↳ Part 6/10 of Loveless. See Part 1 for story description.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 6.3k
! Strong language, angst and tension, arranged marriage, soulmates, references to sex and procreation, a minor injury, sickness, a fever dream, a little aftercare, developing relationship, references to cheating, mild confrontation, a first kiss, sexual content, heavy sexual tension and desire, adult themes throughout !
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Daphne follows up, concern in her doe eyes.
You shake your head, taking up position on the singular armchair in the warm sitting room, pulling your knees to your chest. Jisung and Daphne are curled up on the quaint loveseat, a shared knitted blanket over their laps as they scroll through the available movies on the television. The fireplace is lit, gently burning behind a cast iron balustrade. Fringed standing lamps have been left on in the corners, giving the room an amber glow that exudes homely comfort.
Yet you’ve never felt so displaced.
“You haven’t, right?” Jisung clarifies. “Seen a ghost, I mean.”
“Jisung…” Daphne rolls her eyes at him, albeit affectionately.
“Well, I’m just saying. You never know with these old houses.”
Jisung’s light-hearted nature does little to ease you of the mental image seared into your brain. Of your consort caught up in Elena, lips to lips, skin to skin. A stolen moment in a darkened room; for them, a liberation. For you, a nightmare.
“Maybe you should get some fresh air, honey,” Daphne says. “Jokes aside, you really do look a little spooked.”
“I’m fine,” you croak.
The prospect of going outside is almost too appealing in this moment. Too easy for you to run.
You don’t see the look the couple shares, though you feel it all the same. Their eyes on you, their gazes of gentle concern and the worry that only draws attention to where you least need it.
“Actually, I’m going to make some tea. Anyone want some?”
An excuse. A reason for you to get out of their general vicinity, because clearly, you aren’t as well put together as you thought you were.
You smile brightly, climbing off the armchair with as much aplomb as you can manage. The ache in your cheeks carries through to the kitchen, when you can finally drop the smile and let misery make itself a home on your face.
Though you recognise you shouldn’t be miserable, as you fill the iron kettle from the faucet and place it on the gas stove ring.
You should be angry. Seething. Furious.
Angry that Changbin could so readily put the two of you in danger all for the sake of a fleeting tryst.
Seething with the fact that he could be so thoughtless.
Furious that he allowed himself to feel the weakness of a man in love, when so much else is at stake.
Yet you’re not any of those things.
Indeed, you find yourself even managing to conjure reasons to forgive, through the pit in your gut and the tightness in your chest. For he is just that—a man in love—and while you’re not the subject of his love, you sympathise all the same.
If you found yourself in his shoes, faced with your true love in a situation so easily concealed and indulgently selfish… Would you be able to resist?
Would you be able to fend off the weakness of a woman in love?
↳ Part 5/10 of Loveless. See Part 1 for story description.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 6.8k
! Strong language, angst and tension, arranged marriage, soulmates, references to sex and procreation, jealousy and desire, a fake relationship, a confrontation, themes of unrequited love and devastation, developing relationship, themes of cheating, estrangement and divorce, adult themes throughout !
Since arriving at the Chambers, that’s all you’d done.
Taken one step towards your consort, only for him to take two back.
You had danced around each other in a game of deceit and threat, and while it was true that Changbin had set the hostile precedent for your relationship, you were more than willing to return the sentiment.
You’d had no desire to get to know him. None to see past the frosty exterior he wore as he marched to the beat of the Imperator drum, carrying their murderous reputation on his broad shoulders.
Until a few hours ago.
Until you’d taken a tentative step towards him, to find he didn’t retreat.
In fact, he’d stood his ground, stalwartly and without so much as a grimacing flinch as he held your hand tightly, seemingly unwilling to let go.
You found yourself wondering if that moment was something of a breakthrough. If you could be branded a fool for thinking that, maybe, an emotion that didn’t denote hatred or resentment had slipped through the cracks of his stony demeanour.
It didn’t need to be anything profound. And indeed, it wasn’t.
But contrary to the ideals of romantic grandeur you’d always subscribed to, you found it to be enough. More than enough.
A moment of weakness in a darkened room. A clasping of hands, a lingering gaze that hitched a breath and brought impossible thoughts to life, ones that you’d never have ventured to indulge in before that moment.
That’s all it had been.
A moment where he hadn’t stepped back.
And then came the glaring lights of the helicraft.
Blinding both of you to the fantasies you dared to creep into, you were drawn back into reality with a slap to the face, a punch to the gut, a kick to the teeth. It was a veritable assault on all that you were, as you looked out the bedroom window and saw the face of the one man who had never, not for fear of being caught, taken a single step back from you.
One step forward, two steps back.
Looking at Changbin from across your shared bedroom, you feel the space between you more than you ever have.
You know a storm of emotion looms on the horizon, and you see it in his face, as his eyes stung red and glistening meet yours.
He feels it too.
And neither of you are prepared.
He clears his throat, swipes the back of his hand over his eyes as he pulls himself back together, positioning the scraps of his usual calm and collected persona back in place.
“Looks like there’s a new couple,” he speaks, his voice hoarse.
You cock your head at him, disbelief runs amok.
Is he trying to play this off? Trying to act like he doesn’t know the girl that just disembarked?
You saw her face when she spotted him, saw the state he got into that he’s still trying to recover from. You saw her lips move and the word leave her mouth…
Romeo.
The very same nickname he got so upset over leaving your lips only several hours ago.
You wonder what it says about him that he’s prepared to try and lie to you still. Is he going to treat that moment between you the same way? Like it never happened at all? Fleeting though it may have been, those minutes still need to be accounted for. Recognised.
The thought of dismissing it all makes your chest hurt.
“Who is she?” you ask him quietly, over your thudding pulse.
He blinks at you, opens his mouth to say something.
↳ Part 4/10 of Loveless. See Part 1 for story description.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 7.2k
! Strong language, angst and tension, arranged marriage, soulmates, references to sex and procreation, jealousy and desire, open discussion about sex and limits, a fake relationship, a confrontation, references to violence and fear, themes of unrequited love and devastation, adult themes throughout !
If either you or your consort hoped to stand a chance of making it through your week at the Chambers rosily inconspicuous and subsequently unscathed, there would have to be some communication.
It would be awkward, yes. Uncomfortable, without a doubt. About the last damn thing you wanted to with your time.
But it was also essential.
Life or death essential.
Whatever your consort’s reasons for refusing to even entertain the mere fleeting idea of a real relationship with you, you supposed they were largely irrelevant now. The damage had been done, the line in the sand drawn.
You didn’t care enough to want to find out, he clearly didn’t think enough of you to offer any explanation.
So, in removing that possibility, your consort had left you with only one option.
Survival.
This was now a match of necessity.
A match that you had been thrown into, and the Magna Imperium expected both of you to commit one hundred percent of your effort and attention to it. That effort and attention—if all went well—would give rise to the one thing the Magna Imperium truly cared about.
Children.
Genetically superior, impossibly perfect children, produced in the name of Human Advancement.
You found it a stupefying concept, that you and this loathsome man had the potential to produce such children, but indeed, you did. It was your entire reason for being matched such as you were, and science never lies.
Yet people do.
Just as you would have to.
To Chan and Eve. To Jisung and Daphne. To Matron. To your parents when you returned home. To Hyunjin when you returned to work.
To the Magna Imperium and everyone else you would ever meet, for the rest of your life.
We’re so happy together.
We’re lucky to have been matched.
He’s the perfect consort. So attentive.
She’s the perfect consort. So amenable.
Why, we’d love to have children! It’s just not happened for us yet, and that’s not for lack of effort, believe me!
We’re so in love. All hail the Magna Imperium.
So many lies. So much deceit.
None of it through any will of your own.
Yet this was the hand you’d been dealt, and so, you’d make the damn best of it. Your life was not to be ruined over a stranger, no matter how much import he was supposed to be afforded on your part.
But you needed to be sure you were on the same page with this.
A single slip, a careless comment could bring everything crashing down around you.
↳ Part 3/10 of Loveless. See Part 1 for story description.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 6.6k
! Strong language, angst and tension, arranged marriage, soulmates, new friendships and side character introductions, references to sex and procreation, jealousy and desire, lies and deceit, fear of threat, a fake relationship, an argument, adult themes throughout !
When you’d first heard those words, your reaction had been uncontrolled.
Instinctive and driven by emotion, tears forced to their release, your heart hammering in despair of the raw reality you’d been presented with.
Yet time was ever the consistent healer, proving more reliable than most other forms of recovery, and while no substantial amount of it had passed, you found yourself coming up with an altogether different response as you ruminated over the statement several hours later.
You’re not the one.
That’s as may be, but…
You hadn’t asked to be the one.
You hadn’t wanted to be the one.
You hadn’t extended a prayer to a deity nor the universe itself to grant you such status as ‘the one’, and now all the notion left you with, was anger.
You didn’t know your consort from the next passing stranger on the street, nor did he know you.
It was awfully presumptive of him, you felt, to declare that you weren’t the one, for the decision to do so implied that you were pining for such a thing all along, to be taken into his arms and embraced as a lover and wife. A consort.
While it was true that you’d hoped for a match of love with your consort rather than one of convenience, you had been well aware of the fact that you wouldn’t know which you’d prefer until the time itself came along. Until you were presented with your consort, face to face, able to see into their eyes and tell their soul from that of good or bad disposition.
And now, it struck you that you had looked into his eyes, and seen only disdain. A soul of ice and unpleasant temperament.
Prepared as you might have been to give him a chance to win your heart or your favour, that display had well and truly confirmed the potential futility of that errand.
Why would you want to be his one?
Why would you even want to give him the time of day after how he’d spoken to you, written you off without so much as a breath in your direction?
In one thing, you felt you could agree with him.
You were his consort in name only, barely qualified of the title.
And you never wanted to know it.
You’d both get through this week as best you could, and return to the city to continue your old lives under the guise of a partnership that would never see fulfilment the way the Magna Imperium wanted it to.
↳ Part 2/10 of Loveless. See Part 1 for story description.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 6.4k
! Strong language, themes of unrequited love, an arranged marriage/match, soulmates, yearning and desire, feelings of anxiety and dread, angst and tension, a first encounter, a rejection, a retreat, references to sex and procreation, adult themes throughout !
The details of your consort were engrained into your mind, imprinted with all the permanence and pain of a searing hot iron.
You hadn’t been able to shake the nausea, nor the latent anxiety the small silver envelope had brought you, courtesy of the Magna Imperium.
You’d read that once upon a time, twenty-first birthdays were a cause for celebration and good cheer.
The humans of the old world had supposedly found ample reason to host parties and pass on congratulations, making a jovial show of a friend or loved one turning twenty-one. For it was the age of adulthood—much as it still was—and while that hadn’t changed, so much else had.
You found no reason to celebrate this day. No reason to smile or make much more of an effort than basic consort etiquette required.
For there was a process to follow, and as much as you despaired at the thought of what was about to happen, you were no exception to it.
Indeed, you had little choice but to go along with it all if you hoped to retain your human anatomy.
The Magna Imperium had seen to it that the appropriate attire was shipped to you prior to the meeting date, along with the silver envelope containing your consort details itself. All part of the process.
You were none the wiser as to what effect the attire wrought or its purpose, other than signalling to others that today was a day of great import for you.
