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MASTERLIST
TOP HITS
42nd Moon // 42nd Moon (Published Version)
Bird is the Word ♡
Candy Hearts ♡
Even if Things Were Different ♡
Make A Wish
Flowers for You
Ruin My Life ♡
Squirrel and Wife ♡
What Was I Made For
PERSONAL FAVS
Dialing
In Fair Verona
Matters of the Head and Heart
Written in the Stars
♡ ones as indicated in TOP HITS
Synopsis: College is hard, but it's even worse when you're a pre-med student and it's even, even worse when you don't want to go into medicine. Fortunately, the ghost that haunts your apartment is more kind, more annoying, and more helpful than you ever thought possible. College AU, ghost AU.
Warning: alcohol, bad parental relationship, mentions of death
Word Count: 6.2k
Pairing: f!reader x ghost!Kim Seungmin
A/N: Good luck with exams and classes!
“Honey, I’m home,” you call. The handles of the reusable grocery bag you picked up from a club booth at the beginning of the semester are already starting to fall apart, so you’re forced to flip on the light switch with your shoulder blades. You glare at Seungmin, who is lounging on the couch, staring at the ceiling. “Could you at least pretend to help?”
“What’s the point? I can’t even eat whatever you bought.”
You sigh and set down your haul onto the tiny kitchen island that doubles as a dining table. When you make a big production of taking out your groceries, Seungmin still doesn’t look up. Despite his inability to eat food, he usually shows some interest, if only to judge your snack choices.
On the counter, bananas in a plastic produce bag to prevent fruit flies, and a new roll of paper towels. On the top shelf of the fridge, a tub of Greek yogurt that Seungmin makes fun of you for liking. Assorted salad mixes in the crisper. A whole rotisserie chicken and a carton of eggs on the middle shelf. In the cabinet goes a party-sized bag of barbeque chips, a pack of chocolate chip cookies you don’t want to discuss how much you paid for, and a box of protein bars.
You take the last item out of the bag and hide it behind your back. You hover over Seungmin. “Guess what I got?”
“A bag of potatoes that will grow spuds because you can’t finish them all.”
“That was one time! Try again.”
He guesses wrong again and again, so after the fifth attempt, you hold your prize in front of his eyes. “A better vegetable peeler, just like you told me to. Are you proud of me?”
For a moment, his sullen eyes brighten at the memory of you struggling with your old peeler. He watched with great amusement as the flimsy blade repeatedly got caught on carrot skin and you grew more infuriated with each catch. In the end, you gave up and ate the skin, fuming with each bite of your meal. Seungmin laughed so hard, you thought he would lose control of his physical form and slip through the floor.
He sighs, all of the joy escaping through his lips. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, it’s just one of those days.”
“We all have them. Hey, why don’t we do something tonight? I’m done studying, so we can watch a movie or play Mario Kart or something.” You plaster a smile on your face. “Fun, right?”
“You’re never gonna get into med school if this is how you work.”
Despite his admonishments, he sits up and swings his legs off the couch to make room for you. He didn’t choose an activity so Mario Kart it is. You leave your peeler on the coffee table and grab your joycons. When you flop beside him, tossing the blue one in his lap, he grumbles as he’s jostled around.
“I don’t even wanna go to med school,” you remind him. He already knows since it’s all you complain about these days as the MCAT draws closer, but that’s never stopped you from repeating yourself.
“Wow, what a problem. I’d die to go to med school.”
Without thinking, you snort. “Too late for that.”
Seungmin has been dead for nearly two years. The old apartment complex burned down in an electrical fire, and due to the housing demand in the area, the university quickly built a new one in its place. Sure, you suspected it was probably haunted, but rent was on the cheaper side, especially for a single room, so you moved in and learned about your unofficial roommate during your first night. You thought you were going to faint when you saw a stranger leaning over your stack of practice books, and you thought you were going to be killed when he simply said, “I was also pre-med.”
“Sorry,” you meekly say. Why is the Mario Kart music so cheerful? It would be worse if it was sad, but the upbeat tune just makes your mistake more poignant. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” he interjects. “Doesn’t matter. You better not pick Birdo this time.”
While you normally would have fought him six ways from Sunday for Birdo, you choose Yoshi instead and pick his favorite circuit to start off the night. He makes no comment about your sudden generosity, but you both know the reason. There’s no such thing as pity in this household, but apologies are aplenty.
When you come back from your anatomy lab the following day, whatever guilt you felt is gone when Seungmin holds up your pack of cookies with a disapproving look. You must have forgotten to put it back in the cabinet before you left. Either that or Seungmin rummaged around your belongings when the roommate contract stated that he could not and would not.
“You seriously paid for these?” he says.
“They’re good! And artisan,” you huff as you snatch the package from his hands. You hope you didn’t crush any cookies in the process. “I support small businesses.”
“They haven’t been a small business or artisan in, like, twenty years. How did the cat dissection go?”
You reach for an overpriced cookie and snap off a piece with more force than necessary. “Fine. A little gross, but I guess I’m used to that by now. You wanna see the pictures I took?”
He tries to feign nonchalance, but his body seems more substantial, less ghost-like as you scroll through your camera roll. Even though he oohs and aahs at the most inappropriate images—you really don’t think the digestive structures of a cat deserve that much admiration—you can’t help but smile. He hasn’t looked or sounded this lively in weeks. You thought it might have been your snark rubbing off of him, but he always has a biting remark at the ready, remedied only with his good-natured demeanor. Of course, that demeanor has been slowly crumbling, so to see him be his usual self again feels good.
Satisfied, he lets you take your phone back. “Sometimes I miss lab. I hated doing the lab reports though; have fun with that.”
And just like that, your happiness goes out. “That’s tomorrow’s problem. I should study before work. You wanna help me out? I hate physics.”
Look, if your roommate were a pre-med student, had unlimited time, and no other obligations, you would force them to help you study, too. Plus, Seungmin loves MCAT practice, so it’s a win-win.
To your surprise, he doesn’t jump at the opportunity like he typically does. Under normal circumstances, he would be scouring the living room for where he last left his flashcards. Instead, he says, “Why don’t you take a break?”
“A break? You, of all people, suggest that I take a break when you were just telling me about my bad study habits? Who are you, and what have you done with Seungmin?”
He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t realize you wanted to do physics that badly.”
“I don’t. This is weird from you though.” However, after a moment of contemplation: “Whatever. Pick a show to watch. I’m gonna draw.”
He selects House because he’s still Seungmin after all. This is the show that inspired him to go into medicine, and is, as he’s mentioned many times before, “the greatest show on the planet.” It’s entertaining, you admit, and you do like seeing all of the obscure medical cases Dr. Gregory House solves, but it’s a grim reminder of your parents’ dreams for you. With the dialogue of the characters echoing in your head, you sketch a frog sitting on top of a stack of pancakes. You initially bought your tablet for note taking, but it really is much better as a tool for art.
“It’s always animals, plants, or dessert now,” Seungmin remarks, craning his head to get a better view while you continually pull your screen away. “What happened to your big fantasy pieces?”
“Rule one: no looking until I say so. Rule two: no questions unless I say so. Remember?”
He ignores you. “You used to do a lot of those things when you first moved in. With the crazy landscapes, guys with abs in crop tops, cat-ear ladies with fancy dresses, villains who you definitely wanted to—”
“I get it!” Your face is blazing. He makes your artistic—purely artistic—interests sound so much worse than they are. “I’ve just been busy with life, so I don’t have time to work on them anymore. Anyway, animals, plants, and desserts are cute.” In a smaller voice, you add, “And they make me happy.”
Just like pictures of a flayed cat makes him happy.
He goes quiet and lets Dr. House fill the air. While he pretends to be engrossed in the show, you turn back to your sketch to fix your frog’s eyes to be less downcast. No sad frogs allowed.
You don’t remember exactly when the dread began, but you do distinctly remember glancing over the syllabus for your genetics course and wanting to collapse. Each item was manageable by itself, but the totality of the class, of your future classes, of your future hurtled at you at full force. For so long, you convinced yourself you could do it. You would complain the whole time, but at the end, you would be addressed as ‘Doctor’ and you would be happy. Your parents would be happy, so you would be happy and realize that it was all worth it.
Even if you cried every night, it would be worth it.
You took a deep breath, looked at the list of assigned textbooks, and pulled out your credit card. You went through more dire situations than this stupid course. This would be easy enough.
Two weeks after the art fiasco, you finally test out your new vegetable peeler on potatoes. Your friend gave you five for free since she was having trouble finishing the large amount she bought. While you stand over the sink, humming a song your neighbor has been practicing for the past week, Seungmin is hunched over the coffee table, doing something secretive with flashcards. He’s been working on a new set of them since the art fiasco, which makes no sense since you have a perfect set of a thousand that you bought online. But no, he has been toiling day and night to create handmade ones. You don’t even want to know where he got the supplies.
Well, you already know where and how, but if your neighbors come knocking, you know nothing.
In fear that you’ll “ruin the surprise,” you have been forbidden from even stepping foot onto the living room carpet. Really, there’s no point because you can get a glimpse if you lean across the island. Nevertheless, you keep your eyes on the growing pile of potato skins. You have five potatoes worth of fries to make.
Ten minutes later, when you have moved onto slicing, Seungmin declares that he’s done. He places the baking sheet you left on the island onto a chair and triumphantly sets down his masterpiece.
When you pick up the topmost one, you can’t help but smile. Alongside the words “absolute threshold” is a cartoon rabbit with alert ears. Tiny music notes are dotted on the top edge of the card.
“To make your studies less stressful,” he says.
You don’t have the heart to tell him that you’re always some degree of stressed but nevertheless thank him. The flashcards are adorable, even if Seungmin’s drawing skills aren’t the best. “Newton’s first law” has an indistinguishable creature kicking a ball, and “law of independent assortment” features some of the strangest plants you have ever seen.
“I love them.”
“What do you think of my art skills? Better than you, right?”
You laugh and turn back to your cutting board. “You should’ve considered art school instead of med school. Professional artist Seungmin,” you muse. “I can see you in galleries and museums.”
“Don’t forget the history textbooks. Why didn’t you consider art school? You would be perfect for video games or something.”
For some time, you did consider art school. You spent the first two years of high school daydreaming about sitting behind an easel, translating a model’s likeness onto paper. Perennial paint splatters on your jeans, permanent charcoal stains on your fingers—that was the only way you wanted to study human anatomy.
“My parents. You know how it is. Can you season the fries in the bowl?”
While Seungmin dumps copious amounts of salt, pepper, and whatever random spices he picked from the cabinet, you reflect on your teenage self. A part of you knew that drawing would only be a hobby, but another part kept hoping your parents would come around. When Hyunjin’s parents announced he was going to study chemistry, your mom wondered why he didn’t choose art when he was such a good artist. In fact, half the neighborhood, whose children went into STEM fields one way or another, were shocked he chose chemistry. Of course, if their own kids had opted for non-STEM majors, they would have been livid. Just like your parents had been.
“Did you ever think about not going into medicine?” you ask as you add more potato slices into the bowl.
He adds a swirl of oil to the mix. “No. It’s all I ever wanted to do. I volunteered at the hospital in high school, got an internship at a clinic here. I was studying for the MCAT and then…”
And then the university’s outdated housing killed him. It sounds horrific when phrased like that, but it’s more truthful than “Promising Young Pre-med Student Kim Seungmin Dead After Apartment Fire,” as the city newspaper headlined. His student ID photo smiled earnestly at readers, and a recent picture showed him posing in a lab coat.
It hits you then. Seungmin is dead. You knew this logically; you saw the articles, passed by the vigil, and signed the student letter demanding better accommodations. Then you forgot his existence until you applied to live in this building and when he appeared in your bedroom, you forgot about his death. Despite witnessing him walk through walls and tiptoeing around his deceased status, Seungmin has never really been dead to you. He’s your roommate who sleeps in the living room, your study partner who loves all things related to biology, or your friend. He’s too alive to be anything else.
“Did you preheat the oven?” he asks, breaking you out of your spiraling thoughts. Your body went on autopilot, and now the baking sheet is covered in pale potato sticks.
You glance at the dark oven and head over to do what you should’ve done twenty minutes ago. “My bad.”
“You’re the one eating these. Can you even finish all this?”
It’s far too much, but what else were you going to do with five potatoes on the verge of going bad? You suppose you could have not accepted them from your friend. “I can try?” you say, more to convince yourself than him. “I’m no coward.”
“Really? Then why do you hide when we watch horror movies?”
“That’s different. Mario Kart while we wait?”
“I call Birdo.”
Despite his declaration, you’re the one playing Birdo while he settles for Waluigi. Seungmin gloats when he hits you with a red shell, laughs when you fall off the track, and celebrates when he gets first place. He’s practically corporeal, alight with hopes and dreams you wish were your own, but he’s only the echo of the past. Meanwhile, blood flows through your veins and oxygen into your lungs, yet you’re stuck in a potential future you don’t even want.
At the end of fall, between your human biology midterm and that stupid philosophy paper, you break. It’s during one of your MCAT practice exams, so you at least can cry at your desk. You can’t even cry without guilt; your mind immediately starts trying to reread the problem you’re stuck on through your tears, as if trigonometry will solve your crisis.
It feels like an elephant is sitting on your chest. Every time you think you’ve calmed down enough to begin again, another wave of sobs overcomes you. Just holding your pencil makes your throat tighten.
“Are you okay?” Seungmin’s voice is slightly muffled by your bedroom door, but you doubt that a thin piece of wood concealed your cries.
You choke out, “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“... No.”
You swing open your door with sardonic fanfare, spreading your arms like a ringmaster. Seungmin makes no comment about your swollen eyes or your sniffles. You almost wish he had.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. He takes a tentative step into your room, and when you nod, he lets himself fully in. It’s been several months since he’s last been inside. Unmade bed, cluttered nightstand, paper-strewn desk—nothing much has changed. He sits on your chair, resting an arm on top of the throw blanket you’ve thrown over the back.
“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say after a moment of silence. “I hate class, I hate work, I hate my life. A breakdown has been long overdue.”
You stare at the floor, afraid to meet his gaze now that he’s seen you like this. Ever since you discovered Seungmin, you’ve crafted the perfect blasé attitude to accommodate your new living circumstances. He leaves you alone sometimes and stays cordoned off in the shared spaces to give you privacy, but you don’t break apart in your apartment for good reason. You’re open and raw like a bloody wound. Will he want to patch you up with bandaids, or will he pick and prod?
Pick and prod, you pray. Make some flippant remark about how easy you have it, how he wishes he could be in your position instead. Because if he does, then the situation must not be that bad.
Softly, Seungmin says, “What can I do to help?”
Your heart drops to your stomach. “I don’t know… I should probably get back to studying anyway.”
“Really? Are you serious?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” you snap. Seungmin at least has the decency to look sheepish. “The MCAT’s in July, and I don’t even understand half the things I’m supposed to know. I’m barely getting C’s in philosophy and art history because of it. That’s so humiliating.”
“Have you thought about, you know, not going to med school?”
A harsh laugh rips out of your throat. “Every single day. But it’s too late. I’ve already wasted four years, so what’s another four?” That doesn’t even include residency.
“You’d hate it.”
“Story of my life.”
The room goes quiet. Maybe you were too severe with your words, but how else do you explain it?
