The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
Hello goddess 🫶☺️ I would like to request your services 😝😝. As you know Han is my ultimate bias even tho they all creeping up on me from every corner trying to get me. Would love Nerdsung, reader is also a nerd and they have this “love hate” thing (like smart mouthing each other), you know how they say between love and hate there’s a thin line. And the rest of the magic I leave it to you you can change it hover you want if you need to. But the smut magic is yours. 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
Endgame
Gamer nerd!Han x Gamer nerd!F reader
Hello my lovely! Thank you for the request (and also the additional details behind the scenes lol). This was honestly so fun to write and I really hope I did it justice. Originally when you wrote nerd i automatically went to student type of thing. When you explained gamer then ooooo everything clicked into place.
The amount of LOL terminology I had to research for this is insane…
I definitely got a little bit carried away with this slow burn, panty soaking, thigh clenching smut. And as per usual: Eat a snack, drink some water, put a towel down, and get ready to read ;)
Content warning: angst, enemies to lovers, fluff, banter, choking, overstimulation, Dom! Jisung, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it folks!!), fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, praise, degrading, hair pulling.
The Discord call was already a warzone before you even joined.
“—and if you fucking die one more time, Jisung, I swear to god I’m throwing the whole ranked session,” you snapped the second your mic flipped on, not even bothering with a hello. Your fingers were already flying across the keyboard, queuing up for another match while the rest of the voice channel erupted in groans.
“Relax, princess,” Jisung’s voice came through, that signature smug drawl that made your blood boil every single time. “Some of us actually know how to carry. Maybe if you stopped playing like a scared support main and actually—”
“Support main? I’m mid lane, asshole. You’re the one who picked ADC and then fed the enemy jungler for twenty minutes last tournament.”
A round of laughter exploded from the others—Chan trying (and failing) to play peacemaker, Minho straight-up cackling, Seungmin muttering something about needing popcorn.
This was your friend group. Seven chaotic nerds who’d been raiding, grinding ranked, and shit-talking each other for years. And somehow, in the middle of it all, Han Jisung had become your eternal rival.
It started back in high school gaming parties. You’d wiped the floor with him in your first League match and he’d never recovered. Since then it had been war: solo queue climbs, tournament brackets, even stupid 1v1 customs where you’d both scream insults until someone begged you to stop. You hated how good he was. You hated how he smiled that cocky little grin when he outplayed you. You hated the way your stomach flipped every time his voice got low and focused during a clutch play.
You definitely didn’t think about that last part.
“Both of you shut up and lock in,” Changbin grumbled. “We’re not losing another promo because you two are mentally undressing each other through the screen again.”
“I am not—” you started hotly.
“Speak for yourself, binnie,” Jisung shot back, and you could hear the smirk. “She wishes.”
Your face burned. You muted yourself for three seconds just to scream into your pillow.
The match loaded. You were on opposite teams again—because the universe loved to punish you. You flexed your fingers, eyes locked on your champion pick. The game was your escape, your battlefield, your one place where you could be vicious and brilliant and untouchable. And Han fucking Jisung kept invading it.
Twenty-five minutes later your team had surrendered. Not because you played badly—you went 12/3—but because Jisung had popped off so hard the enemy team, his team, snowballed into oblivion. When the victory screen flashed for the blue side, his obnoxious laugh filled the call.
“Get fucked,” he sang. “Better luck next time, loser.”
“Rematch,” you growled.
“Nah. I’m up 3-0 on you this month. Take the L gracefully for once.”
The call dissolved into the usual post-game chaos—people leaving for food, others queuing again, Chan trying to organize the next group hang. Which was the problem. Because tonight wasn’t just online. Tonight the whole group was meeting up at Minho’s place for their monthly “no girls allowed… except you, you don’t count” gaming party. Meaning you had to sit in the same room as Jisung for minimum six straight hours.
⸻
You showed up at Minho’s with your gaming laptop bag slung over your shoulder and murder in your eyes. The basement was already filled with the smell of pizza, energy drinks, and warm electronics. Felix and Seungmin were arguing over snack distribution. Hyunjin was setting up fairy lights because “vibes matter even in ranked hell.” Chan waved at you from the couch, controller in hand.
And there was Jisung.
Sprawled on the big beanbag like he owned the place, black hoodie pushed up to his elbows, silver rings catching the light as he scrolled on his phone. His hair was messy in that stupidly cute way that made you want to yank it. Or slap him.
Both. Definitely both.
“Looking tense,” he commented without even looking up. “Scared I’ll smoke you again?”
“You wish, squirrel boy.”
He finally glanced at you, dark eyes narrowing with that familiar spark. The one that said game on. Your heart did something traitorous—half rage, half something you refused to name.
The night went exactly as expected.
You two ended up on the same couch because there weren’t enough seats. Every time your shoulders brushed you both recoiled like you’d been burned. When you crushed him in a 1v1 mid lane, he threw a controller—gently—into your lap and called you a tryhard. When he clutched a team fight later, he leaned way too close to your ear and whispered “that’s how it’s done” in a voice that should be illegal.
You hated him.
You hated the way he remembered your go-to comfort character. You hated how he’d bring you your favorite energy drink without asking, then immediately ruin it by saying “don’t say I never did anything for you, deadweight.” You hated the little moments where the insults softened for half a second—like when you clutched a game and he muttered “not bad” under his breath, almost proud.
⸻
By 2 a.m. most of the guys had crashed. Felix was snoring on the floor. Chan had retreated upstairs to “be responsible.” You and Jisung were the only ones still grinding, side by side on the giant monitor setup, the rest of the room dark except for the glow of screens.
You were losing this one. Badly.
“Fuck,” you hissed as your champion died for the third time.
Jisung leaned back, stretching with a satisfied groan. His hoodie rode up, revealing a sliver of stomach. You looked away fast.
“Tap out?” he asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of you.
“Never.”
He turned his head. For once there was no smirk. Just those sharp eyes studying you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he’d been stuck on for years.
“You know,” he said slowly, “sometimes I can’t tell if I actually hate you or if I’m just addicted to beating you.”
Your breath caught. The air between you felt suddenly thick, charged. The kind of tension that had been building for literal years—every barb, every tournament loss, every forced group hang where you sat too close.
You swallowed hard.
“Feeling’s mutual, Han.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t throw another insult. Just kept looking at you, something raw and dangerous flickering behind the rivalry mask.
For a second you thought he might say it. The thing neither of you had ever admitted.
Instead he killed your champion one last time and whispered, “Good game.”
You wanted to scream.
Because this wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It hadn’t been for a long time. And as you sat there in the dark basement, heart racing, cheeks warm, controller clenched in your fists—you realized you were completely, utterly fucked.
The worst part?
You were starting to think he was too.
