you miss me too much.”

You snort, an unexpected laugh bursting through the sadness. “That assumes I’ll miss you at all.”

He grins. “You will.”

He presses a small, folded scrap into your palm. You unfold it to find a single line.

I walked a hundred roads and still I roam…

You look up, confused.

He taps your chest gently, right over your heart.

“You already know the answer,” he says.

Your eyes sting.

“Sungho,” you say, his name catching on something in your chest.

He inhales, like he’s about to say something important. Something heavy.

Then he seems to think better of it.

Instead, he smiles, soft and sure, and reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Keep writing,” he says. “Even if it’s just in your head. Even if it’s between weighing apples and counting coins. I’ll want to hear everything when I come back.”

“When you come back,” you echo, clinging to the certainty in his tone.

He nods.

“And next time,” he adds, eyes warm, “I’m not letting you hide behind the stall. We’re singing that duet at the inn.”

Your heart stumbles. “In front of everyone?”

“In front of everyone,” he says. “Or no one. Whatever you’re ready for.” He squeezes your hand around the parchment. “Just promise me you won’t pretend this part of you doesn’t exist anymore.”

You look down at your ink-smudged fingers. At the words that have started to feel less like accidents and more like choices.

“I promise,” you whisper.

His smile widens.

“Good,” he says softly. “Then this isn’t goodbye. It’s just… a verse break.”

You laugh through the ache in your chest. “That’s a terrible metaphor,” you say.

“I’m workshopping it,” he says. “I’ll ask my favorite co-writer for notes when I’m back.”

And then, before you can overthink it, he leans forward and presses his lips to your forehead.

It’s a brief touch. Chaste. But it sends warmth flooding through you, from your hairline down to your toes.

When he pulls back, his cheeks are pink, but his eyes are steady.

“Take care, busy girl in the market,” he murmurs.

“Take care, ridiculous bard,” you reply.

He laughs, steps back, and shouldering his lute, he walks toward the road.

You watch until he’s just a speck in the distance.

Then you look down at the parchment in your hand.

I walked a hundred roads and still I roam…

“I’ve never left this town and still I call it home,” you murmur, “but my heart’s learned the sound of your traveling song.”

SERIES TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @custarzd @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten @kyusqult @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @waldorfiles @dj-ami @shyeonie @soymilkenthusiasts @hraethy @woonbabie @tenshi-sama

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-records

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill's new piece

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[astrae4]

THE DOORSTEP DAILY: A DECEMBER ISSUE

🎄 ACCORDING TO THE DOORSTEP DAILY, THERE ARE 3 WAYS TO SPEND A PERFECT 24 DAYS LEADING UP TO THE 25TH OF DECEMBER. OR IN OTHER WORDS, CHRISTMAS.

OR IN WHICH 18 of your favorite boynextdoor authors collaborate to show you how you can spend a very onedoor Christmas with six versions of three steps for every day leading up to Mr. Big D-Day!

NOTE Hello everyone! I’m so excited to introduce my most complicated event yet! Haha~ I’m so blessed to gather all these amazing bnd writers and I’m so grateful to them for participating in this year’s Christmas event! I and the others worked really hard on this, so I hope you all enjoy it as well as we do!! Thank you again for everything! Truly grateful for all your support <3 p.s. if you wish to join the taglist just comment

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

DOORSTEP DAILY HOLIDAY EDITION — EXTRA, EXTRA!

Headline: THE THREE-STEP GUIDE TO THE PERFECT 24 DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

By: The BoyNextDoor Editorial Team ( and maybe a little help from Cupid himself )

It’s that time of the year again—when snowflakes start showing off, playlists start jingling, and people suddenly remember they like each other. According to Doorstep’s very serious, totally scientific research ( conducted between cups of cocoa and accidental mistletoe incidents ), there are exactly three ways to spend the perfect twenty-four days leading up to Christmas.

STEP ONE: Make Something That Feels Like Home.

STEP TWO: Give What You Can’t Wrap.

STEP THREE: Find Your Spark Under the Lights.

Three steps. Twenty-four days. Countless ways to accidentally fall in love, set your kitchen on fire with gingerbread ambitions, or realize that maybe the real present was the person you spent December with. So grab your scarf, charge your phone ( for pictures and emergencies! ), and let’s make this Christmas one for the headlines!

*ALL POSTS REGARDING THIS COLLAB WILL HAVE THE #Countdown2Christmas TAG

OPEN ARTICLE?……………….………………………..YES

STEP ONE: MAKE SOMETHING THAT FEELS LIKE HOME

DAY 3: SONG OF BARDS AND BERRIES | @astrae4

SYNOPSIS: In a small market town, you’re just the fruit seller’s daughter until Sungho, a wandering bard, starts writing songs across from your stall. When you accidentally help him finish a lyric, he keeps coming back—asking for your thoughts, your voice, and slowly, a place in your quiet life. Between your daily work and his restless travels, the two of you form an unexpected connection, crafting songs together as a gentle romance begins to bloom.

pairing. park sungho x reader, writing a song

genre. Romance, medieval era fiction, fluff, slight angst, soft yearning, and as slow burn as 4k words can get me…

warnings. Reader has a lot of internal problems with what she wants vs what’s realistic to her.

published. 3 December, 2025. WC. 3.9k

DAY 4: THE GIFT YOU FORGOT YOU WERE | @hollyoongs

SYNOPSIS: As Jaehyun’s birthday arrives, you prepare something that is meant to lift his spirits during a time when everything has dimmed his usual brightness. What was meant to be a simple celebration quietly unfolds into a moment of honesty, comfort, and warmth, where both learn how much love can heal when words fall short.

pairing. jaehyun x reader, making handmade gifts

genre. established relationship, angst, and finishing FLUFF

warnings. Emotional distress, depictions of burnout and exhaustion, mentions of online hate, cyberbullying, and negative comment

published. 4 December, 2025. WC. 2.3k

DAY 5: SNOW-KISSED | @taestulipss

SYNOPSIS: You haven’t spoken to your best friend in weeks—not since that disastrous night. But when you find yourself stranded at the dorms for the holidays, and fate pushes you together once more—a Christmas miracle might just be in tow.

pairing. taesan x reader, building a pillow fort

genre. fluff, best friends to lovers

warnings. jealousy, arguments

published. 5 December, 2025. WC. 3.8k

DAY 6: WARM SUGAR | @gyurilla

SYNOPSIS: you and riwoo spend the afternoon baking gingerbread houses while "Snow Flower' plays softly in the background. the room is warm, the air smells like sugar, and everything feels calm..

pairing. riwoo x reader, making gingerbread houses

genre. fluff, established relationship

warnings. none

published. 6 December, 2025. WC. 3.2k

DAY 7: ENTANGLED WITH LIGHTS (& LOVE) | @ihankaji

SYNOPSIS: After finding out that you’ve never decorated a Christmas tree before, Woonhak was determined to change that. Whether it turns out to be the most perfect picture of a holiday moment or a tangled mess of lights and ornaments, his goal was to make it an experience you’d never forget. And much to his luck, the moment becomes chaotic, heartwarming, and maybe just a little romantic.

pairing. woonhak x reader, decorating the tree

genre. established relationship, fluff, romance

warnings. banter ( sungho appearance for plot build up kinda! ), ments. of overthinking / worries

published. 7 December, 2025. WC. 3.8k

DAY 8: WARM MUGS | @moesthinking

SYNOPSIS: You and Leehan have been in a healthy relationship since his late trainee days, but with a healthy relationship comes hardships to overcome. Leehan is a busy man with a demanding schedule and constant travel, and he unfortunately forgets to give you the attention you deserve. Once he returns home, you decide to solve your problems over hot chocolate and Christmas cheer.

pairing. leehan x reader , making hot cocoa

genre. fluff , established lovers , sprinkle of angst

warnings. relationship problems, overall no warnings

published. 8 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

STEP TWO: GIVE WHAT YOU CAN’T WRAP

DAY 11: CAN WE ADDRESS THE MISTLETOE IN THE ROOM? | @tobiotaesan

SYNOPSIS: Last year, Yn gave her heart to Jaehyun. But he gave it back to her. And this year, well...Jaehyun decides to give his to her.

pairing. jaehyun x reader, helping at a charity event

genre. fluff, very tiny itty bitty angst, best friends to almost lovers to lovers

warnings. bickering (mostly sanhakhwe), kissing

published. 11 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

DAY 12: STUDY GUIDE TO MY HEART | @starriniqhts

SYNOPSIS: juggling straight A’s along with your student job as a peer tutor is most certainly not for the weak… and this semester’s exams might really do you in. until a certain someone enters your life with a desperate plea for help. perhaps this year’s holiday season will be more than just cold libraries and studies, but instead warmer with him by your side.

pairing. riwoo x reader, giving each other confidence

genre. college!au, strangers to lovers, fluff, mutual pining, sickfic for a hot minute, angst if u squint real hard

warnings. final exams !!, general academic anxiety, reader falls ill (general cold nth serious), very sweet one may get toothaches

published. 12 December, 2025. WC. 3.3k

DAY 13: TIME OF OUR LIFE! | @ring4hiy

SYNOPSIS: Dating your band’s electric guitarist and producer while being in the midst of preparing for the next album pretty much equals to hectic days and less free time. On the bright side, Christmas is around the corner, which gives you the perfect excuse to drag Taesan out of the producer chair and get him to learn the one instrument you’ve been forcing wanting him to learn!

pairing. taesan x reader, teaching the other a music instrument

genre. fluff, established lovers, electric guitarist x bassist

warnings. yn’s a little freaky for taesan, kisses

published. 13 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

DAY 14: BACK TO DECEMBER | @coriihanniee

SYNOPSIS: Christmas was a beginning before it became an ending. Years after a fight that left everything fractured and his departure turned the holiday into a memory you could no longer celebrate, you find what he left behind—a truth you weren't meant to discover, a confession that unravels everything. What you can't wrap, you can only give. What you couldn't say then, you must say now.

pairing. leehan x reader, confessing your feelings

genre. fluff, angst w/ comfort, childhood friends to strangers to lovers

warnings. angst, past argument

published. 14 December, 2025. WC. 3.5k

DAY 15: I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS (IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS) | @wooahoe

SYNOPSIS: The past few weeks were spent stealing kisses under lamplight, snow-covered streets and midnight escapades, but you both knew it wouldn’t last forever. At least you could pretend, at least for a little while, until he has to leave.

pairing. woonhak x reader, staying up to listen

genre. so much angst not enough comfort, established relationship

warnings. angst. so much fucking angst. hopefully i write comfort we’ll see. pda, kissing, perhaps a few tears idk it’ll work out i think

published. 15 December, 2025. WC. 3k

DAY 16: THE WARMTH OF YOU | @tsanho

SYNOPSIS: if love was a feeling, it would be the feeling of sungho’s gaze on you as you study, his fingers tapping the desk softly as he hums along to your explanations of concepts he never knew existed. if love was a feeling, it would be the feeling of sungho’s home cooked meals filling the air of your shared apartment as he makes sure you’re not just living off of ramen and coffee until the end of the semester. and if love was a feeling, it would most definitely be the feeling of sungho consoling you, taking care of you without a word as he holds you close and lets your tears stain his shirt.

pairing. sungho x reader, acts of service

genre. fluff, minor angst but it gets resolved, established relationship (bf/gf)

warnings. some crying i suppose… idk how to tag sfw stuff lowkey

published. 16 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

STEP THREE: FIND YOUR SPARK UNDER THE LIGHTS

DAY 19: STAR-ALIGNED | @yunextdoor

SYNOPSIS: It’s Christmas Eve. During that time you’d usually be with your relatives—having dinner as wholesome speech and the warmth of family dance in the air around you. However, this year, you have something planned. Something that requires you to leave dinner halfway through and make your way to your best friend’s place. More specifically, the rooftop of the building where he lives. What could possibly happen under the pitch black sky, where all the stars have aligned?

pairing. woonhak x reader, rooftop stargazing

genre. fluff, romance, and best friends to ???

warnings. swearing (if you squint)

published. 19 December, 2025. WC. 4k

DAY 20: DECEMBER LIGHTS & TENDER NIGHTS | @mirisss

SYNOPSIS: A snowy night. Twinkling lights. Laughter that makes your heart skip a beat. Jaehyun and (Y/n) thought a simple stroll through the Christmas market would be just that… simple. But some moments, some sparks, are impossible to ignore.

pairing. jaehyun x reader, mistletoe

genre. fluff and friends to lovers

warnings. none

published. 20 December, 2025. WC. 2k

DAY 21: UNDERNEATH THE TREE | @riumori

SYNOPSIS: Festive season is your favourite time of the year, listening to festive music and decorating the tree with your loved one, Riwoo. Not only is it your favourite time of the year because you get to spend time with one another, but most importantly because something always tends to go wrong.

pairing. riwoo x reader, caroling chaos at home

genre. fluff and crack

warnings. skinship and swearing

published. 21 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

DAY 22: I HEART ICE SKATER(S) | @woongelaatin

SYNOPSIS: Sungho hates ice skating. He's not good at it either, but the moment he meets you, he's willing to try—even if he sucks at it. He wants to make you happy after all.

pairing. sungho x reader, ice rink

genre. Fluff, love at first sight, friends to lovers

warnings. none

published. 22 December, 2025. WC. 2.5k

DAY 23: JUST LET ME LOVE YOU | @htaesan

SYNOPSIS: Taesan had spent almost his entire life behind steel—swords, arrows, armour, and duty. He swore by his life to never remove the armour, but one winter night brought himself to stand before you without it. He faltered. Hesitated, more loyal to you than to the nation your father commanded, at the edge of a line he never meant to cross. And maybe—just maybe—the lingering scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through the cold air was the final push he needed to accept his princess’s love.

pairing. taesan x reader, holding hands at a christmas market

genre. angst(????), (a bit of) fluff, forbidden love, princess x knight/guard, joseon!era, slight age gap (1-2 years difference), mutual feelings but undefined relationship (pls help me define this.. Is it “unresolved romantic tension” or “mutual pining”?? IDK)

warnings. open ending

published. 23 December, 2025. WC. 3k

DAY 24: A WINTER’S GLOW | @lovehakie

SYNOPSIS: Snow falls softly over the city streets, turning every lamp, shop window, and riverside railing into something magical. You’re bundled up in scarves and Leehan’s warmth, sipping rich hot cocoa, laughing at his teasing, and stealing kisses under twinkling lights. From a secret silver bracelet to a perfectly timed mistletoe, every little moment feels like Christmas itself — sweet, cozy, and unforgettable. One night, one stroll, and one perfect Christmas kiss might just be the memory you carry all year.

pairing. leehan x reader, city light kiss

genre. fluff, est. relationship

warnings. light romantic content, long cozy kisses, playful teasing between partners, cold weather and snow, christmas traditions like hot cocoa and mistletoe, and heartwarming holiday fluff.

published. 24 December, 2025. WC. 2.6k

DAY 25: AFTERWORD FROM EVERYONE

SERIES TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @custarzd @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten @kyusqult @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @waldorfiles @dj-ami @shyeonie @soymilkenthusiasts @hraethy @woonbabie @tenshi-sama @fayepz

NETWORKS: @k-records @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill, viviana, lili and soph's new collab piece

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[astrae4]

FRILLS AND GLITTERS AND ALL THINGS LACE | Kim Woonhak

pairings — boynextdoor’s Woonhak x reader

genre — romance & fluff (wc. 520)

warnings — none!

note — in a nutshell, this is woonhak with a girly gf!! Req by this anon 💗💗

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

Woonhak absolutely melts for how unapologetically girly you are. The first time he saw you with your pink hair clips, sparkly lip gloss, and fluffy cardigan, he literally forgot what he was supposed to say. His brain just went, “oh. she’s the cutest thing alive.”