“What if you became a medical illustrator?” he abruptly suggests. “You’d know exactly how to draw everything. It’s perfect for you. And it’s still STEM-related.”
It doesn’t matter if it’s in STEM. Your parents laid out your options very clearly: doctor or disappointment. Some career choices were less disappointing than others, but they would still be disappointments.
“I need to study,” you say.
He stands up from your rightful seat at your desk. Softly, so very softly, he says, “I’ll let you get back to it then.”
“Thank you.”
He shuts the door behind him and leaves you with your despair. True to your word, you return to your practice exam, this time without crying. Your mouth is dry the entire session, but you don’t dare drink any water in fear that rehydration will trigger your tears. It’s stupid but keeps you holding on.
When you check your answers and review terminology, you refer to the set of flashcards Seungmin made for you. He didn’t expect you to use them, but his drawings have helped you better memorize the definitions. You shuffle through them, occasionally trying to figure out the relationship between whatever Seungmin drew and the word written. Other times—but not enough for your liking—you know exactly what they mean.
The rabbit from “absolute threshold” stares at you with lopsided eyes, and Mendel’s warped pea plants grow beneath your fingers. The whole world blurs.
A month after move-in, after too many beers and barbeque chips, you asked Seungmin, “Why do you haunt only me? You can travel through the whole building, but you’re only ever here.”
He gestures at the room with a sweeping flourish. “This used to be my apartment. Sort of. They changed the floor plan, but this is the approximate location of where I lived, so when you moved in, it felt like fate.”
“Ah, a med school sufferer to keep you company.”
He laughs, but it sounds insincere. “How drunk are you right now?”
You glance at the row of empty cans you lined up on the counter. One, two, three, four, five. Five and a half, if you count the one in your hand. “Pretty drunk, I think.”
“So you won’t remember what I tell you, right?”
“Probably not,” you lie. “What is it?”
With a sad smile on his face, he says, “I haunt you because it’s like seeing someone live the life I could’ve had. Would’ve had.”
Your outburst doesn’t go forgotten, but you and Seungmin dance around the topic with the grace of a seasoned ballerina. You show him your grocery hauls, he scolds you for buying expensive cookies. The two of you play Overcooked instead of Mario Kart and pretend that Overcooked will strengthen your friendship instead destroy it even further. Seungmin is really bad, embarrassingly so.
“Are you going to the party this weekend?” he asks as he drops onions all over the floor. There’s no health department in the game.
“I would ask you to be more specific,” you say, “but we both know I’m not going to any parties. Go chop the onions.”
“You need friends.”
“I have friends. Who do you think keeps us giving us potatoes?”
He scoffs. “That’s not a friend. That’s an enemy. We need more dishes.”
While you wash a stack of dirty dishes, Seungmin dashes between prepping ingredients and watching the timer on the soups. As expected, he doesn’t take the pot off the stovetop quick enough, and soon enough the whole kitchen is in flames. You scream at him to get the fire extinguisher, he wades through the sea of onions, and the level ends with a single gold star.
You set your joycon down and lean your head back. “Three stars or nothing” is your motto when playing Overcooked, but perhaps you can make an exception for Seungmin.
“Why’d you ask me about a party?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Seems like a college student thing to ask. And a college student thing to do. Go to parties, I mean.”
“Not for us.” You stretch your arms and legs out, knocking your socked feet against the coffee table. “When have you ever seen me willingly leave the apartment?”
“Never,” he admits, “but you should enjoy your youth.”
Whatever mutual agreement you thought you and Seungmin had does not exist. You have long known that you would have to sacrifice your twenties for your future. There would be good moments among your struggles, but so many of your memories would be of test prep and studying. As your parents so eloquently put it, “You can draw after you retire.”
“That’s funny coming from you,” you say. You wave a hand in front of his face and observe the way his eyebrows scrunch together. “Are you really Seungmin?”
“Do you know any other ghosts?”
“Do you actually regret dedicating so much time to studying?”
“No. I mean, I went out when I could, but you…” He mindlessly thumbs the buttons of the controller as he tries to find his words. “Well, maybe I do a little bit, but it was fulfilling. Or was going to be anyway. You’re miserable. I’ve never seen you without dark circles or eye bags.”
How needlessly observant of him. “Thanks. It’s the quintessential college look.”
“Take care of yourself.” He raises his joycon and nods at the TV. “Let’s go again. Three stars only.”
And just like that, you and Seungmin go back to pretending as if everything is fine, like the last few minutes were idle chatter about the weather. You yell instructions at him, and he retorts back with something snarky; all is well.
You suppose you should have realized why Seungmin asked you such out-of-character questions two weeks ago. Death anniversaries don’t typically go onto your calendar, but you could have made an exception for Seungmin. How did you forget? As you walk down the stairs, a wave of guilt washes over you.
The annual university-held vigil occurs on campus, but the apartment complex has their own small affair in the courtyard. Framed photos of the victims huddle together at the base of a half-wall. Already, there are several flowers and notes strewn about, and you add your own carnation to the pile. You have a note as well, and it burns your hand as you debate whether to leave it or not.
Twelve people died that night. “Only” twelve, as some papers reiterated. Twelve out of three hundred doesn’t seem too horrific given the state of the fire, but that’s still twelve people dead. Plenty more got injured trying to escape, and they aren’t honored at this memorial. The living don’t get commemorated—they live with the memories of the day, and that’s remembrance enough for the public.
“Hey.”
No one else is around, so you say, “Hey,” back to Seungmin. He disappeared for a few hours, and you assumed he would be gone until sunrise. In the days leading up to his death anniversary, he has grown increasingly depressed, looking vacantly out the window and mouthing words to himself. You idiotically thought he was just having one of those days.
“How are you holding up?” you ask.
“Fine, I guess. Good turn out this year,” he remarks as he kneels down to pick through the gifts. “The construction workers didn’t even show up to work because of superstition or something.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know, it’s just…” You wave the folded notebook paper in your hand. Maybe you should’ve bought some stationery after all. “Read this later. I’ll see you whenever.”
You gently place it beside your carnation, return back to your apartment, and lock yourself inside your room. It’s too quiet, and you’re too restless. Your head tells you to do practice problems to burn off your energy, but all you’ve been doing as of late is listen to your head.
As you sketch an anatomical heart—underneath a completely necessary and painstakingly accurate rendering of a male torso—your bones say that this is right.
To Kim Seungmin, a star that went out too soon—
You deserved so much more than this. I don’t even know what else to say because nothing feels more appropriate.
I’m living in your old apartment—where it used to be, at least—and I can’t help but feel that I’m living the life you should have had. Sometimes I can feel your presence when I’m studying. I can hear you reciting definitions and shuffling flashcards. When I’m really losing my mind, I can see you sitting on the couch watching House episodes with me. It’s comforting and terrifying.
You already know this, but I don’t want to go to med school. I hate it and I hate being a disappointment to my parents, but I hate being a disappointment to you the most. You should be in my place, so I thought I should try and complete your dream for you at the very least. I’m already miserable, so I should make the most of it. For a while, I thought this would make you happy, but it’s been making you sad and worried recently. I thought if I could make you happy, then it would be worth it, but I’m realizing it’s not, but I’m too scared to leave this path. Sometimes I don’t know who I am without med school looming over me, and it
I wish we would’ve met earlier. You’re an amazing person, full of light and kindness. The world is darker without you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I’ve done and for everything that I didn’t do because you deserve so much better than whatever you’ve been given.
“Do you want to talk?”
Seungmin’s upside down face appears between you and the iPad you have been holding up with both arms. Philosophy review is simultaneously boring and maddening, but you have a final to be studying for. You should’ve started much earlier, but twenty-four hours of cramming has not failed you when it comes to general education elective courses yet.
“Not really,” you say as you push his face out of view. He’s corporeal at the moment, so your hand meets resistance rather than going right through. “I’m busy.”
“Did you apply for a ‘biomedical visualization’ program? That’s a medical illustrator thing, right?”
You don’t need to look at him to know he’s thrilled. Since the memorial, you began looking into medical illustrators as a backup plan. You only meant to learn about the basic requirements, but curiosity got the better of you, and you attended an online informational session. Seungmin overheard bits and pieces because of how thin the walls are, you got cagey when he asked, and he put his endless hours of free time into detective work.
“I didn’t apply. I’m just looking around. Now go away.”
“The living room is a communal space. So you’re considering it then?”
You don’t respond and bring your iPad closer to your eyes. To read the tiny notes on the margins of your classmate’s notes, of course.
Seungmin cackles and claps his hands. “You are! This is good! Why are you so morose?”
“Because you interrupted my studying? I have less than ten hours to cover three months of content.”
“You’re deflecting. Are you worried about your parents?”
“Morose and deflecting,” you murmur. “Two gold stars for your vocabulary usage.”
“Are you?”
You shut your eyes, envisioning the stern faces of your parents when you announce over dinner your plans to spend your life not being a doctor. Their expressions morph from confusion to anger to grim when they realize how serious you are.
Are you serious about this? You’re not even sure yourself. It feels like you’re in high school again, holding onto a shred of hope for a future you aren’t allowed to have.
“What if I lie to them?” you say. “I tell them I got into a school that’s super far away, go there, and return when I’ve firmly established myself as an illustrator or whatever I end up doing. It’ll be too late for them to do anything.”
“That’s one way to do it. But wouldn’t it be better if you were upfront?”
You groan and turn back to your classmate’s notes. What is it like, you wonder, to not be crushed by the weight of approval? What is it like to know you won’t be scorned for your choices? No matter what you do, someone—your parents or Seungmin—will be upset.
“Upset” is a very mild way to describe your parents’ reactions. After six cans of celebratory beer—you passed all of your classes this semester!—you called your parents to tell them good news. Somewhere between the silent congratulations and questions of your home arrival, you blurted out, “I think I’m gonna do biomedical visualization. Medical illustration. Art. It’s still medical-related, but not a doctor.”
And after a lengthy discussion filled with shouting, you’re not allowed to come home this year or ever again. CALL ENDED flashes on your screen, but you grip your phone so tightly you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips. Your whole body is tense, flushed with indignation and shame. No tears come. You expected something like this but nothing to this extreme. Their words echo in your ears.
Ungrateful. Selfish. Disgrace.
Logically, you know you’re none of those things, but you can’t help but feel they’re at least a little bit right. You sink into your desk chair and wait for the inevitable knock on your door. To step out of your own accord would be mortifying.
“Are you okay?” asks Seungmin.
“I’ve been disowned in every way except legally,” you answer as you let him inside your room. “What do you think?”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s…”
It’s not fine, but your mouth started saying so by default. You perch on the edge of your bed and stare at the stack of practice books that have been untouched for two days on your dresser. They would belong better under your bed where they’ll be out of sight.
Suddenly insecure, you ask, “You’re not gonna leave me, right? You’ll still help me peel potatoes and let me know when my artisan cookies are on sale?”
He chuckles. “The only way you can get away from me is by moving or by graduating. I’ll be here. Instead of nagging you to study, I’ll critique your anatomy.”
“That’s against the rules.” Nevertheless, you smile at the thought of Seungmin hyperfixed at your artistic renderings and comparing them against pictures from a textbook. “Thanks.”
Seungmin smiles back, and he radiates so much warmth that you forget it’s winter.
EPILOGUE
“Honey, I’m home,” you call.
You nearly trip over the door sill in your heels but catch yourself in time. Wearing heels to commencement is a bad idea for more reasons than one. Clutching your friend’s graduation bouquet, you flip on the light switch with the back of your hand and glance over your apartment. Other than the dozens of boxes scattered across the living room and kitchen, nothing else belongs to you; goodbye coffee table you stubbed your toes against too many times; goodbye peeling school-issued couch. You half-expected to see Seungmin lying on it, staring at the ceiling like he used to.
“Seungmin, where are you?” When he doesn’t answer, you try again. “Anyone home?”
You wander around the small apartment, checking behind doors and furniture like you’re playing hide-and-seek. He’s nowhere to be found, and you go through the apartment again in a frenzy. He could be in a different part of the building, but he always knows when you’re looking for him.
“Where are you? Seungmin, this isn’t funny! I know you can hear me.”
It takes twenty minutes, but you eventually realize he’s gone for good. No goodbyes, no hugs, no teasing—he just waved you off to your ceremony and shut the front door. You knew he wouldn’t be able to help you move out, but you thought he would still be here when you returned. He researched additional art classes for you, suggested works for your portfolio, and consoled you whenever you were overwhelmed. It’s a knife to your heart that he’s not here.
In between tears that you don’t allow to fall from your eyes, you carry your boxes of belongings to your car. You have a new place to call home, but two perfectly nice housemates and a dog aren’t good replacements for a ghost who annoyed you from sunrise to sundown.
I hope you find this note eventually. I know we have the rule where I’m not supposed to go through your belongings, but since we’re not going to be roommates any longer, I hope you’re not too mad. Completely unrelated but you’re really good at Mario Kart. So good. Birdo was designed specifically for you.
Congratulations on graduating. You’ve worked hard this year. Could have worked harder sometimes but you did it! Relax a bit during your gap year and enjoy your youth. Those art classes will be easy for you. Biomed visualization will be easy after pre-med studies.
Stop rolling your eyes and sighing. You know I’m right.
I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. I know you wanted it, but I don’t think I could have handled it. The truth is that I was ready to go a couple months ago when you started compiling your portfolio. For two years, I didn’t know why I was still here. At first, I thought my unfinished business was about the circumstances of my death. (Stop wincing. I’m dead. It’s a fact.) Then the administration stepped up. They did the bare minimum, to be honest, but at least changes were made. When you turned up, I thought I was supposed to fulfill my dream of going to med school. Turns out, I still have no idea what exactly why I was here, but seeing you live the life you want and choose the future you want makes me feel like business is finished.
To L/N Y/N, a star that will keep shining for decades to come—
I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done so far. There are so many opportunities waiting out there for you, so don’t be afraid to take any chances. I’ll be with you always.
Synopsis: Although you enjoy dancing during your outings to 44th House, you are far more interested in one of the bartenders working there. Your siblings will never let you live it down, but their teasing is a small price to pay if you can spend time with Chan. 1920s/Prohibition AU.
Warning: alcohol
Word Count: 3.5k
Pairing: f!reader x bartender!Bang Chan
Other Notable Characters: Yeji and Hyunjin as your siblings
Prohibition was meant to be a boon for the country, but it has been more of a nuisance than anything. Father has the doctor coming to the house nearly every week to write him prescriptions of whiskey, and Mother awaits new shipments of grape bricks from California to turn into wine. Lest one think that only your parents defying the law, your brother knows runners for rum, and you and your sister have successfully made moonshine multiple times.
Really, if you think about it, it’s the government’s fault for foolishly believing they could force temperance onto its citizens. Prohibition. What a seductive word. It practically encouraged misconduct.
As you step out of the car, the autumn chill sending shivers down your spine, a familiar thrill envelops you. Speakeasies are nothing new, and though this is your fifth time visiting 44th House, you feel as if lightning is coursing through your blood. Inside your beaded bag hides a sample of your latest moonshine batch. Yeji has secured her own silver flask to her garter for her to sip on throughout the night, but you intend to share your portion with someone special.
“I should have worn my cape,” Yeji says as she links her arm through yours. The beads of her dress clack against yours, and her fur stole tickles your bare arms. “You were smart.”