⸻
The morning light filtering through Minho’s basement windows felt like a personal attack. You groaned, rolling over on the shitty air mattress someone had inflated for you at 3 a.m., your neck already protesting the awkward angle. The room smelled like stale pizza and too many boys who’d stayed up all night. Your laptop was still open on the coffee table, screen dimmed, last night’s defeat staring back at you like a bad ex.
Han Jisung was already awake.
Of course he was.
He sat cross-legged on the beanbag, hoodie swapped for a ratty old graphic tee, controller in his lap while he queued into a casual match. His hair was a fluffy disaster, silver earrings catching the light every time he tilted his head. He looked… annoyingly soft in the daylight. Like the kind of boy you’d daydream about if he wasn’t such an insufferable prick.
You hated that your brain even went there.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said without looking over, that smug lilt already in full force. “Sleep well? Or were you too busy replaying all the ways I destroyed you last night?”
“Die in a ditch, Han,” you muttered, pushing yourself up and immediately regretting it as your head throbbed. Too much energy drink, not enough water. Classic gaming party mistakes.
He finally glanced your way, dark eyes scanning you for half a second longer than necessary. Something flickered there—concern? Amusement? You couldn’t tell, and you didn’t want to. You looked away fast, busying yourself with folding the stupid air mattress.
The rest of the house was slowly waking up. Felix stumbled downstairs with bedhead and a plate of leftover pizza, offering you a sleepy “g’day” in his extra deep morning voice. Chan appeared next, ever the dad friend, passing out water bottles like they were sacred relics. “Hydrate, kids. We’re hitting the arcade at two if you’re all still alive.”
Great. More forced proximity.
You and Jisung ended up in the kitchen at the same time—because the universe clearly had a vendetta. He was reaching for the orange juice when you went for the coffee maker. Your arms brushed. You jerked back like he’d shocked you.
“Jumpy much?” he teased, pouring himself a glass. “Afraid I’ll steal your win streak next?”
“It’s not a win streak if you only win when I’m half-dead from sleep deprivation,” you shot back, slamming the coffee mug down harder than necessary. “And don’t act like you weren’t sweating last night when I almost clutched that team fight.”
He leaned against the counter, sipping his juice with that infuriating half-smile. Up close, you could see the faint shadows under his eyes. He’d stayed up later than you, probably grinding solo queue after you’d finally passed out. The thought made your chest do something weird—tight and fluttery. You shoved it down immediately. No. Absolutely not. This is just rivalry brain.
“Almost doesn’t count, loser,” he said softly, voice dropping in that way that always got under your skin. “You’re good. Really good. But I’m better.”
The compliment slipped in so casually you almost missed it. Your face heated. You busied yourself with the coffee creamer, muttering, “Keep telling yourself that, squirrel boy.”
Minho walked in then, eyebrows raised at the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. “You two at it already? Save some energy for the arcade. We’re doing that new VR tournament thing, teams of two. I’m pairing you together.”
“What?!” you both said at the same time.
Minho’s smirk was evil. “Exactly. Maybe if you’re forced to work with each other instead of against, you’ll stop acting like feral cats in heat.”
Jisung choked on his juice. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
The denial hit you like a truck. Feral cats in heat? No. This was just… competitive spirit. The way your pulse spiked when he looked at you too long? Annoyance. The way you noticed how his fingers moved on the controller, quick and precise? Pure strategy analysis. Nothing more. You’d been telling yourself the same thing for two years now. It worked. Mostly.
⸻
The arcade was loud, neon-drenched chaos. Your friend group took over half the place—Changbin and Hyunjin dominating the rhythm games, Seungmin quietly destroying everyone at air hockey. You and Jisung got stuck with the VR co-op shooter booth because Minho was a sadist.
Strapped into the headsets, standing way too close in the small pod, the tension ratcheted up another notch. Your shoulders kept brushing. Every time you had to coordinate—“Left flank!” “I see it, dumbass, cover me”—his voice in your ear through the shared comms felt too intimate. Too real.
You died first. He clutched the round and yanked off his headset, grinning like he’d won the lottery.
“See? We make a good team when you stop trying to 1v9 everything.”
“I wasn’t—” You ripped your own headset off, hair static and cheeks flushed from the VR. “You’re the one who kept stealing my kills!”
“Because I’m better at it.” He stepped closer, still buzzing from the win. The arcade lights painted his face in blues and reds. For a split second, the rivalry mask slipped. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Your heart hammered. The denial screamed louder in your head: This is nothing. He’s just trying to psych you out. You hate him. He hates you. End of story.
“Yeah, well,” you forced out, stepping back until your back hit the booth wall, “at least I’m not a cocky little—”
“Little what?” He followed, not quite crowding you but close enough that you could smell his cologne—something clean and woodsy that made your brain short-circuit. His voice lowered. “Go on. Say it.”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. The air felt electric, years of barbed insults and stolen glances and almost moments crashing together in one tiny VR pod. You could practically feel the pull, that invisible thread that had been tightening since the first time he’d called you a noob in voice chat all those years ago.
Then Felix yelled from across the arcade: “Pizza’s here! Get your asses over here before Binnie eats it all!”
The moment shattered. Jisung blinked, stepping back with a shaky laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “Saved by the bell, princess.” You exhaled hard, following him out on unsteady legs.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
But as the group crammed into booths, laughing and arguing over toppings, you caught Jisung watching you again. Not with the usual smirk. Something quieter. Hungrier. Like he was tired of pretending.
You looked away fast, shoving another slice in your mouth. The tournament next weekend was coming up—the big regional one where you always faced off in the finals. Solo queue rivals, forced into the same bracket again and again. You’d beat him this time. You had to. Because if you didn’t… if this stupid tension kept building…
No. You weren’t going there. Not now. Not ever.
He was your rival. Nothing else.
Even if your body disagreed with every fiber of its being.
⸻
The rest of the week blurred between solo grinds, Discord flame wars, and group memes. Every voice call was the same: sharp jabs, quick laughs, lingering silences when it was just the two of you left online. You’d catch yourself staring at his profile picture—a blurry photo of him mid-laugh at last year’s LAN—and immediately close the app, cursing under your breath.
Denial was getting harder to maintain.
And Jisung? He kept pushing. Little things. Sending you a meme at 2 a.m. about “rivals who secretly want to kiss.” “For the group chat,” he’d said. But it was only to you.
You didn’t reply. Couldn’t.
Because admitting anything would mean losing. And you never lost to Han Jisung.
Not yet, anyway.
⸻
The regional tournament was only five days away, and the group chat had been blowing up nonstop. Minho had dubbed it “The Final Showdown” in dramatic fashion, complete with skull emojis and way too many memes of you and Jisung facing off like rival anime protagonists. You tried to laugh it off. You really did. But every notification with his name attached made your stomach twist in that familiar, frustrating way.