Now that you considered it, perhaps that was the reason for it. To indicate your pending worth to the rest of society and the folks that passed you by as you stood in waiting on the street outside your apartment building for the taxi you’d booked.
You weren’t about to traverse the streets of NL City in the wet and dark, not even for an event as important as this.
Coincidentally, you noted, this was the first time ever you’d managed to turn heads.
And turn they did, stealing glances to offer expressions of sympathy or jealousy alike, for there wasn’t a soul abound that didn’t recognise the iconic red and white outfit of the consorts-to-be.
Yours consisted of a mid-length flowing, pleated skirt, crisp dove white. The top was a snug, long-sleeved bodice of sorts, just as dove white as the skirt yet sporting a vivid red stripe in banner fashion across the midsection. Men’s consort outfits were much the same, trading the skirt for smart trousers, yet each one was always custom made to fit the wearer.
It was inherently uncomfortable, you found, and not strictly in the wearing sense. No, you found the discomfort to lie in the dazzling status it bore you, the proverbial neon arrow it directed at your head to every person in relative vicinity that today was your day.
You wondered if your match—this Changbin person—was experiencing something similar. If nothing else it would give you something to find in common with him when you did eventually meet.
You tried to shake off such thoughts as you watched the headlights of old world petrol cars passing by, their amber glows illuminating you all too briefly before they dulled to darkness, for they were few and far between now.
The electrical hum of the hardlight gangways—the Magna Imperium’s solution to traditional vehicles and roads—permeated the atmosphere, even from several streets over such as you were. The wheel pods that rode them were capable of taking you to your destination in mere moments, you knew, yet the thought of travelling in a contraption void of human cognition on an immovable and predetermined route unsettled you.
Ironic, perhaps, as you felt you could relate to such a thing in more ways than one.
↳ Part 1/10 of Loveless. In a city where love is forbidden, punishable by cybernetic modification according to the tyrannical rule that governs it, matches are made by the ruling of science. Consorts—partners for life—are assigned to female residents on their twenty-first birthdays… and yours just happens to be right around the corner. In this adult romance story set in the steampunk gothic-Victorian city of Novus Londinium, discover what it truly means to be someone’s soulmate. Even at the risk of all else.
↳ Female reader x Changbin, female reader x Hyunjin
↳ 8.1k
! Strong language, occasional flowery language, introductory chapter, worldbuilding, themes of unrequited love, established friendship, themes of tyrannical rule and societal oppression, references to human experimentation and robotics, arranged marriages, fictional terminology, futuristic setting, soulmates, yearning and desire, a confession, angst and tension, adult themes throughout !
The definition of a soulmate, according to someone that mattered on the internet once upon a time, is this:
‘… two persons compatible with each other in disposition, point of view, or sensitivity.’
So, in order to be someone’s soulmate, one needs to be compatible with them. Two people need to think the same way, or talk the same way. Maybe even dress the same way. Their interests are shared. Their passions, mutual. Their ambitions line up and their values are transferable, leaving no room for judgement or confusion.
In lieu of that and at the very goddamn least, they have to have something in common to make them compatible. Something that brings them together enough for them to be considered soulmates.
For indeed, having things in common can build the foundation from which all kinds of relationships may grow.
But what if society said otherwise?
What if society said that having things in common with others was a pointless endeavour?
What if society said that relationships were nothing but a constraint, an obstacle to overcome in the pursuit of true greatness?
What if society rejected the idea of soulmates, friendship, love and hate?
For the rejection of all these ideas, of arts and romance, the impossible dreams that form under steadily falling autumn leaves, gives birth instead to only one thing.
Science.
Certainty born from proof and mathematics, from conformity and compliance.
It gives birth to answers, from which nobody might divert or challenge, because when something is ‘right’, there is simply no room for error.
Soulmates?
No.
In the city of Novus Londinium—dubbed NL City by the residents for ease—there were no soulmates with wonderful relationships.
There were consorts with clinical, emotionally void partnerships.
Such partnerships were created through complex, computer-driven algorithms that matched men and women together via genetics, as deemed by the Magna Imperium; the ruling tyrannical government.
The Magna Imperium proclaimed that matches made this way would advance the evolution of humans and the status of the populace in general, producing more intelligent children, more beautiful children. Children less prone to disease, yet more prone to making great strides in the fields of medicine, science and mathematics. The things that really mattered.
On their twenty-first birthdays, residents of NL City received their consort matches. They would get a small silver envelope through their door, stating a name, a mug shot photograph of their consort, and a place and time.
All they had to do was make sure they were at the right place, at the specified time… And following a small binding ceremony that nobody actually knew the details of, they were tied to each other for the rest of their lives.
They would produce genetically superior children, because that was the whole point. They’d raise them well, and continue pursuing their own ambitions; so long as it wasn’t at a detriment to the child, of course.
As a result of all this, twenty-one years old was considered the age of adulthood. All the years before that were steeped in rampant education designed to better you in every possible way, beginning when you were old enough to waddle on two uncertain feet.
One might think that’s no way to live, under such misery and regiment.
Summary: You and Jisung are still new to this whole relationship thing—sweet, shy, and a little unsure. But one teasing moment with his tiny waist turns into something hot, messy, and unforgettable.
A/n: Still obsessed with rat challenge minsung ahhh.
You never meant to make it a thing.
It started with one innocent glance. Maybe two. Okay, maybe three. But that’s hardly obsession, right? Everyone looks at their boyfriend—especially when said boyfriend has a tiny, unfairly attractive waist that makes oversized hoodies and low-hanging joggers a lethal combo.
You didn’t choose this life. His waist chose you.And now here you are, four and a half months into your relationship, lying beside him on the couch while some anime plays in the background—one you’re supposed to be watching but haven’t absorbed a single scene of. Your attention is elsewhere. Specifically, on the soft rise and fall of Jisung’s exposed waist where his hoodie has ridden up, revealing a delicious strip of skin. His joggers hang loose on his hips like gravity’s doing you a personal favor. And to top it all off, he’s got one arm thrown lazily behind his head, stretching slightly, which just makes everything worse.
You swallow. Hard.
“You’re staring,” Jisung says suddenly, without looking away from the screen.
You jerk your head up like a guilty kid caught stealing snacks. “What? No, I’m not.”
He finally turns to look at you—wide brown eyes, flushed cheeks, the softest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Mhm,” he hums, tilting his head. “You totally are.”
You scramble for an excuse. “I was… admiring your… anime collection?”
He snorts. “Nice try. But you’ve been burning holes into my waist for the past twenty minutes.”
You blink. “You— You noticed?”
Jisung grins, teeth showing this time, proud and cocky like he’s just won something. “I always notice. You do it all the time. Especially when I’m shirtless. Or stretching. Or reaching for the top shelf.”
Heat floods your face, and you cover it with your hands. “Oh my god.”
“Wait,” he laughs, sitting up a bit. “Are you seriously embarrassed right now?”
“I didn’t mean to be that obvious!”
“Oh, baby,” he chuckles, tugging your hands away from your face. “You’re adorable. And a little bit of a perv, huh?”
You groan, falling back against the cushion. “You make it hard not to be. That stupid tiny waist of yours…”
Jisung’s brows rise, clearly enjoying this. “So it is the waist, huh? That’s what gets you all flustered?”
You make a noise of protest, but it’s already too late. The truth’s out.
He slides closer, gaze locked on yours, and you swear his smirk gets just a little darker. “Show me.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you like it that much…” he shrugs, fingers curling under the hem of his hoodie and lifting it slightly, “go ahead.”
You sit frozen, heart pounding.
He’s teasing. He has to be.
But then he lifts his hoodie a little higher—just enough to reveal more of that soft, toned skin, the faint line that dips down beneath his waistband—and smirks like he knows he’s winning.
“Don’t act shy now,” he murmurs. “You’ve already been undressing me with your eyes all evening.”
Your brain short circuits.You swallow thickly. “You’re evil.”
He grins, leaning in until his face is just inches from yours. “Nah. I’m just finally giving you what you clearly want.”
Your gaze drops to his waist again—how could it not? The smooth skin, the dip of his hip bones, the soft curve just above the waistband of those dangerously low joggers. It’s like a siren call and you’re helpless to resist.
When your fingers twitch toward him, he catches your wrist mid-air, eyes gleaming. “Ask nicely.”
You look up at him, breath catching at the way he’s watching you—like you’re something he wants to devour slowly, one teasing bite at a time.
“Can I…” You swallow again, voice softer this time. “Can I touch you?”
His smile softens, and something warmer flickers behind his gaze. “Yeah, baby,” he says gently, “you can touch.”
You hesitate only a moment before letting your fingers trace along the curve of his waist, slow and reverent. His skin is warm, smooth, and tight over lean muscle, and it feels exactly as good as you imagined—maybe even better. You let your touch drift lower, just above the waistband of his joggers, and you hear his breath hitch slightly.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut for a second. “You’re really into this, huh?”
You nod, too focused to answer properly. “You have no idea.”
Your hands move around to his sides, thumbs brushing the sensitive spot just above his hipbones. His body tenses under your touch, but he doesn’t stop you—if anything, he arches into it, teasing himself into your hands like he wants you to worship him.And you do.
You press a kiss to his waist. Then another. And another, slower this time, letting your lips linger just long enough for him to feel the warmth of your breath. You feel his fingers slide into your hair, not guiding, just feeling you, letting you do whatever the hell you want.
“You’re insane,” he whispers, voice ragged. “Fucking crazy for my waist…”
You bite him. Just a soft nip at first, right over the line of his hip, and his grip in your hair tightens.
“Shit—” he gasps, looking down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “Okay. That was… dangerous.”
You smirk against his skin, pressing another kiss to the same spot. “Thought you liked dangerous.”
“Not when it’s turning me on this fast,” he mutters.
You pull back slightly, hands resting on either side of his waist. “You always talk this much when you’re turned on?”
“Only when my girlfriend’s being a goddamn menace,” he fires back, breathless. “Seriously, who obsesses over waists?”
You roll your eyes and mutter, “I could ride this waist like a fuckin’ pony.”
The words slip out before you can stop them.
And the moment they do, silence falls. Thick. Heavy. Jisung stares at you, eyes wide, mouth parted.
You freeze.
“I— That came out wrong,” you blurt, horrified. “I mean—no, I mean I meant it but I didn’t mean to say it out loud—”
He’s already laughing—choking on it, actually. His whole body shaking, his face buried in his hands as he wheezes, “Oh my god, I’m gonna die.”
“Don’t laugh!” you whine, slapping his arm. “I was trying to be sexy!”
He grins at you through laughter, eyes crinkled with joy. “Baby, that was the sexiest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“You’re such a little shit.”
“And you’re obsessed with my waist. I think we’re even.”
He leans in again, this time with a kiss—soft, deep, lingering. When he pulls back, his voice drops low and rough.
“Go on then,” he whispers, sliding your hand down his waist. “Ride it.”
You straddle him before your brain can catch up, knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. His hoodie is bunched halfway up his stomach, putting that sinful waist on full display. And it’s everything — tight, narrow, warm under your hands, moving slightly with every breath he takes like he knows exactly what it’s doing to you.
“God, your waist,” you whisper, dragging your hands over it. “It’s so perfect, Jisung—fuck.”
