[hanosaurs]

𝓦𝓔𝓛𝓒𝓞𝓜𝓔 to my blog

──────── ୨ৎ 𝙼𝚄𝚂𝙴𝚄𝙼 of fictional feelings

⋆ ɪᴛ’ꜱ ᴍᴇ

Even the stars are jealous of you

☾ MASTERLIST ☾ ⋆ ♡ TAGLIST ♡⋆ ☕︎ RECOMMENDED ☕︎

୨ৎ 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓽: until i say so ♡ lee felix ❜ ⌗ . . . . . . . . . ⌗ ❜ eat your words ♡ 3racha

[hanosaurs]

omg first time requesting...I'm scared...can I request like the MOST sub felix like,ever i need this man whimpering at begging ommml

omg, thanks a lot for trusting me with your first request, here it is. sorry it took so long

[hanosaurs]

│ until i say so

│ synopsis: After teasing Felix about being able to handle anything, you decide to put his patience to the ultimate test—leaving him bound, desperate, and begging until you finally decide he's earned his reward.

☾ pairing ─ felix x fem!reader

☾ genre ─ smut (18+)

☾ gallery notice ─ established relationship, dom!reader, sub!Felix, bondage, restraints, consensual BDSM, orgasm denial, edging, begging, praise kink, power exchange, oral (m receiving), riding, aftercare, explicit sexual content.

☾ length ─ 1.5k

request!

You've been at this for what feels like hours, though the clock on the nightstand tells you it's been closer to forty-five minutes. Not that you're counting—not really. You're too busy enjoying the absolute wreck you've made of the man beneath you.

Felix is a mess.

His wrists are bound tight to the headboard with silk ropes, the black fabric a stark contrast against his skin. His ankles are similarly secured, spread just wide enough to keep him vulnerable, exposed, completely at your mercy. And mercy is not something you're feeling particularly generous with tonight.

"Please," he whimpers again, and the sound goes straight through you. His voice is wrecked, raw from begging, from moaning, from the sheer exertion of holding back. "Please, baby, I can't—I need—"

You pull back just enough to look at him, your lips still brushing against his heated cock. He's flushed all over, chest heaving with every desperate breath, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and he looks so fucking beautiful like this—ruined, desperate, yours.

"You can," you say simply, your voice calm, almost casual. "You will cum. When I say."

A sob catches in his throat as you dip back down to suck his cock again, swirling your tongue around him with deliberate, torturous slowness. His hips buck instinctively, trying to chase more friction, more pressure, but the ropes hold him firm. He can't move. He can't do anything but take what you give him.

And what you're giving him is barely enough.

"You're doing so well," you murmur against his tip, feeling him twitch and throb against your tongue. "Such a good boy for me. Taking it so well."

"Not—" he gasps, his head falling back against the pillow with a soft thud. "Not a good boy, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"No," you say firmly, pulling back and wrapping your fingers around his cock instead. You squeeze just tight enough to edge him back from the brink, watching his face crumple with the effort of holding back. "You're not cumming. Not yet."

"How long?" he begs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. They're not from sadness—they're from overwhelming sensation, from the brutal edge of pleasure that's been building and building with no release in sight. "How long do I have to—"

"As long as I want," you interrupt, leaning up to press a kiss to his trembling thigh. You drag your nails lightly up his leg, watching him shiver. "You said you'd be good for me, didn't you? You said you'd take whatever I give you."

"I did," he breathes, nodding frantically. "I will, I promise, I just—it's so much, it's too much, I feel like I'm gonna—"

"You're not going to," you assure him, but there's no warmth in it. Just command. Just control. "Not until I let you. And I'm not ready to let you yet."

You lower your head again, taking him deep into your mouth, and his whole body arches against the restraints. The headboard creaks as he pulls against it, muscles straining, but you've tied the knots well. He's not going anywhere.

"Please," he whines, high and broken. "Please, please, please—"

The word becomes a mantra, a prayer, a desperate litany that falls from his lips again and again as you work him with your mouth and hand. You can feel him getting close—you always can, you know his body better than he knows it himself—and you pull back at the last second, replacing your mouth with a loose grip that offers no real friction.

He cries out, a sound of pure frustration and need, and bucks his hips into your hand despite himself.

"Greedy," you chide, tightening your grip just enough to hold him still. "Impatient. I thought you wanted to be good for me, Felix."

"I do," he sobs, actual tears spilling down his temples now, into his hair. "I do, I do, I just—I can't, I need to come, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll be so good, I promise—"

"You've been doing this for almost an hour," you remind him, your voice soft but relentless. "Taking my mouth, taking my hand, getting so close and having it taken away. And you're still hard. Still desperate. Still mine."

"Yours," he agrees immediately, nodding frantically. "I'm yours, I'm yours, please—"

You release him entirely, sitting back on your heels to admire your handiwork. He's absolutely dripping, trembling, chest heaving with every breath. The ropes have left faint pink marks on his wrists and ankles—not painful, just reminders of his helplessness. Of your control.

"Look at you," you say, almost in awe. "Look at what I've done to you."

"Please," he whispers one more time, and there's something different in his voice now. Not just desperation, but surrender. Complete and total submission. "Please, I'm yours. Use me. Let me—let me—"

You reach out and drag your fingers through the mess on his stomach, bringing them to his lips. He opens immediately, sucking your fingers clean with desperate enthusiasm, his tongue swirling around your digits like he can taste his own desperation.

"Good boy," you murmur, and he moans around your fingers, the vibration sending sparks up your arm. "There's my good boy."

When you pull your fingers free, you lean down and kiss him—deep and filthy, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He kisses back with equal fervor, needy and open and desperate for any connection, any touch you'll give him.

You break the kiss and trail your lips down his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. You bite down on his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and he whimpers your name like it's the only word he knows.

"Please," he breathes against your hair. "Please, I can't take it anymore, I need you, I need—"

You reach between your bodies and line yourself up with him, hovering just out of reach. His hips strain upward, trying to close the distance, but you pull back just enough to deny him.

"Ask properly," you command.

His eyes meet yours, blown and wet and so fucking needy. "Please," he begs, his voice barely a whisper. "Please, I need me inside you. Please fuck me. Please let me come. I'll do anything, I'll be anything, just please—"

You sink down onto him in one smooth motion, and the sound he makes is inhuman—a wail of relief and pleasure and overwhelming sensation. His head falls back, neck exposed, and you lean down to bite at his pulse point as you start to move.

"Fuck," you breathe, because he feels incredible— hot and pulsing around you, aftershocks of denied orgasm making him flutter and clench. "Fuck, Felix, you feel—"

"Please," he's still saying, even now, his hips rolling to meet your thrusts as best he can with the restraints holding him down. "Please, please, I'm so close, I've been so close for so long, please let me, please—"

You set a brutal pace, riding him hard and deep, angling your hips to hit that spot inside you that makes both scream. The headboard bangs against the wall in rhythm with your movements, and neither of you care about the noise, about anything except this moment, this connection, this power you have over him and the trust he's placed in your hands.

"Now," you gasp, moving and bouncing faster on his cock, giving him the friction he's been desperate for. "Come for me now, Felix. Let me feel you."

He comes with a shout—your name, maybe, or just a sound of pure release—and it's violent, his whole body convulsing against the ropes, his release painting your stomach and chest. The force of it drags you over the edge with him, and you bury your face in his neck, moaning long and low as he spill inside you, claiming him completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both trembling, sweating, breathing hard against each other's skin. You can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest, gradually slowing as he comes down from the high.

"Untie me?" he whispers eventually, his voice soft and wrecked and utterly spent.

You reach up and loosen the knots with trembling fingers, freeing his wrists first, then his ankles. He hisses as circulation returns, and you massage his wrists gently, pressing kisses to the red marks the ropes left behind.

"Too tight?" you ask, suddenly worried.

"Perfect," he mumbles, pulling you down to kiss him slow and deep. "You were perfect. That was—" he shudders, aftershocks still making him twitch "—that was so good."

You settle beside him, drawing you into his arms, and you curls into his chest like you belongs there—which you does. You always has.

"Mean," he murmurs against your hair, but there's no heat in it—just affection, just satisfaction.

"You love it," you counter, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I do," he agrees, smiling against your shoulder. "I really, really do."

You hold him close as his breathing evens out, both of you drifting in the aftermath, tangled together in a mess of sweat and satisfaction and something that feels a lot like love.

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[hanosaurs]

Could you write something along the lines of reader being (willingly) under the influence of some aphrodisiac that was given to her by Bangchan, Han and Changbin so it makes her more "fun" to be used winkwink lmfao idk I just like the whole helpless but willing situation.. 😱😍😅

here is the fanfic, sorry it took so long. i hope you enjoy it

[hanosaurs]

│ eat your words

│ synopsis: A harmless bet between best friends takes an unexpected turn when a supposedly fake aphrodisiac chocolate proves to be very real, forcing you to admit that maybe 3RACHA affects you more than you were ever willing to confess.

☾ pairing ─ 3Racha x fem!reader

☾ genre ─ smut (18+)

☾ gallery notice ─ 3RACHA x reader, aphrodisiac, friends with unresolved tension, bet, praise, dirty talk, oral (f receiving & m receiving), vaginal and anal, multiple orgasms, creampie, unprotected sex, explicit sexual content, consensual.

☾ length ─ 3.9k

request!

The conversation starts like any other night in 3RACHA's studio.

Takeout containers are scattered across the table, music hums quietly in the background, and Chan is lazily editing a track while Han and Changbin argue over something completely ridiculous. You're curled up on the couch with your phone, occasionally chiming in just to make the argument even worse.

Somehow, as it always does with your friend group, the conversation derails.

Dating.

Attraction.

Celebrity crushes.