You were deep in solo queue when your phone buzzed again. Another Discord ping—this time a direct message from Jisung.
hanji: scrim tonight? chan’s hosting. we need practice if we’re gonna crush the bracket.
You stared at the screen, fingers hovering. Practice meant more time in voice chat with him. More opportunities for that low, focused voice to slip through your headphones and mess with your head. You typed back before you could overthink it.
you: only if you promise not to feed like a bronze player this time.
hanji: bold words from someone who got gapped last game night. see you at 8, loser.
You threw your phone across the bed and buried your face in your pillow. Loser. The word shouldn’t feel like a caress. It was just banter. The same shit you’d been slinging for years. Nothing had changed. You still hated how effortlessly he climbed ranks. You still hated the way he remembered your champion pool better than you did sometimes. You definitely didn’t think about the way his laugh sounded when he got cocky after a pentakill.
Denial was your best friend these days. It kept things simple.
⸻
Chan’s apartment was the usual chaos hub when you arrived. The living room had been transformed into a mini setup—multiple monitors, tangled cables, and enough snacks to feed a small army. The guys were already there: Changbin and Hyunjin arguing over who got the comfiest chair, Seungmin quietly calibrating his settings like the perfectionist he was, Felix hyping everyone up with energy drinks.
Jisung was on the couch, legs spread in that casual way that took up too much space. Black sweats, oversized hoodie, headset around his neck. He looked up when you walked in, and for a split second his expression softened—almost like relief—before the smirk slid back into place.
“Finally. Thought you were gonna chicken out and practice in secret so you could actually beat me this weekend.”
You dropped your bag with a thud and shot him a glare. “Keep dreaming. I’ve been grinding mid lane all week. You’re the one who needs the practice, ADC boy.”
“ADC boy?” He clutched his chest dramatically. “Harsh. And here I was gonna share my secret strats with you.”
“Liar. You’d rather die than help me.”
The group dissolved into laughter as you both settled in. Chan started the custom lobby, pairing teams for scrims. Of course, the universe put you and Jisung on opposite sides again. It was like they all knew exactly how to crank the tension higher.
The matches were brutal. You popped off in the first two—landing skill shots that made the guys cheer and Jisung curse under his breath. But in the third game, he adapted. He always adapted. His jungler ganked your lane perfectly, and suddenly you were under tower, heart racing as his character dove in with perfect timing.
“Got you,” he murmured through the comms, voice low and satisfied right in your ear. Your champion flashed dead on screen.
You muted for a second to let out a frustrated growl. When you unmuted, the others were roasting both of you.
“Han’s hard focusing on her lane again,” Minho teased. “Suspicious.”
“Shut up,” Jisung laughed, but it sounded a little strained. “Just playing the map.”
You didn’t respond. Your cheeks were burning, and you hated it. This was supposed to be simple rivalry. The kind where you wanted to wipe the floor with him and nothing else. So why did every little victory of his feel like it was peeling back another layer you didn’t want exposed?
⸻
After the scrims wrapped, the group shifted to casual mode. Someone put on a fighting game on the big screen. You ended up squished on the couch between Jisung and Felix. Felix was half-asleep, leaving you hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from Jisung’s side. Your thighs were inches apart. Every time he shifted to grab the controller, his knee brushed yours.
You scooted away subtly. He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“Moving away from me now?” he whispered during a loading screen, close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “Scared you’ll lose focus?”
“I’m not scared of anything,” you whispered back, sharper than intended. But your voice wavered. Panic flickered in your chest—this tight, fluttering thing that felt too big for just rivalry. It’s nothing. He’s just messing with you. Like always.
His eyes met yours for a beat too long. The usual spark was there, but deeper. Darker. Like he was searching for the same crack in your armor you refused to acknowledge.
“Yeah?” he said softly. “Prove it.”
The moment broke when Changbin yelled about combos, but the tension lingered like static electricity. You spent the rest of the night hyper-focused on anything but him—laughing too loud at Seungmin’s dry jokes, helping Chan clean up snacks, pretending your pulse wasn’t still racing.
⸻
Later that night, back at home, you couldn’t sleep. You queued into ranked solo instead, chasing the high of improvement. Two games in, a friend request popped up. Jisung.
You accepted before you could stop yourself.
hanji: still awake? saw you climbing. not bad.
you: don’t spy on me, creep.
hanji: can’t help it. we’re rivals. gotta know the enemy.
The chat stayed open for a while. No more messages. Just the knowledge that he was out there, probably doing the same thing. Grinding. Thinking about the tournament. Thinking about you.
You closed the laptop and stared at the ceiling. The denial was cracking, little fractures showing in the quiet moments. The way your body reacted when he got close. The way you replayed his voice in your head during late-night grinds. The panic that hit when you imagined what would happen if you stopped pretending.
You hated him.
You had to hate him.
Because the alternative—that this had never been hate at all—terrified you more than any lost tournament ever could.
The regional was in five days. You’d face him in the bracket. You’d beat him. You’d keep the walls up.
You had to.
⸻
The regional tournament hall thrummed with energy—hundreds of keyboards clacking in unison, big screens casting colorful glows across eager faces, the air thick with the scent of energy drinks and nervous sweat. Your friend group had carved out their usual chaotic corner: snacks scattered everywhere, Hyunjin’s handmade “Good Luck, Don’t Kill Each Other” banner taped crookedly to a chair, and enough inside jokes flying around to drown out the announcer’s voice.
You’d barely slept. Every time you tried, Jisung’s face from those late-night scrims flashed behind your eyelids—focused, intense, that low voice in your ear saying Prove it. You’d told yourself it was just pre-tournament nerves. Rivalry fuel. Nothing more. The denial had become a well-worn shield, comfortable even if it was starting to feel paper-thin.
The bracket had been a grind. You and Jisung both powered through early rounds, your matches a study in contrasts: his flashy, aggressive ADC plays drawing cheers from the crowd, your calculated mid-lane dominance slowly suffocating opponents. Between games, your eyes would catch across the room. He’d give you that small, charged nod—no smirk this time, just something heavier that made your pulse skip. You’d look away fast, burying it under the familiar script.
Rivals. That’s all.
Then quarterfinals arrived.
Jisung’s team drew a stacked squad. You watched from the spectator area with the others, fingers twisted tight in your hoodie sleeves. The match was close at first, but the opponents coordinated perfectly. By the twenty-five minute mark, it was over. Surrender. Elimination.
He walked off stage with his head up, jaw tight, that bright deflecting laugh already in place as the guys swarmed him. “Shit happens. They played better. GG.” But when his eyes found yours in the crowd, the mask slipped for a heartbeat—raw, unguarded, something that looked a lot like quiet pride mixed with frustration. You swallowed hard and turned back to your setup. Focus. You’re still in this.