You’re always showing up with something adorable—a new bag charm, glittery nails, or a cute perfume—and he’s your #1 hype man. “Wait, you did your nails like that? Babe, they look like tiny candies.” He says it like he just discovered art for the first time.

He lets you use him as your personal canvas. You’ll sit him down and put heart stickers on his cheeks, or paint a tiny pinky nail for “good luck.” He always acts embarrassed but never wipes it off. ( Jaehyun teased him once—“bro, is that… glitter?”—and Woonhak just smiled and said, “yeah, she put it there.” )

Every time you hang out, he takes Polaroids. He swears it’s “for the memories,” but half of them are just close-ups of your smile or your outfit details. He keeps his favorite one—you hugging him with matching earmuffs—tucked behind his phone case.

He secretly memorizes your favorite scents. The next time he’s out shopping, he’ll notice a strawberry hand cream and think, that’s so her, and buy it without hesitation.

You always leave little pink heart notes in his pockets: “drink water <3” or “you’re the cutest.” He doesn’t tell you this, but he keeps every single one in a box at home.

When you two walk together, he automatically slows down so you don’t trip in your platform shoes. He’ll carry your bag if it’s heavy ( even if it’s a frilly pink one ). He doesn’t care—“it suits me, right?” he jokes, striking a pose just to make you laugh.

Woonhak was genuinely worried when he had to bring you to the members for the first time, but you just put on your lipgloss and went “let’s go!”

You smoothed the pink bow in your hair for the fifth time before Woonhak opened the dorm door. His hand was warm against yours—steady, reassuring.

“Guys, this is…her,” he said, cheeks already flushed.

The living room erupted in chaos. Taesan grinned first. “Ah, so this is the one who made Woonhak start using hand cream.” You laughed, and Woonhak groaned, burying his face in his hands.

Jaehyun offered you a juice box like it was a peace treaty. Riwoo complimented your outfit ( “you look like you stepped out of a music video” ), and Leehan just smiled quietly, clearly amused by how pink everything about you was—from your shoes to your phone case.

By the time you were all sitting around the couch, Woonhak had relaxed, his knee brushing yours.

“See?” you whispered teasingly. “Told you they’d like me.”

He smiled, soft and proud. “Yeah… maybe a little too much.”

Around you, he becomes softer. He talks in that sweet, slightly shy tone, laughs more, and lets himself be as dorky as he wants. You bring out the part of him that isn’t an idol—just Woonhak, your boy who loves your sparkly world.

TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-records

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill's new piece

— don't forget to reblog and leave feedback to support the author!

[astrae4]

STRINGS OF MUSIC, STRINGS OF HEART | Park Sungho

pairings — boynextdoor’s Sungho x reader

genre — comfort, romance, fluff (wc. 751)

warnings — kiss!

note — this was a request from this anon!! such a sweet req to write, honestly..

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

THE FIRST TIME you meet Sungho, he’s tuning his guitar by the window of the music room—sunlight slipping through the glass, catching in his hair, turning him into something quietly golden.

You join the club a week after him, clutching your signup form like it’s a lifeline.

( And perhaps it was. You know, your dignity’s lifeline… )

You tell everyone you don’t really play, that you just like music—that’s true. What’s also true is that you’ve always wanted to learn, but guitars seemed like magic tricks for people with steadier hands.

Sungho smiles when he hears that. “Then let’s make it less scary,” he says, the kind of smile that makes you want to believe him.

That’s how it starts—the two of you staying behind after club hours, your knees brushing under the old wooden table while he shows you how to hold a pick properly. He’s patient, never laughs when your fingers fumble or when you hit the wrong string. He just says, “That’s part of it. Every note you mess up is a note you’ll get right next time.”

You start to notice things about him.

How he hums softly when he’s thinking. How he always tunes your guitar before he hands it to you. How he listens—really listens—when you talk about your day, even the boring parts.

And maybe he notices things about you too.

How you tilt your head when you’re concentrating. How you laugh quietly when the strings buzz wrong. How you sometimes get so focused that you forget to blink until he teases, “Hey, breathe. The guitar’s not going anywhere.”

…

One afternoon, the others leave early for exams, and it’s just the two of you. The air hums with the faint smell of wood polish and sunlight. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, your guitar on your lap. Sungho sits behind you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“Okay,” he says softly. “We’ll do the G major chord again. You almost had it yesterday.”

You nod, heart beating faster than it should. “Almost.”

“Here,” he murmurs, shifting closer. His arms slip around you as he reaches for your hands, his chest brushing lightly against your back. You can feel his breath near your ear, warm and careful. “This finger here,” he whispers, guiding your hand onto the fretboard, “and this one here…yeah. Just like that.”

Your fingers tremble, but not because of the chord.

You can feel his heartbeat against your shoulder—fast, nervous, maybe matching yours. He doesn’t move away. Neither do you. The silence stretches, heavy with something new, something fragile.

He leans in just a little more, his voice low. “You’re doing great,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his words. Then softer, almost unsure, “Can I—”

You turn your head, and that’s when he kisses you.

It’s hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t. The world narrows to the quiet thrum of the guitar strings between your hands and the taste of sunlight on his lips. When he finally pulls back, he’s blushing so hard you almost forget how to breathe.

“I—I didn’t plan that,” he says, laughing nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I couldn’t help it. You’re—well, you’re kind of everything I look forward to here.”

You stare at him, dazed, fingers still curled around the guitar. “Sungho…”

He takes your hand gently, still red-eared but determined now. “I really like you. I have for a while. I thought maybe it was just because we were friends or because we play music together, but—” He exhales, eyes soft. “It’s more than that. I want to be the one who teaches you chords, who hears you play your first song, who gets to call you mine. So…will you be my girlfriend?”

It takes a moment for your heart to catch up with your mouth. Then you smile—small, breathless, real.

“Yeah,” you say, voice a little shaky but sure. “I’d like that.”

He grins, relief and joy flooding his face. “Really?”

“Really,” you laugh, cheeks burning.

He takes the guitar gently from your hands, sets it aside, and wraps his arms around you again—this time without pretending it’s for teaching. And when he kisses you again, it feels exactly like music—warm, unhurried, and full of promise.

Somewhere in the corner of the room, a single guitar string hums quietly on its own, like it knows it just witnessed the beginning of a new song.

TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @todorokiskitten

NETWORKS: @k-records @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill's new piece

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[astrae4]

SAVING (AND SECURING) A MAN FROM HIS FEAR OF HIS OWN POWERS | Myung Jaehyun

pairings — boynextdoor’s Jaehyun x vet!reader

genre — slice of life, fantasy, romance-comedy (wc. 3.2k)

warnings — Jaehyun has a fear of all animals, we try to fix it. mentions of hyperventilating, and kissing

note — this idea’s from my moot @taestulipss <33 check out her blog as well!! also idk how i pushed out this much in 4(?) hours but the idea came thru in clutch n i went overboard…kinda..

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU MEET HIM BETWEEN a pharmacy that sells mood-ring bandages and a flower shop that hums if you stand too close.

Your city is like that—enchanted, but casual about it. Traffic lights occasionally blink in sync with your feelings, pigeons take online courses, and the municipal bus apologizes when it hits a pothole.

Most people have little gifts that make life cute or convenient. You can coax skittish animals to calm with a steady voice and a gentle palm. Your roommate can reheat pizza by glaring at it. The barista down the street can taste lies in milk foam. It’s all very manageable.

Then there is Jaehyun.

You first hear him before you see him. A breathless, earnest, “I come in peace!” followed by the rustle of a hundred small wings and at least one honk from a creature that should never be this close to a florist.

You round the corner clutching your tote full of vet textbooks and emergency sunflower seeds and there he is—tall, beautiful in that boy-next-door-with-a-comic-book-cover face way, and catastrophically surrounded. Sparrows sing in anxious harmony from the awning. A duck waddles over his shoes like it’s checking his layaway plan. An alley cat, tail held like punctuation, circles his ankles. He is not touching anything. He is not moving at all. He is trying, bravely, not to hyperventilate.

“Hi,” you say carefully, your voice pitched for skittish kittens and first-years who faint in anatomy labs. “[Reader]. I’m from the uni clinic. You look…popular.”

He startles like compliments are missiles. “I swear I didn’t invite them. I just thought about—about being calm—and then they arrived like a flash mob.”

“So, your gift is…animal attraction?” you ask, even though the evidence is singing a four-part harmony over your head.

He winces. “Attraction sounds mutual. This is more like animal insistence. They insist. On me.”

“And you’re scared.”

“Respectfully, I am terrified of the entire animal kingdom,” he says, earnest and mortified. “I get clammy around goldfish. Goldfish.”

A pigeon plops onto the flower shop sign and coos like a disappointed aunt. Jaehyun flinches so hard he nearly apologizes to the air.

“Okay,” you say, stepping closer, letting your field instincts take the wheel. “Everyone’s okay. No one is going to nibble you. May I?”

He nods, eyes wide, a yes with all the hope in the world stapled to it.

You slip between him and the avian committee and put one steady hand just above his wrist, not touching, letting your voice do the anchoring. “Friends,” you tell the birds and the duck and the punctuation cat. “This is a vulnerable pedestrian. We appreciate the choir. Two steps back. Thank you.”

The sparrows twist the air with a cute little riff, then settle on the awning. The cat sits, tail swishing like metronome forgiveness. The duck considers your résumé and moves exactly one half-step back.

Jaehyun exhales like he has been underwater since childhood. “How—how did you do that?”

“I study veterinary medicine,” you say, like that explains magic. “And I have a small calming thing. It’s not glamorous. It just helps fuzzy people and non-fuzzy people remember they have spines.”

“I would very much like to remember that I have a spine,” he says fervently.

“Then breathe.” You demonstrate: in, hold, out. He follows, shaky but willing. A finch lands on the rim of the café’s tip jar and peeks in, dismayed by the exchange rate. It does not mob him.

Jaehyun watches the non-mobbing with the expression of someone seeing a door in a wall. “Is this…normal? The way they act around me?”

“In this city?” you say. “Normal is a washing machine setting. But yes—gifts sometimes go blunt before they go sharp. Yours is…very committed.”

He deflates into something like sheepishness and awe. “I think I’m a cursed music box.”

“You’re a very polite music box,” you say. “That helps.”

You walk him to the campus wildlife clinic because it seems like the kind thing to do and also because the duck is attempting to groove along and the flower shop owner is giving you a look that says take the parade elsewhere. Along the way, Jaehyun narrates in the disbelieving tone of a person giving evidence at his own trial.

“There were squirrels at the tram stop,” he says, counting on his fingers. “Then a deer outside my lecture hall window. Then at lunch, the campus koi lined up like I owed them a TED Talk.”

“They probably liked your aura.”

“My aura is panic in a denim jacket.”

You have to bite your lip to keep a laugh from escaping. “What’s your name, panic in a denim jacket?”

“Jaehyun,” he says, and the way he says it—trying to be brave and also charming—makes you a little dizzy. “What’s yours?”

You tap the name embroidered on your clinic scrubs peeking out from your coat. He reads it softly. It sounds good in his mouth. You file that away where you keep reasons to smile later, alone.

“Okay, Jaehyun,” you say. “Here’s the deal. I’ll help you learn to redirect the attention so you can, you know, have a life. You’ll stop thinking of yourself as a cursed music box and start thinking of yourself as a stadium with security.”

“A stadium with security,” he repeats, like he’s trying on a hat. “That sounds…cool.”

“It does. You’ll be so cool that ducks will respect your boundaries.”

The duck quacks like it reserves the right to renegotiate.

…

Training is structured chaos. Your clinic supervisor is supportive in the way of someone who once dated a person who could turn invisible during arguments, so nothing fazes them. You reserve a quiet corner of the courtyard where enchanted ivy climbs the brick and occasionally spells out encouraging messages. You bring seed and lettuce and a first-aid kit and the confidence of someone who can look a goose in the eye and win.

Lesson one is breathing and posture. You show him how to stand in a way that suggests you are listening to the room but not available for interviews. You encourage him to lower his voice until his sentences sound like he ironed them.

“Hi,” he tells a semicircle of pigeons who have published academic papers on loafing. “Respectfully, please admire me from afar.”

They blink. They…loaf farther away. Jaehyun grins like someone turned on more sky.

Lesson two is redirecting. You teach him to point—not wildly, but like a maître d’ with great news and no time for fuss. You set up a bright feeder at a respectful distance. When his panicked hum starts to collect birds like bracelets, you tap his wrist—one-two-three—and he uses the feeder like a stage manager calling lights. The birds swivel and go. He exhales in a rush, giddy.

“You’re actually a savior,” he tells you with complete sincerity. “I’m going to make you a medal out of sunflower seeds.”

“I’ll wear it,” you say, probably too quickly.

He notices. His smile softens around the edges. “Good.”

Lesson three is touch—specifically, not panicking when a friendly creature is simply curious. You start with the clinic’s education rabbit, Mrs. Beantown, who has a doctorate in vibes. You ask if he’s comfortable being near her. He says he trusts you. The words land like confetti.

You kneel on the mat, encourage Beantown to sniff his sneakers. Jaehyun trembles imperceptibly, the way leaves do before a breeze. You talk him through it—there is no test here, just a rabbit with opinions. Slowly, like a sunrise he didn’t know he was allowed, his shoulders come down. Beantown puts her paws on his knee and starts a polite little bread-making routine. He freezes. You slide your hand next to his on the mat, close enough to borrow calm. He relaxes by degrees.

“She’s warm,” he whispers, terrified and in love.

“Most hearts are,” you whisper back.

He looks at you, startled by the rhyme in that truth. You look at Beantown because if you look at him too long this might turn into a different lesson.

He gets better. You notice that his gift reacts to his fear like a megaphone; as he learns to regulate, the volume turns down. He can pass a fountain without starting a carp convention. He can sit on the clinic steps and sip a latte while pigeons file taxes elsewhere. His gratitude is loud and bright and constant. He brings you pastries from across town—eclairs, tiny cakes that look like clouds, a cookie stamped with your initials because he asked the baker to do it and the baker had a flair for romance. He calls you his savior as a joke, then not as a joke, then as a quiet little prayer to the day when he thinks you can’t hear.

“Stop calling me that,” you say, flustered and fond.

“Never,” he says brightly. “You saved me from my own musical number.”

…

Of course the universe checks your progress with a pop quiz.

It happens during spring festival week when everyone’s gifts are a little showier and the city strings fairy lights between buildings like it’s practicing handwriting in cursive. The clinic sets up a community stall—pet safety tips, free checkups for familiars, a booth where toddlers can bandage plushies and declare them healed. You wear your good scrubs and the pin your roommate made that says Vet In Training in glitter font. Jaehyun shows up in a sweater the exact shade of blushing peaches and offers to help carry crates. He is careful. He is calm. He is so handsome you forget, briefly, that ducks exist.

Then the marching band appears.

You don’t know who invited them. You don’t know why their trumpets are tuned to chaotic neutral. But the first bright blast of brass ricochets down the street and punches straight through Jaehyun’s nervous system. You watch the old reflex click in—tremor in his exhale, urge to flight in his calves—and you watch the animals watch him. Birds wheel. A dog three stalls over perks up. A raccoon in a baby carrier (do not ask) makes a face like, oh?

