let’s play (w/) ball(s)

i love this blog and everyone here but i think i’m gonna go so please save all these writings and download them before i delete

if anyone still keeps up with it i want you to know you have been so kind to me and i found lots of joy here.

i also want you to know i have an incomplete jisung fic for the royalty fic and an incomplete haechan fic i never posted for the mark wedding series so will post them and anyone can take and repost them with no hate from me

i love u and ncity and stray kids forever and all the joy they have brought me

so be happy always and forever

janet xxxxxxxx

angst, fluff, exes to lovers

busy

“so, i’m thinking to just invite all the kids from our street. from the corner of the park down to jaems’ house,” mark mentions offhandedly, signalling a few seconds too late as he turns down a one way street.

a beep follows and haechan, not well versed with the rules of the road himself, confidently flips off the culprit on his best friend’s behalf before asking, “the swing side or the field side?”

“field side, plus we didn’t really know anyone from the other side too well. well apart from y/n, but i already invited her-”

“what?” mark had a knack for this kind of thing. starting at zero and cranking it up to a boiling one hundred. “y/n? as in-as in my y/n?”

mark side eyes as best he can, eyes still pinned to the road as he questions his friend. “do we know another y/n?”

“no. but- you know what i mean.”

“yeah, man. i know,” mark’s sigh only works to thicken the air, “but my mum added her on facebook and she saw my relationship status change and liked it and- yeah.” his fingers drum anxiously against his jean clad thigh as he thinks up a way to fix this. “listen, i know i should have asked you first-”

“no, come on,” haechan defends, his head meeting the headrest with a purposeful thud. “i mean, she’s your friend too.”

“true.” as mark turns onto his street, they both silently agree to neglect that flat out lie. because mark isn’t your friend. not anymore. not since haechan ‘won’ him in the break up. much like he won all your friends. hell, you’re pretty certain your invite to mark’s wedding was more of an apology than anything. a ‘hey, i know we were friends for over fifteen years, and we lived through an infinite amount of firsts, and we made a pact to be best friends forever, but i’m getting married and i’m sorry you found out about it on facebook and that i haven’t spoken to you since you and hyuck broke up. but i’d love for you to come. rsvp.’

as they enter mark’s childhood home, and mark swims in relief of his kind of well received news, haechan wallows in his own web of lies. or more precisely, the truth. because, you see, no one except you and haechan knew the truth about your breakup. knew the ins and outs. the meaning behind those cryptic insults weeks after it ended. no one knew that puppy love, so pure and precious could warp into something so malicious it tore holes in life long friendships. no one but you two knew the truth.

“so,” haechan tries minutes later, fingers clasped around his newly opened beer. “how is she?”

“y/n?” mark smiles at his friend’s interest, though his excitement is short lived. “uh, good. we didn’t talk for long, she seemed busy.”

“right,” a question creeps up his throat, almost clawing its way out before he takes a long sip, his fingers digging into his knee. ‘did she ask about me?’

“she asked about you,” mark adds off handedly, his obliviousness irking haechan to no end. “well, she asked about everyone in general. sl i told her we’re all good.”

“is that it?”

“yeah,” he shrugged, shutting the fridge. “said she’s excited to see us all again.”

haechan says nothing. he opts instead to wonder how true that really is. whether you had forgotten all the rotten things he’d said to you that night. whether you had something you wanted to say, something you needed to say.

it has been almost four years since you left.

it was a week before college began. hyuck had decided to stay local, aim for something in trade, maybe electrics or plumbing. he’d fallen head over heels for this small town. swore up and down his heart belonged on this street. though more accurately, wherever you were. which was always beside him. though it would no longer, once you left. you’d decided on law. always quoting something from marx, freedom fighters or hamilton - just for his sake. whether it be humanitarian law, human rights, social justice. in pig latin, french or hieroglyphics, haechan listened. he committed your every utterance to memory. whether he understood or not, haechan knew it meant something to you, and that was enough.