"Okay," Han says, pointing at you with a fry. "Hypothetically."

You raise an eyebrow.

"If you had to date one of us."

You don't even hesitate.

"I wouldn't."

Changbin snorts.

"That's not the question."

"It kind of is."

Chan laughs from his chair.

"Come on. Just pick one."

"No."

Han dramatically clutches his chest.

"Are we really that hopeless?"

You shrug.

"I love you guys, but... not like that."

Changbin narrows his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'not like that?'"

"I mean..." You gesture vaguely between the three of them. "You're my best friends."

"So?"

"So you're basically family."

The room falls suspiciously quiet.

Han blinks.

"...Family?"

"You know what I mean."

Changbin looks personally offended.

"So you're telling me not one of us is your type?"

"Nope."

Chan spins around in his chair.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

Han points to himself.

"Not even a little?"

You shake your head.

"No."

Changbin.

"Not me?"

"No."

Chan.

"Not me either?"

"No."

The three of them exchange the exact same look.

It's almost funny how synchronized they are.

"...She's lying," Changbin mutters.

"I'm not."

"No one's that immune."

"I am."

Han crosses his arms.

"We're literally idols."

"And?"

"And people literally thirst over us for a living."

You burst into laughter.

"I know."

"And?"

"And congratulations?"

Chan laughs despite himself, but his pride has very obviously taken a hit.

"You can't honestly tell me you've never looked at one of us and thought—"

"Nope."

Han gasps dramatically.

"Not even after seeing Bin at the gym?"

"No."

"Chan after a concert?"

"No."

"Me?"

"...Especially no."

Han throws a cushion at you.

"That's rude."

"It's honest."

The teasing goes on for nearly twenty minutes.

The more they insist that it's impossible, the more stubborn you become.

Eventually, Changbin leans back in his chair.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I think you're just too comfortable around us."

You frown.

"What does that even mean?"

"It means," Han continues, "you've known us for so long your brain doesn't register us as attractive anymore."

"My brain works just fine."

Chan taps his fingers against the desk, thinking.

"...What if we tested that?"

You laugh.

"Tested it how?"

He disappears into the tiny kitchenette attached to the studio and comes back holding a neatly wrapped chocolate.

Han immediately starts laughing.

"No way."

Changbin raises an eyebrow.

"You still have that?"

Chan shrugs.

"It was a gag gift."

Your curiosity is immediately piqued.

"What is it?"

"A supposedly very expensive aphrodisiac chocolate."

You stare at the wrapper before looking back at him.

"...You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

Han takes it from Chan and reads the ridiculous marketing on the back out loud, making exaggerated voices every few seconds.

"'Enhanced sensitivity...'"

"'Heightened desire...'"

"'Guaranteed unforgettable evening...'"

He bursts out laughing.

"This has to be the biggest scam I've ever seen."

You hold out your hand.

"Give it to me."

All three of them stop.

"...What?"

"You heard me."

Chan narrows his eyes.

"You'd actually eat it?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

Han grins.

"Because if it actually works—"

"It won't."

Changbin folds his arms.

"You're awfully confident."

"I am."

An idea forms almost instantly.

You smile.

"Let's make a bet."

Three pairs of eyes lock onto you.

"If this stupid chocolate works and I suddenly can't stop throwing myself at one of you..." You pause dramatically. "You win."

Han immediately perks up.

"And if nothing happens?"

"You admit I'm telling the truth."

Changbin raises an eyebrow.

"The truth being?"

"That I genuinely don't see you that way."

Chan studies your face for a moment.

"...No cheating."

"I won't."

"No pretending."

"I won't."

"No backing out halfway."

"I won't."

He sighs.

"...Fine."

You unwrap the chocolate without another thought.

Han watches with wide eyes.

"I can't believe you're actually doing this."

"It's candy."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

"You literally don't."

You pop the last piece into your mouth anyway.

"There."

You dust your hands together dramatically.

"Happy?"

For the first few minutes...

Nothing.

You smirk.

"Told you."

Han groans.

"I knew it was fake."

Changbin shakes his head.

"What a waste of money."

Even Chan looks disappointed.

You spend the next fifteen minutes rubbing your victory in their faces.

"Guess I'm just immune."

"You guys really thought—"

"I cannot believe—"

Then, halfway through your sentence...

You stop.

"...Huh."

Han notices first.

"What?"

You blink.

"...Nothing."

A strange warmth settles beneath your skin.

Not painful.

Just...

Warm.

You assume the studio's gotten stuffy.

You tug absentmindedly at the collar of your shirt.

Chan notices.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You reach for your drink.

Your hand shakes ever so slightly.

Probably because you haven't eaten enough.

Definitely that.

Another few minutes pass.

The warmth spreads.

Your heartbeat feels just a little too noticeable.

Your thoughts become frustratingly difficult to organize.

You try focusing on your phone instead.

The words blur together.

Weird.

Across the room, Changbin is explaining something to Han with his usual animated gestures.

Normally, you wouldn't think twice about it.

Tonight...

You catch yourself staring a second longer than you mean to.

You immediately look away.

...What was that?

You shift in your seat.

Maybe the chocolate actually has caffeine.

Yeah.

That has to be it.

You clear your throat.

"I'm gonna get some water."

Chan watches you stand.

"You've gotten water three times."

"...I'm hydrated."

Han exchanges a glance with Changbin.

Neither of them says anything.

But they're beginning to notice little things.

You're unusually quiet.

You won't make eye contact for very long.

You keep pacing around the room for no apparent reason.

You laugh at jokes half a second too late.

Every time one of them accidentally steps a little too close, you instinctively move away—not because you're uncomfortable with them, but because suddenly, inexplicably, the proximity is making it much harder to think clearly.

Your pride won't let you admit anything is wrong.

Especially not after spending the last half hour insisting nothing could possibly happen.

Chan finally breaks the silence.

"...You know."

You look up.

"We can call off the bet."

Your jaw tightens.

"No."

"You don't have to prove anything."

"I'm fine."

Han tilts his head.

"You don't look fine."

"I said I'm fine."

You cross your arms, trying to ignore the growing frustration that comes from fighting whatever the chocolate is doing to you.

The room suddenly feels much smaller than before.

Much warmer.

And for the first time that evening, you're no longer completely certain you're going to win the bet.

The heat intensifies, coalescing into a slick, insistent wetness between your thighs. It's a strange feeling, uncomfortable yet perversely pleasurable. Your jeans, once just fabric, now feel like an abrasive, burning obstacle.

You shift unconsciously on the couch, crossing and uncrossing your legs, every rough slide of the denim against your clit, trapped in the cotton of your underwear, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight to your core. It's a delicious torture.

You need more friction. You change position again, pressing your thighs together, and the subtle but deliberate movement makes a small whimper almost escape your lips.

Changbin, who has been watching you silently from his chair, is the first to truly notice. It's not just your restlessness.

It's the way your breathing has turned shallow, the slight tremor in your hands as you grip your phone, and how your pupils seem to have dilated, darkening in the studio's dim light.

He catches you moving again, a subtle rocking of your hips against the couch cushion, and a slow, predatory understanding dawns on his face. He meets your eyes for a second, and your hormone-fogged brain registers the intensity of his gaze before you look away, heat flooding your cheeks.

With a movement almost too small to see, he signals to Han and Chan. Han, who was in the middle of joking about the expensive chocolate, stops mid-sentence.

He follows Changbin's gaze to you, and his own expression shifts from amusement to sharp curiosity. Chan turns slowly in his chair, completely abandoning his track editing. All three of them are watching you now, a trio of silent attention, while you're too lost in your own body, too focused on the desperate need to relieve the pressure building between your legs, to realize the game has completely changed.

"You okay, Y/N?" Chan asks, his voice a low, deep murmur that vibrates across your sensitive skin.

"M'fine," you slur, the word coming out raspy. "Just... a little hot."

"Hot?" Han teases, inching closer to the couch. "I thought you said nothing was happening. Weren't you immune?"

"I'm fine," you repeat, more to convince yourself than them. You stand up abruptly, needing to move, needing space. "I'm gonna... I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

"Don't leave just yet," Changbin says, standing and blocking your path with his solid frame. His presence is overwhelming, and the scent of his cologne mixed with the clean sweat of the studio makes your mouth water. "The conversation was just getting interesting."

"What conversation?" you ask, taking a step back until your legs hit the edge of the couch. "You guys are being idiots."

"We're not the ones being idiots," Chan says, approaching from your other side, boxing you in. "You are. Squirming like you've got ants in your pants. Or something else."

Han laughs, a low, excited sound. "Or something else. You said it didn't affect you. You said we were like your brothers."

"Friends," you retort, your voice trembling slightly. The room seems to shrink, the air thickening with their testosterone and your own rampant desire.

"Friends?" Changbin takes another step, closing the distance. His hand comes up, and with torturous slowness, he brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead. His fingers graze your skin, and it's like he's lit you on fire. "You don't get this wet for your 'friends,' Y/N."

You gasp. The crude bluntness of his words hits your stomach with a force that makes your knees buckle. Han moves in behind you, his hot chest against your back, and his hands settle on your hips, holding you up.

"He's right," Han whispers in your ear, his warm breath making you shudder. "I can feel it. You're shaking. And it's not from the cold."

Chan kneels in front of you, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Admit it. The chocolate worked. You're turned on. By us."

The denial dies in your throat. How can you deny it when your body is screaming the truth? When every cell in your being is crying out for their touch, their taste, their possession? Your pride, that stupid, persistent armor, crumbles under the weight of overwhelming desire. A tear of frustration and pure need escapes and slides down your cheek.

"Please," you whisper, the word a broken rasp. "I can't... I can't..."

"Can't what, baby?" Changbin asks, his thumb brushing your lower lip.