You lower yourself just enough to feel the line of it press between your legs, right above his bulge. Your clothed pussy meets firm muscle, and you roll your hips slowly—rubbing yourself against his bare skin through your panties, breath catching at the friction.
He watches you, stunned, as if he doesn’t quite believe what you’re doing.
“You’re humping my waist,” he murmurs, eyes wide, lips parted.
You nod, biting your lip. “I fantasize about this all the time. Clinging to it. Grinding on it. Feeling every muscle tighten when you moan.”
He lets out a breathless laugh, but it dies in his throat the moment you start moving again—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, soaking his skin through the lace of your panties. You moan softly, letting it slip out, high and needy.
“Shit,” he mutters, hands gripping the couch cushions. “Fuck, baby, keep talking.”
“I wanna come like this,” you pant. “Just using your waist. Wanna ruin it. Leave marks. I’ll ride it like it’s the only thing that gets me off—”
That’s the breaking point.
A low growl tears from his throat, and suddenly his hands are on your hips, dragging you down his body until your soaked panties land right on top of his bulge. He bucks his hips once, grinding into you hard.
“You’re gonna come,” he grits out, “but not on my fucking waist.”
You gasp, thighs shaking. “Jisung—”
“You’re gonna come on me,” he growls, already rolling his hips up, grinding his hard length right against your clit through the fabric. “You wanna be filthy? Then be filthy.”
You whimper, body jerking with every grind. The pressure is insane — hot, hard, relentless.
“You feel that?” he breathes, voice ragged. “That’s my cock. And you’re grinding on it like you can’t get enough.”
You moan, forehead pressed to his as you move harder, chasing every ounce of friction between your soaked panties and his thick bulge. Your nails dig into his hoodie, your thighs quivering from how sensitive you already feel. And he just lies there—soaking it in, eyes burning, hands glued to your hips, guiding you over him like he’s fucking you through his clothes.
“Look at you,” he huffs, teeth grazing your jaw. “Wrecking yourself just from this.”
“You started it,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Lying there in your stupid hoodie… your tiny anime waist… fuck, I couldn’t help it.”
He groans like he’s about to explode.
“You’re such a problem,” he growls, tilting his hips up again, grinding slow and deep until you cry out. “You’ve been fantasizing about this? Rubbing all over me while I just let you use me like some fucking toy?”
You whimper, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes, fuck—”
“Then do it,” he says, breath hot against your ear. “Get off on me.”
His words push you closer to the edge. You’re dripping, panties sticking to you, the only thing separating your swollen clit from the thick heat of his cock is one pathetic layer of cotton. He keeps moving, keeps bucking up into you, grinding deeper with every shift.
You can barely breathe. “I’m gonna—fuck, Jisung, I’m gonna—”
“Come on,” he whispers, voice so tender and rough all at once it nearly breaks you. “Make a mess, baby. Right here, just like this.”
It hits you hard. You tense up, legs shaking, hips stuttering as the orgasm rushes through you—loud, gasping, twitching on top of him as you cry out his name and fall into his chest.
He holds you close, letting you ride it out. His hands stroke your back, soft and grounding.
You’re still gasping for air, body trembling from the aftershocks as your orgasm fades slowly. You’re draped over him, weak and spent, and his hands move soothingly across your back, but there’s a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough, but still teasing. “Coming apart just from grinding me .That’s all it took? You’re so fucking sensitive.”
His fingers trail over your skin, brushing softly as his chest rises and falls beneath you, and you feel that familiar knot of frustration building deep inside again.
“You really lost control,” he adds, his breath hot in your ear. “All because of this.” His hands slide down, pressing against his own waist, feeling the muscle beneath. “Is it really this easy for you? Just to come undone from me?”
You groan, biting your lip, desperate for more. “Shut up,” you whisper, but it’s weak. “You know it’s not like that…”
But his voice is a teasing growl now. “Oh, I think I do. You were practically begging to grind on me, to feel me. I could’ve just laid here, and you would’ve come again.”
You lift your head, a mix of embarrassment and arousal heating your face. “I didn’t beg.”
“Hmm.” He chuckles low, a teasing glint in his eyes as he pulls you back against him. “You might not have said it, but you showed me. You don’t even need to say the words, baby. You’re already giving it all away just by touching me.”
He pauses for a second, studying your flushed face with a half-amused smirk.
“Next time, I’m making you beg,” he whispers.
You can feel the heat of your face, the pulsing need between your legs still lingering as he holds you close. He doesn’t let go, his teasing grin never fading .
“Jisung, stop,” you whisper, voice soft amd shy but desperate.
He chuckles softly, brushing your hair from your face gently. “You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his words a low caress. “But for now, well will take a break.... Let you rest… maybe later I’ll let you really beg.”
You shiver at the thought, knowing full well that, despite the teasing, you wouldn’t have it any other way and that u have entered a new territory in your relationship.
And with a return to home comes a return of all comforts.
Minho's warmth and weight presses down upon you when voracious want encourages you to the floor. No chance you’ll make it to the bedroom now. No chance you’ll start to care.
He thoughtlessly shoves the coffee table aside, a strong, one-armed push toppling candles and scraping the carpet. There's still not enough space; his shoulders are just shy of the gap between sofa and table, cramped in tight. Breathless giggles emerge when he mumbles frustration, the position so inaccessible; his left elbow bumps the sofa when he drags your bottoms from you, your right knee catches on his hip, wedged between him and the furniture. It's desperate. Hot. Safe.
With lower body clothes removed he speaks against your lips. “Why do I only feel like myself when I have you?”
Keen lips trail to your chin, your jaw, his breath hot and tinctured boozy peach. A shiver wracks you. “Min—”
He hushes your need, his right hand disappears between your bodies. In aligning himself the gentle prod against your sensitivity melts your sense; it trickles out through your ears and forms a gooey puddle beneath your head. Minho grins, slicks his thick tip through your wetness to have you tightening around sad, frustrating nothing. Your arms wind around his neck, your back arching from the carpet, he slips his other arm under you.
“Please...”
He hums, the rumble of his chest under his thin shirt strong against where your heart rabbits. Careful is the easing thrust; he breaches you and holds his breath, the impending satisfaction so close your skin burns and sizzles, lightheaded with the sense of him. Gradually impaled by his thickness, Minho keeps you flush, curling over you when fully connected. He's so fucking big— was he always this big? He says he feels like himself when he has you. What a notion to feel so removed from earthly shackles when you take him.
“God,” he groans low. The shells of his ears are burnt beneath light strands. He stills and searches your face, eyes shimmering like disturbed winter water thawing in spring’s wake. You squeeze around him, wanting more. The little black box is wide open, contents spilling out in gloopy waves.
His jaw locks. “Fuck, baby.”
“S— Sorry.”
He huffs a laugh, kisses your breathless apology away, starts a pace that demands you feel every inch of him with excruciating slowness. Partly the restriction of the space he has to work with, partly his desire to drag this out. It’s been so long, after all. He rolls deep and firm, the glide made sultry by your arousal. He slips his arm out from under you, weight braced on forearms either side of your head. The cage restricts senses to nothing but the man above you, inside you; his musk, his raw heat, his listless breaths near inaudible if not for the strain of pleasure. You cling to him tightly, content to stay as this forever.
“D— Don’t stop,” you plead.
“Could it be anyone?” He kisses your lips. “Right now, like this? Could it be anyone?”
“No. Just you— fuck. Only you, Min. Only ever you.”
“Not only ever.” He groans. “Just right now. Right here.”
You search his burnt, beautiful face.
“It’s okay,” he says, his smile sure. “This is okay. Be with me.”
You nod, welcoming him close as he buries his head in your neck; his soft sounds in your ear, and you’re floating. Reaching up and beyond him, you clamp a grip to the edge of the sofa. Your heart pounds so erratically it might actually fail you; Minho pulls back, slips a hand under your loose shirt, closing warm over your chest— your heart.
“Breathe, darling.” He pats your skin in rhythm with the rapid thud beneath his palm. “Slowly. Properly.”
You try, the exhale breaking to a whimper as it slips from you. Minho kisses you. “Again.”
A deep inhalation, the smell of sex and sweat and lingering peach. Doesn’t reach your lungs, your body quivering as orgasm descends. He slows, stills, sheathed completely as you tighten around his thickness. He groans from the depths of his lust, jaw slacking to penetrate deep, pubic bone and base against your clit.
“F— Fuck— Minho, I— I can’t—”
“Oh, baby, you can. You can do it. Use me.”
He grinds slowly, no movement made to slide from you, the penetration still to allow you full sensation. It’s like nothing hitherto experienced. Heaven if heaven had lips and a cock.
Stimulated by g-spot and clit, by his length and the mound of his groin pressed against you, melty delight liquefies your bones, elevates you to dreamlike state.
“That’s it...” He hisses through his teeth. “Mhm, darling—”
You fall to pieces; he catches them all, wanting and waiting for the moment he may let himself go. But only when you’re done.
Tears break. Your feeble self-control shatters. He pulls you to the floor, and you meet him on your knees. Arms around his neck you pull him close. He melts into you, curls down until his head finds your lap. He cries quietly, no fuss made, his shoulders wracked with tremors that in turn bring your own turmoil: every sob splits your heart, a wicked drill to concrete. You card carefully through his soft locks to ease his distress, until eventually and after long moments, he breathes steadily.
He loves you.
You knew that. You know it. This is just the first time he’s said it with such intention. Ever.
“Chan and I talked,” you whisper. Both a bid to bring him back and to let him know you’ve not been taking your time apart lightly.
He sits up, curiosity glimmering through the upset. He stays close, knees touching yours.
“He apologised for everything.”
“Wow.”
“I know. I was just as floored. Turns out there are a lot of things we didn’t know.”
“I figured he had his baggage. Dude’s a walking red flag.”
You laugh gently. “He’s not so bad. He’s just trying to figure it out. As are we all.”
“So, what was his problem?”
“I... It’s not really for me to say. He was hurt in the past, pretty badly. I suppose I triggered that trauma on a level even he wasn’t prepared for. He’ll probably tell you about it if you ask him.”
Minho sighs. “I’ll let it sit for now. As long as you’re good?”
“Yeah. All good.”
“I can take him off my hit list?”
You roll your eyes, prod his knee. He smiles, features softening.
“Speaking of hit list...” Now is as good a time as any to broach it. “Jisung’s off mine.”
His smile disappears. “What?”
“I, uh... called him. The night we broke up.”
He blinks, his thick lashes clumped.
“He took me out for ice cream.”
“Ice cream? That’s where you disappeared to?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t tell you why I called him at all, so don’t ask. I was in pretty bad shape. But he was so kind to me. He’s a good person. Good for you. Better than me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true, Min.” Shame rises in your chest. “You were right about me. Sometimes it could have been anyone underneath me. Inside me. I was content to keep screwing around with Changbin knowing you were waiting for me at home.”
Minho searches your face, not a touch of shock about him.
“I wanted it all. I wanted you, I wanted Changbin. I even thought about Chan that way, too. And I hated him.”
“Jisung?” he asks.
You nod. “I’m not proud of it. Some of the things I thought about—that I still think about—they’re not right.”
“Says who?”
“What?”