“Hey,” you say, already moving, already a wall and a window at once. You place yourself in his line of sight. You tap his wrist—one-two-three. “Stadium with security.”

He’s breathing too fast. “I can’t—I don’t want—”

“Stadium,” you repeat, voice low. “Say it.”

He swallows. “Stadium with security.”

“Again.”

“Stadium with security,” he says, voice thinning, then finding itself.

You tilt your head toward the clinic tent where a volunteer stands ready with the seed container for the demonstration feeder. You nod. She nods. The birds, sensing an invitation properly sent, pivot midair and arrow toward the feeder like the sheet music flipped to the instrumental. The dog loses interest and returns to judging chew toy prices. The raccoon pulls a tiny pair of sunglasses from somewhere and puts them on upside down.

Jaehyun stares at you like you just defused a bomb with a wink. You squeeze his fingers once. He squeezes back like he’s found purchase on the day, then lets go because he is both respectful and, frankly, killing you.

“You did that,” you say.

“You did that,” he counters.

“Fine—team effort,” you concede.

He licks his lips, then—tentative, still bright—“Savior, after we pack up, could I bribe you with dumplings? As thanks. And also as a request for more of your time in my proximity.”

You pretend to consider so you don’t visibly melt. “Proximity fees are steep.”

“I’ll pay in soup and honesty.”

“Sold.”

…

Dumplings turn into tea. Tea turns into evenings where you lean against the clinic wall while the city sifts into night, Jaehyun’s shoulder warm against yours as he recounts his day with a running commentary so funny you drop your notes twice. He is still cautious around anything with hooves or surprise teeth, but he is brave in all the ways that matter—he shows up, even when the world feels like a chorus he didn’t audition for. You like him with a fierceness that is not even trying to disguise itself as casual.

He likes you with the urgency of a person who has found the kind of tenderness he thought belonged only in books.

One late afternoon, on a grassy bit of campus where the wind smells like dandelion promises, he says, “Can I ask something technically embarrassing?”

“Please.”

“When we’re together, the animals chill. When I’m alone, they still…do the most. Is that because you are extremely gifted, or because you are my—” He stops like the next word is a cliff. “—my anchor.”

Your laugh startles a buttercup. “It can be both.”

“Oh.” He looks delighted and completely undone, like someone turned his bones into exclamation points. “Would it be very forward to say that you’re my favorite person?”

“Deeply forward.”

“I’m going to risk it,” he says, soft. “You’re my favorite person.”

You look at his mouth. He looks at yours. The shy courage on his face makes you brave, too. “Jaehyun,” you say. “I like you. Is that okay?”

He blinks once, like the city flickered its fairy lights to spell He likes you back. Then he smiles the exact smile you’d put in a painting if you were trying to explain sweetness. “That’s more than okay,” he says. “May I—could I—”

“Kiss me,” you suggest, because you are not going to let this boy stutter his way into oblivion.

He kisses you like gratitude and bubble tea and someone finally found the volume knob and turned it to just right. It is gentle and bright and a little clumsy because he’s shaking, but it’s the kind of clumsy you write down so you never forget how honest it felt.

When you break, you feel dizzy in the best way. He presses his forehead to yours. Somewhere far away a starling does its best impression of a violin. As if on cue, a single bluebird lands on the handle of the thermos and watches politely.

“Respectfully,” Jaehyun tells it, breath a little wrecked. “We’re busy.”

The bluebird gives what can only be described as a scandalized chirp and leaves.

Jaehyun turns to you anyway.

“Thank you,” he whispers, forehead against yours. “For rescuing me from jazz geese and my own nervous system.”

“You did most of that,” you say, thumb smoothing over his sweater cuff. “I just pointed at a bird feeder.”

“You pointed at my courage,” he says. “Same thing.”

…

It’s almost comedic, then, that your first real date involves a field emergency. The clinic gets a call about a stray dog with a jar stuck on its head—the classic embarrassment. You and Jaehyun detour from your plan of fancy ice cream and city lights and jog to the alley behind the library where the dog is despairing at its reflection in the glass. It’s medium-sized, mottled, with the kind of eyes that could make a poet annoying.

You kneel, opening your hands. “Hey, sweetheart,” you say. “We’re going to help.” Jaehyun flanks you, breathing like he practiced, presence like a promise.

The dog freezes. You keep your voice low, soothing. You feel Jaehyun tune himself to your frequency, that soft hum his gift makes when it’s not a siren but a line drawn in sand—safe here, calm here. Together, you inch closer. You check the angle. You pour a little oil around the lip of the jar, count down quietly. “On three,” you say. “One, two—”

On two, the dog panics and jerks. Jaehyun moves without thinking—hands steady on the jar, body angled to block retreat into traffic, voice a low stream of you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. You slip your fingers between plastic and fur and twist. The jar pops off with a comedic little plop. The dog shakes indignantly, blinks at you with sudden freedom, and then jumps forward to lick Jaehyun’s chin like he’s a miracle.

He laughs, high and stung and happy. You put the jar in your tote to recycle because you are a hero of small things. The dog, mission accomplished, trots away with a dignity it did not possess two minutes ago.

Jaehyun turns to you with eyes too bright for the streetlights. “I wasn’t scared,” he says, wonder and pride braided together. “I mean I was a little scared, because teeth, but I wasn’t—I wasn’t frozen.”

“You were perfect,” you say, and you mean it so hard your mouth softens around the words.

He swallows, cheeks pink, then blurts, “I brought you something,” like he couldn’t hold it any longer if he tried. He pulls a tiny box from his pocket. Inside is a charm shaped like a very silly duck wearing a tiny bow tie. “For your stethoscope,” he says. “So the ducks know you outrank them.”

You laugh so suddenly you startle the alley ivy into spelling AWWW on the wall. “I adore it.”

“I adore you,” he says, then claps a hand over his mouth like the truth escaped early. You gently tug the hand down.

“I adore you too,” you say.

He looks like the lights got brighter without electricity. He leans in again, slower this time, more certain. The kiss tastes like victories and the promise of ice cream after all. In the corner of your eye you see a raccoon sitting in a recycling bin, applauding with a yogurt lid. You ignore it because you are busy.

…

Weeks lengthen into a season. You study. He studies. He walks past fountains like a king with kind policies. He still texts you “Savior?” when a goose glowers, and you still text back “Security en route” with a photo of your shoes. You make a bracelet from the ribbon that came with the duck charm and wear it on days you need extra courage. He makes you playlists with titles like For When The Cats Are Judging and For When You Need To Believe In Your Own Hands.

Your city keeps being itself—shop windows humming, buses apologizing, festivals occurring unexpectedly on Tuesdays. People ask if the animals still mob him. Sometimes they drift near, curious, but they don’t swarm. They’ve learned that the music box grew legs and boundaries and fell in love with someone who taught it the difference between noise and song.

On the night your exam results come in and you pass a course you were genuinely afraid of, Jaehyun shows up at your door with a bouquet that is definitely just herbs because flowers make him nervous and a cake that says Proud Of You in wobbly icing. You kiss him in your kitchen with the humming fridge for a witness. After, you two sit on the floor and eat cake with forks, your knees pressed together, your ankle tucked under his. When you lean into his shoulder, he hums without thinking—a soft, contented sound.

No birds come.

You smile into his sweater, savoring the small miracle of quiet. “We did it,” you say.

“We did,” he agrees. “But for the record—if a sparrow ever shows up to narrate how I feel about you, I won’t be mad.”

You pretend to consider. “It can clap politely from the curb.”

“Deal.”

He lifts your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist, right where the duck charm chain has indented your skin. “Thank you,” he says, like he says it every day and means it every time. “For being my stadium with security. And my favorite person.”

“Thank you,” you say back, because this, too, is a duet. “For turning your curse into choreography.”

He grins, soft and wide. “Wanna go make sure no one’s feeding bread to the pond ducks?”

“Only if you hold my hand when the geese are rude.”

“Always,” he promises. And he does, and you do, and the city hums along, delighted by the sight of two people who found the exact kind of gentle they needed and were sensible enough to keep it.

TAGLIST: @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @leehanaholic @delirioastral @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ocemias @ivxae @chwrrydolly

NETWORKS: @onedoornet @k-records @k-films @k-labels

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

LEVEL TWO: NEW FOR OLD | Kim Donghyun

MTL. HEARTLOCKED: THE BOY NEXT LEVEL

SYNOPSIS: A new semester brings new faces, new schedules—and new partners. The Academy feels almost the same as before, though certain corners seem quieter than you remember. When you meet Leehan, the reserved marquess of Class B, his quiet courtesy feels like a breath of calm in the rush of routine. But Heartlock Academy never repeats itself without reason. Some lessons, it seems, must be learned again—each memory traded new for old.

PAIRINGS. boynextdoor’s leehan x reader GENRE. romance, thriller, psychological, visual novel WARNINGS. main character death, mentions of su*cide, blood, subtle manipulation, emotional tension, mentions of bullying, losing your shit and er…kissing? WC. 7k

NOTE. well. um. hahaha? also i mighttt change the publishing dates for the next few levels because i wanna enjoy my holiday!

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

ACT ONE: A PASSERBY IN A PERFECT FIRST SEMESTER

[Soft morning music returns. The screen fades up on sunlit walkways and lacquered banisters. Students drift by in twos and threes.]

The semester settles the way a quilt does—stitched together from the same small pieces each day. Breakfast steam curling over ceramic mugs. The low hum of study rooms before first bell. The way the courtyard wind always lifts the same leaves, just high enough to flash their pale undersides.

You fall into it easily. Notes color-coded; schedule pinned above your desk; uniform cuffs pressed smooth with the heel of your hand as you hurry out the door. It’s not effort so much as rhythm. Wake, walk, class, laugh, repeat.

Sungho is part of that rhythm now. He appears at corners at exactly the moment you’re about to check the time, shoulder to shoulder without needing to ask. He swaps your wrong-size beaker for the right one during lab and acts like you noticed first. He steals a grape from your lunch and puts it back when you raise an eyebrow, only to hand you a better one. He is easy in the way good weather is easy.

The rest of the world fills in around that center—teachers who favor neat margins; classmates who crowd the windows when sparrows land on the sill; the soft clack of the library’s date stamp marking novels that pass from hand to hand. You start recognizing footsteps before faces.

Sometimes, when the hall thins between bells, you see him.

Not Sungho—the other boy. Blonde hair brushed from his eyes, uniform immaculate without feeling precious, posture that never quite asks for space yet always finds it. He moves like he has somewhere to be and time to get there. He isn’t a secret; he’s simply easy to miss if you aren’t looking.

You don’t remember when the habit started—clocking the angle of his shoulder as he lifts a practice sword from the rack in the yard, the quiet way he tucks stray chairs back under a table after study hour. Once, you catch a glimpse of him in the library’s history aisle, spine of an atlas under his thumb, gaze steady as if mapping a country he’s already walked.

The first few times, you look away out of politeness.

Then you don’t.

[Hallway. Midday between classes. Light pools on polished floorboards.]

He turns the corner as you’re adjusting the strap of your bag. Your eyes meet for a beat that lasts long enough to be a choice.

› Lift your hand in a small wave

› Let him pass with a nod

If you wave, he inclines his head with a trace of surprise—then returns the gesture, tidy and sincere. If you nod, he mirrors the movement as if agreeing to a promise neither of you has spoken. Either way, he continues on at the same unhurried pace, a bookmark slipped back into the chapter you’re not reading yet.

You learn his name the ordinary way, a line on a posted roster that the wind rattles against the board. Kim Donghyun. The way the letters sit together makes sense. Later, you’ll hear a classmate call him Leehan in the yard—the familiar name used by friends—and discover that both are true, depending on who is speaking and how carefully.

Days fold. You and Sungho compare calendars, pencil in a midweek study block, cross it out when a guest lecture appears, pencil it back in with arrows and a coffee cup doodle. The café near the west gate starts knowing your order by the second bell; the barista slips an extra sugar packet into Sungho’s hand and pretends it wasn’t deliberate. You collect these frayed edges of kindness and tuck them under the spine of your notebook like pressed leaves.

In the practice yard, knights from Class B run drills in precise lines, the kind of movement that looks choreographed until you notice the scuffed palms and the way breath fogs on cold mornings. That’s where you see him most often—from the mezzanine, through the thin weave of shade cloth. He moves without flourish. Each strike lands in the same rhythm as the last. If someone calls out a correction, he adjusts and doesn’t look back to see whether they noticed that he heard.

Sometimes Sungho notices you watching the yard and leans on the rail beside you, chin propped on his forearm. “They make it look easy,” he says, and you hum agreement without saying who you meant by they.

Afternoons have a way of turning warm around the edges, like pages held too long near a window. You begin to recognize the hour by the angle of the sun on the stairwell wall. On those days you catch Leehan at a distance in the south corridor, where the light falls in long, clear panels and throws his shadow ahead of him. He steps around it without breaking stride.

[Library. Late. The clock’s hands are close to evening study curfew.]

You’re searching for a reference on mineral conduits when motion draws your eye across the room. He’s there again—one hand on the back of a chair, speaking to the librarian in the low, even tone of someone making a precise request. He doesn’t seem impatient. When the book arrives, he thanks her like thanks is a habit, not a script, and moves out of the way so the next student can take his place.

You consider saying something, but the notion passes like a half-remembered melody—you don’t have a reason, and it isn’t a lack you feel. He is part of the map now, as fixed as the north-facing windows and the tin taste of rain in the courtyard after a passing shower.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Reminder—submit Week 6 practice sheets by Friday.

The notice fades. You return the conduit text to its shelf and find Sungho halfway down the aisle pretending not to be lost. He grins when you catch him at it. You walk back together with the easy silence of people who do not need to fill space to share it.

Evenings taper into a comfortable quiet. The dorm hall smells like soap and starch; someone in a room two doors down practices scales on a string instrument and gets stuck in the same measure for a whole minute before nailing it. You lean your forehead against the cool glass of the window above your desk and watch the path lights wink on in a tidy row, one after another.

Another week closes its cover. The margins are neat.

[Morning. New day. The bell rings once, clean.]

The announcement board outside Class D blooms with fresh timetables—new headings, bolded lines, two columns where there used to be one. Students cluster shoulder to shoulder, reading over each other’s sleeves.

“Joint coursework,” Sungho says at your side, mouth quirking upward. “Looks like we’re sharing a room with B for a while.”

You find the posted list—half the names you know, half you’ve only heard called across yards or read on assignment sheets. Just below your own, the letters settle in calm, familiar strokes. Kim Donghyun. Leehan.

Sungho follows your gaze. “Ah. He’s good,” he says simply. “Quiet, but…good.”

You nod, and the new schedule slots into place in your mind with the soft click of a key turning.

[The corridor brightens as the classroom doors open. Students flow forward.]

Inside, desks have been rearranged to make space for racks of dulled practice weapons along the back wall and a padded case for mages’ focus tools near the windows. A low, solid table sits at the front with a training dummy folded in sections beside it, canvas creasing at the joints.

Leehan is already there—posture straight, hands loosely clasped behind his back as he studies the layout. He glances over when you enter. Recognition passes through his expression like a ripple across a still surface.

“Good morning,” you say.

He bows his head the exact right amount. “Good morning.”

Sungho drops your books on the table with a soft thud and leans close. “Save me a seat if they split us up,” he whispers, half-joking, half-serious.

“Always,” you whisper back.

[Footsteps gather at the front. The room settles.]