"I need... I need sex!" you cry out, the confession bursting from you in a desperate torrent. "Right now. I need someone to fuck me or I'm going to explode. Please!"

Han laughs behind you, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory. "Well, that was easier than I thought."

Changbin doesn't waste a second. He grabs your face and kisses you with a ferocity that steals the air from your lungs.

It's a dominant, claiming kiss, and you return it with equal desperation. His hands move down your back to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the hard press of his jeans against your overstimulated core makes you moan into his mouth.

As you're kissing him, you feel Chan deftly undoing your jeans with expert hands. He slides them down your hips, along with your soaked panties, leaving you bare from the waist down. The cool air of the studio hits your feverish skin, and you shiver.

"Look at this," Chan murmurs, his voice filled with awe. "She's completely soaked. You were right about one thing: you wouldn't get tired."

Han turns you, and his mouth replaces Changbin's. His kiss is different, more playful but just as intense.

He keeps one hand on your waist while the other roams your body, sliding up your stomach to cup the underside of your breasts through your shirt. While he distracts you with his kiss, Changbin kneels behind you.

"You'll scream for me first," he promises, and then you feel his tongue on your pussy.

The scream tears from your throat, muffled by Han's mouth. It's an overwhelming sensation. Changbin's tongue is skilled, greedy, moving against your swollen clit with a precision that makes you see stars. He licks, sucks, and nibbles with just enough pressure to send you hurtling towards the edge of an orgasm in seconds.

"Feels that good, huh?" Han taunts, breaking the kiss to watch you writhe.

"No... I can't... I'm gonna..." you whimper, your hips bucking against Changbin's mouth.

"Come for us, Y/N," Chan commands, now beside you, kneading your breasts through your shirt. "Let us see."

The orgasm hits you like a freight train. It's a blinding explosion of pleasure that courses through your entire body, making you shake and cry out their names.

But it doesn't stop. The wave of pleasure recedes only to be replaced by another, even more intense one. The chocolate hadn't just turned you on; it had put you in a state of constant, escalating arousal.

Changbin rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm going to give you something better."

He lifts you with ease, as if you weigh nothing, and lays you back on the couch.

As if he, too, had eaten the chocolate and were just as desperate as you, he unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants and boxers in one go. He positions himself between your legs and, without warning, sinks into you in one smooth stroke.

The cry you let out this time is one of pure satisfaction. He fills you completely, the stretch a welcome relief to the ache that's been building. He doesn't give you time to adjust before he starts moving, his hips snapping against yours with a punishing rhythm that makes the couch slide across the floor.

"Look at her," Han groans, stroking himself as he watches. "She's taking it so well."

You don't even know when the other two took off their clothes; you're so lost in the desire to get fucked by all three of them.

Chan kneels by your head, his hard cock in his hand. "Open up, baby."

You obey without hesitation, parting your lips as he feeds his length into your mouth. The sensation of being filled at both ends is intoxicating.

You moan around Chan's cock as Changbin hits a spot deep inside you that makes your toes curl. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping against skin, your muffled cries, and their harsh breaths.

Changbin leans down, his chest pressing against yours to seek a new angle, a deeper recess, his mouth next to your ear. "You feel so fucking good," he grunts, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "So tight. So wet for me."

His words send another jolt of pleasure through you. You're already so close again, your body coiling like a spring. Chan's hands tangle in your hair, guiding your head as he fucks your mouth, his eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him.

"That's it," he praises. "Take it all."

With a final, brutal thrust, Changbin buries himself deep inside you as he comes, his warmth flooding you. The feeling pushes you over the edge again, and you scream around Chan's cock as your orgasm rips through you, even more powerful than the last.

Chan pulls away from you, making a "pop" sound as his cock leaves your mouth. When you look at him in confusion, wondering why he pulled it out, he leans close and whispers in your ear: "I want to cum when I'm inside you."

Changbin pulls out, leaving you feeling empty for only a moment before Han is there, flipping you over onto your hands and knees. "My turn to make you scream," he growls, before slamming into you from behind.

His angle is different, hitting new spots inside you that make you see colors. He's rougher than Changbin, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll have bruises tomorrow. But you don't care. You welcome it. You crave it.

You push back against him, meeting his brutal thrusts with your own, your body completely taken over by the primal need for more. The couch creaks in protest with every powerful snap of his hips.

"Fuck, look at you," Han grunts, his voice a strained, breathless marvel. "Taking me so deep. You wanted this, didn't you? All this time, acting so innocent."

You can't form words, only a series of desperate, high-pitched moans. Chan moves around to kneel in front of you, his cock hard and ready again. He grips your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Don't forget about me," he says, his voice dark and commanding. "We're not done with you yet."

He slides back into your mouth, and this time you're ready for him. You relax your throat, taking him deeper as Han sets a relentless pace from behind. The dual sensation is mind-numbing.

You're completely at their mercy, a vessel for their pleasure, and the thought sends another thrill of arousal through you. Your third orgasm builds fast, a tightening coil in your stomach.

"Come on, Y/N," Han pants, his rhythm starting to falter. "Come for me. Let me feel you."

His command is all it takes. Your body convulses, your walls clamping down around him as a blinding, all-consuming orgasm tears through you. Your scream is muffled by Chan's cock, the vibrations making him groan. Han follows you over the edge with a loud shout, his grip on your hips tightening painfully as he spills into you.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your combined, heavy breathing. You collapse onto the couch, your limbs feeling like jelly. But the fire inside you hasn't gone out. If anything, it burns brighter, a desperate, insatiable ache. You've come three times, and you still need more.

"Already?" Chan's voice is a low chuckle. "I thought you said you were tired."

"I'm... not," you manage to say, your voice hoarse. You push yourself up onto your elbows, looking at the three of them.

Changbin is watching with a dark, possessive gaze, while Han is sprawled in a chair, a lazy, satisfied smirk on his face. But Chan... Chan is still hard.

"Good," he says, his eyes gleaming. "Because I'm not done with you."

He pulls you up, maneuvering you until you're straddling his lap as he sits on the couch. He lines himself up with your entrance, and you sink down onto him with a shared groan. This position is different. It's deeper, more intimate. You're face to face, his hands on your waist, guiding you as you start to move.

"Ride me," he commands, his voice low and rough.

You do. You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to roll your hips, finding a rhythm that makes his eyes roll back. The pleasure is sharp, intense. Every time you sink down, he hits your cervix, sending a jolt of pain-pleasure through you. You're so sensitive, every touch, every movement amplified.

"That's it," he praises, his head falling back against the couch. "Just like that. Fuck, you feel amazing."

Changbin and Han move closer, flanking you. Changbin's hand slides up your back, his fingers tracing your spine. Han leans in, his mouth finding your neck, sucking a mark into your skin. The added stimulation is almost too much.

"Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for.

"You can take it," Changbin murmurs in your ear. "You're going to take everything we give you."

His words are a promise. They continue to touch you, to kiss you, to mark you as Chan drives into you from below. The pleasure builds again, a slow, inexorable wave. You're so close, teetering on the edge.

"Come with me," Chan grunts, his hands tightening on your hips. "Now."

His command sends you over. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pure ecstasy that leaves you shaking and breathless. You collapse against his chest, your body spent. But even as you're coming down, you feel a new wave of arousal wash over you. The chocolate is still working, still fueling the fire.

Chan gently lifts you off him, laying you down on the couch. You're a mess, covered in sweat and their cum, your body aching in the best way. But your eyes find theirs, and they see the same desperate need reflected in them.

"One more time," Changbin says, his voice a low growl. "Together."

They arrange you on your hands and knees again, but this time it's different. Chan positions himself behind you, while Changbin kneels in front of you. Han stands to the side, stroking his cock as he watches.

"You're going to take the three of us," Chan says, his voice leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to love it."

You nod, too far gone to speak. Chan enters you from behind, his slow, deep strokes making you tremble. Then, Changbin guides his cock to your tighter hole. Finally, Han moves closer and positions his rock-hard cock against your mouth. You open eagerly, taking him in.

The three of you move together, a symphony of flesh and desire. Chan's thrusts push you forward, taking Han deeper into your throat. Han's hands are on you, stroking your back, your ass, your hair. The room is filled with the sounds of your pleasure, their grunts and groans, the slick sound of their bodies moving against yours.

The final orgasm builds slowly, a crescendo of pleasure that promises to be the most intense yet. You're lost in a haze of sensation, your body no longer your own, but a plaything for their pleasure. And you've never felt more alive.

"Come for us, Y/N," Chan grunts, his rhythm becoming erratic. "One last time."

The command breaks you. Your body arches, a silent scream tearing from your throat as the most powerful orgasm yet rips through you. It's a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that leaves you trembling and spent. Chan, Changbin and Han follow you over the edge, their warmth filling you as they find their own release, filling you all over with semen

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is your combined, heavy breathing. You collapse onto the couch, your body finally sated.

The fire inside you has finally been extinguished, leaving you feeling warm, content, and utterly exhausted.

The three of them are a tangle of limbs around you, their bodies warm and solid against yours.

"Told you we weren't that hopeless," Han mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

You manage a weak laugh, your eyes drifting closed. "Okay," you whisper. "You win."

And as you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the warmth and scent of your best friends, you can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was the best bet you've ever lost.

☾ museum pass — want to join? click here.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

│ spoiled

│ synopsis: She lived in a world where money solved everything. He wanted to be the first person to tell her "no."

☾ pairing ─ idol!hyunjin × fan!reader

☾ genre ─ smut (18+)

☾ gallery notice ─ idol/fan relationship, billionaire reader, possessive Hyunjin, dom/sub dynamics, praise & degradation, bondage, edging, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, explicit sexual content.