“You’ll dance and drink the cold away,” you assure her, eliciting a laugh from her. “Hyunjin, what’s taking you so long? Your hair’s fine.”
He gives his reflection one last check in Yeji’s compact mirror before handing it back to her. You were deliberate with your appearance tonight as well, yet you itch to tease him for his vanity. The temptation grows even stronger when he pauses his walk down the pavement to adjust his tie.
“The wind mussed everything up on the drive,” he complains.
“Should’ve taken the coupe like I suggested,” Yeji replies. She glances over at you, and a familiar mischievous expression crosses her face. “Unless you’re trying to impress someone with the Rolls Royce? Finally got a girl, have you?”
Before Hyunjin can retort, you archly add, “Who’s the lucky lady? Should we start planning the wedding, or will you break her heart like you did with the last one? She still calls the house, you know.”
“You’re both awful.”
While you and Yeji titter over your brother’s missteps in love, he knocks on the front door of the building. Above the golden “44TH STREET ANTIQUES,” the small window at eye level slides open. A set of dark brown eyes peer out, and a disembodied voice asks what they can assist you with. Changbin, you realize, which means that someone else is working the bar in his place, most likely Chan.
“I’m looking for a silver pocket watch engraved with the name ‘Paris Singer,’” Hyunjin says.
The door unlocks and swings open, revealing the interior of an antique shop. Mahogany dressers and wing chairs line the walls of the establishment, and silver tea sets sit behind locked cabinets. Though the items themselves are pristine, the faint smell of dust hints at the amount of history the shop holds. Whatever many secrets these pieces hold, the only secret you wish to uncover is hidden behind a silk screen printed with birds: the staircase leading to where the true 44th House is. With only flickering light fixtures for guidance, you descend.
“Excited to see your beau, Miss Railroad Heiress?” Hyunjin says. The jazz music grows increasingly loud as you near the basement. “You think he’ll give me the good gin if I ask him nicely this time?”
How Chan managed to pick you out amongst the crowd is still a mystery to you, especially since you were nowhere near Hyunjin and Yeji at the time. The Hwang sibling trio is instantly recognizable together but separate? Just ordinary, albeit beautiful, faces.
“He’s not my beau.” Yet. “And how do you even know about that name?”
Yeji hops down the last step with grace, landing onto the stone floor with a satisfying clack. “Because we’re not deaf, Miss Railroad Heiress. Now come back with something good for us, please and thank you.”
She smiles innocently at your exasperation, takes your arm, and guides you to the final door. When Hyunjin pushes it open, the whole world erupts with jazz and laughter, bringing an instant grin to your face. Men in pastel striped shirts and women in gold embroidered dresses swing and sway together, arms and legs snapping back and forth. The live band and flapper girls on stage encourage onlookers to join the rest of the party.
As expected, Yeji and Hyunjin forget about teasing you in favor of the dance floor. Meanwhile, you stick to the sides, weaving between the tables to make your way to the bar. A tipsy woman runs her hand through your fur cape and compliments you, and another woman trills with glee when she notices the number of beads you have on your person.
A man drinking with his friends calls, “Find me for a dance later!”
“Oh, I will!” you shout back. You blow him a kiss, to the amusement of the table, before disappearing into the crowds once more.
Even from a distance, you spy Chan chatting up a patron as he pours him a drink. Minho is on the other end of the bar, showing off his skills with a tin shaker. Neither of them have a jacket on, only a black vest, so they must be exceptionally busy. Saturday evenings always are. Well, that has never stopped you from flirting with Chan before. You’d rather dance with him rather than a stranger, but a dance is a dance, no matter who it’s with.
After Chan finishes someone else’s cocktail, you take their place, prop your arms on the wooden counter, and flash him a coy smile. “Hey, bartender. Can I get two bee’s knees and two of something made with this?”
You pull out your flask of moonshine and slide it across the bar. Your initials are monogrammed on the front in curling letters, and your heart jumps when he brushes his thumb over the grooves. “You can give it a try if you like. Made it myself.”
“Did you really, Miss Railroad Heiress? You didn’t strike me as the sort to mess with a distiller,” he remarks. Nevertheless, he unscrews the top and takes a sip. “Not half bad. Be better in a ward eight though. Two, you said?”
“Yes. One of them’s for you.”
His arm hangs in mid-air, the bottle of lemon juice forgotten. “For me? How come?”
“I brought my moonshine because I wanted you to have a taste, so why not? Besides, you just said it would taste better in a ward eight. Let’s put it to the test.”
He laughs and starts again. You watch him pour and mix with fascination, and a childish delight washes over you when he drops two maraschino cherries into one of the glasses. You’ve asked for at least one cherry in every one of your cocktails at the 44th House. Changbin rarely obliges if the recipe book doesn’t call for it, but Chan never forgets.
He hands you back your flask and taps his glass against yours. “Here’s to you, Miss Moonshine.”
The drink is perfect—sweet with a hint of lemon. You pluck out a cherry floating at the top, pull off the stem, and thoughtfully chew on the fruit. “Is that my new name?”
“There are two Miss Railroad Heiresses running around, after all. I need some way to tell them apart.”
You don’t have the heart to tell him that Yeji also knows her way around a distiller. But as far as you know, Chan has never spoken to Yeji before and likely never will since she sends you to the bar in her stead, so your skin tingles with fire as you hear the words “Miss Moonshine” roll off his tongue. It’s just as alluring as “prohibition.” Maybe it’s the whiskey talking.
(It’s definitely not.)
“Let me get your other drinks,” he says. Then he leans in conspiratorially close, his eyes glimmering under the honey-colored lights. “Stay until closing? I’ll do my best to sneak a dance with you.”
Before you can reply, a man in a herringbone suit saunters up to the counter and asks for a Chicago fizz. He glances over at you with practiced nonchalance, and you realize that it’s the same person who you blew a kiss to. He’s quite handsome up close, even if his airs are rehearsed.
“Hello again,” he greets. His smile is dangerous, reminiscent of a serpentine path you drove on once in the countryside. “Are you free, by any chance? If I remember right, you promised me a dance.”
Chan has reverted to being a bartender, measuring syrup with a careful eye while eavesdropping on the conversation occurring in front of him. You’re a flirt but only with Chan; he has nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, he can’t read minds, so he sets down two bee’s knees in question: Will you stay until closing?
You consider pretending that the music is loud enough to drown out the stranger’s voice, but he seems to be the persistent sort. Reluctantly, you pop the remaining cherry in your mouth and tug the stem out from between your teeth. “What was your name again?”
“Seungmin.”
“One dance,” you agree. “But before and after that, I’m busy until the night ends. Thank you again, Mister Bartender.”
Chan relaxes and nods in acknowledgement. While Seungmin waits for his Chicago fizz, you take the drinks and roam around the speakeasy, looking for Yeji and Hyunjin. The room has grown more crowded, and a thin layer of perspiration graces your back. You press one of the sweating glasses to your cheek as you scan the groups that have formed. Yeji was the smart one, not you.
You eventually find Hyunjin surrounded by a gaggle of women. His hair and button-down are more disheveled than they were after the drive, yet he doesn’t seem to care a whit now that he has admirers. He may deny it, but he thrives off of attention.
“Whose heart are you breaking tonight?” you ask as you slink up to the table. With two out of the trio present, a few of the more timid ladies make way for you. “Should I prepare apology flowers in the morning? And where’s Yeji?”
To his credit, he doesn’t blush at your comments. He’s more enamored by the cocktails in your hand. “Somewhere. What are these?”
“Gin. I still have some of my whiskey, if you want. We’re staying until they close tonight, by the way.”
After being subjected to tasting your previous moonshine experiments, he no longer enjoys whiskey, so he accepts the gin. “Sure. Did your friend make this?”
A wave of giggles courses through Hyunjin’s flock, and an image of your name in the society papers appears behind your eyelids. If you are to land in the papers again, it will be of your own volition, not Hyunjin’s mouth. “Any one who can make a good drink is a friend of mine. I’ll call the florist later.”
Before he can retaliate, you scurry off to find Yeji who is “somewhere.” After mistaking a woman with a similar stole for her and dodging a gallery of swinging limbs, you spy her in the middle of the floor, doing the Charleston while spectators observe her. With a blood orange drink in hand, Seungmin is among them, watching Yeji with curiosity. When she finally spots you, she dances her way over to you, onlookers cheering her on, and snatches the refreshment from your hand.
“Send Chan my thanks,” she says in between breaths. She leans against your shoulder and tries to pass off her stole to you. “Please? You’re not doing anything.”
As if he can sense your exasperation, Seungmin emerges from the sea of people and extends his arm out to you. “How about it?”
You shoot your sister a pointed look. “I’d love to.”
You’re not as nimble as Yeji or as limber as Hyunjin—few people are—but your footwork is on par with theirs after years of practicing with them, and your passion makes up for the rest of your lacking skills. Seungmin is a decent partner, in spite of his attempts to chat with you throughout.
“You sure you’re not free later?” he asks after the song ends. Flushed with exertion, he loosens his tie. “Not even for a drink? I’ll buy.”
“I can buy my own, thank you.”
You say your goodbyes to Seungmin and collapse against Yeji, who has sweet-talked a departing party into giving up their table for her. As she helps you shrug off your cape, you open your bag for your flask. The whiskey pleasantly stings as it goes down.
“Have you given up on Chan already? Your new guy is a looker, but I like Chan more.”
You explain to her the details of your arrangement, fully anticipating her to tease you throughout. And she does. The wedding invitations will read “Miss Railroad Heiress and Mister Bartender,” and the wedding itself will take place at 44th House in honor of your first meeting. As she continues, you shut your eyes and do your best to concentrate on the surrounding conversations. You don’t care about the latest stove innovation, but it’s far less maddening than Yeji.
In the midst of it all, having missed the company of his sisters, Hyunjin joins the table. No one trails after him, no one comes up to drag him away, which would have been favorable. What a disappointment; no hearts will be broken tonight. Worst of all, he, too, gives you grief for being enamored by Chan.
“Should I let you drive the car home, so you can impress him?” he says, earning a sigh from you. “Now that I think about it, you did insist on taking the convertible.”
“And you took an awful long time fixing your hair before we left!” adds Yeji. “Really, you and Hyunjin are more alike than you think.”
“Hey!”
How else will you pass the time if not for your bothersome brother and sister? You let Hyunjin argue for you and permit your eyes to wander to where Chan is still working. Dozens of patrons surround the bar, so you can only catch glimpses of him through the gaps between heads. You doubt he saw it, but what did he think of you and Seungmin? While some people get easily jealous, others recognize that sometimes fun is fun, no ulterior motives.
After enduring another five minutes of Hyunjin and Yeji’s bickering, you decide it’s time for a change of scenery.
“What do you want to drink?”
“Mojito, extra lime. Make sure he knows about the Rolls Royce.”
“And don’t forget to tell him the wedding date. Jack Rose for me.”
The crowd hasn’t thinned out in the short time it took for you to arrive, so you patiently wait by studying Chan’s bartending skills. How long has he done this for? From handling a large bottle of vodka to garnishing drinks with mint leaves, all of his motions are deft. During the fifth cocktail, he notices your presence out of the corner of his eye and begins adding flairs to his process—a little twirl of the stick, an extra tall pour. When it’s finally your turn, he leans against the counter and meets you halfway. His eyes flicker with golden light.
“I can’t wait any longer,” he says before you can get out a word. “Miss Moonshine, can I be the next to dance the Charleston with you? I promise I’m a better dancer than the last guy.”
Astonished, you blurt out, “You saw it!”
“Of course I did.” Almost sheepishly, he adds, “You’re all I see.”
Your skin prickles as if you’re standing outside in the cold, but your cheeks are aflame. “The speakeasy doesn’t need you?”
“Minho’s got it handled. Come on now.”
You highly doubt Minho can man the bar by himself, but you nonetheless take Chan’s hand and lead him to the center of the building. You hear Yeji’s giggles and Hyunjin’s smug remarks as you pass by, but your annoyance is soon drowned out by the merriment of the other patrons. Soles slap against the floor in quick succession, and you nearly lose an eye to a flying string of pearls.
Chan places his other hand on your arm. “You’re pretty good, but do you think you can keep up with me?”
His teasing rouses you further, so you put more energy into your steps. A little more bounce and a little more snap, just as he did when he was mixing drinks. The people surrounding you slowly inch away when you grow more excited, and you gladly use all of the space around.
“Show-off,” Chan laughs when you momentarily let go of his hands to perform a series of kicks.
You finish with a flourish and playfully bow when he starts clapping. “It’s what I do best. How long do I have you for?”
“Not that long,” he admits, taking your hands again, “but come back tomorrow? I’m off then, so you’ll have me all to yourself.”
He winks, leaving you in a stupor as he guides you back to Yeji and Hyunjin. This is not how it’s supposed to be; you’re the one who does the flustering around here. You’re certain you have a silly smile on your face because as soon as he leaves, Yeji pounces for answers.
“What happened?” she questions. “Did he kiss you?”
“More like she kissed him,” Hyunjin drawls as he snaps his fingers in front of your eyes. “Have you died or what?”
You push his hand away, glaring at him when he pretends to have been injured. “No one kissed anyone. Just a dance. Geez, it’s like you two are trying to get me in trouble. Let’s go before someone actually hears you.”
Hyunjin grabs your cape for you, not in a gesture of kindness, but so he can toss it at you and laugh as you struggle to catch it. “You could’ve at least gotten us our drinks before you decided he wasn’t worth it. Where are we heading now? Bellamy’s?”
“I’d rather go home,” you answer.
Yeji links one arm through yours and the other through her brother’s, effectively creating a human fence that others have to walk around. “So you can sleep and dream of him?”
“One day,” you declare, “you’ll get a crush, and I will never let you breathe again without mentioning their name. Hyunjin will join in, and you’ll get a taste of your own medicine.”
As expected, the drive home is riddled with poor jokes and pointless retellings of the night. It is the same when you head back to 44th House the following night. You’d rather Yeji and Hyunjin not be in the establishment at all, but reassurance is always welcome, even if it does come with a side dish of pestering.
Minho is the gatekeeper this time, and he regards you with some contempt for last night’s endeavor. Your half-hearted apology is responded with a grunt and a reluctant opening of the door.
You inhale the scent of the antique store, run a finger across the back of a velvet chair for luck. Your whole body hums with energy as you descend, and the trumpet horns on the other side of the walls only increase the tension. Why are you nervous? You have no reason to be.
At the bottom of the steps, you say with gravity, “Both of you, stay away from me tonight.”
Then you run into the crowd before they can follow. As the uproar rings in your ears, you scan the interior as you cut across the room, wincing when the overzealous tuba player blasts a note in your direction. Someone spills part of their drink onto the tops of your heels, and though you feel the liquid seeping between your toes, your main concern is finding Chan. You pause whenever you see a man in a black vest. Would he wear a similar outfit to his uniform on his night off? Likely, no, but you have no other basis for his attire.
“You’re here! Finally.”
You turn around to see Chan that has found you first. His grin shines like a crescent moon against his dark pinstriped suit, but there is nothing sinister about his expression.
“How do you do it?” you ask, slipping your arm through his. His face colors with a faint shade of pink. “You always seem to know where I am.”
“To be honest, I’ve been watching the door all night. Should we get something to drink first?”