ACT TWO: MIXED CLASSES, NEW PARTNERS

[Light spills through tall windows. The joined class hums with shifting desks, papers, quiet chatter.]

The room smells faintly of resin and chalk—mage ink and sword polish meeting halfway. Class D mages unpack quills and runestones, while the knights of Class B lean practice weapons against their chairs with a clatter of scabbards. It’s noisier than usual, alive in a way that makes even the dust motes seem eager.

The instructor’s voice cuts gently through the murmur. “This semester, you’ll bridge your disciplines. Each mage will partner with a knight. Your goal—infuse, enhance, and test a practical weapon. Strength and stability, not decoration.”

You glance sideways. Sungho already has his notebook open, scribbling a heading. His handwriting looks like confidence: broad strokes, quick slants. He leans closer, whispering, “Guess we’re branching out.”

“Guess so.”

The teacher begins reading pairings. Each name called sends a shuffle of motion through the room—murmured introductions, chair legs squeaking.

Sungho elbows you lightly. “Bet we’ll ace it if we’re together again.”

You grin, already imagining it: easy banter, inside jokes, another full mark for the both of you.

Then—

“[reader], Class D… paired with Kim Donghyun, Class B.”

You blink. Across the room, Leehan straightens at his name.

Sungho looks surprised for half a second, then laughs under his breath. “Well, there goes my sure win.”

“You’ll do fine,” you say, gathering your things.

He shrugs, still smiling. “So will you. He’s good with a blade.”

“Good luck,” you offer.

“Luck’s for the other team,” he answers, grin flashing before he turns toward his assigned partner, a tall knight already unwrapping a bundle of spell-resistant cloth.

The knight you don’t know taps his shoulder; Sungho turns with that same open ease that always finds him a friend.

[The sound fades—chairs, footsteps, quiet talk—as you cross to your new station.]

Leehan nods politely when you stop beside him. “We meet again.”

“Seems like the Academy decided for us.”

“It does that,” he replies, tone mild. His desk is already organized—notes squared, quill capped, every edge parallel. “I read your work on the river model in the display case. It was precise.”

You pause, surprised. “You actually read that?”

He nods. “We all had to visit the exhibits for our mana theory reports. Yours stood out.”

“Oh,” you say, warmth catching you off guard. “Thank you.”

He gives a faint smile—one that feels practiced but genuine. “Shall we decide on approach? The infusion array or the base material first?”

“Let’s start with the array,” you suggest. “Metal behaves better when the spellwork comes first.”

“Agreed.”

He unrolls a sheet of vellum and sketches a line of circles, each marked with small runes. His movements are careful, deliberate. You notice his handwriting has no wasted flourishes—every symbol drawn for function, not form.

“Do you usually work with metal enchantments?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly. “I prefer the structure of swordplay. But it’s important to understand the weapons you carry. Knowledge steadies the hand.”

The answer fits him. You can almost hear the rhythm of it—like the way he walks the hallways, step by even step.

[Small pause. The instructor’s voice in background, explaining scoring rubrics.]

You pick up a piece of runic chalk and hover over his sketch. “Would you mind if I adjusted the flow here?” you ask, gesturing to a connecting line.

“Please,” he says respectfully. “It’s your craft.”

You draw a small sigil at the joining point, bridging his channels with a single curved mark. “That should distribute the energy without burning out the focus crystal.”

Leehan leans forward slightly, examining it. “Clever. Most would double the line instead.”

“Doubling causes feedback.”

“Exactly.” There’s approval in his tone—not the kind that praises, but the kind that recognizes. “Efficient work.”

He catches himself after saying it, the faintest color rising in his ears, and straightens. “Apologies. I meant—well done.”

“It’s fine,” you say, smiling. “I’ll take the compliment.”

He seems to relax at that, exhaling a quiet breath that almost sounds like relief.

By midday the array is half-finished, runes connected in thin threads of silver dust. The air hums faintly between you—a soft vibration, not quite sound, not quite silence.

“Tomorrow we’ll begin the mana infusion,” Leehan says, checking his notes. “The training room should be open by then.”

“Training room?” you repeat. “Not the arena?”

He glances toward the noisy hall where other pairs are already arguing about which dummy to borrow. “The arena’s too crowded. It’s difficult to measure resonance with so much stray mana in the air. The smaller rooms are quieter.”

You weigh the choice.

› “Training room sounds good—fewer distractions.”

› “The arena might help me focus under pressure.”

Whichever you choose, the system blinks: < Selection Confirmed. >

Leehan nods once, respectful. “Then I’ll reserve it for after class. If you’d rather change later, it’s no trouble.”

“I’ll let you know,” you say.

“Good.” His eyes meet yours for the briefest moment, steady and unreadable. “We’ll make a balanced team.”

[Soft chime. The end-of-period bell.]

Students begin packing up, voices rising again. Sungho waves from across the room, holding up his completed sketch. You return the gesture before turning back to Leehan.

“See you in the training room, then.”

He bows his head slightly. “Until then.”

[The lights fade as you step into the corridor, the noise of the class slipping behind you. Outside, sunlight filters through the academy glass roofs, washing the marble floor in pale gold.]

For a moment, everything feels steady again—different partner, same rhythm. Another small beginning.

ACT THREE: A FIRST STEP TO TRUST

[After-class hallway, voices dim behind closing doors.]

The corridors stretch long and bright, sunlight following at your heels.

You and Leehan walk side by side, the noise of the joint class fading until only your steps remain.

“You’ve worked in the training rooms before?” he asks.

“Once. During first term,” you say. “They smelled like dust and oil.”

“They still do.” His mouth lifts slightly. “Most of the knights forget to close the oil flasks.”

He carries the case of practice blades in one hand, easy despite the weight. The glint of polished metal catches on the runes etched along the walls—quiet wards pulsing in slow rhythm.

[Door opens with a soft hum.]

Inside, the training room feels older than the rest of the building—stone floor burnished smooth, air cool with faint magic residue. Wooden dummies line the far wall, scuffed and mended countless times.

You set your notes down. “Not much light.”

He reaches for a rune switch near the frame; blue-white sigils bloom across the ceiling, steady and soft.

“Better?”

“Perfect.”

You start arranging the array papers on a side table while he unpacks the weapon blanks—simple steel swords waiting for enhancement. The sound of metal against wood echoes gently.

“Let’s check the pattern again,” you say, spreading the vellum between you. “If we anchor the rune at the guard, the flow should travel down the edge.”

He leans over the page, shoulder near yours, eyes scanning the lines. “And if it fractures?”

“We ground it through the pommel crystal.”

“Logical.” He glances up, gaze steady. “Ready to try?”

You nod, though your stomach knots. The infusion circle chalked on the floor looks harmless until it isn’t.

He sets one sword within the ring, steps back. “You channel, I’ll stabilize if it wavers.”

“Alright.”

You breathe in, focus. Magic gathers at your palms—a shimmer, a whisper of warmth—but the moment you direct it, the light scatters like sand through water.

A crackle. The sigils fade.

“Again,” you mutter, wiping chalk dust from your fingertips.

Leehan’s tone stays calm. “Your form’s correct. The rhythm’s uneven.”

“I know.”

He watches a beat longer, then crouches beside you. “May I?”

You nod. His hand lifts yours lightly by the wrist, adjusting the angle. “Follow the pulse, not the breath. Mana rides the heartbeat more than the lungs.”

You try again. The light steadies for a moment—then shivers, splintering once more.

He exhales through his nose, thoughtful. “Too much pressure.”

You sink back on your heels. “I can’t hold it. It keeps slipping.”

“Most first infusions do.”

“Most first infusions aren’t second-semester,” you say, half-laughing, half-frustrated.

Something gentles in his expression. “Expectation is a heavy thing.”

The silence between you stretches, not awkward—just honest.

You glance at him. “Does that happen to you too?”

He looks almost surprised by the question. “Pressure?”

You nod.

He studies the blade lying across the circle, voice lower now. “Every day. The Marquess line doesn’t forgive mistakes easily. I’m meant to be precise. Reliable. But people notice the errors first.”

You hesitate. “Like…when those students cornered you?”

His head turns sharply at that, then softens. “You saw.”

“Only the end.”

He sets the rag aside, gaze steady but distant. “It wasn’t serious. They wanted a reaction.”

“And you didn’t give one.”

“No.” A faint pause. “It’s simpler not to.”

You rest your hands on your knees. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“I didn’t say it did.”

He looks down at the chalk ring, the faint shimmer of runes fading in and out of sight. “People misread quiet for weakness. It’s easier to let them.”

The honesty in his tone feels fragile, a thread pulled from somewhere deep.

You speak before thinking. “You’re not weak, Leehan. You’re…steady. There’s a difference.”

His eyes flick to yours—startled, then thoughtful, then warm in a way that feels almost private.

“I’ll remember that,” he says quietly.

[Soft chime.]

KIM DONGHYUN: HEART +1 (3/4)

The circle brightens faintly under the table’s edge, a thin line of light tracing the floor before vanishing. You both notice it and say nothing.

He rises first, offering his hand to pull you up. The gesture is matter-of-fact, but the warmth of his grip lingers.

“Try again,” he says. “Slowly, this time.”

You take a breath, center yourself the way he showed you. When you lift your palm, the light blooms steady, graceful. It wraps the blade in a faint blue sheen that hums rather than flares.

It’s not good enough for full marks, but it’s stable.

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

“It’s holding.”

He nods, a small smile ghosting his face. “Control, not force. That’s all.”

The hum fades. You exhale, half-laughing in relief. “Thank you.”

“You did it,” he answers simply.

[The ceiling sigils dim as the hour bell sounds.]

He starts packing the tools, neat and deliberate. You help stack the remaining blanks.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He looks toward the door before adding, softer, “You did well today.”

You smile. “So did you.”

[He inclines his head, then leaves first, the door closing with a low click.]

You stand alone in the quiet room a moment longer, eyes on the faint glow still clinging to the runes in the circle. The air smells faintly of metal and chalk and something steadier—trust, perhaps, finding its shape.

ACT FOUR: POSSESIVENESS IN SOFT FOCUS

[Morning light, campus courtyard.]

The week unfolds quietly. The project reports are due soon, the weather steady, the air full of the dry scent of parchment and sun-warmed stone. Nothing seems changed—except the way you start to notice Leehan.

He’s often already in the classroom when you arrive, quill poised, notebook open. Sometimes he looks up as if he’s been waiting for your step in the hall; sometimes not at all. When you speak, he answers in the same measured tone as before—polite, careful—but lately his timing feels almost too precise, his replies half a breath ahead of yours.

At lunch he joins your table if there’s a spare chair. He never interrupts Sungho’s stories, never raises his voice. Yet when you mention that you and Sungho might review spell theory together later, Leehan’s fork pauses mid-air before he sets it down with quiet care.

“You spend much time with him,” he says.

“He helps with the mage calculations,” you answer, smiling.

“I see.” The words are simple, but the pause that follows lasts a little too long. Then his tone evens out again. “He’s diligent. It’s good to learn from him.”

The moment passes. The next begins.

[Library. Afternoon light slants through tall windows.]

You pull a stack of reference books toward you, papers sliding across polished wood. Leehan is nearby, comparing diagrams for the final infusion design. When he moves to set one book aside, another tumbles from under his elbow and falls open at your feet.

A small notebook—plain cover, corner scuffed. You bend to pick it up, and a name catches your eye before you can stop reading.

Yours.

Written neatly in the margin beside a list of training schedules. Not hearts or sketches, just repetition: your name threaded between mana figures and practice times, as if used for placeholders.

He’s already kneeling to retrieve it. “Apologies,” he says, closing the cover swiftly. “It helps me remember which mage set I’m studying with. Habit.”

You hand it back. “You didn’t have to explain.”

“Still,” he replies, voice low, “I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand.”

He places the notebook carefully on the table, edges aligned, and continues working as if nothing happened. You try to return to your diagrams, but the neatness of his handwriting stays behind your eyes.

[Practice yard. Late day.]

Training pairs line the field. Sungho waves from the far end, grinning under the brim of a borrowed practice helm. You lift a hand in return; the motion catches Leehan’s attention from where he’s polishing the test blade.

When you turn back, he’s already looking away, the sword sliding smoothly into its scabbard. “Your form improved,” he says, as if the moment hadn’t happened. Then he adds, almost lightly, “You seem close with Class D’s best mage.”

“Sungho’s a friend,” you say.

“Of course.” His tone remains neutral, yet the strike he delivers to the wooden dummy a second later lands with enough force to shake the post. He steadies the sword immediately, expression calm again. “Apologies. Too much energy.”

You offer a small smile. “It’s fine. I think you frightened the dummy more than me.”

“That’s not a bad outcome.” His lips twitch; the tension dissolves, but the image lingers—the precision hiding the tremor.

[Evening walk back to dormitories.]

The path is quiet, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You hadn’t realised Leehan was walking the same way until his voice breaks the stillness.

“It’s late. I’ll walk with you.”

“You don’t have to,” you start, but he shakes his head.

“It’s on my route. The lamps near the west garden sometimes flicker; it’s easy to trip.”

He keeps a respectful distance, steps measured. The conversation drifts to safer things—grading curves, tomorrow’s presentation, how the training dummies seem to heal faster each week. Still, you notice he matches your pace exactly; when you slow, he slows.

At the dorm gate he stops. “Thank you for today,” he says simply. “You work hard.”

“So do you.”

He bows his head slightly. “Good night.”

“Good night, Leehan.”

He waits until you’re through the door before turning back down the path. For a moment, the garden lights glint off his uniform buttons before he disappears into the curve of the walkway.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Heart Level—Stable.

SYSTEM: Project progress 80 %.

You glance once through the window as you draw your curtains. The lamps outside burn steady now, no flicker at all.

ACT FIVE: ANOTHER MANA LINK

[Late afternoon. The academy corridors glow with sunset light.]

The hall is nearly empty, the air heavy with the hum of fading enchantments. You slow your pace, the sound of your steps soft against the stone. Someone calls your name. You turn, and Sungho’s already there—bag slung over one shoulder, smile as bright as ever.

“Hey,” he says. “Training again?”

“Trying to,” you admit. “The enhancement still wobbles. I can’t keep the mana steady long enough for the strike test.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “Need a second opinion?”

You hesitate, glancing down the empty hall. “I could use one.”

He grins. “Then it’s settled.”

You lead him to one of the quiet wings where the light falls in long stripes across the floor. The air smells faintly of chalk and afternoon dust. When he sets his bag down, it makes a dull thump that echoes.

“Alright,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Show me what you’ve got.”

You form the circle, raise your hand, channel mana. It gathers—then flickers. A sharp crackle and the light collapses with a sigh. You shake your hand out, frustrated.

“See?” you mutter. “Always the same.”

Sungho steps closer. “You’re forcing it. Mana’s not about control; it’s about timing.”

“I know that,” you say, more to yourself than him.

“Then let it breathe.”

He reaches out, gently turning your wrist so your palm faces upward. The warmth of his fingers seeps through your skin. “Here. Feel the flow under your pulse.”

You listen. The quiet between you deepens until you can hear the rhythm of his breathing beside yours. The next current steadies; the circle brightens—briefly—before dimming again.

He smiles, eyes flicking toward yours. “See? Better.”

“I still lost it.”

“Then let me help.”

Ah.

You know where this is going.

You blink innocently. “Help how?”

“The same way as before,” he says softly, hesitantly. “The link. If you’re okay with it.”

The memory of that shared glow—the hum under your skin, the perfect balance of warmth and air—rises before you can answer. You nod.

He steps closer. “Just like last time.”