☾ length ─ 4.4k

The staff smiled the second they saw your name on the schedule.

"Miss L/N has arrived."

One of the managers sighed.

"Again."

Another one laughed.

"Mr. Hwang's favorite regular."

"He would disagree."

"He absolutely would."

───────────── ☕︎

Hyunjin heard them before the door even opened. He already knew, of course it was you, again.

Every few weeks, different country, different outfit, different luxury handbag, same smile, same excitement, same impossible life.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

"She´s just a fan."

"Stop looking at her."

"Today's the last time."

The door opened, and there you were. A white Chanel dress that looked straight off the runway, diamond earrings that definitely weren't borrowed, a tiny Kelly bag hanging from your arm.

You looked like you belonged on the cover of Vogue, not in line for a fanmeeting.

The second your eyes met his, your entire face lit up.

"Hi!"

Why did you always sound so genuinely happy to see him?

Hyunjin smiled despite himself.

"Hi."

You walked over and sat across from him, carefully placing several shopping bags beside your chair.

"...Should I even ask?"

"Hm?"

"The bags."

"Oh!"

You looked down as if you'd forgotten they existed.

"I went shopping."

"I gathered."

"It wasn't that much."

He glanced toward the pile. There were at least eight bags, all designer.

"I was in Paris."

"Yesterday?"

"Mhm."

"You flew back today?"

"We landed this morning."

"You look... surprisingly awake."

"Oh."

You shrugged.

"I slept on the plane."

"Commercial?"

You looked at him like he'd asked whether water was dry.

"No."

"...Right."

"Dad doesn't really like commercial flights."

Of course he didn't.

"Anyway."

Your eyes sparkled.

"I was so excited because Dior invited you to Fashion Week."

Hyunjin chuckled.

"It was an amazing experience."

"I know!"

"You watched?"

"I watched everything."

"...Everything?"

"The livestream, the interviews, the airport videos, the behind-the-scenes clips."

He blinked.

"...Everything."

You nodded proudly.

"So..."

"I bought Dior."

"..."

"A lot of Dior."

"...How much is 'a lot'?"

You genuinely had to think.

"I don't know."

"Try."

"I stopped counting."

"..."

"I think..."

You looked toward the ceiling.

"...Maybe around two hundred pieces?"

Silence.

"Mostly clothes."

More silence.

"And some bags."

Hyunjin stared.

"...Some?"

"Ten."

"..."

"My stylist got mad."

"I can imagine."

"So Dad told me if it made me happy, I should buy whatever I wanted."

"...Naturally."

"And then he bought Mom some things too because he felt bad."

You smiled.

"I wanted to celebrate."

"You celebrated..."

"You."

"...By spending enough money to buy a house."

"I didn't think of it like that."

"I know you didn't."

That was exactly the problem. You never did.

Money simply...

Didn't exist as an obstacle in your world. It fascinated him.

And somehow...

It irritated him just as much.

"You know..."

He leaned back in his chair.

"...You're incredibly spoiled."

Your smile faltered.

"I am?"

"You don't realize it?"

"No..."

"I can tell."

You frowned, genuinely confused.

"I've always lived like this."

"I know."

"So..."

You looked at him carefully.

"...Are you mad at me?"

"No."

"Disappointed?"

"No."

"You keep making that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you're judging me."

"...Maybe I am."

"Oh."

You smiled again.

"...That's okay."

"...It is?"

"You always tell me when you think I'm wrong."

"I do."

"No one else does."

That caught him off guard. Your voice wasn't defensive, it wasn't arrogant, it was honest.

You really had grown up surrounded by people who never told you no, not because you demanded it, because everyone else simply gave in before you even had to ask.

Maybe...

That was why you were so unaware, not malicious.

Just...

Sheltered, dangerously sheltered.

He sighed.

"Someone really should teach you that the world doesn't revolve around you."

Your eyes widened.

"Can it be you?"

He blinked.

"...What?"

"You always explain things."

"You actually listen?"

"Of course."

"..."

"..."

God. You were impossible.

The event ended with the usual pictures, the usual goodbye, the usual promise that you'd "see him soon."

Which, somehow...

Always came true.

───────────── ☕︎

Later that night, Hyunjin collapsed onto the sofa in his hotel suite. He opened Instagram almost automatically. Your profile was already sitting in his search history. He shouldn't know your username, he definitely shouldn't have found it after your second fanmeeting, he definitely shouldn't still remember it.

And yet...

His thumb tapped it before he could think twice. A new story.

A blurry picture of the city skyline.

"Home for the next few days ✨🤍"

The next story. A photo of an extravagant living room, floor-to-ceiling windows, fresh flowers, agrand piano, abutler arranging dessert on the dining table.

The location tag made his stomach drop, his hotel.

He frowned.

No.

Impossible.

He tapped again. The concierge desk, the private elevator, the presidential suite.

He laughed under his breath.

"Of course she's in the presidential suite."

Where else would the billionaire's daughter stay?

He stared at the screen for another moment. Then stood, immediately regretting it.

"This is stupid."

He grabbed his room key anyway.

"I am absolutely not doing this."

Five minutes later...

He was standing outside your suite.

"..."

"What am I doing?"

Before he could leave...

The door opened.

You froze.

"...Hyunjin?"

You looked just as surprised as he felt.

For a second, neither of you spoke. Then he held up his phone.

"...Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to post where you're staying on Instagram?"

You blinked.

"I..."

"You literally tagged the hotel."

"Oh."

"And showed the suite."

"Oh..."

"And the hallway."

"...I didn't think—"

"I know."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"That's exactly the problem."

You looked unexpectedly guilty.

"I'm sorry."

He looked at you for a long second.

"...Can I come in? I want to explain why that could put you at risk."

Without hesitation, you stepped aside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, it hit him how absurd this was.

He was standing inside the presidential suite of the girl he'd spent months trying not to think about.

And somehow...

That felt far more dangerous than anything you'd posted online.

He stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind him with a quiet click. You smiled awkwardly.

"So..."

You closed the door completely.

"...what are you doing here?"

Hyunjin opened his mouth, nothing came out, because he wasn't looking at you anymore. He was looking around.

The suite was...

Absurd.

It wasn't a hotel room, it was practically an apartment. A marble entrance hall, fresh white orchids arranged on a table, a grand piano facing floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a dining room that could seat ten people, a private study, two living rooms.

His own suite had been luxurious.

This?

This was another universe.

He let out a quiet laugh.

"...You're kidding."

"Hm?"

"You actually live like this."

You blinked.

"It's just the presidential suite."

"Just."

Of course.

His eyes wandered farther.

Your luggage sat neatly beside one of the sofas.

Hermès.

Every single suitcase.

He stopped walking.

"...Those are real."

You looked over.

"Oh."

"My luggage?"

He looked at you.

"...Your luggage."

"Dad bought them. They're easier to spot at the airport."

He almost laughed.

"Of course that's the reason."

You tilted your head, confused by his expression.

"What?"

His gaze moved again.

There was a silk robe draped across the sofa.

No...

Not a robe.

Pajamas.

He picked up the sleeve.

"...Fendi."

"Oh."

You smiled.

"I changed as soon as we got here."

He stared at the embroidered logo.

"...These are pajamas."

"Mhm."

"...Designer pajamas."

"...Yeah?"

"You sleep in Fendi?"

You looked genuinely puzzled.

"...Is that weird?"

He slowly lowered the fabric.

"...Who sleeps in designer clothes?"

You answered without thinking.

"...I do?"

Silence, complete silence.

You still didn't understand, not even a little. Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair.

"This..."

He gestured vaguely around the room.

"...This is exactly what I'm talking about."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't realize how spoiled you are."

You frowned.

"I know you said that earlier..."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I've met rich people."

You looked at him quietly.

"I've met celebrities."

Another step closer.

"I work with luxury brands."

Closer.

"I've walked Fashion Week."

Closer.

"I've seen people with money."

Now only a couple of feet separated you.

"But you..."

He laughed softly, almost in disbelief.

"...You're something else."

You instinctively took a small step back. Your shoulders brushed the wall behind you.

"I..."

"You talk about private jets like they're taxis."

Another step.

"You buy hundreds of pieces from Dior because I attended one show."

Another.

"You don't even notice your pajamas are designer."

Your breath caught.

"I've just..."

You searched for the right words.

"...always lived like this."

"I know."

His voice softened.

"And that's the problem."

You looked up at him. There wasn't anger in his expression, there wasn't mockery, either, just frustration.

"And nobody's ever told you otherwise."

You swallowed.

"No."

"They've never told you 'no.'"

A tiny shake of your head.

"No."

"They've never made you question whether something was normal."

Another shake.

"No."

He smiled to himself.

"I knew it."

Your heart was beating much faster now.

"So..."

Your voice was barely above a whisper.

"...what are you going to do?"

He held your gaze.

"For months..."

His voice was quieter now.

"I've been telling myself I shouldn't even look at you."

You blinked.

"...What?"

"Every fanmeeting."

A faint, self-deprecating laugh.

"I tell myself you'll annoy me."

Another pause.

"Then you smile."

His eyes searched yours.

"And suddenly I forget every reason I shouldn't be interested."

The room felt impossibly still.

"You really..."

Your cheeks warmed.

"...noticed me that much?"

"I noticed you far more than I should have."

Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched between you, heavy, electric.

He lifted one hand slowly, giving you every chance to move away. You didn't. His fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.

"You have no idea what you do to people."

"I don't..."

"I know."

His forehead almost touched yours.

"I know you don't."

Your eyes met his. Neither of you looked away.

The distance disappeared. His lips met yours in a brief, careful kiss. When he pulled back, he didn't move far, his breathing was uneven.

"So..."

A nervous smile tugged at one corner of his mouth despite himself.