“Who says the things you think about or want aren’t right? It’s not like you can control those urges, and—I hate to break it to you—but you’re not special like that. I have my own desires just as you do. There have been times my mind has wandered so far from the things I would, in practice, actually do, I’ve frightened myself to death. We just do our best to act the right way. So, if three super-hot, famous rappers are what you want, more power to you.”
“I also want you, though.”
Minho smiles. “I know, darling.”
You sigh. “I’m trying to accept these parts of me without spiralling. It’s hard, but I’ve had to learn.” You fiddle with a thread on the carpet. “Another thing I owe to Jisung, I suppose.”
He cocks his head, brows knitted.
“We’ve, uh... been pretty close. Since that night, I mean.”
“Interesting.”
“He pointed me in the direction of a good therapist. Paid for it, too. I— I’ll pay him back though, of course. I’ll find a way.”
Minho’s quiet, takes a moment to process.
“Wait.” Realisation widens his eyes. “Yesterday—”
You grimace.
“You were the friend he was with?”
“Sorry.”
“But— Why not just tell me?”
“He panicked.”
“Why?”
“He felt guilty about us hanging out without you.”
“Oh, please. I’m a charity case now?” He rolls his eyes. “I mean, it would have been nice to know all this, but whatever.”
“We didn’t mean to keep it from you. It just... never came up.”
Minho sighs. “It’s not your fault. I know I haven’t been the easiest to approach.”
He tries to smile, and reliance on expression failing him, tentatively reaches to where your hand rests on the carpet, his palm folding over it. Your heart thumps.
“It feels good to talk to you like this,” he says. “Part of me wondered if we ever would again.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
Gaze on your linked hands, he says, “I really wish I'd known all this before.”
You watch his side profile, pulse throbbing steadily.
“I could have reassured you of so much. Of all of this.”
“I know. My fear got the best of me.”
“That’s okay.” His thumb runs over your knuckles. “Just so long as you stay open with me, now that you have. I don’t want to see you clamming up again. Tell me what goes through your mind. Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me if it’s not enough. Tell me, and I’ll be there, and whatever it takes to bring you back, we’ll do it together.”
You nod, tears stinging your vision. “Right.” You sniff hard. “I’m so sorry, Min.”
“Shut up,” he whispers. “No more apologising.”
He takes your chin between his fingers, soft colour blooming in his cheeks. He leans in, air shimmering. Pulsating. His gaze drops, traces your lips, flicks up. Plush lips part and a warm hand slides under jaw to your nape as he tilts and kisses you. You clasp his wrist where he holds you and fall into him, a willing victim to the desire that for long weeks has been starved— he tastes like bitter peach; like every lonely evening wish and shit decision.
You thought your struggles prior to the liquor were bad. Oh, silly girl. Silly, silly, soju-sodden girl.
With every peachy shot it’s harder to draw your eyes from the man. Much less when he complains of being too hot and stretches the neck of his shirt, fanning himself. A sheen of sweat glistens over his nape, dampens the light strands of hair. He rolls his sleeves to shoulder, the swell of bicep and veins in his forearms visible. It’s inappropriate to sit and salivate, but the little black box is none deterred. Doctor Kindelle would tell you to sit with your feelings and understand them. You’re not sure doing so is safe, in this moment.
Down with the next shot.
“You know what? You were right.”
He turns back to you, the move requiring some effort until his legs are tucked under him and his right arm is propped on the sofa.
“This is a bad movie.”
“Mhm. People only think it’s good because the remakes and sequels have been so fucking terrible. Makes them appreciate it more.”
“It’s just so... cheesy. Everything is so overdone.”
“Yeah. Nobody remembers that when they’re telling you what a cult classic it is, though.”
“I guess we only ever recall the good about the things we used to love, huh?” he says. His gaze falls.
“I guess.”
He fingers his glass, swallows thickly. Tension infects the moment. The bloody finale plays out in the background. The screams somehow help.
“Say it, Min,” you whisper. “I don’t know how much longer I can bear this.”
His starry stare coils around your self-control and squeezes. He understands perfectly what it is you struggle to contain, for he feels it himself. He’s just better at hiding it. Has always been. He’s always been better at everything than you.
“I miss you,” he says.
Fuck.
“I see you every day, and I miss you. I’m with you now; you’re right here, and I still miss you.”
Blood coagulates in your veins.
“I don’t think ending things was a mistake,” he says, voice thick. “But I'd be lying if I said I didn’t have my regrets. I wish I'd tried harder to understand how you felt about everything.”
“I didn’t even understand it, Min. You stood no chance of working it out.”
“Do you now?”
You nod. “I think so. I know that I miss you too. Terribly.”
He smiles.
“When you told me about what happened with Jisung—”
“My delivery left a lot to be desired.”
“It did. But I... should have controlled myself.”
Minho looks at you quizzically, as he has looked at you so many times before and with such desire to simply be let in.
You take a deep breath. Better late than never, you suppose.
“I have these... compulsions,” you say. “Urges. Fantasies. Call them whatever, but they make things difficult.” You can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll stop. “I managed it fine for years, but then things changed. With us. We met 3racha. It was all so much at once. Things that I'd only imagined—things that were supposed to stay as imagination—were actually happening, and I… It overwhelmed me. The heat. The lust. The endless possibilities. I wanted to do things, Min. Shameful things.”
“Like what?” he whispers.
“I wanted to be used. By all of you. In every way imaginable. I wanted to be fucked until I could no longer tell who was fucking me. Until I was nothing but sensation.” You swallow. Can’t look at him still. “But more so than that… I wanted to watch you using each other. The beauty of it just— It is sexual, but it’s more. It’s heavier. Like watching stars die out. You’d be… you would all be fantasies, right in front of me, shimmering and untouchable, and I’d watch, waiting for you all to explode right as your pleasure peaks and your bodies slide together. Then you’d die out. And that would be okay. It wouldn’t be fair to the world for you to keep existing. For me to keep watching. But I’d want you to take me, too. One bright flash and we’ll be nothing but red mist.”
Minho’s eyes shimmer in the light of the lamp. You keep going.
“When you told me about Jisung, the compulsions came back. They overcame me. I had to remove myself, and I know that made you think that I was upset or jealous. I wasn’t. I was just... trying to keep it all together. Trying to shove all the urges back into their box before I lost myself to them.”
Minho takes a breath. His mouth opens and shuts, he bites his lip. “Wow. That’s…”
“I know it’s a lot. I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for being disgusted—”
His jaw locks as he frowns. “Why couldn’t you have told me all this weeks ago?”
“You know why.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Goddamn it.”
“All I’ve ever known is having you by my side. If I'd told you the truth of what made me, who I really am, I— I couldn’t stand to lose you.” You huff a breath. Almost laugh to think of it. “Then I did anyway.”
“You haven’t lost me.”
“But we—”
“I love you, you stupid girl. I love your fucked up way of thinking and the things you try to hide from me. I love them. I love you.”
➳ Warnings: Pure smut ⋆ Semi-public ⋆ Free-use ⋆ Breeding thoughts ⋆ Perv!Jisung ⋆ Perv!reader ⋆ Unprotected sex but no piv ⋆ Dry-humping
(Let me know if I've missed something!)
➳ Word Count: 5,3K
➳ Synopsis: You don't even know why you're this turned on, but the sight of --- sleeping peacefully completely unaware of what's happening around him, only seems to intensify the feeling. The mere thought of how easily this moment could shatter, how he could open his eyes at any second and see everything, has your pulse racing and your body reacting in ways you can't control.
Maybe, just maybe, you're as perverted as Jisung after all.
Bringing his freshly roasted marshmallow to his mouth, Jisung blows on it gently, watching the golden-brown surface. He can barely contain his excitement to savor the perfectly toasted treat and as soon as it cools down, he stuffs it whole into his mouth. One side of his cheek puffs up even more as he stores the marshmallow there, wanting to savor the sweet flavor that melts on his tongue as slowly as possible.
Grabbing another marshmallow from the package and putting it on his stick, he manages to mumble through his puffy cheek. "So...who's gonna sleep in which tent?"
Jisung's eyes lift from the marshmallow, and he looks around for an answer from his friends. However, they all seem too occupied with their own marshmallows to pay attention to Jisung.
With a groan, Jisung huffs "Hello, anyone listening?" as he continues to stuff another newly grilled marshmallow in his mouth.
His mouth is barely closed due to all the marshmallows he has been stuffing in it for the past 10 minutes since the group sat down to grill marshmallows.
Catching sight of him, you can't help the faint chuckle that escapes. His expression is priceless, eyebrows furrowed, mouth full of marshmallows threatening to fall out, and a pair of eyes that are flickering around.
Deciding to go camping with the other memberd wasn't that bad of an idea after all. At first, you had been hesitant to join, worried about being an outsider in a close-knit group. The thought of tagging along with Jisung and the boys was fun but you wondered if they might prefer to keep things just between themselves, without someone's girlfriend intruding on their fun. However after some convincing from both Jisung and Chan you finally gave in.
Your worries soon faded once the trip started. To your surprise, the boys acted completely at ease, they carried on as if you were just another one of the guys. Watching them joking around with the explicit jokes that men often share with each other and laughing heartily over jokes that only they seemed to understand. It was a relief that they remained unchanged in front of you and you realized that being with them was not only fun but also made you feel more connected to Jisung and the rest of the group.
Realizing that nobody is paying him any attention, Jisung grows increasingly frustrated. In a moment, he reaches over and pinches Hyunjin hard on the arm, who is sitting beside him.
"OUCH!!" Hyunjin screeches after feeling the sudden pain. He quickly brings up his free hand to rub the spot where Jisung has pinched him, trying to soothe the sting that lingers on his skin. "Dude, what's that for?!" Hyunjin hisses, shooting a glare at Jisung, clearly irritated.
"I asked a question and nobody answered, and you happen to be next to me" Jisung replies dispassionately with a shrug, nonchalantly reaching over to grab another marshmallow to roast over the flickering flames.
"Why did you pinch me when Y/N was even closer to you?!" Hyunjin protests. His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he gestures toward you, who are enjoying the sweet marshmallow.
Jisung only rolls his eyes in response, uninterested in defending his action, while Hyunjin stares him down. After not receiving an answer from Jisung, he decides to let it slide, only this time. Hyunjin let out a frustrated sigh before he shifted his focus back to his own marshmallow which is probably done by now.
But as he lifts it up from the flames his excitement quickly turns to distress. Instead of his carefully roasted golden-brown marshmallow, he was met with a charred ball on his stick. Hyunjin's eyes widen in disbelief as he examines the state of his once-perfect marshmallow, which had turned into a blackened, burnt husk.
"Dude!" he hisses, glaring at Jisung, who is unaware of the chaos he has caused.
"You distracted me, and now I've burned my precious marshmallow!" His tone is full of disbelief as he holds the ruined treat up for everyone to see, as if it were a tragic victim in an unfair battle. But all Hyunjin receives in response to his complaint is a loud snort from Jisung, followed by mocking laughter from a few of the other boys around the campfire.
"Your fault, don't blame it on others," Jisung adds, a mocking grin reaching his lips as he stuffs a marshmallow in his mouth, completely unbothered by Hyunjin's growing frustration.
"You were clearly the one—" Hyunjin begins, but before he could finish his sentence, Minho's voice cuts through the banter like a knife.
