1 - 20 of 24 Works by ofallthings
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Chan walks Jisung to the subway station.
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On the window screen, a cicada screeches nonstop. The gears of a ticking clock disfigure Hyunjin’s patience. Slithering up the notches of his spine, annoyance strikes out along the width of his shoulders and a square of tile cracks beneath the fisted hilt of the knife.
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The wooden table, worn but well cared for, is completely bare save for an empty coffee cup and lanky, crossed arms supporting a face-down head. Tufts of unruly hair sit in waves around two brown ears, the tips nearly touching the tabletop until Minho shuffles into the room and the pale-pink inside of one flicks in his direction.
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Chan hasn’t thrown anything out. If he were good at lying, he’d say he has. If he were good, Jisung might not be coming back for something but coming home.
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This is not happening.
Minho’s heat isn’t for another—he counts on his fingers—two weeks. He’s supposed to have two more weeks before the soreness in his chest sets in and his stomach begins to cramp and he has to wear a pad to manage the near-constant mess between his legs.
But more importantly than all of that, Chan is supposed to be here for it. Not on another godforsaken continent where, at best, it’d take half a day for him to get back to Minho.
And God, Changbin—right down the hallway in their living room—can probably smell the heat on him.
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“Jisung’s got a crush,” Chan teases, bumping shoulders with her as the embarrassment turns her cheeks a pretty shade of pink.
The couch in Chan’s living room is large enough to fit the three of them but Minhee’s on the floor instead, a safe distance from the pair as the teasing unfolds. From what she’s heard, Chan’s not wrong, but that doesn’t make having the obvious addressed aloud any less upsetting—it still causes Minhee to shift where she sits, subtly trying to relieve the discomfort stirring in her chest. The object of Jisung’s affection is her coworker: a kind, intelligent, physically attractive man who, (here’s the cherry on top), is 188 centimeters tall. Minhee checks none of those boxes. (She’s, like, 172 centimeters tall when she reminds herself not to slouch.)
The contrasts are striking; she doesn’t compare at all.
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Warm, dim light from the corner lamp casts shadows over the walls of the bedroom, sharp edges and soft curves and Hyunjin’s own silhouette. It’s late.
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Jisung wants to walk fully clothed into the salt water. It’s late. They’ll miss the last train, but that was part of the plan from the very start: to make it an all-nighter. The older they get, the less time they spend together. College made meeting up easier—they were always on campus, one call and a few minutes’ walk from one another. It’s strange to think of how much has changed and how much hasn’t.
Glimpses of Jisung’s life as seen by the ocean.
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Time feels odd with only the rise and fall of the sun to go by. Seungmin knows the seasons—spring’s vibrant plum blossoms, the heavy rain of summer and the cool, dry autumn before winter brings snowfall—but he’s lost count of how many they’ve cycled through. It’s hard to keep track. Not that it matters much. It’d just be nice to know how long it’s been. How old he is.
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the snow is not falling, but it feels like it might by ofallthings for jijiwashere
Fandoms: Stray Kids (Band)
19 Jul 2025
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As soon as Seungmin presses the first digit on the keypad, Kkami starts barking. He keeps barking while Seungmin steps inside, out of his shoes, hangs his coat on the hook by the door, drops his bag, then crouches down to say, “Hi, Kkami.” Only once Seungmin reaches out to pet him does the barking finally stop. “You’re almost worse than your owner, you know,” Seungmin tells him, rolling his eyes but smiling when Kkami wags his tail. Attention-hungry and impatient, but exceptionally adorable. “Almost.” Hyunjin is more demanding, but that’s Chan’s problem; for seven days, while they’re off on a couple’s vacation, Kkami is Seungmin’s.
Hyunjin plays matchmaker by double-booking two of his friends to dog sit for the holidays.
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If there were any blood on his hands, it’d be on the sheet and the nightstand and the lamp along with its shade, but there is nothing when he switches the light on. His hands are wet only with sweat—no blood, front nor back—and pale. Just the physical symptoms of guilt.
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Minho writes back to Seungmin. Then he keeps writing.
Series
- Part 2 of Letters
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“Don’t be sour,” Minho chides, then asks, “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”
“No.” Seungmin puts his glasses on and makes a face when Minho squeezes a dollop of toothpaste directly onto his tongue. “Are you not going home?”
Sighing, Minho picks up Seungmin’s toothbrush. Seungmin doesn’t recognize the severity of the situation until it’s too late.
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I’ll be addressing you informally in this letter because there’s nothing you can do to stop me. Before we begin, you should know that this wasn’t my idea. (Writing the letter, that is, not the informal use of your name—that was my idea.) Since the letter is mandatory, I should at least have my creative liberties. You agree with that, right? You should. If not, just imagine we got into a fight about it. I always win those.
Series
- Part 1 of Letters
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“How long are you going to leave me blindfolded?”
Both of the strangers ignore him. They’ve not been very hospitable.
“This was not part of the plan,” one of them whisper-yells.
“I know that!” the other hisses back.
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To Seungmin it matters much more than he’d like to dissect, because he doesn’t want to open himself up and see what he’s already certain of: the moment they met, Chan lodged himself into every part of Seungmin like a second nervous system and hasn’t budged the slightest bit since.
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Winter hit hard, singed them with brutal temperatures, and Hyunjin is taking it as well as he can.
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By now, Seungmin should be used to it. In every other part of his life, he’s level-headed and rational. Performs so well under pressure Chan started sending him out on jobs well before he normally would with a new member of the group. Seungmin is just that good. The other guys see him as an asset to the team; Minho apparently sees him as someone to toy with. It rattles Seungmin, but not in a way that makes him want to do anything that would put an end to it.
The next time they kiss, Seungmin bites Minho's lip hard enough to break through the delicate skin and taste blood.
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The handle detaches. Just breaks clean off the body of the mug untouched, clattering on the tabletop, and startles Hyunjin still.
Series
- Part 3 of all over again
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They’ve been best friends since the day they met and something more for nearly as long, though it’s never been named. Maybe it doesn’t need to be. Jisung gets to hold Minho’s hand and kiss him whenever he feels like it, and more importantly he gets to just exist with him: stupid jokes and whiny complaints and fond teasing. As much as Jisung has the capacity to worry himself to death over nearly everything, it’s never applied to Minho, at least not in the same way.