"Before I make another terrible decision..."

He searched your face.

"...Please tell me you're over eighteen."

You couldn't help laughing softly at how suddenly serious he sounded.

"I'm twenty."

For a second, he simply closed his eyes in relief.

"You're twenty years old and you're still a fucking spoiled brat?"

When he looked at you again, there was still conflict in his expression—but now it wasn't about your age,it was about everything else.

"You know this is still a terrible idea, right?"

You smiled.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

"And yet..."

His laugh was quiet.

"...I came here anyway."

Hyunjin didn't wait for you to answer.

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you in with a firmness that belied the softness of his lips. He kissed you again, but this time it was different—not the hesitant kiss from before, but one that laid claim to you, taking what you had been offering for months without even realizing it.

"The bed," he murmured against your mouth, and before you could process the words, he had swept you up into his arms.

"Hyunjin—"

"Hush."

The command was soft yet unyielding. He strode across the suite with purposeful steps, moving through the main living area and into the bedroom. The king-sized bed greeted you with silk sheets that felt like water against your skin as he laid you down upon them.

You gazed up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs, as he leaned over you, a knee on either side of your hips.

"Tonight," he began, his voice low and dangerously calm, "you’re going to learn something important."

His hand traced your jawline, his thumb grazing your lower lip with a possessiveness that made you shiver.

"What?" you managed to ask, though your voice came out weaker than you intended.

"Things aren't always going to go the way you want." His eyes gleamed with something dark—something you had never seen at fan meetings. "You’ve spent your whole life getting whatever you desire with the snap of your fingers. Right?"

You swallowed hard, giving a slight nod.

"Well, that’s over." He leaned in closer until his breath mingled with yours. "Now, things will be done my way. And only my way."

Before you could protest, he pulled back slightly.

"Do you have a scarf? A handkerchief? Something silk?"

You pointed toward the walk-in closet with a trembling hand. "Over there… in the top drawer. There’s one I bought yesterday."

Hyunjin disappeared for a moment, and when he returned, he was holding a navy blue silk square between his fingers, the Dior monogram embroidered in the corner. His expression darkened.

"Of course," he said with a bitter laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Of course your scarf would be Dior. Could you be any more predictable, any more…?" He left the question hanging, stepping closer to the headboard. "Give me your hands."

"What are you—?"

"I said give me your hands." His tone sharpened like a knife. "Now."

Something in his voice—an authority no one had ever exercised over you before—made you obey without thinking. You extended your hands over the headboard, and he took them, wrapping your wrists with the Dior silk once, twice, three times, before tying them with a precision that suggested this wasn't the first time he’d done something like this.

"Hyunjin, this is—"

"Too much?" He finished the knot, testing the tension. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, but you couldn't move. You couldn't lower your arms. You were completely at his mercy. "Good. That’s how it should feel when you aren't in control of the situation."

He stepped back to admire his handiwork, and you tried to move your wrists, feeling the silk slide against your skin like a whisper.

"This is ridiculous," you said, though your voice lacked conviction. "I’m your fan, not your—"

"My what?" He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands resting on your knees. "My sexdoll? Because that’s what you need, isn’t it? Someone to tell you no. Someone who won’t cave to your spoiled-little-rich-girl whims."

"I’m not a little girl."

"Then stop acting like one."

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up until your lace panties were exposed. They weren't just any lace—they were a champagne color that cost more than the monthly rent on an average apartment.

"Victoria's Secret?" he asked wryly.

"Dolce & Gabbana," you automatically corrected, then bit your lip when he raised an eyebrow.

"Of course." His laugh was low, almost a growl. "Lingerie that costs hundreds of dollars, just so no one sees it. Except now, I’m seeing it."

His hands settled on the waistband of your panties, and you instinctively arched your back, expecting him to slide them down.

But he didn't.

Instead, he leaned forward, and you felt his breath against your neck.

"Do you want me to touch you?" he whispered against your skin.

"Please," the word escaped your lips before you could hold it back.

"Please, what?"

"Please… touch me."

"Where?" His lips grazed your collarbone, trailing down to the valley between your breasts. "Here?" He kissed the center of your sternum. "Or here?" His mouth found a nipple through the fabric of the dress, and you moaned as the dampness of his tongue seeped through the material. "Maybe here?"

He continued moving downward, kissing your abdomen, your navel, the curve of your hip. Each touch was a broken promise, a caress that pulled away before it could satisfy.

"Hyunjin, please…"

"Please what?" His voice came from lower down now, close to your belly. "Please take off your clothes? Please make you feel good? Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want… I want you to undress me."

"And what if I say no?"

You looked down at him, your wrists pinned against the headboard, feeling exposed in a way you had never experienced before. You had always been in control. You had always decided when, how, and with whom. But now…

Now you were helpless.

"Please," you repeated, and this time there was a tremor in your voice that wasn't feigned. "Please, take off my clothes."

Something shifted in his expression—an almost imperceptible softening, as if your plea had touched a weak spot he hadn't known he possessed.

"Good girl," he murmured, and his hands finally found the zipper of your dress.

He lowered it with deliberately slow movements, revealing your skin inch by inch. When the dress lay bunched around your waist, he looked at you with an intensity that made you want to cover yourself, but you couldn't move your arms.

"What a view," he said, almost to himself. "All this skin. All these gifts wrapped up for me, and you can't even reach them."

His hands roamed over your torso, moving up to your breasts and kneading them with a firmness that wrung involuntary moans from you.

"This," he said, pinching your nipples until they hardened, "this is mine now. Do you understand? You can't buy it. You can't demand it. You can only receive what I decide to give you."

"I understand," you gasped.

"I don't think you do yet."

He stepped off the bed, dragging your dress down with him until you were left in nothing but your underwear. Then, with methodical movements, he removed your panties, leaving you completely exposed before him.

You felt exposed, vulnerable, and for the first time in your life, you didn't have a shred of power to change the situation.

And strangely, that turned you on more than you would ever admit.

Hyunjin knelt at the edge of the bed, spreading your legs with his hands. He looked up at you from below, and you saw his tongue dart out to moisten his lips.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Absolutely beautiful. And so, so fucking wet."

When his mouth finally made contact, it was like an electric shock. His tongue slid from your entrance to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke that made you cry out and tug at your restraints.

"Hyunjin!"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he devoured you with a voracity that left you breathless. His tongue traced precise circles, his fingers dug into your thighs to hold you open for him, and every time you tried to move your hips to seek more friction, he pulled away just enough to deny you the contact.

"Please," you moaned, your head thrown back against the pillows. "Please, don't stop."

But he was an expert at torture. He’d bring you to the edge with the tip of his tongue, sucking gently, and just when you felt the orgasm approaching—that familiar tug deep in your belly—he’d pull away completely.

"What…?" you gasped, looking at him with glazed eyes.

"What is it?" he asked innocently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Did you want me to keep going?"

"Yes! Please, yes."

"But that would mean giving you what you want." He smiled—a cruel, possessive smile. "And we’re here to learn that you don’t always get what you want, remember?"

He moved closer again, and this time he used his fingers, too. One, then two, curling them inside you while his mouth attacked your clit with devastating precision. You felt the pressure building, the heat rising, your inner muscles tightening around his fingers.

"Hyunjin, I’m going to… I’m going to…"

"Going to what?" he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice nearly sending you over the edge.

"I’m going to cum!"

Just as you were about to explode, as the pleasure reached its peak, he pulled away completely.

You were left hanging in limbo, your body trembling, your breath ragged, the orgasm denied you just as it was about to consume you.

"No," you whimpered, tears of frustration welling in your eyes. "Please, don't do this."

Hyunjin stood up, stripping off his shirt with swift, efficient movements. His torso was a work of art—defined, sculpted, now before you in all their glory.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, unbuttoning his pants.

"Yes," you admitted, embarrassed by how desperate you sounded. "It hurts. I need… I need to finish."

"I know." His voice was soft, almost affectionate, as he pulled down his pants and underwear. "That's exactly the point. You need to feel what it's like to want something and not be able to have it immediately. You need to learn the patience you've never had to practice."

He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. You felt him hard against your entrance, and your body instinctively tried to push toward him, seeking the friction it desperately needed.

But he gripped your hips, holding you still.

"How many times have you had sex?" he asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. "What? I… a few times. Not many."

"And how many times has someone made you wait? Denied you what you wanted?"

Never, you thought. You had never had to wait for anything in your life.

"Never," you whispered.

"Then it’s time someone taught you."

He sank into you in one deep thrust that made you cry out. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that bordered on pain but instantly transformed into intense pleasure.

"Fuck," he swore, his eyes closed and his jaw tight. "So tight. So fucking perfect."

He held still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, and you tried to move against him, seeking the friction you needed to reach the orgasm he had denied you.

But his hands on your hips kept you firmly in place.

"Stay still," he ordered, opening his eyes to look at you. "Feel this. Feel what it’s like when someone else controls the pace. When you can't buy your pleasure, when you can't demand it."

He began to move, but slowly—almost cruelly slowly. Each thrust was a prolonged descent, a leisurely withdrawal, a measured return. There was no rush. There was no urgency—except for yours.

"Please," you moaned with every thrust. "Faster. Please, faster."

"Faster?" His laugh was a sound devoid of humor. "Why should I give you faster? Because you demand it? Because you want it?"

"Yes!"

"Good." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his lips grazing yours. "Now you understand. Now you know what it feels like."

But then, something shifted in his expression. A crack in his facade of control. His movements became less measured, more desperate.

"Fuck," he cursed against your neck. "You’re so… so perfect. So fucking…"

He lost control.

His thrusts became deep, hard, and frenzied. The sound of his hips slamming against yours filled the room, mingling with your moans and his growls. The bed creaked under the force of his movements, and you felt every inch of him inside you, striking that spot that made you see stars.