The world narrows. His hand cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing once against your cheek as he leans in. The air hums between you, charged but calm. When his lips meet yours, the mana surges to life again—bright, clear, alive. The magic hums through your veins, echoing in both heartbeats. The light fills the corridor with a soft gold shimmer.

You hold his wrist to stabilize yourself as he moves his lips, deepening the kiss to take in more of you. It’s familiar this time. Him—his scent, his taste, his mana. It doesn’t feel like a new chapter, a new character. No, it feels like a favorite one; one that you continue to go back to to reread all over again.

He holds your cheek like it’s second nature, his other hand rubbing your waist the way he knows you like it. And when his mana floods into yours, you’re not surprised by the warmth anymore. Your body doesn’t react like the first time, rather welcoming the familiar mana to intertwine with yours immediately.

[Soft chime.]

PARK SUNGHO: HEART +1 (3/4)

For a heartbeat you stay there, breathing the same air, caught in the rhythm of that glow. Then Sungho pulls back, eyes wide with surprise at how strong the current felt.

“Wow,” he says, laughing under his breath. “Guess that works every time.”

You touch your chest, where the warmth still lingers. “It’s stronger than before.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still flustered. “Maybe I overdid it.”

“Maybe it’s just us.”

He looks up at that, expression softening. “Yeah. Maybe.”

You both stand there in the golden light, the silence between you steady and full. Outside, the bell rings—one clear note, marking the hour.

Sungho glances toward the sound, then back to you. “We should go. I don’t want to get you in trouble for staying past curfew.”

You smile. “Always the responsible one.”

“Someone has to be.” He bends to grab his bag, then pauses, remembering something. “Oh—before I forget.” He pats his pocket and frowns. “Not now, though. Tomorrow. After the project. I have something for you.”

“A secret?”

He laughs. “Maybe. You’ll see.”

“Fine, I’ll wait.”

“You’d better. Took me long enough to get it right.”

The sun catches on his smile again, all warmth and light, and for a moment the world feels perfectly still.

“Goodnight, Sungho.”

“Goodnight,” he says. “And don’t stay up rewriting the array again. It’s already good.”

You promise nothing, and he knows it. He grins, steps backward down the hall, and waves once before turning the corner. The echo of his footsteps fades, leaving only the low hum of the wards and the fading gold on the floor.

You stand there a moment longer, the air still alive with the trace of shared mana, before gathering your things. The corridor feels quiet again—warm, steady, safe.

ACT SIX: ANOTHER PROJECT COMPLETED

[Morning. The training hall glows with clear light filtered through tall panes of glass.]

Today feels different—quiet excitement under the surface, the kind that gathers before an exam. Rows of weapon racks gleam; circles of white chalk mark the floor where each pair will test their work. The air hums faintly with layered enchantments waiting to be called alive.

Sungho waves from the far end of the hall when you enter, grin quick and sure. “You ready?” he calls.

“As I’ll ever be,” you answer.

He nods toward Leehan standing near the test station. “Good partner,” he says, then lowers his voice with a smile. “Don’t outshine me too badly, okay?”

“No promises.”

He laughs, and the sound blends with the clatter of the other groups setting up. The instructor calls for order; the chatter folds into focused silence.

“Teams One through Four, you may begin.”

Leehan checks the runes along the weapon one last time, hands steady. “Mana flow’s stable,” he says.

“Good.” You adjust the final glyph on the chalk ring. “On my signal.”

He meets your eyes, waiting. You inhale, let your focus sink to the pulse beneath your skin, and release the spell. Light threads through the runes—silver at first, then pale blue. The sword hums, faint and clean.

Leehan lifts it in a single smooth motion, takes his stance, and drives the blade forward. The strike lands against the dummy with a bright crack of air and magic; the target shudders, then splits cleanly down the middle before dissolving into harmless dust.

Gasps ripple across the room. The light fades, leaving only a faint shimmer over the circle.

You exhale. “Perfect hit.”

“Your infusion held,” he answers, calm but with a small note of pride.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Project success — Score: 100 % stability.

SYSTEM: Pair assessment — Exceeds expectations.

Applause fills the room. The instructor nods once, pleased. “Excellent control from both sides. Well done, Class D and Class B.”

Sungho’s cheering loudest of all. He gives you a thumbs-up, eyes bright. “Knew you’d nail it!”

You laugh, waving back. The world feels full—simple, almost golden.

Leehan wipes the blade with a cloth, careful, precise. “You channel differently than most,” he says quietly. “More rhythm than force.”

“Is that good?”

“It suits you.” He sets the sword aside. “I’ll file our report. You should take a break.”

“Thanks.” You tilt your head. “You sure you don’t need help?”

He shakes his head. “I want to note the mana patterns while they’re fresh. It’ll only take a moment.”

You watch him cross to the instructor’s desk, posture straight, every step measured. Around you, students gather in small groups comparing results, laughter rising in easy waves. Sungho slips through them, bright-eyed and animated.

“Celebration lunch?” he asks. “We deserve something sweet after all that.”

You grin. “Tempting.”

“Meet me at the café after study hour,” he says. “And—” he pats his pocket, smile widening “—don’t forget I still owe you that gift.”

“You remembered.”

“Of course I did.” He looks genuinely pleased. “See you later, okay?”

“See you.”

He leaves with a wave, light catching on his hair as he steps into the corridor. For a moment the hall feels quieter without him.

Leehan returns soon after, report signed, expression unreadable. “Our submission’s done,” he says. “We ranked first overall.”

“Really?”

He nods once. “You should be proud.”

“I am.” You smile, but there’s something in his tone—soft, almost restrained—that makes you pause.

He notices, and his voice gentles. “You worked hard. Don’t downplay it.”

“I won’t.”

The instructor dismisses the groups; desks scrape, conversations rise again. You gather your notes, sliding them into your folder. Leehan offers to carry the equipment back to storage; you insist you can handle it together. The shared quiet between you feels companionable, if a little distant.

At the doorway he stops. “Tomorrow’s free study. You’ll be with Class D again.”

“Right. I’ll see you next week, then.”

“Yes.” A small pause. “Take care.”

“You too.”

He bows slightly and heads toward the outer corridor, leaving you alone in the soft hum of the emptied room. The circle you drew has already faded, but a faint trace of light remains in the shape of the runes—a perfect pattern, clean and complete.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Project completed. Progress — 100 %.

SYSTEM: Next objective — Await results announcement.

You close your notebook, the faint scent of chalk still on your hands, and step into the corridor where the evening light gathers in long, golden stripes. Everything feels finished. Calm. Perfect.

ACT SEVEN: A BROKEN GIFT

[Morning. Overcast skies; corridors washed pale by thin light.]

Classes begin without him. At first you assume Sungho’s late—maybe he overslept after celebrating. He always cuts it close to the bell anyway.

But the first hour passes. Then the second. His seat by the window stays empty, sunlight resting on the desk like it’s saving his place.

You tell yourself he’s sick. Or helping a teacher. Or fetching that gift he promised.

Still, something small and heavy settles at the base of your chest. The kind that won’t move no matter how many reasons you stack on top of it.

[Hallway between classes.]

Students file past, chattering about scores and weekend plans. You catch snatches of conversation—none mention him.

You glance toward the courtyard, half expecting to see his grin through the crowd.

Nothing.

Leehan stops you once, polite as ever. “Good morning.”

You manage a reply, but your eyes keep drifting to the empty path behind him.

When you finally excuse yourself, his gaze follows you a second too long.

[Transition. Afternoon. Rain begins, light and steady.]

By study hour you’ve given up pretending. The worry has worn edges into every thought.

He wouldn’t just vanish. He promised—tomorrow, after the project.

Sungho always keeps his promises.

You tell the system you’re leaving class for the dorms. It responds with its usual chime.

SYSTEM: Student [Reader] — early dismissal approved. Destination: Residential Wing C.

You start walking. Each step echoes a little louder than the last.

[Corridor, late day.]

The world narrows to footsteps, rain, breath.

The sunset in Heartlock Academy is beautiful, even as rain pitters down the ground. You notice how the seasons change quite drastically here. Just a week ago, you didn’t need to use a single jacket. Now, you’re using double layers.

Sungho must have caught a bad flu because of the weather. Maybe you should have visited with some soup.

You don’t know when you started treating Sungho like he wasn’t a game character, but you know he feels more human than ever now. He’s sweet and genuine, and he makes frustrating days worth it.

You start wanting to see him more and more each day.

Just last week, when a classmate says his name, you unknowingly let out a smile.

You replay yesterday again and again—the embrace, his smile, the gold light in the corridor, the warmth that lingered against your skin. How easy it was to talk to him, to trust him.

Maybe you’ll laugh about this later. Maybe he’s asleep, gift still wrapped, teasing you for worrying too much.

The thought steadies you for a few steps. Then another memory slips in—the way he looked when he said tomorrow. Soft, certain. Like there would always be one. Like he’s your tomorrow, as you are his.

You reach the dorm hall. The lamps burn low, rain whispering against the windows.

Door C-214. His door.

You raise a hand to knock. No sound from inside.

“Sungho?” You knock again, lighter this time.

Still nothing.

You glance at the system panel by the door. It flickers once, delay barely noticeable.

SYSTEM: Occupant — active status unavailable.

That word—unavailable—wasn’t part of the normal script.

You press the handle. Click. It gives in under your hand.

The door opens. Light spills in, pale and cold.

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe an empty room because he’s elsewhere, or maybe even a passed-out-from-fever Sungho on the bed.

Certainly not this.

Sungho—your Sungho—

Blood. Blood everywhere. He’s on the floor, backside up as if he fell backwards, a knife on his hand, grip loose. His torso is so red that you wouldn’t have noticed he was wearing his favorite white pyjamas, and his face—

No.

His gaze.

Eyes wide, looking dead at you with an expression you’ve never seen him in. Your stable, reliable Sungho looks at you in a far-off, panicked expression for the first time ever.

And possibly the last time ever.

[Silence.]

At first you don’t breathe. The sound in your ears is too loud; the rest of the world too quiet. The system’s tone starts as a single chime, then multiplies—layer on layer, bright and wrong.

SYSTEM: Error. Scene load failure. Attempting rollback.

You stumble backward; the light fractures, lines of code flashing in the air before dissolving.

No. No. No.

The system tries to censor the scene in front of you, blocking it with a cute pink substance, but it’s too late.

His dead body replays in your head again and again and again.

The sound in your ears is too loud; the rest of the world too quiet. Then instinct takes over—you call out, voice breaking.

Your voice comes out thin. “Someone—help—”

No. No. This isn’t real. No.

The corridor doesn’t echo. The words drop straight down and vanish.

The system’s glow floods the edge of your vision. Text overlaps text:

SYSTEM: Alert. Unexpected player response.

SYSTEM: Emotional parameters exceed threshold.

SYSTEM: Reset required. Please remain calm.

You shake your head. “Stop—stop it—”

It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real—

The words dissolve mid-sound. Color drains from the walls; the neat order of the dorm hallway unravels into white static.

SYSTEM: Restoration in progress. Do not interfere.

“Sungho—” You try again, but the name splinters before it leaves your lips.

Panic rushes through—It’s not real—and you gather enough volume before you attempt another call.

“Someone! Please—! SUNGHO!”

His name echoes, and the walls glitch in front of you. Color comes back and the white static glitches away. The system spams you tens of notifications that walls in front of you to block the scene.

You shout again. Your hands cover your ears as you scream, blocking everything. The scene, the possibility, the system, the reality—

It’s not real it’s not real it’s not real it’s not—

Your shout ricochets down the hallway, sharp against the walls. A door opens somewhere behind you, then another. Footsteps pound closer; voices layer over each other in confusion.

“What happened?”

“Call the infirmary!”

“Get the faculty!”

The noise builds until it’s all you can hear—panicked questions, hurried orders, the scrape of shoes on tile.

This is a dream. This is a dream. No, it isn’t real. It isn’t real.

SYSTEM: Alert. Critical incident detected.

SYSTEM: Safety protocol engaged.

SYSTEM: Emotional variance—exceeding limit—exceeding—

The notifications stack faster than you can read them, text flooding across your vision until it blurs into white. The real voices and the system overlap; you can’t tell which is louder.

Hands try to guide you back, someone telling you it’s okay, that help’s coming, but you don’t move. Your gaze fixes on the floor, on something small near your feet—a pink-wrapped box, ribbon slightly askew.

No. No no no no NO—

You drop to your knees, fingers trembling as you lift it. The paper is cool, edges still sharp, the bow perfectly tied.

It’s his. The gift. The one he promised yesterday.

You clutch it to your chest like it’s your last lifeline, the noise around you turning into a hum, the system still flashing useless words in the corner of your sight.

SYSTEM: Stabilizing…

SYSTEM: Stabilizing failed.

SYSTEM: Please remain—

You close your eyes firmly—It isn’t real. The voices blur—This a dream. A bad episode special.

The world feels far away now, but your Sungho will come back when you wake up. He’s not hurt, he’s just part of a special episode. It isn’t real. It’s a lie.

Someone holds you, pulling you away from everything. You can’t really make out his features—everything’s a blur. But he speaks, and the system dings a profile. But you can’t focus over the voices reasoning in your head.

If you open the box, maybe everything resets faster. Maybe he’s waiting on the other side of this moment, laughing, teasing you for worrying.

He’ll say it’s a prank, and you’ll hit him for daring to worry you. He’ll say sorry, and make it up to you when you show him how truly upset you were at his prank.

You press the gift tighter to your chest and chant those words over and over again, half-prayer, half-wish—

This is a game, you’re the main character. Everything will go your way because you’re the main character.

This isn’t real, this is a dream. This isn’t real. This is a dream. This isn’t real. He’ll come back. This isn’t real. It isn’t. IT ISN’T, IT ISN’T—

SYSTEM: An error has occured. Reset unavailable. Character forced shut down — success. Load…load…continue on the story — success.

SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing level two! Level three has been unlocked. Do you wish to continue?

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[astrae4]

LEVEL ONE: HEARTLOCK ACADEMY | Park Sungho

MTL. HEARTLOCKED: THE BOY NEXT LEVEL

SYNOPSIS: It’s your first morning at Heartlock Academy, and the world feels fresh, full of promise, and maybe a little too bright. You meet Sungho, your friendly classmate who seems determined to make your first day perfect. Between shared lunches, quiet study sessions, and sunset walks home, his easy warmth makes the academy feel like home. His route is simple, cheerful, and full of those small moments that make your heart skip. A story about beginnings, comfort, and the kind of first love that feels like forever.

PAIRINGS. boynextdoor’s sungho x reader GENRE. romance, slice of life, visual novel WARNINGS. light cursing and bullying WC. 5.5k

NOTE. sorry for the late post!! i had to focus on my art project haha… technically it’s still 25 oct in America, right..?

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

ACT 1: MORNING AT HEARTLOCK ACADEMY

[Soft instrumental music plays. The screen fades from black into morning light.]

You wake up to sunlight spilling through white curtains. It feels gentle, like it’s been waiting just for you. The air smells faintly of lavender and parchment—clean, new, and just perfect.

For a moment, you stay in bed, blinking at the glow across your blanket. The dorm room is quiet except for the soft hum of the magic-infused lamps that line the wall. Everything here feels steady. Peaceful.

You don’t quite remember unpacking, but your uniform hangs perfectly pressed on the rack, your bag neatly placed by the chair. The clock on the wall ticks exactly on rhythm—not a second too fast or slow.