As it turns out, you are correct to tell your siblings to stay far away from you because after sharing some potent moonshine, you kiss Chan by the bar. Everyone in the vicinity witnesses it, so you’re bound to end up in the papers tomorrow, but you don’t care. It’s Yeji and Hyunjin’s fault for putting the thought into your head. Most importantly though, this is the happiest you’ve been.
This is very random but I remember reading your fic way back in 2020 and it gave me so many emotional turns that I ended up speaking to a friend that just barely scraped the surface of getting into kpop about it and then getting her to read it because I couldn't bare to handle it myself.
Your fic literally changed my life because I still think about it sometimes up to this day so idk if you ever do feel a bit down when it comes to engagement of your fics (since I know that can affect lots of writers, but if it doesn't than ignore this hehe), but you're writing is amazing and very much appreciated and your fic holds a special place in my heart, and now, my friend's heart too even though she didn't become a full stan-
It made me beam with joy when I realised you were still active in writing and I hope you continue (if that's what you'd like to do of course) <3
Thank you for your message! I think I write because the stories give me too many emotions too, and I get the need to make others feel them with me. I am really happy to hear that I have succeeded.
Unfortunately, my writing days on this blog (and probably for Stray Kids in general) are over. Not because of anything in particular though, but my writing juices just come and go. Ad.grey will still be active here, so hopefully you were referring to her fics too (but you're only getting my response, sorry hehe)!
Again, thank you and everyone who read my writing. It really means a lot to me to be able to share a bit of my thoughts!
Synopsis: Jisung has writer’s block and seeks a cure for it from the village witch.
Warning: none
Word Count: 2.5k
Pairing: gn!reader x Han Jisung
He normally hates wasting ink and paper, but he would rather toss away crumpled paper balls than stare at the blank sheet in front of him. The view from his writing desk is beautiful—a cerulean sky dappled with clouds, sprawling green fields that come alive with the wind. Red-roofed houses cluster at the bottom of the hill, and smoke wisps from the chimneys as lunch time approaches. As he closes his eyes and breathes in the crisp, country air, he can almost taste the grilled beef being prepared in the kitchens of the village.
Yes, this is good.
His hands hover over the typewriter keys, poised to craft the story brewing inside him. His fingers twitch in anticipation. They hang in the air for several minutes while Jisung tries to gather his thoughts, which slip through his mind like fish. At the end of it all, he has nothing.
This retreat is not working.
He sinks into his wooden chair, balancing on the back two legs, as he studies the ceiling. Six months is not enough time for a completed manuscript. He has already spent a month wasting away in this little cottage, reassuring himself that inspiration would arrive at his doorstep like deliveries of milk. Five months is too short, but that’s all has left if he still wants to publish with the prestigious Ginseng Press. He supposes three years after his successful debut is too long for his sophomore novel. He’ll be dropped soon if he doesn’t churn out something.
The old clock on the wall ticks. A bird sings an afternoon ditty. The breeze rustles the blank sheet of paper stuck into his typewriter.
He sighs. He really didn’t want to do it, but he has no choice now.
It’s time to visit the village witch.
Your ivy-shrouded stone house is visible from Jisung’s rental cottage. He has never gone to your home before, only having made polite conversation with you at the market stall in the village. If the villagers hadn’t pointed you out during the first meeting, he would have never guessed you were the witch, though it makes perfect sense. His city’s council of witches are old and experienced; for a small population like this, a single young, green witch is sufficient.
He follows the worn dirt path to your property. The weathered signs posted along the road confirm that yes, your residence is this way. He can’t tell if his heart is beating with excitement or with worry. Although the village has nothing but good things to say about you, how you’ll treat an outsider is unknown. You seem kind enough, if a little curt. A bead of sweat forms on his brow. Hopefully that is because of the high sun.
In the many moments when he is supposed to be writing, he often sees you tending to your garden on the terraced hillside. He scans the large variety of colorful plants, hoping to see your signature brimmed straw hat peeking out above the leaves. You aren’t here now. Wooden stairs and pathways snake around the hill in a haphazard fashion, and he slowly climbs them. How you organized the garden is a mystery to him. The lack of a central stairway from the bottom of the hill to your doorstep is even more baffling.
Nonetheless, he finds himself standing in front of your cherry red door. A large brass knocker in the shape of bumblebee ornaments the large piece of wood, daring him to announce his presence. After a moment, he does. He hears the click of a lock on the other side, and to his surprise, just the top half of the door swings opens.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Hello,” he says after he’s recovered from his initial shock. You don’t look displeased to see him, but you aren’t ecstatic either. “I’m Jisung, the writer who’s been staying here. We’ve met a few times already and—”
A peach-colored cat leaps onto the ledge dividing the two sections of the door, breaking all of the momentum he had. The cat surveys Jisung for a moment before turning her attention to the butterflies by the bushes. You absentmindedly stroke the cat’s tail. “Don’t mind Apricot. What were you saying?”
“I have writer’s block,” he blurts out.
“And how is that my problem?”
His mouth falls open. You aren’t green at all—you’re jaded. You lazily flick away the fly buzzing around and slide your bored eyes back to him, waiting for him to retort a reply. Even Apricot glances at Jisung to see what he’ll do.
He stutters an incoherent mess of words before landing on, “Isn’t this your job?”
“I deal with municipal issues and illnesses. Your lack of creativity, responsibility, or motivation isn’t something I can fix with a spell. Is there perhaps an underlying cause of your writer’s block that I can remedy?”
You say this all very matter-of-factly, so much so that Jisung feels mortified for visiting you under such trivial circumstances. Barely audible over the heavy silence, he says, “I… I guess not. Thank you for your time.”
However, before he can turn around and speed back to the cottage, you ask, “Would you like to join me for lunch? I made a cheesecake.”
Minutes later, he’s sitting on yet another wooden chair, only this one has a gingham seat cover. You’re busy at the stove, frying something that smells absolutely delicious. The oil in the pan crackles delightfully as you add in more beef, and Jisung’s stomach rumbles. He has been surviving on fried eggs and toast for the past week. When he first came, he made himself actual meals, but his desire to do so dwindled soon after. What was the point of spending all of that time preparing and cooking and cleaning when he could have been writing? Or, trying to write. The thought of having to work on his manuscript makes him feel heavy.
He looks around your house, searching for inspiration. Sage green curtains tied with fraying ribbons. Old books stacked on top of the coffee table. Pressed flowers framed to the faded walls. Everything is so inviting, so warm—it’s exactly what he envisions fairy tale witches would live in. He imagines you sitting cross-legged on the crochet rug at night, checking off items from your agenda with an inky pen as you scratch behind Apricot’s ears. The glow of the tulip-shaped lamp would burnish her fur golden.
As if on cue, Apricot saunters into the kitchen. She blinks at Jisung, almost surprised that he’s still here, and then curls up at his feet. When he reaches down to pet her, she lets him.
“Ready,” you announce, making him snap back up. You set down a dish of stir-fried udon on his placemat and turn to the antique-looking refrigerator in the corner. “Let me pour you some lemonade.”
The lemonade is light purple. Dark blue ice cubes float at the top, and when the color leaches into the rest of the drink, it dyes the lemonade a darker shade of purple. It’s magical.
“People always think so,” you remark, a smile building on your lips, “but it’s just the tea. Butterfly pea flower, if you’re interested.”
There’s a subtle earthiness to the flavor, and it’s refreshing when paired with the udon. He tries to mind his manners and eat at a normal pace, but his hunger wins out. The food is divine, and he wonders what you added to make it so phenomenal. He suspects that much like the drink, there is no magic involved. Throughout the meal, you place more beef into his dish, observing him with a placid expression. Do you find him pitiful? A nuisance?
“Thank you,” he finally says when he’s able to find his voice again. “This is wonderful.”
“Of course.” When you take his dish to the sink along with yours, you gesture for him to sit back down. As you turn on the faucet, you ask, “How are you finding our village? You’ve been here for a month, correct?”
Jisung only means to talk about how much he’s enjoyed his stay thus far—the beautiful scenery, the kind villagers, the tranquility—but his writing progress inevitably comes up. It always does. He lives in words, creates whole people and worlds with them. Years ago, the words used to come easily to him, he confesses. He could look at a mundane object and a story would materialize in minutes. Prose would spill out of him so quickly, he took to carrying a notebook with him at all times lest he forget his thoughts. He could type for hours, building and refining his work without needing to eat or sleep.
“I loved it,” breathes Jisung. “I loved it, but I don’t find myself loving it anymore. I want to write so desperately, but nothing comes to me. And when I do write, the words feel dead.”
“What’s changed?”
“My novel got published, but it may have been the worst thing to happen to me.” He tilts his head back and stares at the wood beams on your ceiling. “So many people loved the novel. I got letters about how happy reading it made them, how excited they are to read what I’m working on next, and I don’t know if I can do it again. What if I just got lucky? Or what if they don’t like the next one? Then I’m a failure.”
“So this pressure is the source of your writer’s block?”
He sighs and wishes he could see his breath rising from his mouth like smoke. “I guess. I suppose you don’t have any spells for that.”
“I don’t.”
“That’s alright.” He lolls his head forward and straightens up so that he can see you again. You have an unreadable expression as usual, which is a skill he assumes you have mastered over your years of working here. “I thought that might be the case.”
You reach for a knife from the wooden block on the counter. “Cheesecake?”
Your cheesecake is astounding. Even Apricot leaves her spot at Jisung’s feet to look at your marvelous creation. The strawberry sauce on top glistens in the afternoon light, and the filling looks smooth and creamy. When he lets out an involuntary gasp at his first taste, you smile and tell him that the strawberries are from your own garden, fresh from the summer harvest.
“Would you like more?”
He politely declines. Instead, he carves out small bites with his fork to prolong the experience. You cut a slice for yourself and hum approvingly at the sauce. Another silence follows as the two of you eat. When Jisung glances around your kitchen, his eyes land on the ivy vines dangling from the top of a cabinet, curling around the brass knob like it intends to open the door. The glass panes of the cabinet reveal that there are only plates inside, nothing desirable for a plant. Another ivy plant hanging from the ceiling reaches for the dishes in the drying rack.
“You really like ivy,” he remarks, nodding at the two plants. “I noticed that your house is covered with it, too.”
Amused, you reply, “The ones in my home are pothos plants, and the ‘ivy’ covering my house is morning glory. They haven’t bloomed yet.”
He blushes at his mistake and apologizes, which you wave off. The conversation devolves into silence again, and Jisung finishes his cheesecake shortly after.
“I can wash,” he says. Not ‘offers’ because you’ll sit him down again. “My thanks for the meal.”
“You’re my guest, there’s no need.”
“Please. It wouldn’t sit right with me.”
You eventually relent and watch him closely as he handles your porcelain plates. He didn’t notice it before, but there’s gilding on the edges and a wreath of flowers decorating the center. The sponge he uses is in the shape of a cat that looks similar to Apricot, and the dish soap is lavender-scented. You are indeed a fairy tale witch come to life.
A loud knock comes from the front door, and you reluctantly leave Jisung to attend to those matters. Apricot follows. As he places the plates onto the metal drying rack, he hears you fiddle with the locks before greeting your patron. It’s the same business-like tone you used with him, but it softens quickly. He peers into the living room, hiding himself behind the wooden archway. A child sits himself on the ledge of the half-opened door, and Apricot joins him up there. Her tail flicks back and forth as she eyes the odd angle of the boy’s arm. When he reaches out to pet her, she tucks herself under his other arm.
“Hold your breath,” you tell him as you wrap a bundle of leaves around the broken arm.
The vibrant color of the leaves slowly turn milky white, and your fingertips glow with green light. As you recite a spell, your voice as clear as river water, Jisung discovers that he’s holding his breath as well. He has had healing spells performed on him before, yet his heart beats in suspense as the bone shifts itself back into place with a crunch, as your magic binds and strengthens the sections.
“All better. Be more careful next time.” After the boy hops off the ledge, you turn around and say, “You can come out, Jisung.”
With flushed cheeks, he steps out from the archway. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t have, but that was truly amazing to see. I should get going anyway. Thank you again for lunch and the chat. It was… really nice.”
“Of course.” You motion Apricot to come down and unlock the bottom half of the door. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come by. It’s my job.”
“Thanks again.”
He doesn’t want to leave, or rather, he doesn’t want to return to his typewriter. The empty pages inspire nothing but dread. Nonetheless, he has to.
He’ll follow the winding pathway of your hillside garden down to the dusty path that leads away from your fairy tale home. Fish will swim in the rice paddies along the side of the road, and he’ll wish to plunge his hand into the water to catch one. The boy at your door will be in the distance, dragging a long stick in the dirt, whistling to the birds flying above. A rabbit will dash past him, and he’ll chase it while Jisung watches with contentment.
When Jisung walks through his simple white door, he’ll collapse onto his chair and stare at the void in front of him. He’ll think about his time with you and try to carve a story about the young witch of a small village in the countryside. He won’t cry. He’ll do his absolute best not to cry.
Before he can begin his journey back to his cottage, you place a gentle hand on his arm. “You came for a remedy, but will you accept some words of comfort?”
“I’ll take whatever words I can have.”
“The flowers of the morning glory only last for a day, but the vine itself produces countless flowers and keeps producing them. So remember this: you are the vine, not the flower. The morning will come, and you will bloom again.”
You scoff. “Why don’t you focus on surviving deployment instead.” You squint at the screen. “Speaking of which, are you in the middle of something? Why aren’t you in camp? I can see the sky behind you.”
“Uhhh… kind of? I guess you could call it a mission of some sort,” he smirks.
“Minho!” you scold. “Don’t call me if you’re about to be shot down!”
He laughs. “What are you imagining I’m doing? Anyway, I’m on a mission even more dangerous than that.”
Your eyes widen. “Lee Minho!”
“Aren’t you curious what it is?”
“You’d better tell me right now, or I’ll—”
You freeze when he suddenly flips his camera around and you see yourself on the screen.
You hear a voice behind you. “Mission: attend Y/N’s graduation.”
You turn around, and there he is, in his smart looking uniform, smiling at you.
Tears well up in your eyes, and you can’t help but punch him in the arm repeatedly. “You could have warned me!”
“I knew this would be more dangerous,” he chuckles to himself. He catches your fists and wraps them behind him.
You nestle yourself in his embrace. “I can’t believe you, you stupid!”
“Yes, yes. You’re the smart one, my littler graduate.” He smooths out your tassel. “I’m so proud of you.”
Seo Changbin
Ceremonies are more often than not boring, even if they are meant to celebrate you. For the millionth time that day, you question when the speaker is going to be done talking. The sun was beating down on you mercilessly, and your black, plasticy graduation gown was not doing you any favors.
Gradually, your head begins to roll to the side, and your eyelids grow heavy. You can’t fall asleep though; your whole family is watching!
You fight with yourself for what feels like an eternity—slowly dropping your head then snapping into consciousness over and over again. That is, until you feel a sharp kick to the back of your chair.
You whip around, wondering who had the audacity to kick you, and see Changbin holding something out at you. You take it and realize it is a piece of coffee candy. Instantly, your agitation melts into gratitude.
‘Thank you,’ you mouth to him, and he gives one of his cheeky smirks in reply.