"Hyunjin, please," you whimpered, feeling the orgasm returning—stronger this time, unstoppable. "Please, let me… I need…"

"Need what?" he growled, without stopping, without letting up. "Say it. Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need to come! Please, Hyunjin, please let me…!"

This time, when you climaxed, he didn't stop. He kept moving through your orgasm, thrusting deeper and faster, until you felt like you were completely coming undone. Stars exploded behind your eyelids, your body arched against the restraints, and you screamed his name over and over as if it were the only word you knew.

He kept moving through your climax, prolonging it until you thought you couldn't bear it anymore—until the pleasure bordered on the pain of sheer intensity.

And then, just as you finally began to come down, he stopped, burying himself deep one last time; you felt his heat spilling inside you as he groaned your name against your neck with a reverence that sounded almost like a prayer.

The silence that followed was broken only by your ragged breathing.

Hyunjin stayed over you for a moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as he caught his breath. Then, moving slowly, he pulled away and began to undo the knots of the Dior scarf.

When your hands were finally free, there were red marks on your wrists—not painful, but distinct. Marks of his temporary possession.

He massaged your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing the inside of each one with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the brutality of moments before.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, his voice husky.

A little, you thought. But you didn't want him to know how much.

"No," you lied.

He smiled, as if he knew the truth. "Liar."

He lay down beside you, pulling you against his chest. His heart pounded beneath your ear—a rhythm that hadn't quite settled yet.

"Did you learn anything?" he asked after a long moment.

You rested your chin on his chest to look at him. "That you're a sadist?"

He laughed—a genuine, warm sound. "Is that a yes?"

"It's a…" You searched for the right words. "It's a 'I don't know what to think.'"

His expression softened, and for the first time that night, you saw something vulnerable in his eyes. "Was it too much?"

"No." You said it more firmly than you felt. "It was… different. I’d never… no one had ever…"

"Tied you up?"

"That. And…" You paused, feeling self-conscious. "I’ve never had to ask for something so desperately. I’ve always had everything."

He nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "That’s what I wanted you to feel. The difference between having and wanting. Between demanding and receiving."

"And now?" you asked, tracing absent circles on his chest. "What happens now?"

Hyunjin looked at you with an intensity that made you gasp.

"Now," he said, kissing your forehead, "you learn that sometimes, when you let go of trying to control everything… things turn out better than you expected."

You smiled against his skin, feeling the post-orgasmic exhaustion pull you toward sleep.

"Are you going to stay?" you murmured, already half asleep.

You heard his deep breathing before he answered.

"This time," he whispered, "yes."

And as you drifted off into darkness, your aching, satisfied body pressed against his, you thought that maybe—just maybe—being a spoiled brat wasn't so bad after all, if someone like Hyunjin was willing to teach you how to be something more.

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taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXX

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count:

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

← previous | index

The airport felt wrong, everything about it felt wrong, the bright lights, the rolling suitcases, the announcements, the people rushing past.

How could the world keep moving normally when yours was ending? Because that's what it felt like, not a goodbye, an ending.

You and Han had delayed coming here for as long as possible, neither wanted to arrive, neither wanted the clock to start.

But eventually—

time won. It always did. So now you stood together near the departure gates, his suitcase beside him, your hand in his, and neither of you could let go. For a while neither of you spoke, because speaking made it real, and neither of you wanted reality.

Han looked different, not excited, not nervous, heartbroken. The same way you felt.

The worst part? You were hiding something, the biggest thing, the thing that had been slowly killing you from the inside, literally and metaphorically. And suddenly the guilt felt unbearable, because maybe this was the last time, maybe, snd he didn't know.

Your phone buzzed, a video call.

Felix.

Changbin.

Hyunjin.

The four idiots.

Well, three idiots and Hyunjin.

The call connected, immediately. Felix was already crying, of course, absolutely of course.

"THIS SUCKS."

"Hello to you too."

"NO."

Felix wiped his face dramatically.

"THIS ACTUALLY SUCKS."

Changbin looked emotional too, though naturally he denied it.

"I'm fine."

His voice cracked, nobody believed him. Hyunjin sat somewhere that looked like an art gallery, because apparently he was at one of his exhibitions. Even now, still working, still creating.

For a few minutes—

the five of you laughed, talked, remembered, the way you always had, like graduation, like birthdays, like late-night calls, like family.

Eventually—

the call ended.

Not because anybody wanted it to, because nobody could handle it anymore.

Felix cried, Changbin cried, even Hyunjin looked suspiciously emotional.

And suddenly—

it was just you and Han again. The airport, the suitcase, the countdown, the final boarding announcement echoed overhead.

And suddenly—

everything shattered.

Because now it wasn't theoretical anymore, now it was happening.

You started crying first, not gracefully, not quietly, actual sobbing. The kind that made breathing difficult, the kind that came from somewhere deep, because you loved him.

God.

You loved him, more than anything.

And you couldn't stop this.

Han immediately pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurt.

Like if he let go—

you'd disappear, maybe he was right, you will disappear. Because suddenly he was crying too, for real, not watery eyes, not trying to hide it, actual tears.

The first time you'd seen him cry like this, ever.

And somehow—

that hurt more.

Because Han was always the strong one, the smiling one, the hopeful one, and now he looked devastated.

"I don't want to go."

His voice broke, completely, and suddenly your heart shattered.

Because for one horrible second—

you wanted him to stay. You wanted him to choose you, you wanted him to miss the flight, you wanted one more day, one more week, one more month, one more lifetime.

Instead—

you shook your head.

Because you loved him too much.

"Yes, you do."

More tears immediately, because both of you knew.

He had to go.

Juilliard.

New York.

The dream.

The future.

Everything he'd worked for. Neither of you would destroy that, not even for love.

Then came the conversation neither of you wanted, the one you'd been avoiding for weeks.

Contact.

Or no contact.

Most people would've chosen calls, texts, long distance, trying, but both of you knew yourselves too well, too honestly. Because neither of you would move forward, not really, not if you kept hearing each other's voices every day, not if every call ended in tears, not if every text became another reason to miss each other.

And the truth? You were already dying inside from the secret, you didn't know how much time you had, you didn't know anything anymore.

And somewhere deep down—

you couldn't bear the thought of him sitting in New York worrying every second.

So together—

crying, shaking, holding each other. You made the decision.

No contact.

Not because the love wasn't real, because it was, more real than anything. No contact because it was real, necause you loved each other enough to let go, because sometimes love wasn't holding on.

Sometimes it was stepping away. Han looked physically sick saying it, you felt worse.

Then softly—

through tears—

he asked:

"Can I have one last thing?"

You nodded immediately, anything, everything.

Han lifted a hand, touched your cheek, the same way he had a year ago, the same way he always did. Then he kissed you.

And suddenly every memory returned. The rooftop, the camera, the amusement park, the lighthouse, the river, the Christmas lights, the first kiss, the first "I love you." Everything. An entire year. One kiss, one goodbye

When it ended—

neither of you moved, foreheads touching, crying, trying desperately to memorize each other. Because both of you knew, this wasn't goodbye for today, this was goodbye for a life. The version of yourselves that existed together, the version that belonged to Seoul, the version that belonged to youth.

Final boarding call, the announcement echoed through the airport.

And suddenly—

there was no time left.

Han picked up his suitcase, slowly, like it weighed a thousand pounds, maybe it did.

Then looked at you one last time, and smiled, the same smile, the smile from the rooftop, the camera, the first day. Your favorite smile. The smile you'd spend the rest of your life remembering.

"I love you."

The words escaped before either of you could stop them, because some things deserved to be said, at least once more.

Han's eyes immediately filled again.

"I love you too."

And for one impossible moment—

you almost told him. About the cancer, about the fear, about everything, almost.

But then he smiled, and you couldn't do it. You couldn't take this dream away from him, not now.

So instead—

you smiled back through tears, and watched him walk away, step by step. Until he disappeared beyond the gate.

And just like that—

he was gone.

The boy who gave you a camera, the boy who taught you buses, the boy who found Dori, the boy who became home.

Gone.

And for the first time since losing everything—

you felt truly alone. Not because you stopped loving each other, not because the story ended, but because some loves are so big that even doing the right thing feels unbearable.

And somewhere beyond the clouds—

a plane would soon carry Han toward his future.

While you stood in the airport clutching the tiny camera keychain from your nineteenth birthday—

trying not to break apart.

Because for one year—

you had been loved completely.

And now—

all you could do was hope that somehow, somewhere, life would be kind to both of you.

New York was loud. That was Han's first thought. Loud, huge, impossible, buildings that seemed to touch the clouds, people everywhere, different languages, different smells, different everything.

It was exciting, it was terrifying. And honestly? It wasn't Seoul.

The first night was the worst.

Because for the first time in a year—

there was no text waiting, no Soojin, no random photograph, no Dori picture, no voice, nothing, because that was the deal, snd Han was determined to keep it. Even if it felt like somebody had removed an organ.

His dorm room was small. Tiny, honestly, nut it was his, snd he'd worked his entire life for it.

So he unpacked, slowly, clothes, books, music sheets, the camera keychain you'd given him, so the two of them would match, he immediately attached it to his backpack, of course.

Then—

at the bottom of the suitcase—

he found something. A package, large, very large, wrapped carefully. His name written in your handwriting.

Han froze, immediately. Because he knewe knew exactly who had put th, his there.

His hands shook, just a little, as he opened it. Then completely stopped functioning.

Because inside—

was a photobook, not a photo album. A photobook, huge. beautiful. Heavy enough that it nearly slipped from his hands.

And on the cover—

a photograph he'd never seen before. Him, standing in front of the ocean at the lighthouse, looking at you, not the ocean, you, of course.