"Can't you guys shut up for once?" Minho interrupts. His tone is flat, laced with annoyance as he looks sideways at the two of them, though he doesn't bother to meet their eyes directly. Minho takes a slow sip of his beer as he leans back in his chair, attempting to enjoy the peace of the night despite the chaos around him.
Not wanting to get on Minho's nerves, Hyunjin keeps his mouth shut, though he doesn't forget to shoot a final glare in Jisung's direction. Jisung, however, only chuckles with a playful smirk on his face. The other boys start to laugh at the chaos unfolding between them, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.
Just to further irritate Hyunjin, Jisung decides to put on a show and suddenly wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face into the crook of your neck. "Hyunjin is so scary!" he exclaims in a mockingly dramatic tone, his voice muffled against you.
"I just want to ask something simple and he makes a scene out of it, I'm so sad," Jisung pouts, his lips forming a cute little frown as he nuzzles deeper into you, clearly enjoying the attention. You can't help but chuckle at Jisung's antics, gently patting his head as he clings to you with a playful glint in his eyes.
Changbin shakes his head at the ridiculousness of it all, then finally chimes in to steer the conversation back on track. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper.
"Alright, alright. I’ve already made a list for the tents," he announces, holding up the paper for everyone to see. "Tent one will be Jeongin, Felix, and Seungmin. Tent two is me, Bangchan, and Minho. And the last tent is Hyunjin, Y/N, and Han."
Hyunjin's jaw drops and he throws his hands up dramatically. "Ain’t no way I’m sleeping in the same tent as those two lovebirds! What if they start fucking or something?" His expression is pure horror, and his exclamation sends the group into a burst of laughter. You can feel a warm blush spreading across your cheeks as everyone teases you both.
"You might even get to join them, Hyunjin!" Seungmin teases, laughing so hard that he nearly doubles over.
The playful suggestion only adds fuel to the fire and Hyunjin shakes his head furiously as if trying to shake off that thought from his mind.
"Ain't. no. fucking. way"
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
As you settle into your sleeping bag, you turn over to face Jisung who is lying next to you, looking surprisingly awake despite the long day.
"You think everyone's asleep?" you whisper to Jisung as you see a smile creep into his face.
"Probably" Jisung chuckles quietly, his face still slightly flushed from the laughter from the evening. "Bet Hyunjin is having the best sleep of his life right now."
You laugh, trying to keep quiet while imagining Hyunjin's dramatic fuss. "It took him what? Twenty minutes to talk Minho into switching places?"
"More like an hour," Jisung whispers back with a grin. "At least now we won't have him glaring at us for breathing too loud or whatever."
Before you can respond, Minho's voice cuts through. "Trust me, it was more than an hour," he mutters, making both you and Jisung jump in surprise because you thought everyone was asleep by now.
"He's lucky I agreed at all. I'd have gladly let him stay and suffer" Minho adds with a shrug. "I'll have you both know that I'm a hero in this story. Gave up my cozy tent to protect Hyunjin's innocence, and I'd appreciate a little gratitude."
Jisung snorts, holding back a laugh. "Sure, real heroic of you to dodge Chan's snoring" he teases, nudging Minho's sleeping bag with his foot.
Minho opens one eye, squinting at Jisung. "Whatever," he says before rolling his eyes at Jisung.
"By the way," he adds, "You guys should keep it down. I'm trynna fall asleep here." He raises an eyebrow at both of you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I didn't sign up for a front row seat to your late-night bonding session."
"Oh, come on we're not that bad and don't pretend you don't like having us around. You'd be asleep by now if you really wanted peace and quiet."
"Hmm" Minho mutters, pretending to be in deep thought "You're probably right. But the second you two get all touchy-feely, I'm switching back with Hyunjin and sending him over here to glare at you instead."
"Noted, mom" Jisung quips, rolling his eyes. He gives you a playful grin while mouthing 'He's all talk.'
But Minho catches it and lets out a soft laugh. "Oh, keep underestimating me, Jisung. You'll learn."
Jisung stifles a laugh, his eyes glinting with mischief as he turns to you. "Guess we're gonna have to keep it down, huh?" he whispers, dramatically covering his mouth as if even a whisper would earn a scolding from Minho.
As you lay back, the tent fills with a comfortable silence, the sound of distant crickets and the soft crackling of the fire outside the tent becoming the only sounds around you. You feel Jisung's warm embrace wrap around you, his arms secure yet gentle. His steady breathing matching the comforting sounds of the night and you feel more at peace than ever. Nestling closer to Jisung, your eyelids grow heavy as you soon begin to drift into sleep.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
Sleeping in peaceful slumber, you are suddenly stirred awake by something moving around your waist. Blinking groggily, you realize that it is Jisung's hands on you. Assuming that he simply wants to cuddle, you instinctively lean your body closer to him, seeking his warmth and coziness. His hands slowly and subtly start to wander, his fingertips tracing patterns along your skin.
His movements are unhurried, almost absentminded as though even in his half-asleep state, he still can't keep his hands to himself. Your skin tickles and heats up despite the cool air of the night, unsure of whether he is awake or simply acting on instinct.
"Jisung?" you whisper, your voice barely audible, worrying you'd wake Minho sleeping a few feet away up if you even breathe too loud.
His hand pauses for a moment before resuming, this time moving with more deliberate intent, his finger slightly brushing the underside of your breast.
"Hmm?" he murmurs, his voice in a sleepy rasp.
"W-what are you doing?" you ask, your breath hitching slightly as his fingertips trail a bit higher up. You have no idea how he’s managing to stay awake, considering the fact that you all went hiking earlier in the day.
A smile creeps onto his lips, his lips brushing lightly against the back of your neck as he speaks. "Nothing... just keeping you close" he whispers, his tone teasing yet tender. His arm tightens slightly around your waist, pulling you even closer until there's hardly any space between your bodies.
Your heart flutters, the closeness, the warmth, the quiet hum of his breathing all feel oddly perfect, even as your mind races to process the moment. You let out a soft sigh, deciding not to question it further as you nestle into his embrace, allowing the sleepiness to take over again.
However, keeping you close doesn’t seem to be the reason behind Jisung’s tactics. His touch is light as it carefully grazes the smooth skin of your breast. And then his finger slightly brushed your nipple which made you jerk in surprise, a soft gasp escaping your lips. The sensation made your heart race, your body reacting before you could fully process it.
"Jisung..." you trail off, your voice trembling slightly both from the unexpected sensation and the growing warmth spreading through you.
Hearing your soft voice, he hums playfully against your neck but he doesn’t stop. His hands keep moving, his fingers teasing you with a playful rhythm. "Just wanna play..." he whispers, his voice soft but teasing, as his warm wet lips press against the delicate skin of your shoulder. You squirm slightly, growing more eager as Jisung continues to tease the sensitive skin on you.
"N-not now, Han Jisung..." you manage, bringing a hand up to stifle the whimper that threatens to escape your mouth, careful not to wake Minho up.
His gentle hand is now cupping your tits. His fingers curl around the soft flesh, warm and steady as they mold to your shape. Jisung's movements are rhythmic as he toys with them, alternating between gentle squeezes and grazes. His fingers sank into the plush surface, only to release and let it spring back into its natural shape
"Oh, come on" he whispers, his warm breath tickling your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. The soft sensation makes an involuntary sound escape your lips, a quiet mix of surprise and amusement as the hair on your arms and neck stands on end.
Jisung chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. "You're so cute when you try to be serious" he continues, his voice low and teasing, carrying a playful edge that makes your face heat up. His fingers are now trailing downwards as if testing just how much he can get away with.
You know exactly what he is trying to do. This isn't just about 'keeping you close', that was just the excuse he used to mask his mischievous intent. His teasing touches, the playful lilt in his voice, the way he leaned in just a little too closely and the way his growing boner is pressing against you, all gave him away.
Sliding his hand across your tummy he then reaches the hem of your shorts, fingers brushing against the waistband before dipping them beneath. The warmth of his fingers sends sparks skittering across your skin as they hover over your clothed core.
When the pad of his fingers presses gently against your pulsating nerve, a soft relieved moan escapes your lips before you can stop it.
"Look at you, baby" he murmurs, his tone lacing with playful mischief. "Your body doesn't seem like it wants to stop".
Pulling your panties to the side to dip his fingers between your folds, Jisung can't help but growl at how wet you are. Jisung's lips latch to your skin, gently at first but depend with each passing moment as his fingers rub between your moist folds. He sucks and nibbles on the skin that will eventually leave round cherry-colored marks behind. His teeth grazed lightly against your neck before soothing it with his warm tongue.
"Jisung, they're going to see..." you whisper, voice shaky as you try to keep your composure. But no matter how hard you try, your body instinctively part your legs to give Jisung better access to your throbbing cunt.
"Let them" he murmurs against your skin.
"You know" he begins, his voice soft but teasing "I think this one's my best work yet."
His fingers brush over one of the marks he has left, his touch tingling against your burning skin. "Maybe I should leave one right... here."
Before you can respond, he tilts your head slightly, exposing your whole neck to him. His lips hovering over the area, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine. "What do you think, baby? Should I make this one a little darker? Or maybe leave it as a secret just for us?"
"You're so perverted, Jisung..." you manage to let out, your voice a mix of teasing and breathlessness as you test the waters.
He freezes for a moment, then lets out a low chuckle. "Oh? Perverted you said?" he murmurs, his tone playful but with an edge of challenge. "Well, why don't we see just how perverted I can be then?"
"Ji-" you barely manage to get a syllable out before Jisung's fingers easily slip inside your hole. The unexpected sensation sent a jolt through your body and you let out a startled whimper before throwing your head backward at the pleasure that you had been logging for.
"Shhh baby" Jisung whispers as he leans in close, his warm breath tickling your ear. His free hand gently cupping your mouth, muffling the sounds. "Don't wake Minho up now, do we?"
You squirm beneath his touch, muffled moans escaping behind his hand as his fingers continue to slide against your walls. You know that you guys shouldn't be doing it here. What if Minho woke up? The thought sent a jolt of fear through you, but it wasn't just fear.
The idea of being caught, of Minho turning over and catching the two of you tangled together with Jisung's hands all over your body, sent a strange thrill coursing through you. Your heart is racing, not just from his teasing but from the tension of it all. You are scared, yes, but you can't bring yourself to stop him either, especially not when his finger repeatedly hits your sweet spots so deliciously.
Jisung, despite the confidence in his voice seems to be losing his own composure as well. His breath comes in short, uneven puffs as he as he ruts himself against you.
"Wanna feel you" You plea, voice barely above a whisper trembling with the need of being stuffed with his cock.
Jisung let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your eardrums as he hums softly in your ear.
"Looks like someone's not too worried about being caught" Jisung whispers against your ear, his voice low and teasing. His breath brushed softly against your ear, tickling you and making you squirm involuntarily.
Your cunt let out a wet squelch as he drives his fingers even deeper into you with one hard thrust, making your eyes roll back at the feeling of him reaching places that you didn't even know exist.
"Fuck-" Jisung mutter under his breath, his voice is low and strained as he feels just how hard you're clenching around his fingers.
He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tightening as he fights to keep himself under control. But it was no use. The way your body responds to him, the noises your cunt makes is driving him past his breaking point.