You slip into your uniform, smoothing the sleeves. The fabric hums faintly as the enchantment seals the fit—like the world itself is helping you get ready.

Like it’s on your side.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Schedule reminder—Class D begins in forty minutes. Please enjoy your morning.

The voice fades, polite and distant. You stretch, pick up your bag, and step out into the hall.

The corridor glows with early light. Other students are moving about, cheerful and well-rested, like the start of every perfect school day you’ve ever imagined. Someone greets you as you pass—a cheerful wave, a “good morning” you instinctively return.

Everything feels calm here. Familiar.

Outside, the campus stretches wide—white stone paths bordered by glowing flowers, towers glittering faintly in the sun. The sky is impossibly blue, and the sound of bells echo softly from the main courtyard.

You breathe in the air and almost laugh. It feels too beautiful to be real.

› Stop to look around and take in the scenery

› Keep walking toward the classroom before you’re late

[If you choose to stop, the camera pans upward. The sunlight glints across the towers, and a faint shimmer ripples through the sky—something magical, unseen but present. Then it fades as the bells ring again.]

You walk on, your shoes tapping lightly against the stone.

By the time you reach the main building, the halls are alive with chatter—students greeting each other, comparing spell notes, the sound of chairs scraping as doors open. You check your schedule again: Class D—Room 2F.

The classroom door is open.

Inside, a few students are already seated. Morning light spills through the windows, painting golden lines across the floor. Dust motes drift lazily in the air, turning in slow circles like they’re part of the rhythm of the music playing faintly in the background.

You hesitate in the doorway.

That’s when you see him.

At the window seat, a boy sits with his chin propped on one hand, sunlight catching in his hair. His other hand rests on an open notebook—pages full of tidy handwriting and ink stains that somehow don’t look messy, just lived in.

He looks up before you can say anything. His smile is instant, warm, like you’ve just been found instead of seen.

“Hey. You’re early today.”

You blink, thrown off by the familiarity in his tone.

He laughs softly, rubbing at a small ink mark on his wrist. “Sorry. I mean—you’re the new student, right? We met yesterday. I’m Sungho.”

The name clicks in your mind. You remember the laugh, the sunlight. The comfort.

He gestures toward the empty seat beside him—the same one from before.

“You can sit here, if you want. No one’s claimed it.”

› Sit beside Sungho

› Find another seat near the back

[Choosing the second option ends the route. You’ll spend your day quietly, the scene fading before the project is ever assigned.]

You choose to sit beside him.

The chair slides smoothly as you take your place. The view from the window is perfect—the courtyard glowing under the morning sun, the faint hum of magic in the air.

Sungho glances at your notes, smiling like he’s already guessing what you’re thinking. “You’ll get used to this place fast. The first week always feels like a dream.”

“It kind of does,” you admit. “Everything’s so…calm.”

“Mm. Calm’s a good start.”

He stretches, leaning back in his seat. “You’ll see later—the Academy likes keeping things neat. Predictable, even. It’s like the air here doesn’t know how to go wrong.”

You laugh. “You talk about it like it’s alive.”

“Maybe it is.. Maybe it’s listening.”

He teases. You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but somehow, it makes sense.

For a moment, the two of you just sit there, listening to the muffled sounds of the other students arriving—chairs scraping, footsteps, the occasional burst of laughter.

Sungho opens his notebook again, flipping to a fresh page. “You know,” he says lightly, “Class D’s the best class to start in. We’re not too competitive. Just…normal.”

You tilt your head. “Normal sounds nice.”

“Yeah.” He smiles, quiet and genuine. “Normal’s kind of perfect, isn’t it?”

The clock ticks. The light shifts golden.

The door slides open with a soft click.

[The music fades.]

The teacher steps inside, her presence calm and commanding. The chatter falls instantly silent.

ACT TWO: THE CLASS ASSIGNMENT

[Morning light rests across the desks. The room settles as footsteps fade and seats are taken.]

The teacher sets a stack of books on the front table and writes the day’s topic in neat, glimmering strokes across the board: Practical Waterwork—Foundations of Flow. The brush of chalk feels soothing, almost ceremonial, and the class leans in as one.

“We’ll begin with partners,” she says, voice calm and sure. “Your assignment is to create a working miniature river. It should run continuously for one full minute across a channel you construct yourselves. Consider scale, direction, and pacing. Today, you plan. Tomorrow and after hours, you build.”

A soft ripple of excitement runs through the room. Pages turn. Pens uncap. In the sun near the windows, the dust catches the light like confetti.

You aren’t sure where to start. You know the theory—diagrams you’ve skimmed, terms you recognize—but none of it feels like something your hands could do yet. You glance down at your blank page, then up again, and find Sungho already looking your way.

He smiles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Names are called, pairs forming in a gentle rhythm: friends leaning together, strangers trading shy nods. The room fills with the low hum of plans being born.

“And finally,” the teacher says, scanning her list, “Sungho with [reader].”

A few heads turn. Sungho’s grin arrives before your thoughts do.

“Looks like it’s you and me again,” he murmurs, a little too pleased with the coincidence. He taps the edge of your desk with his knuckles, easy and bright. “Good team luck.”

You nod, warmth settling into your chest. “I’ll try not to slow us down.”

“You won’t,” he says, as if it’s already decided.

Around you, partners pull desks together. Someone laughs about building a canal that floods the room; someone else insists on measuring everything twice. Sungho slides his chair a little closer so you can share the same corner of the table, the same pool of light.

“So,” he says, uncapping his pen, “what’s our river like? Narrow and quick, or wide and steady?”

“I don’t even know how to make it turn,” you admit, a little sheepish. “I’ve never done anything…moving.”

“Then we’ll start simple,” he says, and the reassurance lands exactly where you need it. He draws a long rectangle on the page—two borders, a gentle curve at the end, arrows to mark direction. “A channel first. Then we figure out the rest.”

You watch his hand move—careful, sure, the little ink smudge along his finger catching on the paper. He pauses to blow lightly on the line so it won’t smear, then glances at you as if to say: see? easy.

Voices around you overlap with the soft scrape of chairs and the whisper of paper. The room feels bright and awake, everyone leaning forward into the work.

“What do you think?” he asks, turning the notebook halfway toward you. “A bend makes it prettier. And it’s more fun to build.”

“It looks like a real river.” You smile. “I like it.”

“Then it’s ours.”

He starts a second page: a list labeled Materials—sturdy board, shallow clay, a small bowl, something to elevate one end. He underlines ‘measure twice’ and adds a tiny box for test runs as if he’s already imagining how you’ll both laugh when the water goes left instead of right. The picture is so clear in your mind it almost feels like a memory.

The period moves gently, full of small decisions and small satisfactions. You suggest a pattern of stones along the edge to guide the flow; he sketches them in, pleased. He asks if you want to keep the channel smooth or ripple it for texture; you choose smooth, at least for the first attempt. It feels good to have plans, and better to have them together.

When the bell rings, it does so kindly, giving everyone a moment to finish writing before the sound fades. Students begin to stand, stretching, comparing lists, promising to meet later.

Sungho closes his notebook with a soft thud and looks at you with the expression of someone who has already made up his mind.

“Let’s work after class,” he says. “Today, if you’re free.”

“I am.”

He lights up—no struggle to hide it, just open and certain. “Perfect. There’s an old classroom in the east wing no one uses after hours. We’ll have space to set everything up. Less traffic than the library.”

You think of tables filled with other students, of voices and footsteps and the shared hush of a crowded study hall. The library would give you all the references in the world, but it would also give you eyes—curious ones, bored ones, ones that make you tuck your hands away and speak a little quieter.

The idea of an empty room, a cleared table, the two of you leaning over the same page—that sounds like exactly the kind of afternoon this project deserves.

He watches your face as you decide, hopeful without being pushy.

“I can bring a board,” he says, almost too helpfully. “And clay. I know where the supply closet is—Professor Eun doesn’t mind if we borrow as long as we clean up.”

“You’ve done this before?”

“Borrowed things?” He laughs. “Maybe once.”

You shake your head, trying not to enjoy him too much for something so small. He shoulders his bag, then steps aside so a group can pass through the aisle.

“Meet me by the east wing stairs,” he says. “Right after the final bell.”

You nod. “I’ll be there.”

He hesitates for a heartbeat, like there’s something else he wants to add, then just smiles as if the rest can wait.

[Students filter out. The room empties to a soft, comfortable quiet.]

You tuck your notes away, fingertips lingering on the corner where Sungho’s neat diagram curves like a promise. Outside the window, the courtyard glows with late-morning light. Somewhere down the hall, a door closes, the sound settling like a period at the end of a sentence.

You swing your bag over your shoulder and take one last glance at the board—Foundations of Flow—before you head for the door.

[Choice prompt appears.]

› Follow Sungho’s suggestion: meet at the east wing’s unused classroom after the final bell

› Suggest the library instead—quiet stacks, open tables, plenty of resources

[Selection will determine the rest of the afternoon.]

ACT THREE: GATHERING MATERIALS

[Soft afternoon music fades in. Light filters through tall windows, gold with the end of day.]

The final bell rings, a long, calm tone that seems to linger over the courtyard. You close your notebook, slipping it carefully into your bag. The classroom is almost empty now—students filing out in pairs, laughter echoing down the corridor.

You check the time. East wing stairs.

When you step into the hallway, the air feels different—quieter, smoother. You spot him almost immediately: leaning against the railing, sleeves rolled, one strap of his bag sliding down his shoulder. He looks up when he hears your footsteps and smiles like he was sure you’d come.

“Right on time.”

You laugh. “You sound surprised.”

“Not surprised—impressed,” he says, straightining. “Ready to find supplies?”

You blink. “Supplies?”

“For our masterpiece. The river’s not going to build itself.” He grins. “The school shop’s still open. They lend out materials for projects: boards, clay, crystals. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, but you follow anyway.

The corridors are quieter now, washed in orange light. You pass by open doors, snippets of conversation drifting from inside—students cleaning up spell residue, professors tidying desks. The scent of chalk dust and faint ozone trails behind you.

Sungho walks half a step ahead, talking as he leads the way.

“They keep the good stuff in the back shelves. You have to ask, but if you smile nicely, they usually say yes.”

You raise a brow. “Is that experience speaking?”

He flashes a grin. “Let’s call it charm.”

[Soft laughter cue.]

The path bends into a smaller hall lined with supply cabinets and counters. A low hum of magic hangs in the air, reacting to the steady rhythm of footsteps. The room beyond glows softly—lantern light reflecting on jars, boxes, and labeled drawers. It smells faintly of cedar and paper.

Sungho grabs a small cart from the corner. “Okay, checklist. Board, shallow basin, clay, a few stones for lining, and something to channel the flow.”

He pauses, glancing at you. “You can grab the stones?”

You nod, moving toward a shelf stacked with glass jars. Each one is filled with small, rounded pebbles that shimmer faintly, enchanted to resist heat and erosion. You reach for a jar just as he does. Your hands brush—light, brief, warm.

Both of you freeze for half a second.

He clears his throat first. “Ah—sorry. You can take it.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s fine. We can share.”

“Right.” He laughs softly, the sound easy again. “Share.”

For a moment the air holds still between you, then breaks with the quiet sound of him setting the jar into the cart.

You move through the rest of the shelves together. He tests the weight of a wooden board before handing it to you to check; you find a box of small, silver nails that glint in the light. He marks each item off the list with neat strokes of his pencil.

The small talk drifts as naturally as breathing.

“Do you like it here so far?” he asks while stacking the last box.

“I think so. Everything feels…peaceful.”

“Peaceful’s good. Means you’re settling in.” He glances over, smiling. “Most transfers take a week before they stop looking lost.”

“I still get lost,” you admit.

“Then I’ll keep walking you to class.” It comes out casually, but he doesn’t take it back.

You try not to think much of it.

[They wheel the cart out into the corridor. The light outside has turned deeper, the shadows long and soft.]

You balance the jar of stones in your hands while he pushes the cart.

“Thank you for helping,” you say.

“You’re helping too.”

“I mean for guiding me.”

He shrugs. “You’d figure it out eventually. I’m just speeding up the process.”

A group of students passes, waving as they go. Sungho nods to them before turning back to you.

“Besides,” he adds quietly, “projects are better when you build them with someone.”

The words settle somewhere between you, unhurried.

ACT FOUR: BUILDING A MINIATURE RIVER

By the time you reach the east wing, the halls are nearly empty. Dust catches the last stretch of sunlight slanting through the windows. Sungho stops beside a door marked Unused Classroom—Maintenance Pending and sets the cart down.

“Here we are.” He pushes the door open. The hinges creak softly.

Inside, the space feels open and still. Desks are stacked against one wall, leaving a wide table cleared in the center. The smell of old wood mixes with the faint coolness of stone floors.

Sungho sets the board on the table. “Perfect size. We’ll start sketching the riverbed before adding clay.”

You nod, setting the jar beside it. “Looks like we have everything.”

“Almost everything,” he says, looking around. “Buckets for water are in the next room. I’ll grab them.”

He disappears for a moment, footsteps echoing down the corridor. You glance around the classroom—the slant of light, the hum of distant bells outside, the half-finished plans still in your mind.

He returns with two metal pails, one in each hand, grinning at your expression. “Told you I’d be quick.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You really are prepared.”

“Of course. Partner’s responsibility.” He sets the buckets down and leans lightly against the desk. “Ready to start?”

You meet his gaze, sunlight sliding across his shoulder. “Ready.”

[The light outside deepens to amber. The sound of the last students leaving fades down the hall.]

The room smells faintly of dust and river clay. You roll your sleeves, set your bag aside, and help Sungho clear the center table. The board fits neatly across it, edges smoothed by time.

“Let’s start here,” he says, marking a shallow curve with a piece of chalk. “A simple channel, steady flow.”

You hold one end of the board while he sketches. His handwriting is as neat as the lines he draws—precise but soft, like he’s careful not to press too hard.

He glances up. “We’ll layer clay along this edge, then carve the path before it dries.”

You nod. “Got it.”

He smiles. “Teamwork.”

[Small montage of building; soft instrumental playing.]

You mix clay in a shallow pan; he pours water from one of the buckets, laughing when a splash lands on his sleeve. You both work easily, rhythm finding itself between conversation and silence. The table becomes a small landscape of ridges and channels, your fingerprints pressed into the wet surface like tiny rivers of their own.

“Perfect,” he says, leaning closer to inspect your side. “You have a good sense for shape.”

“I just followed the drawing.”

“Still counts.”

The last of the clay settles in place. He steps back, wiping his hands on a rag. “Now we test the current.”

He lifts the other bucket, the metal catching the last edge of sunlight. A careful pour sends a thin stream through the channel. It curves neatly once, then stops, pooling halfway.

“Well,” you say, “it tried.”

He laughs. “It’s a start. The spell will take care of the rest once we guide it.”

You freeze halfway to the next bucket. “Spell?”

He blinks, then tilts his head. “You can channel mana, right?”

You hesitate. The silence stretches just a little too long.

“…Not exactly,” you admit. “I mean, I know the theory, but I’ve never done anything that actually worked.”

Sungho sets the bucket down slowly, expression caught somewhere between surprise and thought. Then he laughs again, not unkindly—soft, reassuring.

“That explains the careful shapes. You were concentrating the whole time.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. Just means we start from the beginning.” He wipes his hands and sits cross-legged on the floor beside the board. “Come here.”

You blink. “On the floor?”

“It’s easier this way. No desks in the way.”

You sit across from him, mirroring his posture. The clay river lies between you like a quiet promise.

“Okay,” he says, voice steady. “Close your eyes.”