Han sat down immediately, because suddenly he couldn't stand.

The first page, a photo, the abandoned building, the rooftop, the day he gave you the camera, the day everything started, the next page, another photo, and another, and another. Hundreds, hundreds of photographs, photos he didn't know existed, photos you'd taken when he wasn't looking, photos of him laughing, sleeping on buses, holding Dori, looking at the ocean, looking at you, always looking at you.

Every page had notes, small captions, little memories, inside jokes, things only the two of you understood.

And with every page—

his vision blurred more.

Until eventually—

he realized he was crying, actually crying, alone in a dorm room in New York.

Because somehow—

you had documented an entire year, a whole love story.

Near the middle—

he found a page that simply read:

"You never realized how beautiful you looked when you were happy."

And beneath it—

twenty photographs, all of him smiling.

Han completely lost it.

Because the truth was—

he'd spent most of his life feeling invisible, not unloved, just unseen.

Then you arrived.

And somehow—

you noticed everything.

At the very end—

there was an envelope, large.

And immediately—

his stomach dropped.

Because suddenly—

he knew.

This was the real goodbye. Inside was a letter. Several pages long. His hands shook as he unfolded it.

The first lines made him smile through tears, you talked about the rooftop, the camera, the first time you realized you loved him, the first time he felt like home.

Then the letter became softer, more honest. You told him he was the kindest person you'd ever met, that he loved people completely, that he'd changed your life, that he made ordinary days feel magical, that he made you believe happiness was possible again.

You wrote about New York, about how he belonged there, about how Juilliard was lucky to have him, about how one day people would hear his music and love it.

Not because he was talented, though he was. Because he was human, because every song carried pieces of himself, because people would recognize sincerity when they heard it.

Then came a line that made him cry so hard he had to stop reading.

"You spent a year convincing me I deserved a future. So please don't waste yours."

Han covered his eyes, unable to breathe, unable to continue.

But eventually—

he did.

The final pages felt different, the handwriting shakier, the sentences shorter, like they had been difficult to write.

And suddenly—

everything changed.

"If you're reading this, it means I couldn't tell you in person."

Han frowned.

Confused.

"And before you get angry..."

His heart stopped.

"Please finish reading."

No.

No.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

Then he saw the word.

One word.

One horrible word.

Cancer.

And suddenly—

the room disappeared.

He read it once.

Twice.

Three times.

Because it didn't make sense.

None of it made sense.

Cancer.

Hospital.

Diagnosis.

The weight loss.

The exhaustion.

The stomach pain.

Everything.

Everything suddenly made sense.

And every realization felt like being stabbed.

Again.

And again.

And again.

You wrote about why you hid it, why you couldn't tell him, why you were terrified he'd stay, why you couldn't let him sacrifice Juilliard, why you loved him too much to risk it.

And suddenly Han was crying harder than he ever had in his entire life, because now he understood, every strange smile, every pause, every moment she looked tired, everything.

And he hadn't known, he hadn't known.

The final page contained one last photograph.

One he'd never seen before, taken from behind. Him carrying Dori, walking toward the sunset, completely unaware.

Underneath it—

your final words.

"Thank you for loving me. Thank you for making my life worth living. And if things get bad, promise me you'll stay. Promise me you'll become the musician I already know you'll be. Promise me you'll be happy sometimes. Because loving you was the easiest thing I've ever done. And because if I had another hundred lives..."

"I would choose you every single time."

The letter ended there.

Han sat motionless. The photobook in his lap, the letter trembling in his hands.

New York glowing outside the window, the city he'd dreamed about his entire life, the city he'd crossed an ocean to reach.

And for the first time since arriving—

he hated it.

Because suddenly—

all he wanted was Seoul, a rooftop, a camera. a cat, and the girl who had loved him enough to let him go, wven while she was breaking.

Five months.

Five months since New York, five months since the airport, five months since the last kiss.

Han had learned how to survive, not live, survive. There was a difference.

He went to class, practiced, studied, performed, people praised him, professors liked him.

He was succeeding, exactly like you said he would.

And somehow—

that made him miss you more.

Every few days your mother would send updates, not many, just enough.

"Treatment starts tomorrow."

"She said that she missed you"

"Today was difficult."

"She's asking about Dori."

"She's resting."

At first the messages gave him hope, then they started becoming shorter, further apart, and Han hated how much he noticed.

One Tuesday morning he woke up to a message. Not unusual.

Your mother often texted early, still half asleep, he opened it.

Expecting another update.

Expecting another:

"Today was okay."

Or:

"She's feeling better."

Anything, anything but this. The message contained only one sentence.

"Han, she passed away this morning."

That was it, no explanation, no details, bcause there weren't any words that could fix it.

Han stared.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Because he couldn't understand what he was reading.

Passed away.

Passed away.

Passed away.

No.

No.

No.

His phone slipped from his hand, hit the floor, he didn't even hear it.

Because suddenly—

the entire world became silent.

She passed away.

Soojin.

His Soojin.

The girl with the camera.

The girl with the stupid oversized hoodies.

The girl who stole his heart and never gave it back.

Gone.

Han didn't cry, not immediately. At first he just sat there, completely still. Because grief that large doesn't feel real, not at first.

At first it feels like a mistake, a typo, a misunderstanding, something somebody will correct any second now.

Then reality arrived, and Han broke. Not normal crying, not quiet tears, the sound of a heart shattering.

Two days later—

Han was on a plane, back to Seoul. The city he dreamed about returning to, the city that held every memory, the city that held you.

The whole flight he imagined seeing you again, even though he knew.

Even though he knew.

Part of him kept imagining you waiting, at the airport, laughing, holding your camera.

Saying:

"You idiot, why are you crying?"

But when the plane landed—

you weren't there.

And suddenly Seoul didn't feel like home anymore.

Felix arrived first, then Changbin, then Hyunjin.

The four boys hadn't been together in months, but this wasn't a reunion, yhis wasn't happiness.

The moment they saw each other—

nobody spoke, because there was nothing to say.

Felix cried first, of course he did.

The second he hugged Han—

he started sobbing, actual sobbing, like a child.

"She was supposed to be here."

That was all he managed, before crying again.

Changbin cried quietly, the way he always did, trying not to, failing.

Even Hyunjin, the strongest one, the calmest one. His eyes were red before the funeral even started.

Because the truth was—

Soojin had saved all of them, not intentionally, just by existing.

The funeral felt wrong.

Because you were nineteen, nineteen-year-olds aren't supposed to die. They're supposed to start university, fall in love, make mistakes, live.

Not this, never this.

Your photograph sat near the flowers, a smiling photo, of course. A photo you probably took yourself, of course.

Han couldn't stop staring at it, because it looked like you'd start talking any second, like you'd roll your eyes, like you'd laugh, like you'd come back.

But you didn't.

After everything ended—

after the visitors left—

after the flowers—

after the condolences—

Only five people remained.

Your mother, and the boys. Your boys.

Your mother looked older, much older, not physically, in her eyes. Like she'd aged decades in months. Han couldn't stop thinking about everything she was going through. She had lost everything over a year ago—she lost her husband, and now her only, beloved daughter.

Then she stood, holding a box.

"Soojin left things."

Her voice broke immediately.

"For each of you."

Silence, because suddenly nobody could breathe.

She approached Hyunjin first. Carefully handing him a wrapped package, inside was a painting, an original piece by a famous artist. Worth a fortune, something from your old life, something you'd kept even after losing everything.

Hyunjin stared, speechless. because he recognized it immediately. The painting that always hung in your room, the one he'd stop and look at every time he visited, the one he'd once casually mentioned loving, only once, years ago.

And somehow—

you remembered. Taped to the back was a note.

"You looked at this more than you looked at your own reflection. Take care of it for me."

Hyunjin completely lost it.

For Felix—

it was a music box, an antique, beautiful, delicate, from your childhood. One of the few possessions you'd kept from before everything happened.

The melody it played—

was the one from the carousel at Lotte World.

One thing you and Felix had in common was a love for roller coasters; you two had always said you’d go to Lotte World and ride every single attraction a hundred times—a promise that has now remained just that: a promise.

Felix opened it, the music started, and he immediately started crying, again.

The note read:

"You made bad days feel shorter. Thank you."

For Changbin—

it was a watch, old, expensive, elegant. Something your father had given you, one of his favorite possessions.

The note attached simply read:

"You're the person I trusted most when things were scary. I think Dad would've liked you."

Changbin couldn't even finish reading it.

Then came Han, last, because everybody already knew, everybody.

Your mother approached him slowly. Holding two things. The camera, and Dori.

The moment Han saw the camera—

he stopped breathing.

That camera, the beginning, the rooftop, your eighteenth birthday, everything.

Then Dori meowed, small, confused. Looking around for somebody, looking for you. That broke him, completely. Your mother was crying too now, as she carefully placed the camera in his hands.

And Dori in his lap.

"She wanted you to have them."

Han couldn't answer, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.

Because Dori immediately curled against him, the way she used to curl against you.

And suddenly—

it felt real, painfully, horribly, teal.

Your mother handed him one final envelope.

Inside—

a photograph, just one.

A picture Han had never seen.

You, asleep on the couch, Dori in your arms, wearing one of Han's hoodies, smiling in your sleep.

On the back:

"Take care of our son. And when he does something stupid, tell him I love him."

That was it.

No dramatic goodbye, no final speech, just you. Exactly the way you'd always been.

Han finally cried, not politely, not quietly. He folded over, holding Dori, holding the camera, holding the photograph, and cried so hard he thought he might die too.

Because suddenly he understood something. Soojin wasn't in Seoul anymore, she wasn't in New York, she wasn't anywhere he could go.

The girl who took thousands of photographs because she was afraid moments would disappear—

had become one.