Hwang Hyunjin
You slip away from all the graduation commotion the second you have the chance. When you realize you are finally free from taking yet another picture, you sigh a breath of relief and make your way to your favorite cafe for a much needed cup of coffee. It’s your favorite because 1) it’s close to your classes and 2) the americano does not taste like sewage water for once.
The bell rings as you open the door.
“Welcome to Yellow— Oh, hey, Y/N!”
“Hi, Hyunjin.” Oh yeah, and the barista is certified hawt stuff.
“Congrats.” He nods at your graduation regalia. “An americano?”
“Thanks, and yes please.”
“Coming right up,” he says with a smile that sends you to the moon.
While brewing your coffee, he turns to you. “So I guess I won’t be seeing you next semester?”
You shake your head. “I’m actually coming back for my masters.”
“Oh! Congratulations on that too!” He mixes the coffee with ice. “Still doing computer stuff?”
“Yep. You have good memory.” He remembers things about you!
“Only for certain things,” he mumbles, pouring your drink into a cup. “Your coffee.”
You thank him and reach for it, but he doesn’t let go. You look up to see what’s wrong and find him staring at you.
“So, um, I’ll see you after break?” he asks in a small voice.
“Yeah,” you promise. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Han Jisung
You’d always known your childhood best friend has a thing for you. Between all the side-glances and “accidentally” falling asleep on you, how could you not? Still, he blushes and denies it every time you bring up the topic, and you are growing impatient.
Today is one of those days that make you go, “Really?” Well, almost every day is one of those days, but since your college went back to being in person, they have been a little more sparse.
Today, though, Han Jisung has decided to drive six hours just to attend your graduation.
“You came!” you exclaim when you see him.
“Of course I did. You’re my best friend.”
You roll your eyes at his choice of terminology.
“So, uh,” he continues. “I didn’t get a chance to get a congratulatory gift, but is there anything you want?”
“Yeah. A kiss.”
Jisung sputters, “A-a kiss? From whom? Did you meet a guy in college? There’s no way he’s good enough for y—”
You silence him by throwing your stole over his head and pulling him to meet your lips. When you finally release him, he’s as red as a tomato.
“No, silly. From you.”
Lee Felix
You’ve done it. You’ve finally done it. At long last, after thinking you were going to die a million times, you’ve finally done it. It’s finally over. Finished. The end…
….of this gosh darn graduation ceremony!
Whose idea was it to put three hundred kids in all black caps and gowns under the sun to roast? Haven’t you been bored to death enough already these last four years in lecture?
No matter now; you’ve survived. You throw your cap up and watch it fly. It looks so free unlike your thighs from the synthetic material of your gown due to the amount you’ve sweated.
You close your eyes for a second, basking in the moment, before bending down to pick up your fallen regalia. As you do so, another hand reaches out, and your fingers brush against each other.
You look up and see the cutest arrangement of freckles you’ve ever seen. Suddenly, the sun doesn’t seem so bright in comparison.
“I think this one’s mine,” says the ray of sunshine. He points to a little chick he’d drawn inside his cap.
“O-oh, sorry,” you stammer.
He smiles. “No worries.”
As he walks away, you think he took your breath with him.
Kim Seungmin
You turn off the tap and gingerly place the beaker onto the drying rack. That’s it. That’s the very last beaker you will ever wash in your undergraduate career. You step back with your hands on your hips and let out a sigh as you take in your lab one last time.
Your attention gets drawn to the door as it opens and your manager walks in.
“Hi, Y/N,” Seungmin greets. “Last day?”
You feel your heartstrings get tugged. “Yeah. Thank you for everything.”
“No, thank you.” Seungmin walks over and gives you a pat on the shoulder. “You taught me a lot too.”
“Well, I guess this is it,” you hum nostalgically.
“I guess so,” he nods. “I’ll miss you. We all will.”
“I’ll miss you too.” You bow to him and start heading for the door. As soon as your fingertips graze the handle, he calls you.
“Y/N?”
“Yes, sir.” You turn your head back and see him staring intently at you.
“I… I liked you. As a woman.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The two of you just gape at each other for a moment until he turns away first, ears red.
“Sorry. I just thought I’d tell you at least once. Sorry.”
You face him entirely now. “No, don’t be. Thank you for telling me… Could I still email you sometimes? If I need advice during my PhD?”
He blinks, surprised by your reaction. “Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”
You smile, “I’ll talk to you soon then.”
Yang Jeongin
“How… are you… walking… this fast… in heels?” pants your boyfriend behind you.
You turn around at the top of the hill, sunset illuminating your backdrop. “Look! Remember this place?”
Despite his fatigue, Jeongin smiles and hurries to wrap you in his arms. “Of course I do. This is where it all started.
You hum in satisfaction. “I can’t believe it’s been four years already.”
“And here’s to four hundred more.”
You laugh and fumble for something in your graduation gown. “I got you something.”
“Flowers?” he says, taking the small bouquet of plastic.
“Bidens,” you clarified. “They were all over this hill when you first asked me out, but they don’t grow this time of year, so I had to get artificial ones.”
“I love them,” he smiles. “Thank you.”
“I can’t imagine the next few years apart,” you sigh.
“Actually.” He also fumbles around his gown. “I have a present for you too.”
You peer over his arms as he unfolds a piece of paper. Immediately, you recognize the school crest adorning the top of it.
Your eyes widen. “You… you…”
“I got off the waitlist,” he finishes for you. “We’re going to the same school.”
You shriek and jump into his arms. “I’m so proud of you!”
He laughs and spins you around. “I told you we’ll be together for another four hundred years.”
“Let’s make it four thousand.”
“Deal.”
A/N: Hello! This is ad.gold, and this is actually going to be my last story on this blog. I started this when I started college, and now I’m graduating. It’s been quite a journey, and I’m grateful to all of you who read any of my works over the past four years. Thank you for everything! Go (golden) bears!
Synopsis: Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, but you and everyone else at this party wears them on their cheeks. Thanks, Lia. Thanks, Felix. Thanks, Chan. College AU.
Warning: alcohol
Word Count: 2.4k
Pairing: fem!reader x Bang Chan
You suspect that Lia didn’t tell you the party theme because she knew that if you found out that there was any semblance of romance, you would have opted to stay home instead. She apologizes with her eyes while Cupid, also known as Felix, sticks a bright red heart on your cheek.
“Remember when I helped you study for the philosophy midterm?” you try to bargain with Felix. You didn’t even know he was in the same service fraternity as your roommate until tonight. His passionate discussion about altruism signaled that he was part of one, but having never heard of Chi Upsilon Rho (XYP) before Lia’s rushing, you assumed it was small and obscure. The large house crowded with guests proudly wearing their own hearts that you stand in now, disproves you completely.
“Sorry, rules are rules. You’re single, aren’t you?”
You sigh and smooth the sticker, your own scarlet letter for the horrible sin of being alone on Valentine’s Day. After three bad dates and one cult recruitment disguised as a date, you were content with celebrating the holiday with a cheap bottle of wine and a bingeable Netflix show. Last night, Lia framed the party invitation as a thank you for helping her bake macarons for XYP’s Paw-sitively Sweet Bake Sale, and since you recently decided that you should actually start doing college things, you accepted without a second thought.
“Sorry,” Lia echoes as her own cheek is embellished with a purple heart struck with an arrow. Her heart-shaped blush beneath the sticker blends into her skin as a particular boy catches her eye.
You raise your eyebrows, a knowing smile slowly creeping onto your face, and she turns even redder if possible. One mediocre night of for a month’s worth of teasing material is an excellent trade.
With his spray-painted gold bow, Felix gestures to the rest of the house. “Find your match!”
“Sorry,” Lia again repeats as she leads you deeper into the house. She keeps one arm behind her to guide you, but even then you’re having difficulties keeping up. Too many people are standing in the middle of pathways, pausing to study the faces of others in their vicinity. You should be doing the same as per the rules, but finding Yeonjun, Lia’s crush of six months, is the main priority.
At last, she stops in the kitchen. Someone pushes a cup full of mystery liquid into your hand, and you readily drink. You can’t place the taste, but it’s definitely cheap.
“I’ll buy you boba tomorrow if that makes you feel better,” Lia says abruptly as she pours herself some vodka, her alcohol of choice when she needs to loosen up. “In my defense, you would have said ‘no’ if I gave you the details. But now you also get to see me embarrass myself trying to talk to him. Ugh, I couldn’t see what kind of heart he had.”
“He’s the only reason why I’m staying,” you assure. You raise your cup in mock toast. “Here’s to you finally working up the nerve to ask him on a date.”
She groans, “No, don’t put this kind of pressure on me!” but smacks her cup against yours anyway before heading out to the terrace.
While she says hello to her brothers and sisters and random people she seemingly knows, you lean against a wall, eying the endless stream of strangers coming in and out of the house. Your vision swims with shades of red and pink, Valentino to Valentine and everything in between. Boys wearing rosy shirts under sherpa jackets, girls in pastel turtlenecks and corduroy dresses, everyone adorned with markers of availability—this entire party is Valentine’s Day personified. It’s fascinating to see how shy and how bold some people are tonight. So entranced by a pair that are obviously complete opposites, you nearly miss Yeonjun, who you note also has a purple heart on his cheek. He’s too far to discern the details, but you hope there’s an arrow. Felix better have matched up Yeonjun and Lia or else he’ll have to endure lamentations from both you and Lia tonight.
You wordlessly grab Lia’s elbow, and she quickly ends the conversation she’s having. When you tell her about his heart, her eyes grow to the size of dinner plates.
“Calm down,” you tell her as you pull her to the other side. “You haven’t even spoken to him, and you’re practically hyperventilating.”
“I am calm!” Nonetheless, she sips from her cup and softly swears when she spills vodka on her top. “Should I really ask him?”
“Yes, if only to provide me with entertainment.”
“You’re horrible.”
“I baked macarons for an animal shelter. I’m an angel of being.”
While Lia presumably rolls her eyes, someone steps in front of you, and you make to walk around him until he reaches for your shoulder.
“Hey,” he says, “you’re my match.”
The mischievous grin you’ve had on smooths into a more cordial smile as you debate whether you can afford to be rude to him. Does he want to flirt, or is he just saying hello? Will he be offended if you reject his advances, or is looking for any willing person to hook up with? You can never tell these days. He’s wearing the pink shirt from the Paw-sitively Sweet fundraiser—which is unbelievably cute for something made from pre-set graphics on a cheap custom t-shirt design site—so he’s definitely part of XYP. You glance at Lia for help.
It’s her turn to grin. You yell at her with your eyes, but she ignores it. “Chan, this is my roommate. The jam-filled, paw print macarons you liked? She’s the one who made them.”
So you have to be kind to him after all. Because your parents raised you right, you introduce yourself and graciously accept his compliments. “We’ve got to get somewhere right now, but it was nice to meet you.”
“I have to get somewhere,” Lia interjects as she starts taking small steps backwards. As you’re about to protest, she adds, “I’ll find you when I need you, okay? I’ll be fine.”
She was not fine five seconds ago, but if you put up a fight, Yeonjun will be lost to the crowds again. You swallow the excuses building in your throat and nod. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“You too. Chan, make sure she doesn’t try to leave in the next ten minutes.”
Chan gives her a thumbs-up, and Lia flashes you a smile that serves as both a warning and reassurance before disappearing past a group of boys dressed to the nines in white suits and pink ties. You angle yourself so that you’re watching Lia and pull out your favorite college conversation starter: “What’s your major?”
“Music and biology.” He laughs at your surprise and shrugs like balancing two wildly different and intensive majors isn’t difficult. “If I don’t make it as a producer in the next few years, then I’ll go to med school like my parents want. What about you?”
“Accounting. My parents wanted to be able to do their taxes for free.”
“Can you do mine too?”
You pretend to mull it over while you study Lia’s winding path through the crowds. Almost there. “I charge by the hour, if that’s alright. And you’re not allowed to complain about how long it takes me.”
“You know what, I changed my mind. Maybe in a couple years.”
Lia has reached Yeonjun now and wedged herself into his circle. You crane your neck to see if her mouth is moving or not, but an extra tall person is blocking your view. As you squeeze your cup in your hands—why did he have to stand right there—you hear herself reply to Chan, “Cool. Music producer, you said you were? What’s that like? Got any songs out?”
That ought to keep him occupied for a few minutes while you position yourself differently to continue watching the K-drama Lia is starring in. As expected, Chan is passionate about music and indulges your increasingly stupid questions. You almost feel bad for not being more attentive, but if he interprets your distance as disinterest, that’s also fine. Lia and Yeonjun are finally talking one-on-one. She hasn’t begun playing with the ends of her hair yet, so she’s relatively at ease.
“Why don’t we move away from the door?” you suggest to Chan during a pause. “I think I saw some open seats over there.”
There are no such seats, but you convince him to follow you closer to where Lia is. Fortunately, she doesn’t notice you, even with how conspicuous you look. “You were saying something about… screwdrivers?”
“Drill, actually. You know,” he says, “I think it’s really sweet that you’re looking out for your roommate, but you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“What?”
“Yeah, Yeonjun’s really nice.”
“No, I know that. She tells me all the time, trust me. It’s just that…” You’re pretty sure it’s against Girl Code to tell your friend’s fraternity brother about her crush, even if half the fraternity already knows. It’s probably even more crass to tell said fraternity brother that no, you don’t actually care about her wellbeing, you just want the details of what’s happening. “I don’t really like parties,” you settle on. It’s mostly truthful.
“Too loud, too many people? I can see why.”
“Not exactly. In my experience, a three-hour party only has two minutes of highlight reel material. The other two hours and fifty-eight minutes are usually me wishing I could go home. Nothing against parties, it’s just me.”
“But you’re here anyway. Let me guess, Lia promised you something?”
In the distance, Lia laughs loudly, twirling the last inch of her French braids. “Something like that.”
You hold your breath in anticipation and let out a muffled squeal when Yeonjun leans down to peel off the sticker on her cheek and kiss her there. Cheesy, melodramatic K-dramas are nothing compared to real life.
“That’s going in the highlight reel, isn’t it?” Chan says, his face soft.
“It’s the entire reel. It’s all I came for.” You sigh happily and celebrate by finishing whatever is left in your cup. “It was fun talking to you, but I’m going to head home. I’ll see you around.”
“You don’t wanna stay? What if something else happens? Besides, I don’t think Lia will let you leave so early.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
You mean it as a joke, not a flirty remark, but he turns a brilliant shade of red and stammers something about Felix bringing out leftover cookies from the bake sale later in the night. Chan is sweet for caring about you and is cute enough that you would agree to linger around the party longer under normal circumstances, but…
“I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now. Sorry for leading you on, but you know”—you tap your matching heart, cursing Felix and his faux angelic demeanor—“rules are rules, and I couldn’t get out of it.”
To your relief, he chuckles. He still resembles a tomato, but he’s chuckling and not upset that you’re not interested in his advances. “Nah, I get it. He’s the one who came up with the idea anyway. If Lia really won’t let you leave, come and find me. I can tell you more about drill since you seemed a little busy then.”
Under normal circumstances, you would have shamelessly admitted that you weren’t paying attention, but your body betrays you as you feel flushed from head to toe. “Thanks. Night.”