and yet try as he may, even as the words to this day ring deafeningly in his ears, there was one thing he couldn’t understand. or just wouldn’t. to this day haechan doesn’t know what set him off. your nonchalance, your inflection, your eyes. eyes that at first glance seemed fearful, until they gleamed as you stared directly at the sun. as he questioned you, you did what you always did under scrutiny. you ran. you left and he chased, demanding answers to reasonable questions. at least initially. haechan can’t put a time stamp on it, but the night took a turn, his confusion slowly morphing into accusation. his concern turning to pity. his love rotting to hate.

that night, haechan watched the light go out behind your eyes. though, as time passes, he thinks maybe it was never behind them. maybe it was his own light reflected in your eyes. and he was heated to incandescence by your love. and maybe, like our own star will one day come to pass, your own star burned out too.

haechan is plagued by thoughts of you leading up to the wedding. he’d never admit he always wondered how you had been. whether you ever did get into politics. he was never one to watch the news, but he sometimes looks for you in global health columns, scans for picture. he wonders how you look. did you ever get that nose piercing you wanted? or the sun on your back? what about that ass? you always turned down dessert but raided his snack cupboard at first mention. he and his mother don’t mention the matcha kit kats he refuses to throw out, though neither of them enjoy them. he even wonders what you feel like. even after all this time away, can one still feel like home?

in the same time, you’ve wondered if you can even face him again. four years is a long time to stay mad. but it’s even longer to grow. it was enough to give jaemin courage, and jeno a voice. it was even enough to get mark on one knee. so maybe it was enough to march you through that church, breaths as shallow as they can be and your head held high. as you pass old faces, you can’t help but smile, a melancholic grin stealing your lips with every person who greets you.

the first had been mark’s father. he held you in his arms like he’d thought you dead, his chest shaking with joy as laughter ripped through him. you held back a hush as he called for his wife, mark’s mother rushing across the carpeted floor before she too scooped you up. their grins only widen as they note your company, jokes made of your rsvp forgoing mention of a plus one. they’re distracted for a split second so you take the chance to flee, bumping right into jaemin. he’s stood off to the side, handsome as ever. visibly more so as skin tightens around his jaw, foot tapping as he eyes a confessional door. when his eyes land on you he gasps with his whole frame, latching onto you like you might disappear between his very fingers.

“i can’t believe it’s you.” he murmurs after what feels like minutes. he holds you at arms length, taking you all in. “a bob, huh?”

“a long bob,” you correct, smiling as his eyes glimmer in the most painful way. “come on, it’s not that bad, jaemin.”

“it’s not.” he sniffs, eyes flicking between you and your left before they settle on your plus one. “oh?” he asks playfully, brow arched in a way that done by anyone else, would piss you off terribly. “and who is this?”

“i’m-”

“y/n?”

scientists say it’ll be another eight billion years before the sun burns out, taking with it everything in our lowly solar system. the blast could be enough to wipe out most of the neighbouring systems. it would end the lives of trillions before mankind ever got a chance to confirm them.

you once thought in the seconds that pass, between hearing his voice speak your name, in that same sweet way, and your eyes finding his, you would give everything to bring forth dooms day. you’d beg the sun to vaporise every last inch of this place of worship, taking you with it.

but something changed.

after losing every friend you ever had. losing your very home and fleeing to the country. after losing the only person you couldn’t picture yourself living without. you found a reason to live.

“mommy,” that reason whispers around his thumb, his small fist wiggling to your pinky. “mommy, you said it’s rude to stare.”

“yes!” jaemin cheers, obnoxiously agreeing with a three year old he’s never met, but somehow recognises. “yes, it is..”

“haechan!” your son announces, grinning proudly as he shakes jaemin’s open hand. “but my mommy calls me channie.”

“she does?” jaemin asks, eyes catching mark as he heads your way, looking to be in search of someone. “hey, is it okay if i call you channie?”