You hesitate but obey.

“Magic here isn’t about words,” he continues. “It’s about rhythm. Feel for the current under your skin. Everyone has one—it’s the same pulse that keeps you breathing. When you find it, follow it down to where it settles. That’s your center.”

You try. There’s warmth somewhere in your chest, a faint hum like a note half-remembered. But it slips away every time you reach for it.

He leans a little closer, the distance between you shrinking until you can sense his breath. You open your eyes for half a heartbeat—he’s right there, lashes lowered, focus gentle. And that’s exactly when the warmth inside you falters again.

You try to focus, but it’s impossible not to notice how handsome he looks in this light.

He opens his eyes and catches you staring. His own breath stutters, the faintest sound in the still room. Your gaze doesn’t move quickly enough, landing for a moment on the curve of his mouth before you look away.

He swallows hard, voice a little uneven now. “You’re…not exactly paying attention, are you?”

You shake your head, embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m trying.”

A quiet laugh escapes him, nervous and fond all at once. He rubs at the back of his neck. “Maybe that’s the problem. You’re trying too hard elsewhere.”

He hesitates, then draws in a careful breath, eyes flicking back to yours. “I might have another..method,” he says at last.

You open one eye. “Another?”

He scratches the back of his neck again, cheeks pink. “It’s…more direct. We link mana for a second so you can sense where mine flows. But it needs physical contact. Actual contact.”

You blink, not following. “Like…hands?”

“Closer,” he admits, not meeting your eyes now. “A kiss.”

The word hangs there—sudden, impossible, both ridiculous and perfectly logical in the hush of the empty room.

He laughs under his breath, still flustered. “It’s an old technique. I swear I’m not making it up.”

You can’t help smiling. “That’s…some teaching method.”

“Only if you agree,” he says quickly. “If not, we keep trying the slow way.”

He looks at you then—steady, waiting, the afternoon light soft against his face.

[The late-day light turns copper. Dust drifts in the still air. The faint hum of the lamps steadies like a heartbeat.]

Sungho hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting across from you, hands on his knees, eyes unsure but steady.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he says again. “It’s just a spark, nothing dangerous.”

You nod. “Okay.”

The air feels heavier when he leans closer. His hand hovers for a moment before resting lightly against your cheek, careful, asking for permission even as the warmth spreads through his fingers. You meet his eyes—nervous, determined, too focused to breathe.

He hesitates one last time, then bridges the distance.

It’s meant to be gentle, a brush of warmth to start the spell—but the instant your lips meet, light blooms under your skin. Mana floods your senses, and you can feel it in you like a river rushes its water. The room tilts, colors sharpening until you can hear the pulse of water in the clay channel beside you.

The feeling is new—intense. It’s nothing like you ever felt before. You felt a tingle. Cold, but not in a bad way. Refreshing is the word, and you don’t know how you’ve gone your whole life without feeling this. It felt like a missing piece of you is found, like you unlocked a pleasantry you now cannot go back without.

Without much thought, your careful hand turned otherwise and put itself on Sungho’s head—tugging.

Your breath catches. His does too. You didn’t mean to, but before you could react otherwise, Sungho reached at your waist first. He pulls you closer, and you let out a noise of surprise as he deepens the kiss.

The current between you hums louder, wild and bright, pulling you closer before either of you can stop it.

[Soft chime.]

PARK SUNGHO: HEART +1 (2/4)

The warmth turns fierce—a rush that starts at your joined hands and races through your chest. Your mana prickles your skin, and the cool feeling of your mana turns warm as you feel another source—his mana.

You feel his mana overwhelmingly.

More so his than yours.

It affects your formidably, and then there’s this rush of needing to be closer. To want more. To take more.

He shifts forward instinctively, one arm bracing against the table as if to steady the tempting surge of energy. The world narrows to the sound of shared breath and the shimmer of light flickering at the edges of your vision.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the glow fades.

He pulls back first, breath uneven, fingers still trembling where they rest against the wood. “That—uh—worked.” His laugh breaks on the words, half-relief, half-shock.

‘Worked’ is an understatement, Sir.

You touch your lips, pretending stupidity, dazed. “It did?”

He nods quickly, grasping at composure. “Yeah. I mean—your mana—it responded. You felt that, right?”

Think I felt yours more than I did mine…

You nod again, slower. The hum inside you hasn’t vanished; it lingers, soft and alive.

Sungho clears his throat, forcing a smile that’s just a little too bright. “Good. Great. Then…project time.” He bends toward the miniature river, eager to have something—anything—to do with his hands.

He gestures to the board. “Go ahead. Try now.”

You breathe in, lift your palm, and call to the rhythm still echoing in your veins. The water stirs. A thin line slides forward, gliding through the channel he drew earlier. It moves smooth, continuous, catching the light like liquid glass.

“It’s working,” you whisper.

“Of course it is.” His voice is softer now, almost proud. “You’ve got the rhythm.”

For a moment you both just watch the water flow, quiet and steady between you. The clay gleams under the fading sun.

Then the current slows, the glow subsides, and the room falls back into calm.

Sungho exhales. “We’ll get full marks for this.”

You laugh under your breath. “Thanks to your method?”

He flushes at that, rubbing his neck. “Let’s…not mention the method to anyone.”

You smile. “Your secret’s safe.”

He grins back, though his ears are still pink. “Good. I like my reputation as a responsible student.”

[Outside, the bells chime once—soft, distant.]

He glances toward the window. “It’s getting late. We should clean up before the custodian catches us.”

Together you drain the last of the water, stack the tools, and set the board to dry. The silence between you is comfortable again, the kind that comes after shared discovery.

When everything is packed away, he stands by the door, waiting while you shoulder your bag.

“See you tomorrow?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He smiles, smaller this time, gentler. “Goodnight, [reader].”

The door closes softly behind him. You linger a moment longer, eyes on the faint shimmer still running through the clay river—steady, alive.

ACT FIVE: THE END OF A PROJECT, THE START OF ANOTHER

[Morning light again. The screen fades in to the sound of the first bell.]

You wake to sunlight through your curtains, the same soft glow that always fills the dorm room. The air feels lighter today. For the first time, you can still sense that faint hum under your skin—mana quiet but present, like something sleeping just below your heartbeat.

You smile without meaning to.

The walk to class is familiar now. Students laugh in the corridors; the sound of spell practice echoes faintly from an open courtyard. You catch a glimpse of Sungho near the door to Class D, balancing a stack of small wooden boards. He sees you almost immediately and lifts one in greeting.

“Morning,” he says, grin already in place. “Ready for judgment day?”

“Only if it’s a good one.”

“Always is when I’m involved.” His tone is light, teasing, the easy rhythm you’ve grown used to.

You laugh, taking your seat beside him as the rest of the class trickles in.

The teacher walks between desks, hands clasped, surveying the small rivers laid out on each table. Water glints in tiny channels, some smooth, some messy. When she stops at yours, you hold your breath without realizing it.

Sungho bows slightly, polite and confident. “We focused on stable flow, professor. No overflow.”

She studies the board. The water moves exactly as it did last night—steady, controlled, a clear line from one end to the other.

“Impressive,” she says at last. “Balance and pacing are perfect. Full marks.”

The words hit like sunlight. You glance at Sungho. He’s grinning at you now, proud in that unguarded way that makes it hard not to smile back.

The teacher moves on. The rest of class passes in quiet satisfaction—soft chatter, the scrape of chairs, students peeking at each other’s scores. When the bell finally rings, the room fills with the easy noise of release.

Outside the classroom, the hallway is bathed in afternoon gold. You and Sungho linger by the door, project board tucked safely under his arm.

“Full marks,” you say. “That’s…a first for me.”

He laughs. “Then we celebrate. Or at least, we don’t fail the next one.”

You tilt your head. “You sound very sure we’ll be paired again.”

He gives a small shrug, eyes bright. “I can hope.”

A quiet pause stretches between you—not awkward, just full of what neither of you quite wants to name.

You glance down at the board. “Thank you, for teaching me. For being patient.”

“I didn’t teach much,” he says. “You figured it out yourself.”

“You still helped.”

“Then I’m glad.” His smile softens, and for a heartbeat it feels like the whole hallway slows around you.

Then someone calls his name from down the hall. He turns, waves, and the moment passes.

He looks back at you. “See you later?”

“Tomorrow,” you promise.

“Tomorrow,” he echoes.

He starts down the corridor, sunlight following him through the tall windows until he disappears around the corner.

You stand there a little longer, the quiet hum of the academy returning to fill the space between bells. Somewhere outside, wind moves through the courtyard trees, soft and rhythmic—the same kind of calm that feels like the world breathing.

[Soft end-of-day music. The screen fades in from black to the academy hallway, lit by the low sun.]

Classes have ended, and most students are already gone. The corridors feel longer when they’re empty—footsteps echoing, lockers closing somewhere in the distance. You linger near the window, tracing the light with your fingertips, watching how it catches on the glass.

It’s been a good day. A quiet one. The project still sits on your desk, drying under the gentle hum of a preservation charm. You’re almost at the stairwell when a sharp noise cuts through the calm.

A voice—angry, low.

Then another, smaller, almost pleading.

You pause.

The sound comes from the far end of the hall, near the storeroom door. You step closer without thinking, careful not to let your shoes scuff the floor. As you round the corner, you see them: two upperclassmen cornering a boy against the wall. He’s kneeling slightly, gathering fallen papers, trying to make himself smaller.

“Didn’t think we’d notice, did you?” one of the bullies sneers. “Always sneaking notes to the professors.”

“I wasn’t,” the boy says quietly. “It’s not—”

He’s cut off by a shove. The papers scatter again, fluttering across the floor like startled birds.

You don’t think; you move.

“Hey!” Your voice echoes down the hall. The older students turn. “Leave him alone.”

They exchange a look—surprised, then unimpressed. One laughs under his breath. “Mind your own business.”

You take a slow step forward, raising your hand slightly. “Maybe. But if I don’t, the faculty will.”

You can feel the faint pulse of magic gathering at your fingertips, instinctive and sure now. A thin ribbon of water swirls into being, floating just above your palm. It glints in the light—enough to make them hesitate.

“Fine,” one mutters. “Whatever. Not worth it.”

They push past you, grumbling as they disappear down the hall.

Silence returns.

You turn back to the boy, who’s already reaching for the last of his papers. He looks younger up close—soft-spoken, tidy uniform, a thin line of dirt on his sleeve where he fell.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once, still not meeting your eyes. “Thank you.”

You crouch to help, handing him the last sheet. “They shouldn’t have done that.”

“They usually don’t,” he says quietly. “You just caught a bad moment.”

He gathers the papers into a neat stack, stands, and finally looks up. His eyes are calm, distant, like he’s measuring whether you’re real.

You offer a small smile. “I’m [reader]. Class D.”

There’s a pause before he answers.

“My name’s Kim Donghyun.”

He bows slightly, the formal gesture of someone raised on manners. You return it out of reflex, still holding his gaze.

“Be careful on your way back,” you tell him.

“I will,” he says. “Thank you again.”

He walks away without hurry, papers held close, disappearing around the corner as the last of the light fades from the windows.

For a moment, you stand alone in the quiet corridor. The day hums softly to an end.

SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing level one! You have now unlocked level two. Do you wish to continue?

SERIES TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @gentiliana @chnhnyu @dove--ly @w3willris3 @kazukazukiiii @yunextdoor

NETWORKS: @k-records @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

TUTORIAL: HOW TO GET YOUR BOY | Boynextdoor

MTL. HEARTLOCKED: THE BOY NEXT LEVEL

SYNOPSIS: an introduction to knowing your way around the game!

PAIRINGS. boynextdoor’s sungho x reader GENRE. romance, slice of life, visual novel WARNINGS. none WC. 700

NOTE. starting with the first level, there will be a 24-hour poll for action decisions that will affect the sequence of the next level. i ask that you please participate in those polls. Thanks!

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

< START GAME >

[Screen fades in. A white interface hums softly in the dark. Soft bells jingle. Music rings. ]

SYSTEM: Welcome, new student. You’ve been successfully transferred to Hearts Academy.

SYSTEM: Before you begin, please complete your registration.

[Text fields flicker on the screen.]

SYSTEM: Enter your name.

› [Player types it in.]

SYSTEM: Thank you, [reader].

SYSTEM: In this world, emotions are more than feelings—they’re measurable.

SYSTEM: Each student carries a Heart Meter, a small crystal that glows brighter as bonds deepen. Once the crystal reaches a certain level, you will unlock an ending to the game.

SYSTEM: Every choice you make will affect these bonds. Choose sincerely.

[Soft chime.]

SYSTEM: Let’s practice. How do you respond to a new acquaintance?

› Smile politely

› Wave enthusiastically

› Avoid eye contact

SYSTEM: Excellent. Your response has been recorded.

A faint warmth gathers around your wrist—the system syncing to your pulse. The words on-screen shimmer, then dissolve into light.

SYSTEM: Tutorial complete. Entering school environment…

[Fade in: classroom, morning light through the windows.]

The morning sun hits the glass just right, scattering light across the classroom floor. It smells faintly of chalk and something floral—like a storybook version of a school morning.

You pause by the open door, clutching the strap of your bag, trying to look like you belong.

The teacher glances up. “Ah, the new transfer. You can take the seat by the window.”

It’s the only open desk, beside a boy with light in his eyes and ink stains on his fingertips. He looks up and smiles before you can even introduce yourself.

???: “You’re the new student, right? I’m Sungho. Class D. Same as you.”

He says it like he’s said it a hundred times before—like he already knows the rhythm of your answer. You laugh, because the words feel easy.

He gestures to the seat next to him. You return his smile.

› Sit down quietly

› Joke that you already forgot the classroom number

› Thank him for saving you a seat

[Heart +1 flashes briefly at the edge of the screen.]

You look over his head, where a clear heart apart from the small portion of color now rests on top of his head. That must be the heart meter, you thought.

You look at Sungho, who’s unbothered by the whole thing—as if he couldn’t see a heart appearing on top of his head. But he probably doesn’t. Just smiles gently at you as you take your place at class.

The teacher begins the lesson, but Sungho leans over to whisper about which subjects are worth staying awake for, which hallways are traps for late students. You listen, nod, smile. He smells faintly of soap and sunlight. The small talk comes naturally.

At lunch, he waves you over before you can even find a seat.

“You don’t have to eat alone, you know. It’s against school rules.”

“Is it?” You asked.

“Maybe not written down, but it should be.” He grins, and something gentle tugs at your chest. It feels simple here—safe.

[Later, the lunch bell rings.]

Lunch passes, and he walks you around the campus. The academy is beautiful: gardens with white benches, towers lined with stained glass, students practicing magic in open courtyards. There’s even a faint shimmer in the air, like the whole place hums with quiet magic. It’s all so perfect. You don’t notice it yet, but right now, you’re just trying not to get lost.

Sungho turns to you, “So? Not bad for your first day, right?”

“It feels…different. Like a dream I used to have.” You replied.

“You’ll get used to the schedule soon. Once you do, the days just…fly by.”

“It already feels fast.”

“That’s a good sign. Means you’re enjoying it.”

He smiles again—soft, content, a little too flawless.

The bell rings—once, then twice. The sky burns gold as he waves goodbye.

The world feels soft, polished, complete. You don’t think about how the same breeze passes twice, or how the bell’s echo sounds perfectly timed. You just smile, and think—

Maybe this is where the story begins.

< TUTORIAL ENDED >

SYSTEM: Congratulations on finishing the tutorial, [reader]! Level one has been unlocked. Do you wish to continue?