You find Lia, who surprisingly doesn’t wheedle you into staying any longer. Suspicious. You suppose she’s too distracted by Yeonjun’s arm around her shoulder to remember that her job as the overexcited inviter is to keep you for as long as possible. However, it’s explicitly against Girl Code to desert your friend at a party, even if said friend is mostly sober and okay with it, so you find a nice corner to languish in. Chan’s offer likely still stands, but after your big speech, the lonely corner feels more comfortable.
Felix does, in fact, bring out cookies and personally offers them to everyone like a gracious fairy. When he gets to you, your eyes glued to your phone, your body curled up on a battered couch, he asks, “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for Lia.” You show him your screen. “You wanna watch Animal Crossing island tours with me?”
“You didn’t find Chan yet?”
You take a chocolate chip cookie from him and take a ferocious bite. You don’t want to think about Chan right now. Too many embarrassing and confusing thoughts associated with him. “I did, but it’s more like he found me. We talked for a bit— wait, did you set me up with him? Felix!”
He shrugs innocently. “Every time I ask you about your weekend, all you tell me about is the most recent date you went on, and you make them seem really bad. Chan’s a good guy. I thought you would like him.”
“I’m not in the market for a boyfriend. Stop trying to play matchmaker. Cupid,” you amend when you notice that he’s about to correct you about his true title. “Thanks for the cookie. I’ll see you Thursday.”
He leaves you soon afterward, and you think you’re safe from interference, but Chan takes his place minutes later. His offering of a half-empty bottle of wine softens your objections, and you offer what little room of the couch that has not been claimed by an odd stain. He chooses to perch on the arm instead.
“Did Felix send you here?” you say. You palm the cool glass of the bottle, which soothes your increasingly warm skin, and serve the two of you.
“No, but he mentioned the Animal Crossing videos. Mind if I join you?”
“You really have nothing better to do?”
He laughs even though you haven’t said anything funny. “I’d rather hang out with you than play beer pong. Is it that hard to believe?”
“Considering you’re a frat boy, a little. But we can hang out.” You smile at the floor because it’s easier than smiling at him and remembering your previous behavior. “If you tell me about drill, I’ll listen this time.”
He replies, “Nah, I think Animal Crossing’s more interesting to me right now,” so you press play. It should feel silly for two people to huddle in a corner and coo over virtual items, but instead it’s surprisingly fun. Chan’s commentary keeps your eyes glazing over, and your loosened tongue spills out all of your own plans for your island designs. Then the conversation drifts into real estate into ramen into birds until a drunk Lia informs you that she’s ready to go home. You anticipated this much—cheap wine, a completed K-drama (courtesy of Lia), an emotional roommate—but not the unexpected question on your cheek.
~ ad.gray
craving more valentine's day stories? flowers for you // candy hearts
Description: Jeongin loves you to death. Based on Duncan Laurence’s “Loving You is a Losing Game.”
Warning: death, war, inferiority complex
Word count: 1.7k
Pairing: fem!reader x Yang Jeongin
A/N: Thank you to my SG friend for the military consult lol
Loving you is a losing game.
That’s what he thinks as he watches you fall to the ground. Time seems to stop, and in that moment, he sees your life together flash before his eyes.
He met you in high school. You were lab partners for biology, and he never thought anyone could look good in a lab coat until you walked up to him and introduced yourself.
“Hi!” you said. “I’m Y/N. You’re Jeongin, correct?”
“Y-yeah. Sorry you’re partnered with me; I’m not that smart.”
You laughed amusedly and he could feel a warmth spread across his chest. “Well, Jeongin, I hope I can prove you wrong. Biology’s really fun, and I think you’ll find yourself better at it than you think.”
Jeongin never once met anyone who had such confidence in his academic ability. Your words resonated with him, and in the end, he really did do better than he could have imagined. He didn’t exactly find biology as fun as you suggested, but he would study late into the night for that one class just because it was on something you liked. He would stare at the tips and pointers you hand wrote for him until they’re etched into his brain, and imagine that little smile of yours whenever he did well.
“This is the gallbladder, right? Next to the kidney? We need to dissect that out,” he’d once said.
“Right,” you nodded. Leaning towards the mouse pinned to your dissection tray, you began to pinch the gallbladder with your forceps. At that moment—one Jeongin thinks was sent from above—a strand of your hair falls into your face.
“Dang it,” you cursed, trying futilely to push it away with the non-gloved part of your wrist.
Jeongin, who was designated notetaker for the day, set his pen down. “Do you need help?”
“Yeah. If you don’t mind, can you grab a bobby pin from my pencil pouch?”
He bent down to your backpack and did as told, but was not expecting the heart attack he got when he straightened back up to see you leaning towards him.
“W-would you like me to put it on for you?” he stammered.
“If you don’t mind.”
Putting that bobby pin in your hair was the single most difficult thing Jeongin had ever done. The second most difficult thing was ignoring how hard his heart was pounding against his ribs afterwards.
“You’re pretty good at this dissection thing,” he comments, clearing his throat and trying to distract himself.
You beam. “You think so? I want to be a doctor when I grow up.”
“You’d definitely be a very good one.” Jeongin felt a little nervous. Would you still consider someone like him by your side when you are rich and successful?
What Jeongin thinks he lacks in intelligence, he makes up for with tenacity. For all three years of high school, he slaved through the most difficult of science courses just to stay by your side. To his surprise, you stuck by his side too, ignoring your more high-achieving peers’ dissuasion and their mockery towards someone like Jeongin.
Loving you is a losing game.
“Heyo,” you greeted him one lunch period, pulling a chair up to his desk like you’ve done every day for the past few years.
Jeongin quickly hid the barely-passing math quiz his teacher just handed him. “Hi, Y/N.”
You frowned, noticing his unusual demeanor. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he insisted, sipping nervously on his water.
You turned your head toward the chalkboard where his teacher had written the mean and standard deviation of the test. “Math?”
He signed helplessly and nodded.
“Do you need any help?”
He bit his cheek. “You’re already carrying me in chemistry; I don’t want to keep bothering you.”
“You’re not a bother. Besides, what are friends for?” Seeing that he wasn’t budging, you asked, “What do you want to do in the future?”
What did he want to do? That was a good question. He had gotten so used to just following you, he did not have much of his own direction. He did know that whatever college you were going to, he did not have much of a chance with, so what was he going to do?
You continued, “If it’s not math related, I don’t think you have to be so stressed about one grade.”
“But you’d never have done as poorly as this,” he couldn’t help but mutter.
You furrowed your brows immediately. “Jeongin, do you compare yourself to me?”
“Well, not exactly, but I— I mean, obviously, I can’t—”
“Jeongin,” you cut him off.
“I know I shouldn’t—”
“Jeongin.”
You only continued when you finally got him to look you in the eye. “I think you are brilliant. Really, I do. You have a unique ability to see different aspects of things I have never even considered. Sure, you may not score the highest on tests and exams, but the school system only measures one type of intelligence; it just happens to not be yours. It doesn’t mean you’re not smart, and it certainly does not mean you should see yourself as incapable. I look up to you, Jeongin. I wouldn’t if you weren’t worthy of it.”
Jeongin stared at you blankly after your speech. He felt funny. He didn't quite know how to put it, but it felt like you’d just turned his world upside-down.
“So, yeah!” You smiled, moving away from the serious tone.
“What are your future plans?” Jeongin asked in return. “It’s time to start applying to college soon.”
“I was actually looking into the military.”
“Military? But you don’t even have to serve.”
You shrugged, taking a bite of your lunch. “Med school is expensive. Besides, it almost guarantees me a job.”
Jeongin chews slowly. “But it’ll be hard.”
“But at least we’ll be together, right? When you enlist too?”
He nearly chokes. Your well-meaning, friendly words were too much for his heart. He knew you did not have the intentions he’d wished you did, but he couldn’t help but hope.
He really should not have loved you. Maybe then, you would have had one less reason to be in the army. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be here, with him, on the front lines of 38th parallel.
Loving you is a losing game.
“Sergeant, how are you holding up?” Your voice was staticy over the walkie talkie, but Jeongin was glad to hear it after trudging through trenches for the last couple of days.
“Hanging in there, Lieutenant.”
“Good. The North seems to be advancing. The medical team is approaching as a precautionary and to check vitals.”
“Roger tha—”
BOOM! A large sound interrupts all conversations.
“The North has activated one of our landmines! They are less than 500 meters away!” announced one of the men.
Jeongin threw on his helmet. “Fall in!”
“Be careful!” Your voice was barely registered as another bomb went off and the troop mounted their guns over the trench.
The battle was chaos. No training, no matter how thorough, could have prepared Jeongin for what he experienced. Bullets were everywhere, and he could not tell if he’s even still alive or if his body was just acting on its own with residue adrenaline. The enemy kept advancing no matter what he did, but his own men were dropping like flies.
“Push forward” He barked.
If his troop replied, he couldn’t hear it over the mines exploding and cannons firing. He led them onwards, shooting anything he could see without being able to even think about it. He was doing well—you were right about him being able to see things others couldn’t which allowed him to weave between enemy lines and attack where they were most weak. All his focus forward though made him neglect one thing: himself.
He knew as soon as he felt it under his foot.
“Fall back!” he cried, almost not quickly enough.
He could only pray his men did as told as he himself jumped as far away from the mine he just activated.
“Jeongin!”
The pain was excruciating. He ended up sprawled forward, and when he looked back through blurred vision, his entire right leg was missing.
“I— I— I—”
“Shh, shh. Don’t panic.”
His head falls back to the ground, dizzy. Still, he kept his eyes trained on you. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Over your radio, he could hear, “Lieutenant L/N, what are you doing? Retreat immediately!”
“If I don’t put a tourniquet on this now, you WILL die, Sergeant,” you declare through grit teeth.
“Just leave me. You’re going to get shot on this active field.”
“I’m wearing a red cross; they won’t shoot me.”
“Are you crazy? No one’s looking at who’s wearing what right now!”
“Just shut up and stay down!” You glared at him, eyes blazing with a desperation he’d never seen before.
“Y/N…” He wanted to tell you to run, but his world was quickly growing dark. He could barely even mutter your name.
“Just… just shut up.” You went back to tying off his dismembered leg.
“Y/N…” But if he had the time to tell you one thing, it’ll be—
“You can’t die. I won’t let you,” you sniffled.
“I lo—”
You were tying the last knot, trying to wipe your tears with your shoulder as you did so.
And that’s when it happened. That’s when he saw a bullet pass cleanly between your two eyes, and that’s how he comes to watch you fall, life already gone from your body, onto the ground with a soundless thud. He lays there, next to you, unable to do anything. With the last of his consciousness, he reached his hand out for yours.
Loving you is a losing game.
<Twenty years later>
Jeongin rolls his wheelchair into his office. He turns to the picture on his desk and salutes it. It is a picture of you, smiling with him the day he was promoted sergeant. He was so full of life back then. You were too.
… A broken heart is all that's left
I'm still fixing all the cracks
Lost a couple of pieces when
I carried it, carried it, carried it home
… I've spent all of the love I saved
We were always a losing game
Small town boy in a big arcade
I got addicted to a losing game
He peels his eyes away from you and goes to throw on his doctor’s coat.
… Oh, oh
All I know, all I know
Loving you is a losing game
hi! just wanted to say i love bird is the word, my friend rec’d it to me and it’s one of my fav jisung fics now <3 the way u wrote it fits the comedic tone so well. also the fact that u were able to write an entire fic revolving around bird puns is so 😭 happy holidays!!
hi! ahhhh first off, pass along my thanks to your friend! i'm so glad you two enjoyed my bird puns! i love puns, so it was super fun to write. secondly, ahhhhhhhh to have written one of someone's favorites!! this is probably one of the highest compliments i could receive, so thank you so much <3 happy holidays!
Hello! Mina’s delivery service is so good! >_< I loved how you included studio ghibli characters as the costumes it was so cute haha. I have a question though! Is there a part 2 to it? Or is it a series? Because I LOVED IT !!!! Thank you so much for writing it <333
(hope you don't mind me tagging @tangerminie since they had a similar question)
hi! the studio ghibli costumes were one of my favorite things to decide on! hyunjin obviously had to be howl and minho had to be kiki. unfortunately, there's no part 2, but i'm glad you enjoyed it so much! thank you for reading! <3
Synopsis: It's not appropriate to loudly say that you hate children while in a school, but surely saying that you hate your sister is allowed. Or, your sister is determined to set you up with every attractive man at your niece's school, and you are not having it.
Warning: none
Word Count: 3.2k
Pairing: gn!reader x Lee Minho, gn!reader x Han Jisung, gn!reader x Kim Seungmin
Happy Halloween!
Let’s make one thing clear: you don’t like children.
In fact, “don’t like” might be too kind; you hate children. Snotty-nosed, annoying brats who never do as they’re told with an endless supply of the most asinine questions you’ve ever heard and have the audacity to keep pestering you with their babbles after your fiftieth “Because I said so.” Loud, unhinged goblins who stomp around at five in the morning and throw what has to be every single pot and pan in the kitchen because they were bored and had nothing to do. Horrible little demons who push cats down the stairs “to see what would happen” and then have the audacity to cry when you push them out of a five-story window so they can experience empathy in real time—
Okay, so that last one hasn’t happened, but you were really close. And Sesame only tumbled down one step, but anyone who has ill intentions to your darling kitten is on your hit list. No, you don’t care if it’s a child because once again, children suck.
The only exception to this rule is your niece. Lee Mina, daughter of your younger sister Nari and your brother-in-law Felix, is the sweetest girl you’ve met, and she’s only five. She’s kind, caring, and knows the appropriate amount of questions a child can ask before an adult loses their mind. She definitely got all of those attributes from her dad because Nari is the definition of Annoying Little Sister. To be honest, she’s probably the source of all your hatred.
Nevertheless, you love Mina (and your sister too, you suppose), so when Mina insists that you come to her school’s Halloween parade, you take a day off work and put on a pair of cheap cat ears to be the Jiji to her Kiki. Ever since she watched the movie in the summer, Mina has been insisting that she dress up as Kiki for Halloween. Her mom will be Bakery Lady (Osono), her dad Bakery Man (Fukuo), and you Jiji. You told her that you could be Cool Artist Girl (Ursula), but she insisted you be her cat since she couldn’t bring Sesame to school with her.
Not that you would have let her, but you did give her several pictures of Sesame to show her classmates and a stuffed cat to complete her costume.
You show up a few minutes before the scheduled parade begins and stand with your sister on the unusually large schoolyard. Vaguely spooky music plays from hidden speakers as parents in nice sweaters and in various different costumes mingle around. You suddenly feel inadequate in simple all-black clothes. Sure, you drew some whiskers, but you don’t even have a tail or anything. If this is what being a PTA parent in a private school is like, you don’t want it. Regular PTA parents are already a handful. If not for her job, you can definitely see Nari as a PTA mom.
She enrolled Mina in a private early education academy for its curriculum, which is kind of understandable but it’s kindergarten. Well, they also provide two years of pre-school, but it’s a tad bit overboard in your eyes. You and Nari went to public ones, and you both turned out mostly fine.
“Morning,” Felix greets. He looks the part of a baker but certainly not of Fukuo, who is usually quiet and stoic; Felix is all smiles, even at 8:30 AM. He holds out his basket, which is only partially a prop. “Bread?”