“hm, i don’t know,” channie hums, tugging on your pinkie and thumb this time. you watch haechan’s eyes flick to the small fists that surround your digits, resolve slowly leaving him as he gazes at the boy. “mommy, can he?”

“if you don’t mind, baby,” you rush as soon as his gaze returns to you, the clogs behind his eyes whirring in real time. “it’s up to you.”

when channie finally nods, jaemin gives a big sigh of relief before asking, “well channie, do you maybe want to meet your mommy’s friend, mark? he’s getting married today, and he looks really nervous, i think making a new friend will help calm him down. what do you think?”

“i don’t know,” he hums again, eyes boring up at your waiting ones. “is he like mister mark from your stories, mommy?”

“yeah, exactly.” you marvel at the wonder in his eyes, his fists tightening around your digits as he stomps in excitement. “shall we go say hi?”

“i’ll take him.” jaemin offers, looking at you with those same kind eyes. “if that’s okay with you?” your eyes drift down again to your son’s pleading eyes. you cast your gaze to haechan for only a second and regret it when you find he’s wandered toward an empty confessional, awaiting you. you just nod, jaemin and channie both cheering. “we’ll be right over there, okay?”

“okay,” you agree as you watch them leave. channie probably nattering about his reflection in his smart shoes and jaemin still seeing sun spots. you watch them approach mark and his gaze flit between the unusual pair before jaemin points towards you. a smile creeps on mark’s face before jaemin finishes and it rounds into surprise. in these moments you see time cannot change mark, especially as he kneels down to greet the near exact miniature of his best man.

the old church is still as cold as you remember it, even in late spring. as you enter, you see haechan leant against the back wall, leaving the side by the door and the radiator for you. you map your easy escape, ignoring the clinks of the piping as the radiator whirs to life.

“it should warm up in a minute.” his sudden gesture breaks the silence in the weirdest of ways. it’s not why you’re in here. you both know that. so why would he pussyfoot around the point with small talk? pointing to the radiator behind you, he asks, “you still always cold?”

“yeah,” you answer anyway, clinging to the warming metal. “you still always hot?”

“of course,” he scoffs, smiling as your eyes roll. a silence threatens to settle again when you do the same as him, delay the inevitable.

“so,” inhaling the dusty air, you turn away from him and toward the wooden door. “mark’s getting married.”

“yeah,” he sighs, slipping onto the bench lining the walls. “they met in college. which is weird because he’s been planning this day since we were- what, eleven?”

“yeah, that’s crazy.. but jaem started at like eight though, right?” you laugh, letting yourself fall under the spell of nostalgia. “to be honest, i though he and mark’s cousin would be first.”

“really?” he asks, a quizzical look staining the barely wrinkled parts of his face. “i always thought it’d be us.” the room stills then.

“yeah, well,” you shrug, huffing as you stand. “i guess we were both wrong.”

“i guess so.” he watches you slowly pace, two steps up and down as he thinks up something to make up for four lost years. “it’s crazy how you can know someone your whole life and yet not really know them at all.”

“what is that supposed to mean?”

“it means,” eyeing you as you halt, he shrugs, “it means whatever you want it to mean.”

“you asked me in here.” you remind, pointing at his lax form as you consider enacting your mapped escape. “so if you have something you want to say, say it.”

“is he mine?”

“i-is he yours?” your scoff is drenched in hatred, so much so haechan straightens, his spine flat on the damp stone wall. “haechan, allow me to make something very clear to you: nothing of mine is yours. he is my son.”

“oh, and you just made him on your own?”

“i might as well have,” you practically growl. “i seem to recall his father wanting nothing to do with him.”

“well, i’m sure you gave him a choice-”

“don’t do that. don’t act like it’s my fault. don’t act like i walked out on us, hyuck. because i didn’t.”

“no,” he laughs, tongue stuffed in his cheek. “no, you ran out me.”

“i ran?”

“yeah, y/n, you ran. you left me.”