It didn’t feel like the victory you’d imagined over him. The hollow twist in your stomach said otherwise, but you shoved it down. Denial was louder than any internal voice.
Semifinals were yours. You clutched a brutal comeback, landing a game-changing ultimate that turned a lost teamfight into a total rout. The crowd roared as the nexus exploded. When you stepped off stage, the group was waiting—Felix tackling you in a hug, Changbin lifting you off your feet for a spin, Seungmin offering a rare proud smirk. Jisung hung back a little, arms crossed, but his eyes were locked on you with that same unreadable intensity.
“Nice one,” he said quietly when the others gave you space. No taunt. No “I could’ve done it better.” Just genuine. “You earned that.”
Your cheeks warmed. The safe response slipped out on autopilot: “Yeah, well… someone’s gotta keep the group’s rep up now that you’re out.”
He snorted, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a real smile. The tension between you crackled, years of barbs and late-night grinds and forced proximity humming under the surface. You moved on before it could pull you under.
⸻
Finals.
You stood under the bright stage lights, eyes locked on the screen, facing the last opponent: a cocky jungler who’d been trash-talking all day. Adrenaline pumped through you like electricity. Your hands were steady, but your mind kept drifting to the sidelines where Jisung sat with the rest of the group. He wasn’t glued to the big screen like everyone else. He was watching you—leaning forward, elbows on knees, murmuring occasionally to Chan but never looking away.
The match ignited. You played possessed—sharp rotations, perfect trades, every decision fueled by that burning need to prove something you couldn’t name. The denial whispered in the back of your head: Win this. Beat everyone. Don’t need the rivalry. Don’t need him. But every death timer, your eyes flicked toward him. He looked… invested. Proud, almost. It threw you off balance in the best way.
⸻
You won.
The nexus shattered in a burst of pixels. Victory screen flashed huge across the hall. The crowd erupted. Your opponent offered a stunned handshake—“Damn, good shit”—and then it was over. First place. Everything felt heavy and surreal as you stepped off stage, heart still slamming from the high.
The group exploded toward you. Felix nearly knocked you over with his hug. Hyunjin was waving the banner like a flag. Changbin lifted you again, laughing. Confetti cannons went off somewhere, raining colorful bits over everyone. Pure chaos. Pure joy.
Then Jisung moved.
He pushed through the circle without hesitation, eyes dark and locked on you like the rest of the world had vanished. No smirk. No hesitation. Just raw, built-up need finally breaking free. Before you could process, his hands cupped your face—warm, slightly rough from endless hours at the keyboard—and he kissed you.
Hard.
Right there, in front of the entire tournament hall and your stunned friend group.
Adrenaline was still crashing through your veins like wildfire. The win high, the lights, the roar of the crowd—it all blurred into one electric moment. You didn’t think. You didn’t pull away. Your body reacted on pure instinct, years of unspoken tension snapping like a rubber band. You kissed him back.
Fingers gripping onto his shirt, you leaned into it, lips moving against his with the same fierce energy you brought to every ranked match. He tasted like strawberry candy and salt from nervous sweat, warm and desperate and real. For those few seconds, nothing else existed—no rivalry, no denial, just the collision you’d both been orbiting for years. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, gentle even as the kiss deepened, and you felt the tremor in his hands.
It was messy. Perfect. Over too fast and not fast enough.
When he finally pulled back, breathing ragged, forehead nearly resting against yours, the world rushed back in. The cheers had turned to surprised murmurs and a few wolf whistles from the crowd. Your group was frozen in a circle of wide eyes and open mouths—Minho’s smirk frozen halfway, Chan looking equal parts shocked and relieved.
Jisung’s eyes searched yours, dazed and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen. “I… fuck. You won and I just—”
Your heart was still racing too fast for the panic to fully hit. The adrenaline cushioned everything, leaving you floating in a haze of endorphins and the ghost of his mouth on yours. You stared at him, lips tingling, cheeks flushed, the air heavy between you. For once, no sharp comeback. No immediate denial. Just the overwhelming want that had been hiding under every insult and every late-night voice call.
The group started moving again—Felix letting out a dramatic “Finally!” while Seungmin muttered something about needing therapy after witnessing that. Changbin clapped Jisung on the back a little too hard, laughing.
You managed a shaky laugh, the high still carrying you. “Han… what the hell?”
But it came out softer than you expected. Almost wondering. He gave you a crooked smile, the kind that made your stomach flip, and stepped back just enough to give you air. The tension between you hadn’t broken—it had transformed into something heavier, more dangerous.
The awards ceremony passed in a blur. You accepted the trophy on stage, posed for photos with a dazed smile, the group cheering loud enough to drown out any lingering awkwardness. Jisung stayed close the whole time, not touching but never far. Every glance felt loaded now. The denial was still there, lurking at the edges, but the adrenaline kept it at bay. For now.
⸻
Later, back at Chan’s apartment where the group had retreated for the after-party, the high started to fade.
You sat on the couch, trophy on the coffee table like a ridiculous centerpiece, nursing a drink while the guys replayed tournament highlights on the big screen. Jisung was across the room at first, but he gravitated closer over time—ending up on the arm of the couch near you. His knee brushed your shoulder once. Neither of you moved away.
The panic crept in slowly as the adrenaline drained. Little fractures in the denial. You kissed him back. The realization hit in quiet waves while the others laughed and argued over snacks. Your face heated at the memory—how natural it had felt, how right. How terrifying.
You caught his eye. He was watching you again, that same raw look from the stage. No mask. Just Jisung. Your rival. Your… something else now.
The denial whispered: It was just the moment. The win. It doesn’t mean anything.
But the words felt weaker. The walls were crumbling, and you weren’t sure you could rebuild them fast enough.
He leaned down slightly during a lull, voice low so only you could hear. “We should talk. Later. When it’s not… all this.”
You nodded, throat tight. Panic flickered higher now—tight chest, racing thoughts—but underneath it, something warmer. Scarier. Acceptance hovering just out of reach.
The group meddled in their usual way—side glances, teasing comments—but left you two some space. The night stretched on with games and laughter, but everything felt shifted. Irreversible.
⸻
Later never came.
The days after the tournament blurred into a haze of forced normalcy and mounting panic.
At first, it was easy to hide behind the high. The group chat exploded with memes of the kiss—blurry phone pics from spectators, Hyunjin’s dramatic edits with heart effects, Felix spamming eggplant and fire emojis. Everyone treated it like the inevitable punchline to years of tension. “Finally!” Chan had texted. “Took you two long enough.”