He wants to give you what you have been pleading for the past minutes, to just stuff your pretty cunt with his cock. Like the way he has been stretching you out for the past few nights before this camping trip, but he can't, not here, not now. Waking up Lee Minho wasn't an option and besides that he hadn't brought any condoms with him.
Jisung's original plan was to fluster you a bit, to enjoy the sight of you squirming under his touch that's why he didn't bring any condoms. But why does he find himself getting more and more worked on?
This was definitely not included in his plan.
"Damn it" Jisung curses under his breath, his voice filled with frustration. He's regretting it, regretting that he hasn't brought any condoms. But it's too late now, too late to take back his teasing, too late to stop the heat coursing through his veins, too late to just not fuck you.
Without any further thoughts he pulls his fingers out of you and is now already tugging at your pajama shorts and panties, dragging them down to your knees.
The loss of his fingers and the cold air that hits your cunt all so suddenly makes you whine out. However, the uncomfortable chillness was soon replaced by the feeling of Jisung's bare cock pressed against you. A deep, satisfied moan rumbles from his chest as he slid between your folds, coaxing his cock with your essences.
"Fuck-" he groans lacing with relief and overwhelming pleasure. His hands are gripping your hips tightly, grounding himself as he savors the feeling of his raw cock pressing against you.
"Pretty princess, close your legs for me," Jisung whispers, his voice low that tingeles with desire as he burry his face in the crook of your neck.
Compiling to his request you squeeze your thighs together, enclosing him even tighter, the new sensation drawing another low groan from deep within his chest.
"That's it" he murmurs.
You choked out a moan, the sound muffled as you bit down on your lip, desperately trying to keep yourself quiet. The sensation of him resting warmly between your folds was almost too much, a burning heat spreading through your body as if every nerve was set aflame.
His hands gripping your hips firmly, his fingers pressing into your skin as he begins to rut himself between your folds. You could feel every ridge, every vein, sliding against your sensitive nerve making you gripping down to the mattress under you for support.
Jisung has never taken you raw before, and the thought alone send a shiver through him. Just the sensation of sliding himself against your slick warmth was enough to ignite his imagination, vividly picturing how heavenly it would feel to sink into you completely, to just stuff you full.
"God" he mutters under his breath, his grip on your hips tightening. "You don't even know what you're doing to me."
The slow, deliberate rhythm he set sent waves of sensation rippling through your body, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Each movement was purposeful, his hips rolling in a way that have your breath hitching with every thrust.
All you could do was nod, your mind too clouded and too dumbfucked to muster a proper response. Words felt impossible, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts as you were entirely consumed by the sensations coursing through you.
"I know what you're doing" came a voice thick yet drowsy, slicing through the suffocating tension that had built between you and Jisung.
The words hit like a bucket of ice water, freezing both you and Jisung in place. Your breaths stilled, eyes snapping wide as you turned to Minho.
This is it. You'd been caught. Caught in your most vulnerable state, caught with Jisung's pretty cock nestling between your thighs. The blood draining from your face as you brace yourself for the shame that is coursing through your veins.
But then to your surprise, you noitice that Minho's eyes are still tightly shut. His hands wave aimlessly in the air as he continues to mumble nonsense.
"Don't try to lure me with your pudding!" he said while jabbing a finger upward, pointing toward the ceiling as if he's addressing an invisible enemy. "I ain't getting kidnapped by you!"
A wave of relief washing over you as you realize he was sleep-talking, one of his late-night habits you'd heard so much about.
As your breathing begins to steady and your heart finally slowed to a somewhat normal pace, you suddenly felt Jisung’s movements start up again. His hands and hips start their slow rhythm before resuming to their earlier rhythm again.
“Jisung!” you hiss, turning your head back to face him, your voice barely above a whisper. “He’s going to wake up!”
But instead of finding concern in his expression, you were met with a sight that made your stomach twist. Jisung’s face was completely blissed out, eyes half-lidded and lips slightly parted showcasing just how far gone he was. He looks utterly lost like the world around him didn’t exist anymore, like nothing else mattered but the way you're squeezing him.
Shifting your eyes back at Minho you can still seeing his lips mumble something incoherent, you can't help but clench down at nothing by the sight. You don't even know why you're this turned on, but the sight of Minho sleeping peacefully completely unaware of what's happening around him, only seems to intensify the feeling.
The mere thought of how easily this moment could shatter, how Minho could open his eyes at any second and see everything, has your pulse racing and your body reacting in ways you can't control.
Maybe, just maybe, you're as perverted as Jisung after all.
The temptation is unbearable, and Jisung know it all too well. The way your body moves against his, the way you gasp and squirm under his touch.
It is painfully clear just how easy it would be. All it would take was a slight shift of his hips, angling himself just right and he could be buried deep inside you, stretching and filling you completely.
The thought alone makes his grip on your waist tighten, his breathing hitch as he wrestles with his self-control. He has been imagining this before, to let the warmth of you wrap around him as he fills his seeds deep inside you, to just knock you up, to just watch it all ooze out of you as he stuffs them back with his cock again.
But no. He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
You aren't on the pill, and no matter how badly he wanted it he wasn't about to risk it. Even though the idea has crossed his mind more times than he'd ever admit, this wasn't the time.
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will the thoughts away, but the overwhelming desire only grew.
Focus
He thought to himself.
If he let his mind go any further, he'll lose what little restraint he had left and he would actually end up putting on a show in front of Minho. He'll then be unstoppable even if Minho wakes up.
Jisung is trembling. His breath shaky and uneven as he presses against you, so achingly close to the edge. "Just...a little bit...tighter" his words tumbling out between desperate gasps.
Obeying his request, you squeezes your legs tighter together, the sensation drawing a shaky groan from both of you. The friction is electric, his length gliding against your clit in a way that sent shockwaves through your entire body.
You bit your lip, doing everything in your power to stifle the sounds bubbling up from your throat, but it was no use. The pleasure was overwhelming, spilling out as a moan that grew louder and louder.
Jisung's eyes widen, panic flashing across his face as he clamps his hand over your mouth.
"Shhh, baby" he whispers though his own voice was trembling. Soft whimpers and broken gasps escaping his lips despite his efforts to stay quiet. His hips bucking against you harder, needier, and his hand slipped, leaving your lips free to let out another string of moans.
Desperate to keep things under control, Jisung tilts your head back toward him, capturing your lips in a hurried kiss. His mouth moves against yours hungrily, biting down softly on your lower lip to stifle his own whines. The kiss is messy and urgent, a way to drown out the sounds of the both of you.
With one final, desperate thrust, Jisung's body tenses against yours, his hips pressing firmly into you as he reach his peak. The sensation sends you over the edge as well, your body arching as waves of pleasure coursed through you.
Your muffled cries were swallowed by his lips, his mouth capturing every sound you made in a kiss that was as intense as it was necessary. His hands holds you firmly, grounding you as the both of you rode out the high together. His breath is hot and uneven against your mouth, and even after the both of you had calmed down, he still refuse to let go hugging you tightly as his chest is pressing firmly against you.
Your thighs are slick with his release mixing with your own arousal. The sensation of coming undone on his cock without him inside you was overwhelming, leaving every nerve on your body arching painfully for more. It was like you’d been brought to the edge only for it to hover just out of reach.
A frustrated whimper escapes your lips before you could stop it, his name spilling from you in a desperate plea.
“Jisung…please...”
His eyes softene at the sound of your voice. He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your hips as he whisperes “I know, baby, I know.” His voice was low and apologetic. “I’ll make it up to you when we get home, okay?”
You nodds faintly, your body still trembling from the aftershocks and despite the mess, despite the lingering ache having Jisung close to you like this was enough. His arms tightened around you, holding you close as he buried his face in your neck, murmuring soft reassurances against your skin.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
"So Minho hyung, how was it?" Seungmin asks with a mischievous grin, leaning forward from the front seat "Did they fuck? Did you get to join in?"
The car, still heavy with the drowsy energy of the morning, was immediately interrupted by Seungmin’s question, causing everyone’s attention to snap toward Minho, you, and Jisung, who is sitting in the middle row of the van.
Minho remains silent for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Sadly I didn't get to join" he says as he glances at the both of you.
"Oh, shut up, hyung! We didn’t do anything" Jisung shot back almost instantly, the words tumbling out too fast to sound convincing.
His head whipped toward Minho, voice slightly pitching higher than normal and the faint tremor betraying his attempt to sound unbothered.
His palms quickly found his jeans, wiping them nervously as the flush on his face deepened under the weight of Minho’s smirk.
The sharp reaction plungs the car into an awkward, heavy silence. The usual hum of the engine faded into the background, overpowered by the deafening thrum of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You turn your face to the window, pretending to watch the scenery blur past but the heat of Minho’s piercing gaze bore into you, making the silence even harder to bear.
Minho then breaks the silence "Just kidding we all slept like a stock" he says grinning as the rest of the boys finally erupts into laughter.
“Like a stock, huh?” Felix teases, turning around from the passenger seat to flash a knowing look. “Guess that explains why you look so well-rested.”
Jisung forces out a weak laugh as scratches the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, totally” he mutters, avoiding eye contact with everyone.
Meanwhile, your hands are fidgeting in your lap, your face burning as you desperately try to blend into the car seat. The air felt thick, and every giggle from the boys felt like it is aiming directly at the two of you.
While the other are still cracking up questions and jokes Minho's eyes lingers on you for a second too long. Leaning back against the seat, replaying fragments of the night in his head.
He remembered being half-awake in a haze where he recalled the faint sound from the night before that he couldn't really pinpoint where it came from. The soft muffled noises that had pulled him from the edge of sleep but never fully woken him. It had been so faint that he’d dismissed it as his mind playing tricks on him.
His gaze drops lower, lingering on the edge of the fabric covering your neck. Something caught his eye.
Peeking out from under the edge of your hoodie, an odd choice in the middle of summer, were faint cherry-red marks.
And the realization hits him.
He knows now, he knows what those soft noises were, he knows where those come from, knows who they belonged to.
He tries to ignore it, tries to ignore the images that clogged his mind, tries to ignore the heat that he's starting to feel, ignoring the arching tension that grows in his pants.
Oh god finally! Im done with yet another fic after 7 months on histaus. It's almost Christmas and I've been able spare some time to start writing again. Thanks to everyone who was waiting for my uppdate and Merry Chrismas to all of you!
Reading, cleaning, fussing and tidying. Nothing occupies you properly, your mind too wired and body too unsettled to focus. You still feel to be walking on razor blades, and beneath those are the long-abused shells of rotten eggs.
When your phone rings, you pounce on it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, baby.”
Changbin’s voice scrapes pleasantly against your ears.
“How are you?” he asks.
“Oh, you know.” You shrug. “Surviving.”
“Surviving is good.”
“So I've heard.”
“What are you up to today?”
You start pacing. “Nothing much right now. Hanging out with Minho later.”
“Minho, huh?” He pauses. “That a good idea?”
Seriously.
“It’s kind of overdue. We need to talk. We haven’t in so long.”
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”
“You saw me a few days ago,” you laugh.
“Still too long.”
“Greedy.”
“Damn right.”
God. Everyone should have a Changbin. Just not yours.
“How is Chan?” you ask.