“hyuck, i told you i was pregnant you didn’t want to hear it. any of it. you told me i was delusional. that we weren’t endgame. that i was insane to think we weren’t just convenient-”

“y/n, you had a scholarship. y-you wanted to change the world-”

“i wanted you!”

haechan reels as you shake, his brain holding him still as his hear pumps blood to his finger tips, urging his every limb towards you. with mind over matter, he hold still, only imagining his arms wrapping around you as you begin to cry.

“i needed you, hyuck. and you weren’t there.” he refuses to picture it. months spent alone, worrying over every detail of the rest of your life as he lay in bed dreaming up a future that was so obviously far fetched his stomach turns. “so keep telling yourself whatever makes you feel better. that i ran out on you, on us.

“but just remember that when i left, i didn’t take everything with me, okay? not like you did. you got mark, and jaem, jeno, the girls. you left me nothing. no one. my son thinks my whole life is a bedtime story. because how do i tell that boy who thinks i put fucking stars in the sky, that no one loves me anymore? tell me. tell me how i tell him his fucking father left me just to clear his conscience, hm? tell me!”

“i didn’t know! i didn’t know you kept him.” haechan admits, unsure what fuels him more, his guilt or his rage. “i didn’t even know where you were. i thought you were off interning for the UN, ending wars, running for president!”

“oh, grow up! how old are you, haechan-”

“silly mommy!” missed the knock “i’m three and one quarter!”

“y/n i’m so sorry i need to warn jeno before mark kills him one sec”

“mommy, were you shouting?” haechan looks confused as channie grabs u by both cheeks, like one would a child. “the stories say never to shout, even when you’re angry, because-

“shouting means you’ve already lost.” he looks at channie in wonder before looking at u for a second. “where’d you learn that from, kid?”

“mr haechan from my bedtime stories.” “he used to be my favourite.”

“why’s that?”

“because he was my mommy’s favourite.” “she smiled the most at his bits.” “and because my name is haechan. but now my favourite is mr jaemin because uncle jaemin said he’d give me cake if i made mr jaemin my favourite.”

“did he now?” you chime in, a playful glare stealing a squeal from the boy. “and what about miss y/n.”

“she’s my favourite favourite,” “because she reminds me of my mommy.”

fluff, angst, smut, royal!au, cw: assault mention, ptsd, war,

hm

“whose dick do i have to suck to get served in these parts!”

your earliest memories of a tavern were from behind the bar. sat up on a shelf, watching loftily as your parents rush, practically dance from end to end. it was a beautiful dance, choreographed over years of

as a near lifelong barmaid, you have always found it easy to do the same. all while paying soldiers no mind. with many of them readily coming to your aid in the face of tax men and short changed patrons, you really do get by. but you do get the odd one. one who comes in with an inflated ego, an absence of sense, and seemingly something to prove.

he’s a foot soldier, you can tell from his tin armour and plainly brandished sword. you don’t immediately recognise any of his fellow soldiers, their noses too deep in their gossip and their ale to pay their comrade any mind. so that’s when he approaches, it always is. when their voice of reason is too many feet away to hear, to reason, as its purpose suggests.

“hey.” though polite enough, you’re not sure you’re all that convinced. and neither are you bothered. especially not tonight. “my friends and i are celebrating and we need some more-”

“celebrating what?”

“what?” he scoffs heartily. “why, the end of the war!” when you just nod and return to drying tankards, he bristles, that false civility cracking rather speedily. “four more ales, please.”

“no.”

“wh- what do you mean no?”

“what i mean,” another patron enters, blatantly ignoring the closed sign thanks to soldiers one through four who took closing up as a lock in. “what i mean is we are closed. so no. get out-”there’s a sudden shift in the air as the drunken soldier leans over the bar top and grabs your wrist. fear doesn’t spring forth but rather exasperation, fatigue. you had spent every night since the war’s end up near sunrise. just waiting. only to be rewarded with nothing but poor tempered patrons and restless sleep. so no, you are not scared. you are tired. and you’re unsure which is worse. “i’m sorry,” you laugh, a bitterness tainting it. “i fear you have mistaken my arm for the door handle.”