You laughed along in the chat. Short replies. Memes of your own. But every time Jisung’s name popped up, your stomach twisted. You kissed him back. The memory hit at random moments: the warmth of his hands on your face, the way he tasted, the desperate press of his mouth like he’d been starving for it. Adrenaline had let you float through the rest of that night, but once you were alone in your apartment, the denial came crashing back like a tidal wave.
It was just the moment. The win. The lights. It didn’t mean anything.
You’d repeated it in the mirror while brushing your teeth. Repeated it while grinding solo queue at 3 a.m. because sleeping meant dreaming about dark eyes and silver earrings and that stupidly soft laugh.
⸻
The first avoidance was subtle. Group Discord call the next evening for casuals? You joined late, muted most of the time, claiming bad connection. When Jisung tried to queue with you specifically—“C’mon, rematch mid vs bot, winner buys pizza”—you bailed with a quick “got an early shift tomorrow, sorry.”
It wasn’t a total lie. You did have work. But the real reason was the way your pulse spiked every time his voice filtered through your headphones now. Softer since the kiss. Careful. Like he was testing waters neither of you had ever admitted existed.
By day three, it was obvious. The group hang at the arcade had you showing up late and leaving early. You stuck close to Seungmin and Felix, laughing too loud at their jokes, burying yourself in games that kept your hands busy and your eyes anywhere but on Jisung. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Every time you felt his gaze—across the air hockey table, during the group photo Hyunjin insisted on—you’d feel that familiar spark of rivalry twist into something hotter, scarier.
Panic bloomed in your chest like a virus.
What if it wasn’t just rivalry? What if I actually… No.
You shut that thought down hard. Han Jisung was the guy who lived to one-up you, who called you princess like an insult, who made your blood boil in the best and worst ways. Liking him—wanting him—meant losing the one constant you’d relied on for years. It meant vulnerability. It meant the possibility of breaking something irreplaceable if it went wrong.
So you ran.
you (to group chat): sorry guys, rain check on movie night. stomach bug or something 😩
hanji: you okay? i can bring soup or whatever if you need
You left that message on read for six hours.
⸻
By the end of the week, the avoidance had turned into a full strategy. You queued at odd hours to miss his online times. Declined invites with increasingly creative excuses. When the group met up for a quick game night at Minho’s, you showed up with headphones already on, claiming you wanted to focus on climbing. Jisung sat across the room this time—no more accidental couch proximity. But his eyes followed you anyway. Quiet. Patient. Frustrated.
During one match, he got eliminated early and wandered over under the pretense of grabbing a drink. “You’ve been ghosting hard,” he said quietly, voice barely above the clack of keyboards. “We gonna talk about what happened or pretend it was a fever dream?”
Your fingers faltered on the keys. A death on screen. You cursed under your breath. “It was the tournament high, Han. Adrenaline makes people do stupid shit. Drop it.”
He didn’t push then. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and walked away. But the hurt in his posture lingered in your peripheral vision long after.
The panic ate at you in private. Late nights staring at your ceiling, replaying every insult, every smirk, every moment that had felt like more. The way he’d bring you your favorite drink without asking. The way he remembered your worst champions and teased you about them gently. The way he’d looked at you after you won—like you were the only thing in the hall that mattered.
No. Stop. You rolled over, shoving your face into the pillow. He was your rival. That was safe. That was you. Falling for him meant rewriting everything, and you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be.
⸻
Saturday night. Your apartment was dark except for the glow of your monitor. You were deep in a solo queue climb, hood up, snacks scattered, trying to lose yourself in the game. A knock at the door startled you so badly you nearly dropped your keyboard.
It was late. Past 11. No one usually showed up unannounced.
You padded over, heart already suspicious, and peeked through the peephole.
Jisung.
Black hoodie, messy hair, hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to look casual and failing. His face was set—determined, with that edge of vulnerability he only let slip around you.
You froze. Considered pretending you weren’t home. But he knocked again, softer this time. “I know you’re in there. Your light’s on and I can hear the keyboard clicks from the hallway.”
Fuck.
You opened the door a crack, arms crossed like a shield. “Han. It’s late. What are you—”
“Can I come in?” His voice was steady but his eyes weren’t. They searched your face, dark and intense. “Please. I’m not leaving until we talk. I’ve given you a week to avoid me. I’m done waiting.”
The panic surged—tight throat, racing pulse, that familiar denial screaming abort abort. But something in his expression made you step aside. He walked in, smelling like rain and that clean woodsy cologne that always messed with your head. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you both in your small space. It felt too intimate. Too dangerous.
He didn’t sit. Just stood in the middle of your living room, surrounded by your gaming setup, posters of old tournament wins (including a few where you’d beaten him), and the half-eaten ramen on the coffee table.
“You kissed me back,” he said without preamble. Straight to the point. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “At the tournament. In front of everyone. Don’t tell me it was nothing.”
You swallowed hard, backing up until your legs hit the couch. “It was adrenaline. I won. You— you caught me off guard and I just reacted. It doesn’t mean—”
“Bullshit.” He stepped closer, not crowding but closing the distance enough that you could see the faint flush on his cheeks. “It’s never been nothing with us. The rivalry, the bickering, the way we can’t stay away from each other even when we’re pissed. You think I don’t feel it too? Every time you beat me I’m pissed and proud. Every time you call me squirrel boy I want to shut you up and kiss you stupid. I’ve been in this for years, same as you.”
Your breath hitched. The walls you’d built were cracking louder now, panic mixing with a terrifying warmth low in your belly. “Han… stop. We hate each other. That’s how this works. That’s safe.”
“Do you?” He tilted his head, eyes softening. “Hate me? Really?”
Silence stretched. You couldn’t say yes. Not convincingly. Not after that kiss. Not with him standing in your apartment looking at you like you were the final boss he’d been training to face his whole life.
“I don’t know,” you whispered finally. The admission felt like losing. “I’m… I’m scared, okay? This changes everything. What if we fuck it up? What if the group falls apart? What if—”
He crossed the remaining distance in two steps, hands gentle as they came up to cradle your face—just like at the tournament. But slower this time. Deliberate. “Then we deal with it. Together. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you. Every late night grind, every argument, every time I brought you that stupid energy drink just to see you roll your eyes… it was never hate.”
Your hands came up instinctively, fisting in his hoodie. Not pushing away. Holding on. The panic was still there, fluttering wildly, but so was the pull. Years of it. The denial was losing the fight.
“Jisung…” His real name slipped out, soft and shaky. Not Han. Not asshole. Just him.
He leaned in, forehead resting against yours. Breath mingling. “Tell me to leave and I will. But if you kiss me back again… I’m not letting you run anymore.”
The air between you crackled. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Avoidance had bought you time, but it hadn’t fixed anything. He was here, real and warm and waiting, and the feelings you’d buried were clawing their way out whether you wanted them to or not.