“He’s good. Like, actually good. He asks about you. So glad you managed to work things out.”
“Me too. I wish we’d done so sooner.”
“You couldn’t have known what was going on with him. Even I only had suspicions. Though, if it had gone on much longer, I’d have been forced to lock you two in a room together until you fought it out,” he laughs.
“Glad it didn’t come to that, then.”
“Me too. My money would have been on you.”
You laugh gently. “I’d like to see him.”
“Yeah. He’d probably like that too. I was thinking about suggesting we all do something together. Like, the five of us.”
“You don’t think that’d be disastrous?”
“Nah, man. It was only ever you and Chan that had beef, and now you guys have squashed that and are working through your shit, everything should be fine.”
“In theory.”
“In theory.”
Silence falls, prospects settle.
“Maybe one day?”
He hums. “One day. For sure.”
The rattle of keys draws your attention.
“I better go. Minho’s home.”
“Boo. Have a good time.”
“Text me?”
“Of course, baby. Later.”
Minho traipses into the apartment; loose dance gear drowns him, the vest sleeves so wide it reveals every bump of his ribs and the occasional flash of nipple. His hair is swept back under a wide-rimmed bucket hat, his earbuds snug. The little black box swoons on the spot.
He startles on the sight of you, right earbud falling out. “Jesus.”
“Forget I live here?” you laugh.
“Just not used to seeing you here.”
He picks up the rogue bud, drops it and the other into a case retrieved from his pocket. You wince when he snaps it shut.
“Are we still on for—”
“Bad movies and bad food?” You point to the kitchen counter where plastic bags of snacks are gathered. “Way ahead of you.”
Minho nods, eyes flicking from the counter to the television, where Netflix scrolls idly through the top ten selection. “Alright. Let me go shower.”
“Want me to bring you a towel?”
Risky. Last time you cracked that joke he lost his mind. Referral to past affection gets him that way lately, and you’ve a good idea why. You think. This time there are no such dramatics. He simply huffs, strips his vest from over his head, soft waves of abs and honey skin setting your blood to a low simmer.
“Only if you plan to get in with me.”
He disappears down the corridor. Leaves you to stew in arousal with a pinch of shock. If not so committed to chastity you’d see yourself cleared of it by three fingers.
Half an hour later, Minho emerges. Ashy hair fluffed and light. Comfortable shirt and loose sweats. No glasses. Fresh and soft. You could eat him alive.
He joins on you on the sofa, foot slung to the coffee table, long legs stretched out.
“What are we watching?” He eyes the snacks laid out. All his favourites.
“I thought we’d start with an oldie.” You scroll to the end of the ‘horror’ genre row, where you last saw Friday the 13th.
“Oh yeah? Interesting.”
“You’re not down?”
“No, I am. I just thought this was about bad movies.”
So ensues a debate on the alleged glories of the 1980’s original (genius cinematography among them, according to Minho), until you’ve no choice but to settle in the middle, where proof may be found in the proverbial pudding.
Settling into it is easy. Minho rests comfortably, a bowl of chilli Doritos in his lap. At the other end of the sofa, you’re curled up with your blanket. Never used to be space between you. You want to fill it with flowers or bricks or something that makes you feel less alone. Your focus is diverted, split between the dramatic happenings of Camp Crystal Lake and his stunning side profile. At this late afternoon hour the sun is on its lazy descent, golden rays trickling through the blinds. The standing lamp casts him in shadow where the natural light falls short, his features so striking all emphasised. Soft yet cutting. His jaw feathers as he chews, pink tongue sweeping Dorito dust from his lips. His blinks are slow and heavy, the fan of his lashes framing curious eyes. When he swallows his Adam’s apple bobs; you used to press your tongue to it and feel the life in him.
He shifts, sinks into the cushions, thighs flexing. You feel it in your centre. The little black box salivates like a starving lioness.
“Thirsty?”
“What?”
Minho blinks. “Are you thirsty?” he asks again.
“O— Oh. No. I mean; yes. Please. Water.”
“I was thinking something a little stronger,” he says. “What do we have?”
You pause the movie. “I don’t know. Might be some of your soju left somewhere.”
Minho rises, pads across the hardwood, rifles through cupboards until he exclaims in delight. He emerges from the kitchen holding two shot glasses and two clear bottles labelled pastel pink. The brand names are in Korean.
“Peach soju,” he grins.
“Told you.”
He sets the glasses down, gives the bottles a wicked shake for the bubbles inside to spin and twirl. For whatever else has changed about him, drinking rituals apparently remain.
“You partaking?” he asks; an afterthought as he’s about to fill the second glass.
“Sure.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Pour me the damn drink, Minho.”
He smirks, does as instructed, and passes you the tiny glass. Fingertips brush as he hands it over.
“Thanks,” you mumble.
“Cheers.”
The sweet, sharp liquid slides down your throat. Minho smacks his lips, pours another round. He sits cross-legged on the floor, thighs thick and strong. Straining against his sweats. Muscled.
You play the movie.
Pretend the pillows in your lap are covered in grass.
All still feels like a dream. A wonderful, fucked up dream straight from the recesses of your little black box, fresh out of the pit from disuse.
Thinking about it sets your heart to a cool pound. Makes your skin thrum as though electric insects crawl and skitter. Makes you giddy and just a little lightheaded, even more so because you can’t seem to stop thinking about it.
Jisung never seemed to express much interest in you beyond the platonic. He did once tell you that he falls fast— not so fast as to a lone act of chivalry, surely? Maybe he’s just lonely. Maybe the absence of intimacy from his boyfriends is having more of an impact than he realises, driving him to find the next warm thing. A disservice to think of him that way, perhaps, but he’s as human as you when all is said and done, and you know well the nature of your own proclivities.
Today is a rare day off. No shift at the coffee shop, no session with Doctor Kindelle, no plans other than to make them. The apartment is peaceful. Early light beams through the drawn blinds, slicing the cream carpet. Rich notes of coffee hover, drawing you to the kitchen where your roommate sits at the table, a newspaper folded in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other. Gold-rimmed glasses sit on the bridge of his nose, the planes of his upper body on bare display, for he’s neglected a shirt. Silky strands of hair are pushed back from his face; he’s the very image of domestic bliss. Toned. Lean. He has the build of a dancer, God forbid you should forget. The little black box trembles with glee, drools with want.
He looks up on your entrance, his serene features shadowing.
“Morning,” you say.
He looks back to his paper.
You help yourself to coffee—nobody does it quite like Minho, he even barista’s better than you—and debate sitting at the table with him. If the hostility rolling from him isn’t hint enough of his wish to be left alone, his downright miserable posture would be. Still, Jisung was right: you need to talk to him.
“Any plans for today?” you ask from the kitchen.
“Teaching soon.”
You hum gently. After a minute, you ask, “Are you okay?”
He scoffs under his breath, sips his coffee.
Okay.
You pull out the other chair at the table. He glances at you.
“Can I?”
He nods. “Sure.” And quickly finishes his mug with one gulp, folds his paper and rises.
“Minho—”
“What?”
“Could you stay a minute?”
He blinks. “What for?”
“We don’t have to avoid each other like this. We’re supposed to be friends.”
“Supposed to be,” he says. “There are a lot of things that are supposed to be.”
“So we’re not even friends now? Is that what you’re saying?”
Minho chucks the paper to the table. “Things are just... different between us.”
“Of course they’re different.” You almost laugh. “Everything is fucking different. You made it different when you kissed me.”
“Right. It’s all my fault. Sure.”
“That’s not what I—” You stop. Rephrase. Remember what therapy taught you. “I acknowledge the part I played in making things different, too. I kissed you back. I consented to everything that happened after that. I wanted it. But it’s changed us, and that’s a fact. We are not the same people we were a few months ago, and it’s dumb to pretend otherwise. I just thought that, despite it all, no matter how different we became, we’d always be best friends.”
Minho nods. “Yeah. Me too. But that’s not how it ended up working out. I don’t feel close to you at all.”
“What can I do to fix that?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if we— You said you were teaching this morning?”
He hums, hand running over his gently muscled bicep. You tear your eyes from him when the heat begins to flush your nape. Perhaps if he were a touch less beautiful, this might be easier.
“Let’s hang out,” you suggest. “After.”
He blinks, long lashes grazing his cheeks.
“Just the two of us,” you press. “Like we used to. Bad movies, bad food.”
“You don’t have anywhere else to be?” he asks.
“No.”
He looks surprised. “Alright.”
“Okay. Good.”
Relief brings a smile, albeit tentative. The boot lifts from your lungs, and the next breath doesn’t feel like it’s through a pinhole. Minho’s lips twitch, but he turns from you before anything more is conveyed. It’s not right, right now. You know that. But it’s a start. Sunlight streaks his broad, tan back as he crosses the room. The gentle closing of his bedroom door seals the moment, but you’re left with hope.
Bad movies, bad food.
Bad people, wanting nothing more than to be good for once.
Out on the street and several paces ahead, Jisung is a man driven by something. All the caffeine, you presume.
He glances over his shoulder, catches your eye and ducks around a narrow, branching alley.
“What the hell is he doing...?”
You jog to keep up and round into the alley; there’s a mesh metal gate closing it off. Jisung stands behind it, mischief lighting his eyes. “Come on!”
“Jisung, you shouldn’t be back there!”
He reaches around the gate, pulls you through it, hand warm around your wrist. He checks the street, and void of passersby or anyone with reason to scold you for your trespassing, he pulls you in deeper, to a nook stacked high with cardboard boxes and discarded packaging.
“What are we even doing here, this is—”
He crowds you against the closest brick wall, concealed in shadow. Your heart springs to your throat, the iridescence of his eyes so unfamiliar— heavy and wanting, he searches your burning face, cups your cheeks.
“This is your fault,” he whispers.
He gingerly captures your lips: can hardly comprehend it until he pulls back, breath slow and warm, tinctured strawberry. It’s too quick. So soft. Seconds pass where the gravity of what he’s done sinks in, and finding nothing other than a well of creamy anticipation, you find purchase in his collar to drag him close, to feel the press of his chest and the cold stone at your back. Jisung grins lazily, nose nudging yours.
“That was so hot of you,” he mutters, voice silken treacle.
You blink at him, dumb.
“Standing up for me. Protecting me.”
“I... I just did the right thing.”
“You’d be amazed how many people are too chicken shit to do that.”
His heavy lids slide closed; still unconvinced that this isn’t a wonderfully realistic hallucination, you refuse to do the same. He kisses you again. Plush and warm, he explores the shape of your lips, hands releasing your cheeks to curve around your waist. What is first so tentative soon devolves; arms around his neck you indulge in the smoothness of his skin, hands wandering from his nape into his hair. You drag his beanie off, his hair lush between your fingers. His listless groan sets something to swell in your belly, arousal thickening when he nips your bottom lip and tugs for the flesh to spring back. He huffs a wanton breath, maps the indents of his teeth with his tongue. Presses against your thigh, the rigidity of his groin so thick and long.
Fuck. The little black box dusts itself off, comes out of hiding.
His right hand drops to your thigh, fingers skimming the hem of your skirt to lift it gently. Your skin zings where his fingertips linger, a gathering of heat in your lower belly such that you haven’t felt since beginning your therapy. It makes your head light and your hands tremble; when he touches where you ache, a featherlight pressure over your underwear, you gasp as though drowning.