“no,” he smirks, tightening his grip as he guides your hand to the beer tap. “but i do fear you mistook my order as a request.”

“ah, is that what you fear?” you whisper softly, reaching the end of your tether far sooner than you thought you would. with your free hand, you snatch a beautifully carved blade from beneath the bar and rest it on the soldier’s jugular. “are you sure there is nothing else?”

there’s another shift, and then you feel his fear. but with it comes something else. a stir caused by the newest patron. “sir!” it’s a collective, trained response to someone you know will interfere. all you do is huff, teeth gritting as you tighten your fist around the blade.

“at ease soldiers.” the voice approaches you and you refuse to falter, dead set on taking this prick’s head. “might i ask what the problem is?”

“s-she wouldn’t serve us, sir han.”

“and so.. she put a blade to your neck?” his laugh fills the air, far giddier than the mood allows for. “i’m sure there’s more to the story soldier, let me hear it.”

“he grabbed my arm.” there’s a pause as the two look down, and low and behold, his sweaty palm still grips tightly around your wrist.

“and look at that,” han sings, “you have her arm in your hand there soldier-” as if finally clued up, you’re quickly released, though you make no move to lower your blade. “but seems you’re still in a bit of trouble here.”

“look, i-i let go! sir, get her off me!”

“hmm, no. i don’t think i will.” han shrugs as he hops onto the freshly cleaned bar top. “shall i tell you why?” when the soldier moves to nod, you press harder. suddenly the dressed down knight eyes another comrade of the man whose life you hold in your hands. “you!” me? he mouths, pointing toward himself. “yes, you!”

“sir!”

“can you tell me the name of this wonderful tavern?” when he shakes his head, han sighs, gesturing to the door. “get up. go out front, and come tell everyone.”

“sir!” he yells on return. “it’s sungie’s inn, sir!”

“yes! that’s right! and do you know what sungie is short for?” three collective head shakes usher the response. “jisung. han jisung.”

the man at your mercy’s eyes cut to jisung who is already staring hard at him. “s-sir, t-this is-”

“yes, this is my tavern.” hopping down from the bar top, he skips over to the other soldiers, patting their soldiers. “and you are my patrons,” he laughs, skipping back toward the bar. “and most importantly, the beautiful woman who has been serving you all night,” he sighs sweetly, eyes softening only when they land on you. “is my wife.”

“s-sir, i didn’t know! i-if i knew, i never-”

“no, i’m sure you would never,” jisung coos, clicking his tongue regretfully. “but what kind of soldier lays his hand on a barmaid just doing her job? what kind of man? hm?”

“sir-”

“enough, enough!” he waves the trembling man off before leaning on the bar, offering up a tight lipped smile. “as convincing as i’m sure your excuses would be, i don’t want them.” the soldier can hardly believe his ears, his eyes flicking from you to your husband, terrified. “no, you keep hold of those for your poor wives. no, what i want, is resolutions!”

“resolutions, sir?”

“yes, soldier! your comrade put his hands on my wife! how do you think i as a husband-” he glances down suddenly, oddly forlorn. “-as a man, should resolve this? hm?” “i have waited, journeyed a long four days to return to her, hoping only to find her safe.” “and this is what i find?”

“sir, i-i apologise-”

“why?” “you know, soldier? not once have you thought to address my wife, only me. why is that?” “do you believe she is beyond reason? that your life more likely saved if i were to bargain?” “well i won’t.” “so you better pray she take mercy on you. because if it were me, i would not forgive so easily.”

“lady han-”

“i am not a lady.”