“Thanks.” You take a small roll from the basket and marvel for the umpteenth time about how lucky Nari is. Weekly fresh-baked bread for breakfast and delicious brownies for dessert—you can only dream. “How was Mina this morning? She told me last night that she was gonna wake up early to practice being Kiki.”
“She woke me up at six,” Nari replies after a healthy sip of coffee. She’s finally taken to drinking black after spending all of her college years maintaining that barely caffeinated milkshakes were enough to sustain her. “Could have asked her other parent who was already in the kitchen, but she wanted me to tie her ribbon. Guess what Mr. Han’s dressed as? Her teacher,” she clarifies after seeing your blank face.
“Also Kiki?”
“No, but still Studio Ghibli. I think all the teachers agreed to do a Ghibli theme.”
You think back to everything you made Mina watch in August. “Howl?”
“No, that’s Mr. Hwang from the class next door. I think Mr. Yang’s going as his Sophie.”
“You’re telling me all this like I know who all of these people are.”
She sighs and looks over at Felix with an expression that undoubtedly says, “Can you believe her?” “He’s Turnip-Head. He even stuck his arms out like him when Mina recognized him. He’s so funny,” she muses while you privately think to yourself that Nari needs to get her sense of humor reevaluated after having kids. After a pause, she adds, “He’s cute too.”
“If you wanna cheat on Felix, you could at least do it when he’s not around.”
On the other side of Nari, Felix laughs.
Nari elbows you like she’s seven again and has discovered how much fun she has elbowing people. “Did you suddenly get a date in the last twelve hours we’ve talked? You haven’t dated anyone in like, I don’t know, forever.”
By “forever,” she means a year. After that last fiasco, you’re never trying online dating—and maybe regular dating—ever again. “I’m not hitting on my niece’s teacher. That sounds a little problematic.”
“So if he wasn’t, you’d be interested? What if I introduced you as my former roommate? Or Felix’s friend? You two are friends, right? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Annoying Little Sisters never grow out of their questions, do they?
Fortunately, lines of children are being led out to the schoolyard by their accompanying teachers. Admittedly, they do look adorable as little princesses, little superheroes, little prospective career choices. One kid is dressed as a carrot, which makes you chuckle and then makes you wonder if you also need to reevaluate your humor.
“There’s Mina!” Felix exclaims, pointing out a distinctive red bow in the sea of tiaras and top hats. A lot of kids want to be magicians apparently.
Following Turnip-Head the teacher into the yard, Mina is first in line. Slung across her shoulder is a brown satchel with a stuffed kitten poking its head out to see the world. Like her dad, she’s all smiles. When she finds her parents and you in the distance, she waves her arms back and forth.
“Hold this,” Nari says to you as she hands you her coffee. She pulls out her phone from her dress pocket and begins snapping pictures of her daughter. “Gosh, she’s adorable. So, what do you think of Mr. Han now that you’ve seen him?”
He is good-looking, you’ll give Nari that. To be fair, it’s not like anyone would disagree with that assessment. “Is that all you can think about during this very important school function?”
“You’re talking to the person who was planning how to ask me out during a midterm,” Felix interjects. He wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulders and looks at her with so much affection, you have to tear your eyes away. “Of course that’s all she can think about. If you don’t want to risk it with Mr. Han, I can set you up with my friend. Chan hasn’t been on a date in years.”
“Not you too,” you groan. Just for revenge’s sake, you take a long drink of Nari’s coffee. You don’t know how you’re supposed to last another hour if this is what your company’s like. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Egged on by his annoying wife, Felix only grins at your exasperation before gasping at something. “Mr. Lee’s Kiki!”
Mr. Lee, you learn, is not Felix’s long-lost relative, but Mina’s pre-school teacher last year. You weren’t invited to the parade then, so you don’t know what his Cruella de Vil costume looked like exactly, but from Felix’s report, his fur coat was truly magnificent. All the kids wanted to touch it.
When Mr. Lee passes by with his class, he does a double-take at you and your family. Nari greets him enthusiastically, Felix offers his bread basket half-jokingly, and you wave hello awkwardly. Mr. Lee takes a roll and exchanges compliments with Nari and Felix for a while. He looks at you curiously after you don’t say a word, so you introduce yourself first as Jiji and then your actual self.
“Mina’s my niece,” you add before Nari can make up some elaborate lie. “Nice costume.”
You’re not saying that to be polite; it really is a nice costume. He has a birdcage with a stuffed cat in one hand, and an appropriate witch broom in the other. Maybe you should have lent Mina your broom after all.
“Yeah, you too. I gotta go, but we should get a picture later. I didn’t think anyone would be Osono or Fukuo,” he says, nodding at Nari and Felix. “It was great seeing you again.”
After he leaves, twenty-something children following him like ducklings to a mother duck, Nari nudges you with her elbow. “What about him?” she whispers.
You whisper back, “I’m gonna kill you.”
After a lifetime of death threats, she’s unfazed. “He’s cute, and you already have some rapport with him. We could both be Lees.”
“This coffee is mine.”
“Have it. I hate black.”
The drink doesn’t taste as good anymore, but you make a big show of draining the last dregs of it anyway. Meanwhile, Nari prattles on about how she doesn’t want you to die sad and lonely, which is really not the insult she thinks it is. Besides, you refuse to take romantic advice from someone who failed their midterm over a date.
Fortunately, before you seriously consider committing a felony, Mina’s class comes up the designated path. Killing your sister? Totally fine. Killing your sister in front of her daughter? Traumatic for Mina and therefore, not fine.
Mina tugs on the sleeve of Mr. Han’s black coat and points directly at you. If Grandma were here, she would have slapped Mina’s hand down for being rude. “See?” she loudly says. “I told you I have a real Jiji!”
Again, you awkwardly wave hello to yet another stranger Nari is trying to set you up with.
“Hi, Mina,” you say. Then because her classmates are staring at you like a zoo animal, “Hi, kids. Happy Halloween.”
A few of them are polite and shout in response, “Happy Halloween!” Most of them are disappointed and say with palpable dejection, “You’re not a real cat.”
Relatable.
Mr. Han at least has the decency to doff his top hat to you. “It’s nice to meet you, Jiji.”
You can feel Nari vibrating with excitement at this throwaway exchange. The parade continues, and you do an excellent job of ignoring your conniving sister’s attempts at conversation. All roads will lead to either Mr. Han or Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee seems to be the frontrunner by the sole virtue of sharing the same surname as Felix.
“When is this over again?” you ask Felix after Nari steers your passing comment about how loud the music is to how considerate the teachers at this school are to their students. He seems more receptive to talk about something other than your love life.
“Technically, 9:30. They went overtime last year, but no one really cared since it bled into the party.”
“There’s a party?” Maybe public school did suck after all.
“You’re staying for it, right? It’s mostly for the kids, but there’s snacks and candy.”
“I guess. I promised Mina I would stay until the end, but that was before I knew there was a party.”
“It’s just an hour or so. Besides, you need to at least get a picture with Mr. Lee before you go. If only you came as Tombo!” Nari says, starry-eyed. Whether it’s the caffeine or her having too much fun, you don’t know. “Stop glaring at me.”
You keep your glare on until the parade loops back around one more time before officially ending. The students are lined up by class in the center, and hordes of parents rush to get pictures of their children and their friends. Feeling every bit like an involved adult, you join Nari and Felix in the flood.
You mill around the edges for a few seconds before Mina drags you into her group of friends so you can answer questions about Sesame. You allow it because one, you love Mina enough to not play the part of Irritated Adult and two, you love talking about Sesame, the most precious creature in all of existence. In the meantime, Mina shows every possible person her favorite photo of Sesame lying on his back in the sun. You gently correct her when she declares that Sesame is her cat. In the spitting image of her mother, she vehemently denies it.
In the middle of explaining how Sesame’s ears twitch, Mr. Han squats down next to you and glances at Mina’s picture. “So this is the real Jiji?”
“Yeah. He’s adorable, isn’t he?”
You turn back to the rapt children around you, prepared to continue your lecture. However, before you can do so, Felix gathers all of Mina’s circle for a group photo. Scheming little rat—he and Nari are one and the same, no matter how good his brownies are.
You stand up, and Mr. Han follows.
“I like your pipe,” you say after some silence. It’s probably only been a second, but that’s already a second too long. “I imagine it’s not real?”
He shakes his head, amused for seemingly no reason. “Definitely not. The kids ‘ooh-ed’ me when they saw it, and I thought they were gonna try to send me to the principal’s office.”
“That’d be pretty embarrassing. They would never let you live it down. I told off my sister in front of Mina once, and Mina brings it up all the time when she gets in trouble.”
He’s one of those people who throws his head back when laughing. It’s a miracle that his hat doesn’t fly off. “Tell me about it. I forgot the word ‘milk’ and called it ‘cow water,’ and every time I ask them what they had for lunch, at least one of them tells me they drank cow water.”
“Kids are so great.”
He sighs fondly. “They really are. Hey, you mind if I get a picture with you and your family later? All the teachers did a Ghibli theme and since you dressed up according to the theme…”
“Yeah, no problem.” With just a twinge of cynicism, you say, “It’s all Nari’s been talking about.”
As if on cue, Nari bounds over and informs you that there’s a Ghibli group photo happening. Some of the teachers, namely Mr. Hwang as Howl and Ms. Kim as No-Face, have already gathered together. The three of you head to the spot, taking Mina along and picking up a boy in a Totoro hoodie. Mina and Totoro stand in the front center. The Kiki’s Delivery Service franchise kneels around them, and under the guise of unity, you and Mr. Lee wind up next to each other through the graces of Nari.
While the other members get sorted into perfection, Mina takes the opportunity to tell Mr. Lee about Sesame. She gives him one of her many pictures, and he carefully takes it, studying a sleeping Sesame with lofty consideration.
“You can put it in the Cat Hall of Fame,” she proudly says. “Next to Dori.”
“When did you get a cat?” he asks.
“He’s mine,” you interrupt, trying your best to hide your smirk when you notice Mina pouting that she couldn’t claim Sesame as hers. “I adopted him seven months ago, if you’re curious.”
“First time cat parent?”
“Yeah, but it’s still easier than babysitting the fussy three-year-old your sister dropped off with no warning.” You say the last part extra loud for Nari and receive a light kick to your tailbone. “Do you have any? Cats, I mean.”
His whole face lights up. “I’ve got three! Soonie, Doongie, and Dori. They’ve been with me for years. I’ve got pictures of them in my classroom. You remember, don’t you, Mina?”
Mina nods her head vigorously. “I like Dori the best.”
He indulges her with a laugh. “Feel free to come by my classroom afterwards,” he says to you. He waves the glossy photo, making it ripple. “I’m gonna add Sesame to our Cat Hall of Fame.”
Nari kicks you again, probably to literally kick you in the right direction. It’s not like you needed it. Forget Mr. Lee’s face—cat pictures are the best lure for you. You turn around with a ready scowl, but the photographer, one of the many moms around, directs everyone to smile at the camera.
You have no idea how it turns out, but it doesn’t matter because the pictures on the Cat Hall of Fame are infinitely better. As per Mina’s request, Sesame is placed right beside one of Dori. And as per Mina’s other request, you return to Mr. Han’s classroom immediately after to see if you can guess which paper ghost she decorated. It’s not a lie; it’s the perfect excuse because goodness gracious, pre-schoolers will cry at the drop of a hat. Or in this case, about the drop of a hat. To be fair, you likely would have done the same if your homemade witch hat was also dunked into a bowl of punch by another kid.
Nari is disappointed by your arrival but recovers seconds later. She grabs your arm conspiratorially. “Teachers are off-limits to you,” she whispers, “but what about parents? Mr. Kim Seungmin, single dad to Seoyun, who is one of Mina’s tablemates. Felix is talking to him right now.”
At this point, you shouldn’t expect anything different. Mr. Kim Seungmin is also good-looking, especially in a plaid overcoat reminiscent of Sherlock Holmes. But really.
“I’m not gonna use my niece’s school as a dating app,” you hiss.
“But look at all the possibilities! And c’mon, Felix and I are paying for it. You might as well. If you talk to Seungmin, I won’t accidentally leave your number on Mr. Han’s desk.”
“I’m the emergency contact. He already has it. Have you given up on Mr. Lee already?” you tease, and that’s the wrong choice because Nari is now pulling you along to Mina’s table.
“If you like him so much, I can leave at his desk instead. I’ll explicitly mention a date.”
“I hate you.”
She pushes you forward into Mr. Kim's line of sight, and you quickly plaster on a happy face while she makes introductions. Seungmin holds out his hand for you to shake, and you note that his fingernails are painted a shocking pink, no doubt by his daughter who has a matching shade that compliments her princess dress. You absolutely loathe your sister, but she is right in that the school is a good source of dating material.
ad.gold's story for 42nd month is SO GOOD!! First of all the pacing was so good and I appreciated that whatever scenes were there for a reason. I felt so bad for Jisung throughout the story but the parts at the fair where he was half nervous but also clearly falling for her were so good. I didn't even have the heart to hate hyunjin it really was a bad situation and they are all kids. The two endings also really pulled my heart strings. wat a treat!
Hello! And thank you for the ask and for reading! 42nd Moon definitely holds a special place in my heart, so it really means a lot when someone likes it too. I think it's easy to blame Hyunjin. He made some mistakes, but I agree he was trying his hardest to navigate the situation he was in. It's refreshing to see another "antagonist" sympathizer!
Synopsis: If boba is a religion, then your family’s shop is a place of worship, and Jeongin is a devout follower. This is all to say that Jeongin is Baboba’s best customer, and you welcome his presence. Boba shop AU. College AU.
Warning: none
Word Count: 3.5k
Pairing: fem!reader x Yang Jeongin
Sundays are always busy, but now that August is almost over and the fall semester is approaching, Sundays are hectic. Hoards of students from Seoul National University flock to Baboba for their last drinks of the summer. Milk teas, fruit teas, regular teas, and even milkshake-esque, slush teas—your family’s shop has every kind of drink anyone may want. If they’re hungry, then there’s popcorn chicken in five levels of spice, thick waffles topped with ice cream, and fish-shaped pastries stuffed with red bean paste. Having so many items on the menu seemed ambitious at first, but with three employees at the front handling beverages, your dad is able to focus on the food in the back kitchen. Although, he never appears to actually stay there.
During a rare instance where you’re not manning the register, he comes out and sidles next to you at the pick-up station. He smells like chicken, and your stomach growls as you call out an order. His gaze sweeps across the crowds, trying to find a certain someone. “Is that him?” he whispers.
You don’t even glance up from the cluster of drinks you have in front of you. “Dad, not every college guy is Jeongin.”
Jeongin is the shop’s most loyal customer by far. Baboba opened in the middle of June when most students returned home for break, so Jeongin’s frequent visits were greatly appreciated. In fact, he was Baboba’s first customer. There’s a photo of him posing with your dad to commemorate the event. It hangs next to the newspaper clipping announcing the shop’s grand opening. Over the months, he’s developed an attachment to the place, doing homework from his summer classes while nursing a cup of boba. Usually house milk tea with tapioca pearls, but occasionally he’s adventurous and tries something new, taking recommendations from you or your dad. He even chats to your dad when they’re both free.
The point is, your dad loves him.
“He hasn’t come by for so long, I’m worried about him,” he says, his eyes still fixated on the door. He nudges you aside. “Why don’t you go help Yeji with the drinks?”