⸻
“I’m scared,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve spent so long telling myself I hated you. That you were just the annoying rival who lived to piss me off. If I admit it… if I admit I’ve wanted you this whole time…”
Jisung stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a cornered animal. “Then admit it.” His voice was low, rough. “Tell me you’ve been into me. Tell me every insult was because you couldn’t handle how badly you wanted me to pin you down and shut you up.”
Your breath hitched. The tension that had been building since the tournament kiss, since every late-night scrim, since years of stolen glances finally snapped.
You grabbed his hoodie and yanked him into you.
The kiss was desperate from the start—months, years of suppressed want exploding between your mouths. Jisung groaned deep in his chest, hands immediately cupping your face as he kissed you back like he’d been dying for it. Tongues slid together, hot and messy. Teeth nipped. You poured every frustrated “I hate you” into the way your lips moved against his, and he answered with every cocky victory smile he’d ever given you.
“Fuck, finally,” he gasped against your mouth when you broke for air. “Been waiting for you to stop running.”
You kissed him harder, shoving his hoodie up and off. Your hands explored his bare skin—warm, smooth, the lean muscle shifting under your palms. He walked you backward until your legs hit the couch, then guided you down gently, never breaking the kiss for long.
When he pulled back to look at you, his eyes were blown wide, lips swollen. “Tell me again. Tell me you want this.”
“I want you,” you breathed, the acceptance tasting terrifying and freeing all at once. “I’ve wanted you for so fucking long, Jisung.”
The sound of his name on your lips like that made him shiver. He peeled your shirt off slowly, reverently, kissing every inch of skin he revealed. Your bra followed, then your shorts and panties in one smooth tug. You were completely bare under him, thighs trembling as he settled between them.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with awe. “My pretty girl. All mine now.”
His hand slid down your body, fingertips tracing lightly until they reached your core. You were already soaked—embarrassingly wet from nothing but kissing and years of built-up tension. Jisung groaned at the first touch, fingers gliding through your folds.
“So fucking wet already,” he teased, circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. His gamer fingers were precise, controlled, knowing exactly how much pressure to use. “This all for me? After pretending you hated me for years?”
You whimpered, hips twitching. “Jisung— please…”
He slipped one finger inside you easily, curling it just right against your front wall. The stretch was perfect. He added a second finger quickly, scissoring gently while his thumb kept working your swollen clit in tight circles.
“That’s it,” he praised softly, leaning down to kiss your neck. “Let me take care of you. Been dying to feel you wrapped around my fingers.”
He pumped them steadily, curling with every thrust, hitting that spot that made sparks shoot up your spine. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers moving in your slick heat filled the room. You gripped his shoulders, nails digging in as pleasure built fast.
“Look at you,” he murmured against your ear, voice dripping with praise. “Falling apart so quick for me. My good girl. So responsive.”
The words pushed you over the edge. Your first orgasm hit with a sharp cry, walls clenching rhythmically around his fingers. He didn’t stop—kept pumping slowly through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.
But he wasn’t done.
He added a third finger, stretching you fuller, and sped up just a little. The new fullness made your eyes roll back. His thumb pressed firmer on your clit, rubbing in perfect rhythm with his thrusting fingers.
“Give me another one,” he coaxed, kissing down to your chest to suck a mark into the swell of your breast. “Cum again for me, baby. Want to feel you gush around my fingers.”
You were panting, hips rolling to meet his hand, completely lost in the sensations. The praise, the teasing edge in his voice, the way he watched your face like it was his new favorite game—it all overwhelmed you. The second orgasm crashed through you harder, longer, leaving you sobbing his name as your thighs trembled violently.
Jisung groaned, eyes dark and hungry. “Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezing my fingers like you never want them to leave.”
He kept going, slower now but relentless, curling and stroking through the aftershocks. The overstimulation made you whimper and squirm, but he held you down gently with his free hand on your hip.
“One more,” he whispered, kissing you deeply as his fingers worked you open. “I know you can. Let go for me again.”
The third orgasm ripped through you with a broken moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the intensity. Your whole body shook as pleasure bordered on too much. Jisung finally slowed his fingers, easing you down with soft, soothing strokes until you were a boneless, panting mess beneath him.
He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean with a low, satisfied moan. The sight made your pussy clench around nothing.
“You taste so fucking good,” he said, voice wrecked with lust. “Been dreaming about this for years.”
Before you could catch your breath, he slid down your body, settling between your thighs with your legs draped over his shoulders. Then his mouth was on you.
He ate you out like a man possessed—broad, hungry licks through your folds, savoring the mess he’d already made of you. He moaned against your core, the vibration sending fresh sparks through your oversensitive body. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking rapidly, your back arched clean off the couch.
“Jisung— oh my god—”
He devoured you. Messy and eager, tongue plunging inside you before returning to swirl around your clit. Two fingers slipped back in, pumping in time with his sucking. The combined assault had you crying out, hands flying to his hair and tugging hard.
He groaned in approval. “Pull harder, baby. Use my face.”
You did, grinding against his tongue as another orgasm built embarrassingly fast. The overstimulation mixed with fresh pleasure created a dizzying haze. Jisung was relentless—sucking, licking, fingering you deep while praising you between breaths.
“Taste so sweet. Could eat this pussy for hours. Your pretty cunt all swollen and dripping just for me.”
You came again with a sob, thighs clamping around his head. He licked you through it, gentler but not stopping, drawing out every twitch and whimper until you were shaking uncontrollably.
When he finally pulled back, chin and lips glistening with your arousal, he looked completely drunk on you—eyes hazy, breathing hard, cock straining painfully against his sweats.
He crawled back up, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
“Still with me?” he asked, voice tender beneath the lust.
You nodded, pulling him closer, legs wrapping around his waist.
⸻
Jisung hovered over you, his chin and lips still glistening with your release, eyes completely dark and hazy with lust. Your body was already trembling beneath him — three orgasms from his fingers and another from his mouth leaving you slick, sensitive, and aching for more. The acceptance had settled deep in your bones now. No more denial. Just raw, terrifying need for the man you’d pretended to hate for years.
He kissed you filthy and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You moaned into his mouth, hands roaming down his bare chest to tug desperately at his sweats.
“Off,” you gasped. “Now. I need you inside me.”
Jisung groaned, kicking his sweats and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free — thick, hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. The sight made your pussy clench visibly. He stroked himself once, eyes locked on your dripping core.
“Want it raw?” he asked, voice wrecked.
“Yes,” you begged, legs spreading wider for him. “Fuck me, Jisung. Please.”
He didn’t need to be told twice.