“mrs han!” “i beg of you, please spare my life!”

your eyes immediately meet your husband’s, your grip already loosening at the softness you find there. you see yourself reflected back, the gleam his presence so effortlessly conjured. with no guidance from him, you sigh. tip toeing to look over the bar top, eyeing the floor beneath the man. “so long as he mops up his piss before he leaves, fine.”

“wonderful!” with a quick clap of his hands, jisung points the other soldiers to where you store the rags. when they return you eye jisung once more before lowering the blade. jisung hushes the soldier’s blubbered appreciation while ushering the mop into his hands. “quickly now!”

you disappear to the back, uncharacteristically giddy for what just occurred in the bar. it’s there you make collect yourself, removing your apron, fixing your hair. you’re seconds from applying lipstick when the tavern door shuts, hurried steps approaching the back door. you hurry in kind, hovering at the kitchen top, back turned as you hear his slow steps approach you.

“hi there,” he greets, his voice alone enough to lull you out of your act, your grin as wide as his when you finally turn to him. “come ‘ere.”

you’re in his arms before you can think to make yourself move. he collects you in full, his thick arms wrapped right around your waist, his slow spins dizzying you in the same way his touch does. even when he stops, he keeps his hold on you, keeping you high in the air, enjoying the feel of you resting on him. here with him.

“couldn’t keep out of trouble for another few days, hm?”

“the war ended four days ago, sungie,” he coos at the name from the very lips that coined it, after having grown used to it leaving changbin in pure jest. “i was getting restless.”

“ah, then it is my fault?”

“of course,” you pout, trying to move away from him, only for him to latch onto the waist of your blouse, tugging you forward again. “you know how i get without you.”

he casts his gaze skyward, umming and ahing as you giggle at him. “nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“i get needy, don’t i?” like a flicked switch, he hums in remembrance. “start acting all crazy! almost kill a man!”

“well, that’s no good,” he tuts into your forehead, lips pursed as he rocks you side to side. “gotta take care of that.”

“how?” you wonder aloud, gazing up at his tired face. it’s funny. how after all this time apart, you still see the signs so plainly. his pout, his sunken cheeks, his red eyes. unraveling your arms from his waist, you run your hands up his tensed arms, pausing every so often to firmly press your thumbs into the muscle. his forehead rests against yours, lowly grunts leaving him with every knot you undo. “how is he?”

he tries to speak, but only nods. his teeth catch his lip as it threatens to tremble. he nods harder when your palms meet his cheek, finger pressing against the nape of his neck, unravelling the tension. “he’s okay.”

“that wasn’t your fault, sungie.”

“i know-” your thumbs meet the corners of his eyes, mopping his tears as they come. “i just- lady seo had to come see him and i- i just- what if that was you? if changbin hadn’t been there, he would’ve got me from behind and i-”

“hey,” even you can’t stop them as they fall. but in them is regret, fear, dread and guilt. all things a knight tried to leave on the battlefield but hard as they might, they fail. and as is life. a perilous combination of trial and error. of war and bloodshed, harmony and peace. no knight, no soldier, no matter how mighty or brave can control that. what they can do is accept it. and what you can do, is quell it. “let me take you to bed.”

it’s silent as you ready yourself, warmed by the feel of his eyes on your back as you remove your blouse and skirt. as you reach for your silks, you hear him rise, his feet slowly carrying him to your rear where he discards of your nightwear. his hands close around your hips before he spins you, instead guiding your hands to his lips where they purse against your knuckles before lowering them to his shirt. wordlessly, you undress him. undoing each button with less haste, you sigh as he pulls you in closer, his lips dragging up the soft, bare skin of your shoulder.

as you reach the last button, he sucks gently at your skin, lapping at the pulse beneath your jaw. “ah- sungie.”

“mm?” you move to reach for the waist of his slacks, only for him to guide your open palm to his crotch. one press of his hips has your fist closing, wrapping around him as he rocks into you. “i missed you.”

“of course you did,” you huff, squeezing him tighter as your other hand undoes his button. “i doubt anyone there would do all this for you.”