“Okay, fine.”
You head over to Yeji, Baboba’s latest hire. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she scans the cheat sheet taped to each station and the label on the empty plastic cup. She mumbles to herself, “Matcha milk tea, matcha milk tea.”
“One scoop of this.” You hand her the glass container filled with matcha powder, and she sighs appreciatively. She’s a part-timer and only been here for a week, so you don’t expect her to have the entire menu memorized. “I’ll start on the next order.”
Minho, the other paid employee, adds two more empty cups to the line of unfulfilled orders. He adjusts the light brown cap on his head and gives you a sympathetic look before returning to the customers. After a deep breath, you take stock of the labels, mentally sort them from simple to finicky, and start making drinks.
Sometime during the chaos, Yeji is placed on errand duty, also known as running back and forth between the kitchen and pick-up station to grab food. Your dad is still keeping watch for Jeongin.
In a rare lull, Minho gives you a hand, quickly scooping and pouring ingredients into the shaker cups while you finish the beverages with either additional toppings or lids. In the middle of dolloping cheese foam, you hear your dad gasp, “He’s here! With friends!” He heads to the register, eager to say hello to his favorite patron. However, tragedy strikes.
“We’re almost out of chicken!” comes Yeji’s harried cry.
Your dad’s eyes flick between all three of his employees. Yeji plants herself at the pick-up station, cradling a box of popcorn chicken to solidify her claim. You and Minho exchange glances and have a second-long staring contest for who will work the register now. Neither of you like the position very much, but since he’s paid his dues already, you concede.
Jeongin stands at the front of the group. In a plain white t-shirt and a studious expression on his face, he looks like how he did on the first day he came to Baboba. The menu in his hands is flipped somewhere to the middle, and his friends look over his shoulder and muse about what to get. Jeongin looks up momentarily, and his eyes crinkle when he makes eye contact with you. Your stomach does something you can’t pinpoint.
Over the din of the machines, you say, “Hi, welcome to Baboba. What can I get you?”
“Anything new?” he asks. He passes the menu to the nearest friend and steps closer to the counter, arching his neck to see into the kitchen. “I heard about the chicken emergency. Say ‘hi’ to your dad for me.”
“If you get the chicken, he’ll come out and give it to you personally. He misses his best customer,” you laugh, making him blush. “Nothing new, but check back next week.”
“What’s happening next week?”
You lean in conspiratorially, the same time something clatters in the back. “You didn’t hear it from me, but possibly something with coffee. The usual then?”
While Jeongin deliberates, you furtively check on Minho and Yeji, both of whom are wiping down a spill consisting of pudding and black tea. Minho’s apron has a dark stain on it now. Poor Yeji, silky soft pudding slipping and breaking between her gloved fingers, is flustered beyond belief.
“We got it,” Minho calls to you. “Can you get us a new cup though?”
You check through the order history on the machine and find the corresponding one. By the time you’ve stuck the label onto the cup, Jeongin and his friends are ready to order. They look concerned about what happened in the back. You pull the brim of your cap lower and ask what you can get them.
Brown sugar milk tea, 100% sweetness; strawberry milk slush, 100% sweet; hibiscus green tea, 75% sweetness, and one bungeoppang. And of course, what you now want to name as the Jeongin Special, house milk tea with boba, 75% sweetness, with an order of mild popcorn chicken.
“I don’t mind the ten minute wait,” he says before you can inform him. After you add on the discount for students of Seoul National University, he taps the back of his phone on the card reader. “Are you still gonna work here in the fall?”
“Yeah. It’s gonna get busier, so my dad’s gonna need help.” He smiles in understanding, and in the next instant, your customer service facade slips back on. “Your order will be ready soon. Thank you for coming to Baboba.”
One confirmation nod later, he joins his friends by the pick-up counter. The girl with copper hair greets him by grabbing his arm. Friend or girlfriend? You and Jeongin have never really talked about relationships, mostly because he always asked about the shop and you were all too willing to answer.
While Yeji disappears into the back to grab a fish-shaped pastry, you set aside the hibiscus green tea for Minho to fill after he finishes his current order. In the meantime, you scoop a spoonful of brown sugar boba and coat the insides of a cup with their syrup. Making drinks is as soothing as it is chaotic. Having worked together for the last month, you and Minho dance fluidly around each other, setting aside the latest orders one after another. Meanwhile, Yeji handles the strawberry milk slush, so you’re tasked with the house milk tea. It’s by far your favorite milk tea variation to make.
A minute later, the kitchen doors swing open, and your dad unabashedly exclaims out, “You’re finally back!”
Jeongin replies back, equally as enthusiastic. He introduces his friends to your dad, who heartily welcomes them and points to the photo on the wall. It’s met with awe. They exchange more words, inaudible over the shaker machines and the clink of ice chips. You’re about to leave Jeongin’s drink at the counter until you hear your dad say, “Of course, you’ve met my daughter already.”
He gestures to you, and you pretend to be preoccupied by the shelf of syrup bottles. Yeji is currently busy measuring out the milk. Strawberry, strawberry, where is it?
Your dad calls your name, waves you over, so you slink over with milk tea in hand. You awkwardly say hello to them, lingering for a few seconds while your dad explains that you also go to SNU. A first-year business major with a potential minor in design, he proudly says. You tersely smile. Jeongin looks surprised by the design minor, probably because you didn’t mention it in the last couple weeks. He’s an education major, no plans for a double major or a minor yet.
You feel yourself trying to blend into the floor, so you excuse yourself to help a new customer. It’s much easier to face a single stranger than a whole group of them.
Jeongin and Co. finally finish chatting with your dad, who is extremely excited to share about the upcoming coffee milk teas to celebrate the beginning of the fall semester. Your little tip-off for Jeongin has now turned into an official public announcement. When they walk past the register to exit, you begin to uselessly organize the straws in their metal container. Black, white, gray, brown, transparent. Your dad thought it was too dull for a boba shop, but your mom, the one who works in marketing, said it was on trend these days.
“Hey,” Jeongin says. His friends are gone, and you relax a little. “Design minor, huh? That sounds cool.”
“Yeah, just thinking ahead,” you reply, motioning vaguely at the shop. You always intended to go into business, but with your dad quitting his law firm job to start Baboba, it felt imperative that you take up design as well for advertising purposes. Your mom is too swamped with work to help. “I did most of this stuff, so I figured I should at least learn more. Any feedback?”
He looks around, scrutinizing the cream walls and the pots of ivy hanging by the window. The quaint white tables and chairs, the giant decal on the window declaring the name of the shop, the wall tacked with Baboba’s history. His eyes pause on the large center frame. With a thick black pen and a steady hand, you wrote the story of how Baboba came to be. Jeongin read it while sipping on his first cup of boba from the shop.
“Maybe a photo-op spot?” he suggests. “With lights and stuff?”
There is a blank wall by the front of the store. If you moved the lone seat for one somewhere else, a nice mural and a bench would fit there. “I’ll ask the owner, but it sounds like a good idea. Thanks.”
The door swings open, and a tour group—at least, you think they are judging by the size and overwhelmed expressions—enters. Jeongin notices them as well.
“I’ll see you next week,” he says. He takes a backward step. “Maybe earlier.”
“Yeah, of course.” He nearly collides with a customer, and you stifle a giggle at his deeply apologetic bow. When he waves goodbye, carefully balancing his box of chicken in the crook of his arm, you return the gesture. “I’ll be on the lookout for you!”
He’s out the door, but you still see him through the window and he does as well. You send your regards one last time. He does the same. Then the copper-haired girl calls for him, and he bounds over, eager to hear what she has to say. A foreign feeling fills your stomach. It’s not hunger, that much you’re certain about.
—
You don’t really have time to think about it. It’s Friday now, and since most of the students have come back and since social media posts and flyers have been made about the brand new coffee milk teas, Baboba is now teeming with customers. Many of them are here to try the place that opened over the summer, but quite a few are becoming loyal members of what Minho is now calling the Baboba cult.
“Who’s the cult leader?” Yeji asks. She’s on her break but keeping you and Minho company on the other side of the boba-making stations. As she chews on a complimentary bungeoppang, she studies the cheat sheet and scans the shelf for the location of the ingredients.
“Jeongin,” you answer without a second thought. To your disappointment, he hasn’t come back yet. You do overhear a few people talking about how they his pictures and his raving reviews of Baboba, but that’s all. “Minho, we need to play catch up for a bit.”
At the register, Minho gives you a thumbs-up. He takes one last order before diving into the mess of empty labeled cups. Meanwhile, you set down two matcha slushes on the counter and shout the order number over the noise. There’s so many people today. The air conditioning is on at full blast, but the front door opens at random intervals, inviting customers but also the late August heat inside.
Your dad must be dying in the kitchen.
Whenever he comes out to bring out chicken or bungeoppang or waffles, he always makes sure to stand under the vent for a few extra seconds. Finished with her snack, Yeji asks if he’s all right, if he wants any help in the back, but he shakes his head. You look at him with concern. His shirt collar is ringed with sweat.
“I’m fine,” he says before you can say anything. “I have a fan and some ice.”
You cannot believe he was a lawyer before this because that is one of the worst arguments he has made. “Dad, that’s not—”
“Go help Minho.”
You reluctantly obey, but you purposely mess up a drink on purpose to set aside for him. Honey green tea, 50% sweetness, and lots of lychee jelly on the bottom—his favorite.
Yeji joins the fray soon. The three of you tackle the beverages with ease, and by sunset, the afternoon rush slows down a considerable amount, enough that you and your dad can eat dinner together in the back.
Four chairs surround an old table, but only two will be in use. On top of the table lies a stack of glass containers in varying sizes. Your mom dropped off some leftovers earlier, so dinner tonight is rice and grilled fish with a large heaping of pickled vegetables. Your dad savors the drink you made, letting out a loud “ah” every time he swallows.
“We’re gonna have to hire more people soon,” you remark, picking apart fish flesh from bones with your chopsticks.
“Do you think Jeongin will be interested?”
You laugh at his one-track mind. If Jeongin is the leader of the Baboba cult, then your dad is the leader of the Jeongin cult. “I asked him about it in the summer. He’s busy with classes.”
“He’s a nice boy. Very polite, very smart. Handsome too.”
You raise an eyebrow at the sudden statement and reach for some kimchi. This heading towards familiar but unwanted territory. “Minho’s also a nice boy.”
“He is, but I also have to pay him. Jeongin gives me money.” He nods to himself. “He would be a good son-in-law.”
“Dad!”
“I was speaking in general terms. Your own mind went there by itself.”
You sigh, he smiles. He’s won the case. Luckily, he doesn’t prod you any further about him, mostly because you want to run your design idea for the photo wall with him. Murals are quite expensive, but wall decals and wallpaper aren’t. A simple wooden bench is also easy to source. As for the “lights and stuff” portion of Jeongin’s suggestion, hanging light bulbs would fit well without compromising the modern interior.
“That sounds nice. Maybe ask our marketing expert later to see what she thinks, but I like it. Free advertising.” He gets up from his chair and gathers your bowl along with his. “I’ll clean up. We should let Minho have his break now.”
He places your uniform cap back on your head and snugly secures it like you’re a child again. You pretend to squirm, but he knows better. Then he lovingly pats your cheek and sends you out to the front.
It’s still relatively quiet, but the after-dinner crowd will come by soon. Friday nights are by far the busiest. While Minho leaves the shop to grab dinner from one of the nearby restaurants, you and Yeji stay behind and fulfill orders at a relaxed pace. She’s less frenzied now, more comfortable with the measurements and ratios. As she smoothly goes around each station, you handle the ten slush teas, all in varying flavors, all from the same single order. The whir of the blender shuts you away from the rest of the world. You’re unaware of someone calling your name until Yeji finally taps on your shoulder.
“The Baboba cult leader is here,” she says. She has two completed, identical drinks in her grasp. “Do you want to take his order? I can finish yours. More practice with slushes.”
You glance at the register where a patient Jeongin is waiting. When he sees you looking his way, you raise a hand in hello. “Yeah, I’ll take his. Have fun.”
A ready smile on your face, you head over to him. He’s in a brown and white striped jacket this evening, but the collar of a white shirt peeks out from underneath. Is his closet mostly white shirts, you wonder. It’s what you typically see him in, and it seems like he has an endless supply.
“Welcome to Baboba. What can I get you?”
As usual, mild popcorn chicken and house milk tea with boba, 75% sweetness. However, the Earl Grey milk tea with boba, 100% sweetness, is new. It’s your preferred drink of choice, albeit with the wrong sweetness level. You think back to the girl with copper hair who touches his arm constantly, but quickly push those thoughts away.
“No ten minute wait today?” he jokes as he watches you stick on the labels.
“No, my dad prepped a lot before we ate. You didn’t want to try the coffee milk teas? They’re really good, especially with cheese foam on top.”
“Oh, yeah? I’ll save that for the first day of class then.” He sighs and looks around the shop. “I’m gonna miss summer.”
You agree and motion for him to sit somewhere as you get started on his drinks. Yeji, leaning against the counter as she keeps an eye on the blender, notices that you have more than one cup.
“He must really like boba if he’s getting two,” she remarks. She’s barely audible over the drone of the machines. “Do you need any help?”
“Can you get a mild chicken when you’re not busy?” you shout back.
She nods. In the meantime, you focus your attention on the ingredients. Both beverages are simple enough, and before you know it, you’re at the pick-up counter with his order.
“No photo-op yet?” he teases. “I was looking forward to taking some nice pictures there. I dressed up all nicely for it too.”
The room feels a little warmer than usual. “It’s still a work in progress. My dad seemed pretty happy with the idea though, so maybe in a few weeks? Sorry we made you waste an outfit.”
“Nah, I’m kidding. Oh, and uh”—he takes a deep breath—“this one’s for you.”
He pushes the Earl Grey milk tea back towards you. You stare blankly at it, unsure of what to say or do. The air conditioning has seemingly turned off, and all the heat of summer has descended upon you.
“Thanks,” you stammer. Nonetheless, your hand circles around it anyway, the chill of the ice against the cup a blessing. “You didn’t need to, but thanks. Really. That’s very sweet of you. You—you know I work here, right?”
He laughs. “Yeah, but I know you like it and… it’s just a gift. Fundraising for my idea, if you wanna look at it that way. But it’s for you. Did I get it right? I remember you telling me that you liked boba more than jelly.”
“50% is my usual, but it doesn’t matter.” You bring the drink to your chest, almost cradling it. Your heart thuds against your apron, wanting to imprint itself on the plastic cup. “Thank you.”
The doors swing open, and a group of rowdy friends clamor in. Yeji yells a welcome as she hurries over to the register as they crowd around the menu. She shoots you a nervous look.
“I need to get back,” you say, “but thanks again. I’ll see you soon?”
After a moment, he replies, “Yeah, I should get going too. Tell your dad hi and bye for me.”
“Of course. Have a nice night.”
You hide your present underneath the counters and fall in line behind Yeji as she taps on the screen of the register. You half listen to the orders. Jeongin left a few seconds ago, so you sneak one last glimpse of him through the window. He sips his drink while he walks. His straw is the same light brown of your cap and apron.
Your gazes meet, and you suddenly crave a particular extra sweet drink.a
a/n: would you believe me if i told you that i wrote this just to show off that receipt i made in the banner?