He grabbed your thighs hard, roughly spreading them as he lined up and pushed in raw in one long, smooth thrust. The stretch was overwhelming — hot, bare skin dragging against your walls, every vein and ridge felt perfectly. You both moaned loudly as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours.
“Fuck— so tight,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours.
He gave you barely a moment to adjust before he started moving — deep, powerful rolls of his hips that punched the air out of your lungs. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room immediately, filthy and loud. You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back as he fucked you harder.
Jisung’s hand slid up your body and wrapped around your throat. Not crushing — just firm pressure, his thumb resting over your pulse as he choked you lightly. The sensation made everything sharper, more intense. Your eyes rolled back, a broken moan escaping.
“You like that?” he growled, hips snapping faster. “Like when I choke you while I ruin this pretty pussy?”
“Yes— fuck, yes—” you choked out, clenching hard around him.
He squeezed a little tighter, just enough to make your head spin deliciously, and moved one of your legs up over his shoulder, folding you deeper. The new angle let him hit that perfect spot with every brutal thrust. You cried out, tears of overwhelming pleasure slipping down your cheeks.
“Jisung— oh my god—”
“That’s it. Cry for me, baby. Been dreaming about breaking you like this for years.”
He fucked you relentlessly, cock driving deep and raw, hand still wrapped around your throat. The overstimulation was already creeping in — your body so sensitive from everything before, yet the pleasure kept building higher. You were shaking, pussy fluttering around him uncontrollably.
He angled his hips and slammed into that spot harder. You shattered with a scream, walls spasming wildly around his thick length as you came hard. Jisung fucked you through it, never slowing, groaning at how tightly you squeezed him.
“Fuck— that’s my girl.”
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he pulled out suddenly, shifting you onto your hands and knees with effortless strength. He fisted a hand in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed back inside you from behind. The new position was even deeper, more overwhelming.
You sobbed into the couch cushion, pushing back to meet his brutal thrusts. “Jisung— please— I can’t cum again—”
“Yes you can, baby,” he growled, tugging your hair harder while his other hand reached around to rub your swollen clit. “You’re gonna give me one more. Want to feel this pussy milk my cock dry.”
The overstimulation bordered on painful, but the pleasure was stronger. His cock dragged perfectly inside you, raw and hot, while his fingers worked your clit mercilessly. Tears streamed down your face. You were cock-drunk, babbling his name like a broken record.
He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, and wrapped his hand around your throat again from behind — choking you while pounding into you with punishing force.
“Mine,” he snarled against your ear. “Not rivals anymore. You’re fucking mine.”
The combination — the choking, the hair pulling, his cock destroying you, the filthy praise — sent you over the edge again. You came with a guttural sob, entire body shaking violently as your pussy gushed around him. Jisung groaned loud, hips stuttering as he fucked you through the intense orgasm.
“Good girl— such a good girl for me.”
He kept going, chasing his own release. His thrusts grew erratic, deeper, more desperate. You were a whimpering, oversensitive mess beneath him, but you still pushed back for more, addicted to the feeling of him raw inside you.
“Gonna fill you up,” he panted. “Gonna cum so deep in this pussy. You want that?”
“Yes— please— fill me, Jisung—”
With a broken moan of your name, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. You felt every thick pulse as he spilled deep inside you, hot and raw, flooding your insides until it started leaking out around his cock. He kept shallowly thrusting through it, pushing his cum deeper, groaning at the messy sight.
For a moment, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the wet drip of his cum leaking down your thighs.
⸻
Jisung stayed buried deep inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat and cum. His arms trembled slightly as he held himself up, not wanting to crush you. Slowly, he pulled out with a soft groan, watching as a thick trail of his release leaked from your hole. The sight made him bite his lip, but the lust in his eyes softened into something gentler when he looked at your face.
You were a complete wreck — tear-streaked cheeks, hair a mess, thighs shaking, chest heaving. He’d wrecked you exactly like he promised.
“Baby…” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You did so good for me.”
He shifted carefully, repositioning you with surprising tenderness now. Strong arms pulled you into his lap, cradling you against his chest as he sat back on the couch. One hand stroked down your spine in slow, soothing circles while the other brushed damp hair from your forehead.
“You okay?” he asked softly, pressing gentle kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your eye where a tear still clung. “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Your body still twitched with aftershocks, pussy aching and leaking his cum onto his thigh, but the warmth of him grounded you.
“Just… intense,” you mumbled. “Really intense.”
“I know.” He kissed the top of your head. “Let me take care of you.”
Jisung stood up with you in his arms like you weighed nothing, carrying you to your bathroom. He set you on the counter gently, turning on the warm water in the sink. With a soft washcloth, he cleaned you between your legs with careful strokes, murmuring praises the whole time.
“Look at you… so pretty even when you’re all messy.” His touch was feather-light, mindful of how sensitive you were. He wiped your thighs, your stomach, even pressed a soft kiss just above your mound when you shivered.
⸻
After cleaning himself quickly, he carried you to the bedroom, pulling the covers over both of you and tucking you against his chest. His fingers never stopped moving — tracing lazy patterns on your arm, playing with your hair, rubbing your back. Every few seconds he’d press another kiss somewhere: your shoulder, your wrist, the top of your ear.
“Drink,” he said, grabbing the half-empty water bottle from your nightstand and holding it to your lips. You sipped obediently, and he smiled. “Good girl. Always so good for me.”
The praise now felt different — warm and safe instead of filthy. You melted into him, legs tangled together, his heartbeat steady under your ear.
“Thank you,” you whispered after a while. “For… taking care of me like this.”
Jisung tilted your chin up, kissing you slow and sweet. “Always. I’ve got you now. No more pretending. No more running.”
You stayed like that for a long time — quiet, wrapped up in each other, the intensity of the night fading into comfortable warmth. His hand eventually settled possessively on your hip, thumb stroking the skin there as your breathing synced.
⸻
But reality crept in as the afterglow dimmed.
You shifted slightly, tracing one of the faint marks you’d left on his collarbone. The panic you’d pushed down all night started whispering again.
“So… what are we now?” you asked quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t just… a hookup after years of tension, right?”
Jisung was quiet for a moment, then rolled you both so you were facing each other properly. His dark eyes were serious, vulnerable in a way you’d rarely seen.
“I’m in love with you,” he said simply. No hesitation. “I have been for a long time. The rivalry was just how I stayed close to you without admitting it. Every argument, every tournament, every late-night call where we’d roast each other… it was me wanting you so bad I didn’t know what else to do with it.”
Your heart clenched. You reached up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing his bottom lip.
“I think I’ve been in love with you too,” you admitted, voice shaky. “I was just too scared to admit it. Hating you was easier than risking losing you if this went wrong. But last night… and this morning… I don’t want to go back to pretending.”