“Jisung—”
He hums, nudges your jaw, nuzzles the sensitive skin of your throat. Every sense is attuned to him, exacerbated by the tenebrous alley. There’s nothing to take away from this. Nothing but the trill of your senses that, despite every instinct crying at you, urge you to do the right thing. It would be easy to fall into him. Easy to let old habits dictate your next choice. He wants you, and there’s nothing so empowering as the feeling of being desired. If only it didn’t wear off so quickly.
The little black box wails with despair as you press gentle hands to his (surprisingly) broad chest, firm enough to indicate needing a moment. Jisung withdraws but stays close, nose and cheeks glowing with want.
“We shouldn’t.”
He hangs his head. “I know.”
The pulse of his heartbeat is strong under your palm, rabbiting intently.
“I want to.”
He huffs a gentle laugh, gaze flicking up. “I know.”
“It’s just—”
“I get it. There’s too much right now.” He straightens up, kisses you once more softly, steps away. Sweeps a hand through his hair and pulls his beanie back on. “Let me walk you back?”
You pull your skirt down with a shiver. “Won’t the others be missing you? You’re supposed to be recording.”
He shrugs. “I’m already late.”
He holds his hand out expectantly. You take it when he urges, fingers slotting together, and so it is that J One takes you home, his jacket pulled close and collar risen, head ducked when passing groups of girls that look to be in the right age bracket for recognising him. If only they knew what their beloved rapper had just been up to. If only they knew what he usually got up to.
At your apartment lobby, he kisses the back of your hand.
“Call me.”
You promise you will.
“No regrets, right?” he asks before he leaves. The little black box pouts, and this time, you almost feel sorry for it. This is for the best. It is.
Han Jisung— rapper, charmer, ringleader of the clowns. He dons many titles, and loves them all equally.
“Why didn’t you just tell him?”
His head is in his hands, his phone on the table. “I don’t know, dude. I clammed up. Shit.”
You’d laugh if it wasn’t so painful.
“You realise you’ve just made this a whole thing, right?” you sigh.
“Yeah.”
“When it didn’t need to be.”
“I know.”
“It’s not like we’re fucking on the cake display.”
Jisung snorts. “You wish.”
“I think too highly of carbs to do that.” You sip the froth from your cappuccino, the mug warm in your hands. “Seriously, though. We’re only hanging out. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
He sighs, scratches under his beanie where dark strands peek. Perpetually possessing a healthy glow, simply being around him is enough to lift spirits. No wonder Minho does so at every opportunity.
He pouts into his strawberry Frappuccino.
“Do you feel like we are?” you ask.
“No, man. Come on. I love that we’re friends now. I just— Don’t you feel kind of bad for Minho?”
“In what way?”
“In the way that we’re, like, hanging out behind his back.”
“Behind his back?”
Jisung grimaces. “Without him, I guess.”
You set your beverage down, fold your arms. “I never asked you to keep this a secret.”
“I know—”
“I’ve never stopped you from inviting him, either.”
“Right.” He rubs his right eye. “But wouldn’t inviting him be, like...”
“Awkward? Probably, yeah. He and I have stopped fucking, but you two continue to. Of course, it’ll be awkward. We’ll get over it. I told you, I'm happy for you.”
Jisung quirks a brow. “I don’t know about that.”
“About what?”
“Him and me. Fucking. Continuing to.”
“... You’re not?”
“We get close, but no. Not since you two broke up.”
“Well, I mean; that’s fine, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say it’s fine.”
“Changbin and I haven’t really had sex either. It’s not the end of the world.”
Jisung shrugs, lips wrapped around his straw. He talks around it. “I’m not suggesting it is.” He swallows. “I just feel like there’s more going on with him than he’ll admit to. Dude’s so stuck in his head all the time. It worries me.”
“I... hadn’t noticed.”
“No, well; you guys aren’t as close you used to be. Figures.”
Sickness stirs. You swallow it down.
“What do you think is wrong with him?” you ask, because Jisung seems to know better than you.
“If I had to guess, he misses you.”
“We see each other every day.”
Jisung glares at you.
“He’s the one that ended things, Ji. As much as it hurt at the time, he was right to do so. I’d never have spent the last few weeks focusing on myself otherwise, and I'm a better person for it.”
“If you say so,” he sighs, swirling his straw through pink cream.
“Besides, I don’t see why his missing me should have any effect on his relationship with you.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’ve never missed someone so much it takes you away from everything else?” he says. “You and Bin hyung aren’t fucking either, remember.”
“That’s got nothing to do with Minho.”
“Right. Whatever.”
“I used my pain to my advantage,” you urge. “Let it lead me into changing things.”
“Good for you. Maybe Minho can’t do that. People handle grief in different ways. And that’s what this is, by the way— he’s grieving.”
You slide your hands around your cappuccino, bring it close.
“You should talk to him,” Jisung says quietly.
“And say what?”
“Tell him that we’re hanging out, for a start. Put his mind at ease.”
You roll your eyes. Not worth pointing out Jisung’s role in setting it off-kilter in the first place.
“Tell him you still have feelings for him, too.”
“He knows that, Ji.”
“A little reassurance never hurt,” he says.
You sip froth from your coffee. “Fine. But—”
“Excuse me?”
A voice to the right draws yours and Jisung’s attention: two teen girls huddle closely, phones clutched in their hands, all aflutter. They inch towards the table, wide eyed stares fixed to Jisung.
“You— You’re Han Jisung, right?” One of them says. “J One?”
Jisung nods, bows in his chair, adjusts his beanie. “Yeah.”
The girls squeal, drawing dubious glances from customers. Jisung shrinks into himself.
“Oh my god!” The other exclaims. “Oh my god, oh my god! We’re huge fans. We love you so much!”
“Ah, thank you.”
“Can we, like, get a picture with you?” They’re shuffling closer, now too close to be comfortable.
Jisung falters, panic paling him. “Oh, I— I’m sorry, I can’t—”
“Just one picture!” The girls raise their phones and turn, frame a selfie, and unable to bear it any longer, you rise and quickly pose in front of Jisung, a victory ‘V’ held up in frame.
“What the hell?!” One girl complains, whirling around. “Do you mind—”
“Do you mind?” you hiss. “I believe he just told you that he can’t give you a picture.”
“We were just—”
“Just disrespecting the man’s boundaries? Just fishing for your five minutes of fame?”
The girls glower, their mouths opening and shutting like floundering fish.
“Let him drink his coffee in peace,” you say acerbically.
“Come on.” One girl grabs the other’s arm. “Let’s go.” She turns to Jisung, bows low. “Sorry.”
With that, they scarper from the café, eyes of curious customers following them. A smartly dressed barista approaches, asks if everything is okay. You reassure them it is. When you sit back down, Jisung is staring.
“What?” you deadpan.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“That’s the strangest ‘thank you’ I've ever heard.”
He snorts, colour returning to him. He takes one long sip of his Frappuccino, hurriedly pulls his jacket back on. He smacks his lips and gestures to the door. “Come on.”
“We’re leaving? But I haven’t finished my—”
He’s already getting up, weaving through the café and breezing out.
A fortnight on from the declaration and the discomfort of separation is so settled under Minho’s skin he’s tempted to carve it out. He doesn’t want to get used to what is gradually becoming routine; her frequent shifts at the coffee shop align perfectly with his own professional obligations and so their days are spent busy and apart, their evenings rarely under the same roof— she has engagements, she says, and fuck if he knows what those are. All he knows is that she glows when she returns, and it makes him feel less than worthless.
The most obvious conclusion he finds himself hopping to: she’s fucking someone else. Someone removed from the dramatics of ‘3racha x everyone’, and honestly, how can he blame her for that? Regardless, he backs himself. Feels her affection in the fleeting looks and passing touches. Clutches at the affirmation like it’s damn life support.
He pours himself into dancing, as a man so in need of distraction is wont to do. He hangs out with Jisung where their schedules align, finds peace and an unfettered joy there for as long as they’re together. Jisung is sunlight incarnate. So giving it makes Minho’s body ache. There’s nothing the rapper wouldn’t do for him, and he knows it well, but it doesn’t seem to stop hesitation staying his hand when intimacy becomes the moment. Jisung is patient, understanding. Knows that it’s not his fault that his sexual appetite has plummeted, but rather the blame of the heartache he suffers, so dense and dark as to eclipse any thoughts of wrapping himself around another. The irony of it all isn’t lost on Minho; he ended things with her in hopes it would grant them both romantic freedom, yet in her absence he feels ever more imprisoned by the obligations he sets upon himself— how can he indulge with Jisung in good conscience when he feels so fucking incomplete? He also hoped that removing sex from the table would encourage her to open up to him about what it is she keeps to herself. No such luck, it seems.
He loses himself to these thoughts in moments of isolation. Fearful of them he does his utmost to ensure he’s not left alone for long. Surrounds himself with clients, with strangers in the depths of neon bars, with Jisung wherever possible, with things he knows he loves, even if he never quite feels it in the moment.
Tidying the studio following a particularly hard lesson—the inclusion of children is a challenging adjustment to his client base, but the parents with bottomless wallets make it lucrative—he mentally plans the next; a budding dance troupe preparing for a competition, always so fiery and full of ambition. He wonders how far over they’ll run this time. The two-hour slot is never enough. Doesn’t think he’ll mind it today. Taking things just like this—a day, an hour, a minute at a time—helps keep him grounded. If he thinks too much of what awaits him when he gets home, he’ll ruin much more than the lessons.
With a half hour before the troupe arrive, Minho takes his chances on his boyfriend. Nothing is quite as effective a salve to nerves as the rapper’s honeyed voice. He retrieves his phone from the sound system desk, dials the contact, perches on the corner sofa. Takes a few rings longer than usual for him to answer.
“What’s up, man?”
“Hey.” Minho grins. “Just thought I'd call.”
“Oh, yeah? So sweet. Always thinking about me.”
Minho’s about to gush, when in the background he hears clinking crockery, quiet chatter, the rush of a coffee steamer.
“I thought you were recording today?” Minho says.
“Yeah. We are. I just dipped for a bit. Caffeine calls, you know how it is.”
“Do I ever. You by yourself?”
“Oh, uh...”
He hesitates.
“Jisung?”
“I’m just with a friend.”
“Okay? Who?”
“Hey, uh, my order’s about to come out. I’ll call you later?”
“Jisung—”
“Bye, baby.”
Like that the call ends, the dull dial tone sounding off in Minho’s ear. His stomach rolls over uncomfortably, tightening, pulling. It’s unlike Jisung to be secretive. So unlike him to be so bothered. He’s not the jealous type, as recent endeavours with his ex have demonstrated, but courtesy of the same timeline of events, has discovered that he most definitely is the suspicious type. And now he has reason to be. Impulsively, he calls Jisung back twice straight away. The first call rings off. The second clicks straight through to voicemail. A wave of unease sends Minho to his feet, to pacing, where he spends the next fifteen minutes until the dance troupe arrive. They’re loud and raring to go. Minho’s head throbs.
“What’s up, man!?” One of them hollers, all smiles and lovely energy. Nothing in their world is going tits up, clearly.
“Let’s get started,” Minho grumbles. “We cannot run over today.”