SERIES TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @gentiliana @chnhnyu @dove--ly @w3willris3 @kazukazukiiii @yunextdoor

NETWORKS: @k-records @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[ihankaji]

LOOKIN’ FOR ATTENTION ──── ♡ 이한 ✦ 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗌, 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐! ( SMAU ONESHOT )

📷 ) SYNOPSIS 𓂃 ﹕having an attractive and (semi) oblivious roommate is definitely not for the weak.

──── roommate ! leehan x fem ! reader ╱ ⌕ smau, fluff, comedy ( ? ) ∿ ˊᯅˋ could be somewhat suggestive…?, reader lowk down bad, use of petnames >3< ( 💬 ) HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEEHANNN my fellow dearest october baby ♡ #WeInSyncLikeThat i honestly don’t know what went thru my mind making this BUT it’s smth for my man so its okay 🤍

‘💬’ ─ why are my screenshots like that now. Apple. MemiMessage. Someone Speak Up.

› BONEDO PERM TL ( OPEN ) ──── @riumori @j4d @itsactuallylina @htaesan @himewonu @pumpkg @mimimimiaa @deeour @s0shroe @mari3s @woonhakntaesansgf @yunextdoor @wensurr @ivxae @wnouzi @prodkwh

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

HEARTLOCKED: THE BOY NEXT LEVEL

GAME DEMO: WELCOME TO HEARTLOCKED!

Fall in love, build friendships, and unlock your destiny in Heartlocked: The Boy Next Level, a romance simulation where every choice leads you closer to your perfect match. Meet six unique boys—from your easygoing classmate to the mysterious northern duke—and experience a world where every heartbeat matters. Raise affection, uncover secret events, and collect special endings as you navigate school life. They say true love can change everything. But in a place where every emotion is measured, how much of your heart are you willing to give?

MULTIPLAYER: featuring all boynextdoor members x reader as video game characters. SETTINGS: romance, psychological horror, visual novel WARNINGS: main character death, murder, heartbreak, lack of communication, ghosting, yandere, forceful acts, vulgar language, themes of obsession, control, and loss of agency. PROCEED WITH CARE.

Hi everyone! First of all thank you sooo much for 800 follows, it’s such a big milestone for me and I’m so glad to introduce this series to you all right after I hit 800!! Secondly, this series will start on the 23rd and the main story will end on the 4th of November. If you wish to join the taglist, just comment or send an ask! I hope you enjoy this series <3

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

PRESS TO START GAME……………………< START >

TUTORIAL: HOW TO GET YOUR BOY

an introduction to knowing your way around the game!

published. 23 October, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL ONE: HEARTLOCK ACADEMY

SYNOPSIS: It’s your first morning at Hearts Academy, and the world feels fresh, full of promise, and maybe a little too bright. You meet Sungho, your friendly classmate who seems determined to make your first day perfect. Between shared lunches, quiet study sessions, and sunset walks home, his easy warmth makes the academy feel like home. His route is simple, cheerful, and full of those small moments that make your heart skip. A story about beginnings, comfort, and the kind of first love that feels like forever.

genre. romance, slice of life, comedy.

warnings. slight cursing

published. 25 October, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL TWO: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

published. 27 October, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL THREE: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

published. 29 October, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL FOUR: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

published. 31 October, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL FIVE: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

published. 2 November, 2025. WC. tba

LEVEL SIX: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

published. 4 November, 2025. WC. tba

EPILOGUE: LOCKED

system : please complete the perquisite chapters before unlocking this chapter.

system : a poll will be made to choose your ending after all levels are completed.

SERIES TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco @gentiliana @chnhnyu @dove--ly @w3willris3

NETWORKS: @k-records @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

A JEALOUSY THAT MUST BE REIGNED | Kim Donghyun

pairings — boynextdoor’s Leehan x reader

genre — romance, fluff, friends to (?)

warnings — jealousy (wc. 960)

note — this one’s this anon’s req!! I’ll post the other reqs next month ^^

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

BACKSTAGE IS A BLUR of noise and neon. Staff weave through narrow halls with headsets and clipboards, stylists touch up makeup, and the smell of hairspray lingers in the air like a permanent fixture of fame.

You’ve done this a hundred times before—the pre-stage chaos, the countdowns, the cheers that echo through your chest—but today, your heart beats a little faster for a completely different reason.

Across the room, Leehan is laughing with another idol group, his smile bright enough to compete with the studio lights.

You tell yourself it’s fine—you’re friends, after all. Friends talk. Friends laugh. Friends definitely don’t feel a tiny sting in their chest when someone else makes him laugh like that.

You glance down at your phone, pretending to check messages, but the screen is just a blurry reflection of your pout. Your manager passes by with a quick, “You’re up after the next group, [reader].” You nod, offering a practiced smile.

Inside, though, you’re trying to convince yourself that the small, green monster clawing its way up your ribcage isn’t jealousy.

You peek again. Leehan’s leaning against a prop case, sleeves rolled up, talking to a girl from another group—one of those effortlessly charming idols who can make anyone comfortable. She’s smiling at him, and he’s doing that thing where he tilts his head and listens intently, eyes soft and kind.

You groan under your breath.

It’s fine. You’re just friends.

Still, when your stylist calls you over for last-minute touch-ups, you mutter, “Make sure I look amazing on camera.”

She chuckles. “You always do.”

Yeah, but this time, you kind of want one person to notice.

…

After your stage, the adrenaline’s still buzzing in your veins. You’re glowing—the crowd’s cheers still ringing in your ears—and when you step off the stage, the first person you see waiting by the monitor is Leehan.

He claps, grinning wide. “You killed it! Seriously, that ending pose? Legendary.”

You beam despite yourself. “Oh? You were watching?”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. “What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t cheer for my favorite performer?”

You try to ignore how warm the word favorite feels. Instead, you cross your arms and tease, “You seemed pretty busy earlier. Thought you’d forgotten I existed.”

His smile falters, just for a moment, then he blinks. “Huh? What do you mean?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Nothing. Just saw you chatting it up with…what’s her name? The one with the sparkly hairpin?”

Leehan stares at you, realization dawning slowly, and then—oh no—his lips curl into the smuggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Wait,” he says, leaning closer. “Were you… jealous?”

Your brain short-circuits. “W–what? No! I just—I was curious!”

He laughs—bright, boyish, entirely too pleased. “That’s cute.”

“Don’t call me cute,” you protest, though your cheeks are already burning.

“Fine,” he says, voice dropping into that teasing lilt that always makes your pulse stutter. “Then I’ll call you adorable instead.”

You groan, covering your face. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, nudging your elbow lightly, “you still hang out with me.”

You peek through your fingers. “Maybe that’s my mistake.”

“Lies,” he says with mock offense. “You love having me around.”

The scary part? He’s not wrong.

A staff member calls for his group next, and Leehan straightens his jacket. “I should go. You’ll watch our stage, right?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why should I?”

He grins again, that familiar spark in his eyes. “Because I watched yours. Fair’s fair.”

“Fine,” you huff. “But only because your group’s choreography is cool.”

“Sure,” he teases. “Not because you like me or anything.”

You throw him a glare that’s more flustered than fierce. “Go perform before I take that back.”

He’s still smiling when he walks off, and you catch yourself smiling, too—stupidly, softly, like the jealousy never even existed.

…

When his group finishes, you’re still at the monitor, clapping the loudest. He spots you immediately, eyes brightening like you’re the only person in the crowded backstage. As he jogs over, slightly breathless, his smile is all pride and mischief.

“So?” he asks, hair sticking to his forehead. “How’d I do?”

You pretend to consider it. “Hmm. Maybe a 7 out of 10.”

“Seven?” He gasps dramatically. “After all that? I even looked straight at the camera for you!”

Your heart skips. “You—what?”

He smirks. “During the bridge. Didn’t you notice? I thought you said you were watching closely.”

You open your mouth, but words fail you. He laughs again, softer this time, and for a second, the whole backstage noise fades out—the shouting staff, the clatter of mic stands, even the buzz of other idols. It’s just him and that infuriatingly kind smile.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice gentler now. “You don’t have to get jealous, you know.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone.

He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck. “If I’m talking to someone, it’s just talking. But when I look for someone in a crowd, it’s always you.”

Your chest tightens, warmth flooding your face faster than you can stop it. “That’s… unfair.”

Leehan chuckles. “Why?”

“Because now I can’t even pretend I’m not smiling.”

He tilts his head, grinning. “Good. I like when you smile. It’s my favorite look on you.”

And before you can reply, a staff member calls his name again, and he gives you one last wave before disappearing down the hall.

You stand there, a little dazed, replaying his words over and over.

When I look for someone in a crowd, it’s always you.

You touch your cheek, feeling the heat still lingering, and laugh softly to yourself. Maybe being jealous wasn’t so bad—not when it led to this.

TAGLIST: @cherryblossomlovesblog @pluslandminun @ivxae @chwrrydolly @ja4hyvn @flwoie @sulkygyu @xiaoderrrr @ineedaherosavemeenow @teddywonss @taerae-verse @bbangbies @voucearse @ruuroom @wensurr @onesanonly @sunoo-mint-choco

NETWORKS: @k-records @k-films @k-labels @onedoornet

© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[onedoornet]

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[astrae4]

WHEN A MAN REALIZES THE SIGNIFICANCE OF A PLUSHIE | Kim Woonhak

pairings — boynextdoor’s Woonhak x reader ( ft. Myung Jaehyun )

genre — slice of life, comedy, romance, established relationship (WC. 1.1k)

warnings — none! but woonhak’s very very jealous here hehe

note — posting 3x this week and then a lotttt next week… wish me luck..

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist

WOONHAK HAS BEEF.

Serious, deep, heartfelt beef—with a six-dollar plushie from the claw machine.

“Hyung,” he groans, throwing himself onto Jaehyun’s bed like a man who’s just seen war. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Jaehyun looks up from his phone, not even pretending to care. “What did you do now?”

“It’s not me! It’s them!”

“Them,” Jaehyun repeats flatly, “as in… the plushies?”

“Yes!” Woonhak sits up dramatically, pointing like he’s accusing a villain in a courtroom. “She has too many. Way too many. I can’t even see her when she sleeps because there’s a wall of them!”

Jaehyun blinks. “…You’re jealous of the plushies.”

Woonhak glares. “I’m not jealous. I just think it’s weird! Why does she need, like—fifteen bears when she has me?”

Jaehyun sets his phone down, giving him that look that screams I’m too tired for this conversation but okay. “Woonhak.”

“What?”

“You do realize you’re saying you’re jealous of inanimate objects that she literally bought because she misses you, right?”

“That’s—what?” Woonhak frowns. “No, that doesn’t even—”

Jaehyun just raises an eyebrow. “Think about it. When you’re gone for schedules, who’s there to hug her? Who’s there to sleep next to her when she’s lonely? Those plushies are literally the next best thing.”

Woonhak opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “…Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jaehyun says, already going back to scrolling on his phone. “You’re basically mad at the emotional support version of yourself.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe get her another one instead of complaining about it.”

“…Oh.”

“Stop saying oh before I throw a pillow at you.”

That night, Woonhak sits on his bed, chin in hand, staring at the ceiling.

So… you got those plushies because you missed him? And here he was, sulking about them like a toddler denied candy. Great job, genius.

He pictures your room—soft lighting, too many blankets, an entire army of plushies taking over the bed. You always teased him, saying they “keep me company” when he’s away. And every time, he’d just roll his eyes and call them clingy.

But maybe you were just lonely. Maybe hugging those bears was the only way you could stop missing him so much.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, determination glinting in his eyes. “Fine. I’ll make it up to [reader].”

The next day, you wake up groggy and shuffled toward the bed, rubbing your eyes. And that’s when you see it.

Front and center among the plushies sits a new one—a big, soft bear with the most ridiculous little hoodie that looks exactly like something Woonhak would wear. It’s even got messy little brown hair ( clearly hand-sewn! ), and someone’s drawn tiny dimples on its face with a marker.

You blink.

Then blink again.

Then burst out laughing.

“What is this?” you say between giggles, picking it up. A small note falls out of its pocket.

“If you’re gonna hug something, it better at least look like me. — Woonhak 🐻”

You’re still laughing when the phone rings.

“Good morning,” Woonhak says, voice smug and full of barely contained pride.

“What’s this, huh?” You hold up the bear to the camera. “It looks suspiciously like you.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning closer to the screen, pretending to inspect it. “Handsome, huh?”

“You made this?”

He grins. “Kind of. Jaehyun helped me order the bear, and then I drew on the face. Don’t worry, it’s one of a kind.”

You snort. “You drew your own dimples on it?”

“Hey, that’s my brand!” he protests, pretending to pout. “Besides, now you don’t have to miss me when I’m not there.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you finally admitted you were jealous of my plushies.”

Woonhak immediately stiffens. “I—No! I wasn’t jealous! I just—uh—didn’t like that they were taking up too much space on the bed.”

“Sure,” You teased, hugging the bear to your chest. “Whatever you say, Mr. Jealous.”

He groans. “Stop calling me that.”

“Mr. Jealous!”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You love me too much to hang up.”

He rolls his eyes, but his lips curve into that soft, lopsided smile you know too well. “Yeah, yeah. Keep hugging the bear.”

“Oh, I will,” you say sweetly, cuddling it tighter. “He doesn’t argue back.”

“Hey!” Woonhak protests. “Don’t replace me with that thing!”

You grin. “Maybe I will. He’s quieter.”

“Okay, that’s it—I’m buying a life-sized version next time.”

“Then I’ll have two of you.”

“No, because then you’ll never call the real me again.”

“Depends on how soft it is.”

“[Reader]!”

You laugh so hard he gives up, burying his face in his hands, groaning dramatically. “This is what I get for trying to be romantic.”

“No,” You say softly, voice gentler now. “This is what you get for being sweet.”

He peeks through his fingers, eyes crinkling. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

“You better,” he says, puffing his cheeks in mock offense. “I stayed up till 2 a.m. making sure that stupid bear looked like me.”

“It’s perfect,” You reassure him. “But you know what’s even better?”

“What?”

“The real one.”

He goes quiet, just staring at you for a moment. Then, a smile breaks across his face—soft, a little shy, the kind that always makes their chest feel warm.

“Then I’ll hurry home,” he says quietly.

Later that night, you’re curled up in bed, your phone still warm from the last call. Woonhak’s voice still lingers in your head, and his little bear version is tucked securely in your arms.

You press a kiss to its forehead before turning off the light.

“Goodnight, Woonhak,” you whisper.

Meanwhile, across the city, Woonhak lies in his dorm, grinning at his screen like an idiot after reading their last message. Jaehyun throws a pillow at him.

“What are you smiling about now?”

“Nothing,” Woonhak says, still smiling.

Jaehyun squints. “You gave her the bear, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“And they liked it?”

“They loved it,” Woonhak says proudly.

“Good. Now stop looking at your phone like you’re in a drama.”

Woonhak just hums, rolling over and hugging his pillow like it’s them. “You’re just jealous you’re not her plushie.”

Jaehyun groans. “I’m regretting ever helping you.”

“No, you’re not.”

The next morning, Woonhak wakes up to a picture you sent—a selfie of yourself snuggled up with the bear, captioned: “My favorite boy 🐻💛”

He laughs, heart thudding a little too fast. Yeah, maybe he lost the plushie war. But if it means you’re smiling like that, he doesn’t really mind.

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[onedoornet]

ding dong! check out gill's new piece

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