He smiled softly, covering your hand with his. “Then we don’t. We’re together. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Partners. Whatever you want to call it. I’m yours. You’re mine. The rivalry’s over.”
You let out a shaky laugh. “The group is going to lose their minds. They’ve been shipping us for years, but actually seeing it…”
“Let them,” Jisung said, grinning a little. “Minho’s gonna say ‘fucking finally.’ Felix will probably cry. Changbin might try to fight me for ‘stealing his gaming wife.’”
You snorted, but the anxiety still lingered. “What about tournaments? Voice calls? What if we fight for real now? What if this ruins the friend group?”
Jisung pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin. “Then we fight like normal people instead of rivals. We talk it out. And the group will be fine — they’ve survived worse than us finally getting our shit together. As for tournaments…” He kissed your forehead. “We’ll still compete. I’ll still try to beat you. But now I get to kiss you after, win or lose.”
The words settled something deep inside you. The panic didn’t disappear completely — this was new, terrifying territory — but it felt manageable with him holding you like this.
“No more denial. No more avoidance. We’re in this together now.”
You tilted your head up for another kiss — slow, lingering, full of promise instead of desperation. When you pulled back, you were smiling.
“So… boyfriend.”
Jisung’s grin was bright and boyish, the same one that used to make you want to throw a controller at him. Now it just made your heart flutter.
“Boyfriend,” he confirmed, nipping at your bottom lip. “And you’re my girlfriend. My pretty, competitive, slutty little girlfriend.”
You smacked his chest lightly, laughing. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You kissed him again instead.
The future still felt a little scary — facing the group, navigating a relationship that started in such chaos, balancing love with the competitive fire that had defined you both for years. But lying here in his arms, sore and satisfied and finally honest, you knew it was worth it.
You weren’t rivals anymore.
You were something so much better.
TYSM for reading!!
Feel free to check out my master list part 1 and Masterlist part 2 to see more of my works! (Part 2 has my newer and better ones)
maria’s note: all the fanfics listed below contain explicit scenes, so MDNI! these authors are all incredibly talented writers whom I’ve always admired, so don’t forget to show them plenty of love!! 🤍
impatient by @esstxys
that p- got power by @jektaev
under the steam by @jektaev
indulge me (2 parts) by @binniebb
dirty laundry by @grungeham
make it interesting by @grungeham
be quiet by @grungeham
backstage pass by @grungeham
late hours by @grungeham
n.er.dy by @grungeham
you’re mine by @hwanghhjinie
love you better by @hyunjincanraptoo
case 143 by @leeknowlore
just this much by @skzfflovers
movie date by @hyunsvngs
pavlov dog experiment by @elylyyy
home and kisses under the mistletoe by @elylyyy
so agitating! by @emmiesoverthemoon
what’s a little ink? by @emmiesoverthemoon
babydoll by @ybklix
five minutes and a hair tie by @stryscribbles
lace and ruin by @starlostjisung
his birthday, your rules (sequel of lace and ruin) by @starlostjisung
sweet temptation by @starlostjisung
perfect chemistry (6 parts) by @starlostjisung
lollipop? by @kloversung
skin deep by @hanjinology
you what? by @hanjinology
who’s in charge by @hanjinology
the green-eyed monster by @hanjinology
high strung by @joyracha
is it hot in here? by @joyracha
caught on camera! by @channlust
whipped! by @channlust
hypotheticals by @ghostlyscripture
me, the loser? (2 parts) by @sithskz
bad by @seospicybin
close call by @seospicybin
I’M IN LOVE WITH THOSE AUTHORS SO PLS SHOW THEM SUPPORT AND LOVE, THEY’RE AMAZING 🤍🫶🏻
Thank you, Black people in fandom spaces. Thank you, Black creators and Black lurkers. Thank you Black artists, Black writers. Thank you, Black bloggers, Black influencers. Shoutout to those Black characters, both canon and original. Thank you, Black people, both queer and cishet.
Your perspectives matter. Your representation matters. You are not bothersome for demanding equal treatment in fandom. It is not your responsibility to make fandom more welcoming and inclusive to you. It is not your sole responsibility to create all of the Black-centered content. You are not "ruining" anyone's fun for demanding better for yourself, and anyone who says otherwise can go fuck themselves. Any fandom worth being a part of should have no room for racism in it.
Black people in fandom, you are wanted. You are needed. You are loved and appreciated. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.
And since they don't get told it near enough, thank you, Black women especially!!!
hello ! this list contains some of my favourite han (stray kids) fanfictions. love love to all the wonderful authors who have created these masterpieces, i'm a fan (seriously). all of them are nsfw so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈
⤷ public display of affection by @bugeater101
⤷ is it hot in here ? by @joyracha
⤷ let this be a secret by @jj-one
⤷ pretty when you cry by @channlust
⤷ the sweetest gift by @jj-one
⤷ film it by @jj-one
⤷ pornstar!jisung by @jj-one
⤷ let me blow your mind by @1nthedarknessofthenight
⤷ like a rockstar (3 parts) by @annyeongffs
⤷ case 143 by @leeknowlore
⤷ orgasm denial by @dreaming-medium
⤷ sweater weather by @cinhomi
⤷ deserving by @chvnnie
⤷ it's not yours, take it off by @cookiewrites
⤷ academic rivals by @hellavator-with-bangchan
⤷ she's my collar by @1nthedarknessofthenight
⤷ angels by @comet-falls
⤷ hentai by @comet-falls
⤷ bold (ft. lee know) by @hyunsvngs
⤷ movie date by @hyunsvngs
⤷ captain save-a-hoe by @hyunsvngs
⤷ 100% cotton by @prod-jeekies
⤷ caution: bus is departing by @prod-jeekies
⤷ bimbo!reader chronicles (ft. lee know) (5 parts) by @prod-jeekies
⤷ i want it (2 parts) by @dollracha
⤷ thighway to heaven by @bambizeld
⤷ perfect chemistry (5 parts) by @starlostjisung
⤷ drunken apologies by @ghostlyscripture
⤷ hypotheticals by @ghostlyscripture
⤷ my hot girlfriend series by @jj-one
⤷ inspire me, won't you ? by @lix-ables
⤷ pussy drunk jisung by @seungisms
⤷ rivalry redefined (2 parts) by @leriexoxo
⤷ slam down by @hanjisdoll
⤷ confident by @minniesmutt
⤷ desperate by @secretneverland
⤷ rent a boyfriend by @baby-yongbok
⤷ popularity contest by @pineapple-burgah
⤷ late night mess by @skzophreniic
author's note: please show some love to these authors !
annaxmalina
kianamaiart
blakekathryn
dededos
areudirty
ellievsbear
origamiaround
vaporwave
discoholicmusic