A memory, a photograph, a story.

And as the sun set outside the funeral hall—

five people sat together, broken. Holding pieces of a girl who had changed all of their lives.

And for the first time—

the boys who had once spent every afternoon laughing in a tiny apartment—

had to learn how to live in a world where Soojin wasn't waiting for them anymore.

The camera remained in Han's hands, Dori slept in his lap.

And somewhere deep inside—

a nineteen-year-old girl with a second-hand camera and a beautiful smile became the kind of love that never really leaves.

The kind that hurts forever, the kind that stays.

Three days after the funeral—

Han still couldn't believe it. People kept saying the words.

"She passed away."

"She's gone."

"I'm sorry."

But none of them felt real, because how could they be?

How could a person exist every day—

and then suddenly not?

The world was continuing, cars still drove, people still laughed, the city still moved. and Han hated all of it. Because Seoul should've stopped, the sky should've fallen, something should've happened, something should've acknowledged that the best person he'd ever known was gone, but nothing did.

So on the fourth day—

he left.

Not for the airport, not yet.

There was somewhere else he needed to go first. The abandoned building, the rooftop, the beginning.

The stairs creaked exactly the same, the graffiti hadn't changed, the wind felt the same.

Everything looked exactly how it had looked that day, the day you turned eighteen, the day he handed you a secondhand camera, the day neither of you knew you were about to fall in love.

Han sat down, near the edge, the same spot.

And for a while—

he just stared at the city.

The camera rested beside him, your camera.

No.

Their camera.

Dori was asleep inside his carrier, curled into a little ball, completely unaware of what death meant. Lucky.

The sunset slowly painted Seoul gold, exactly like before.

And suddenly—

Han couldn't breathe, because this wasn't how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be here, taking photographs. complaining about the stairs, stealing his hoodie, existing.

Instead—

there was only silence.

Han laughed, a horrible laugh. The kind that only comes before crying.

Then quietly:

"You know what's stupid?"

Silence.

Of course.

"I still keep expecting you to text me."

The city offered no answer.

"I keep checking my phone."

Nothing.

"I keep thinking maybe everybody got it wrong."

Nothing.

And finally—

his voice broke, completely.

"This isn't fair."

Silence.

Then—

very softly—

somebody sat down beside him.

Han didn't jump, didn't scream, didn't panic.

Because immediately—

he knew.

Not real, not physically, not a ghost, not a miracle, just grief, just love, just a heart so desperate to see someone again that it created them.

And somehow—

that was enough.

Because when he looked beside him—

there you were, not sick, not tired, not thin.

Just...

you.

Exactly the way he remembered, one of his hoodies, hair moving in the wind, camera hanging from your shoulder, smiling.

Han immediately started crying, again. Because of course he did.

"You look terrible."

The imaginary version of you wrinkled her nose. Exactly like you always did.

And somehow—

Han laughed through tears.

"You're dead."

"Yeah."

"That's kind of a big problem."

"A little."

For a moment—

neither of you spoke.

Just watched the city, like old times, like nothing had happened.

Then Han whispered:

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The question hung in the air, the question he'd been carrying for months, the question he'd asked himself every night since reading the letter.

You smiled sadly, looking down at your hands.

"Because I knew you."

Silence.

"You would've stayed."

"I would've. No hesitation."

"No."

More silence.

Then:

"I wanted you to have New York."

Han closed his eyes, because hearing it out loud hurt, even if it was only his imagination.

You continued quietly.

"I was selfish too."

Han looked over.

"I wanted those last months."

Your voice shook, for the first time.

"I wanted dates."

A pause.

"The lighthouse."

Another pause.

"The Christmas market."

A laugh.

"Dori destroying your shoelaces."

Another.

"I wanted us."

Han's chest felt like it was splitting apart.

"Every time I went to the hospital..."

You looked toward the sunset.

"I wanted you there."

Silence.

"Every treatment."

A pause.

"Every bad day."

A pause.

"Every time I got scared."

Your eyes glistened.

"I wanted you."

Han immediately looked away.

Because suddenly—

he couldn't stop crying.

And somehow—

for the first time—

he understood.

Not intellectually, emotionally. You hadn't hidden it because you didn't trust him, you hid it because you loved him, and because you were scared too.

For a while neither of you spoke.

The sun continued sinking, the city glowed, the wind carried old memories between you.

Then eventually—

Han looked over, and finally noticed something. You looked peaceful, not happy, not sad, peaceful. Like somebody who wasn't hurting anymore, like somebody who had finally put down something heavy.

There were no hospital bracelets, no exhaustion, no pain hidden behind smiles, just peace.

And suddenly—

that hurt almost more than anything.

Because he realized how much you'd suffered, and how little you'd shown.

You caught him staring, then smiled, that smile, his favorite smile.

"What?"

Han shook his head.

"Nothing."

"You always say that."

"You did too."

"Fair."

A comfortable silence followed. Then you nudged his shoulder, exactly like before.

"You need to go back."

Han froze. Immediately.

"No."

"Han."

"No."

"You need to go back."

His jaw tightened.

"What's the point?"

The question escaped before he could stop it. Raw, honest, broken.

"What's the point if you're not there?"

The wind seemed to stop, even the city felt quieter.

Then softly—

you smiled.

"The point is that you're still here."

Han's vision blurred.

"You deserve your life."

A pause.

"You deserve New York."

A pause.

"You deserve music."

Another.

"You deserve happiness."

Then you laughed softly.

"And honestly?"

Han looked over.

"You're going to be annoyingly successful."

A laugh escaped him, against his will.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

You pointed toward the city.

"One day people are going to listen to your songs."

A pause.

"And they're going to feel less alone."

Han immediately remembered Human, and Alien, and every song.

Because that was always what you understood best.

Him.

The sunset finally reached the horizon, the golden light wrapped around everything, around the rooftop, around the city, around you.

And suddenly—

Han knew.

This wasn't real, not physically, but the words were, every single one.

The wind grew stronger, the city became darker.

And slowly—

the image beside him began feeling further away, not disappearing.

Just...

leaving.

You stood. The imaginary camera swinging at your side, then smiled one last time.

"I love you."

Han's heart broke, again.

"I love you too."

You nodded.

Like that was enough, like it always had been.

Then pointed toward the sky, toward somewhere beyond Seoul, beyond Korea, beyond grief.

"Now go become somebody amazing."

And somehow—

for the first time since the funeral—

Han smiled.

Through tears, through heartbreak, through everything, he smiled.

Because if there was one thing he'd learned from loving Soojin—

it was that some people never really leave, not completely, not when they're woven into every photograph, every song, every memory, every version of who you become.

The space beside him was empty again.

Only the sunset remained, only the city, only the camera.

And yet—

as Han picked up the camera and looked toward the horizon—

he didn't feel alone, not anymore.

Because somewhere in every beautiful thing he would create—

there would always be a girl with a second-hand camera.

Smiling.

And telling him to keep going

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXIX

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 3.9k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

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January arrived with suitcases and departures. The first real departure was Felix, even though he wasn't going far, even though he'd still be in Korea, it still felt different, real. Like the beginning of the end.

Han spent almost an entire week helping him move, which was exactly the kind of thing Han would do. Carrying boxes, building furniture, getting lost, probably all three at the same time.

The morning he left, he'd kissed your forehead three times, three, for absolutely no reason. Then hugged you so tightly you almost couldn't breathe.

"You'll survive three days."

"I'm aware."

Han narrowed his eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"You'll be fine."

"You'll miss me."

Silence.

"...A little."

"A LITTLE?"

You laughed and Han looked satisfied, then he left. The apartment felt strange without him, not empty, just quieter, like something was missing.

The first day passed normally, the second too.

You texted, called, sent pictures, normal, everything normal.

Then came Thursday.

And suddenly—

nothing felt normal anymore.

You were in the kitchen, your mother had already left for work. The apartment was quiet, Dori was sleeping. You were making coffee, half awake, thinking about absolutely nothing.

Then—

pain.

So sudden it stole the air from your lungs. You froze.

The mug slipped from your hand, shattered, the sound barely registered.

Because suddenly—

your entire abdomen felt like it was on fire. You gasped, then doubled over. The pain hit so hard tears immediately filled your eyes. Not discomfort, not cramps, pain, real pain. Your legs nearly gave out.

And for a second—

you genuinely thought you were going to pass out. The room spun, you grabbed the counter desperately, trying to breathe, trying to stay standing, but the pain only got worse, much worse.

And suddenly—

you were terrified.

You barely remembered calling your mother, barely remembered what you said.

Only that somehow—

an hour later—

you were sitting in a hospital. White walls, bright lights, questions, too many questions, tests, bloodwork, scans, more waiting, then more tests.

Your mother sat beside you the entire time, holding your hand. Neither of you speaking much, because both of you were scared, though neither wanted to admit it.

The results came late, too late, the kind of late that made your stomach twist, because good news never took this long, at least that's what people said.

When the doctor entered the room—

something in your chest already knew. You couldn't explain it. You just knew. The expression, the hesitation, the silence.

Your mother sat up straighter, you stopped breathing.

And then—

everything changed.

The doctor's words blurred together, at first. Not because you couldn't hear them, because your brain refused to understand them.

Liver.

Tumor.

Cancer.

Further tests.

Treatment.

Words, only words. Until one of them finally landed.

Cancer.

Silence, complete silence. Because suddenly the room didn't feel real anymore. The hospital, the lights, the doctor, none of it felt real.

Cancer happened to other people, not you, not nineteen-year-old girls, not girls who spent weekends taking photographs, not girls planning university, not girls in love.

Your mother started crying first. You didn't, not because you were strong, because you were in shock.

The doctor kept talking, treatment options, appointments, specialists.

The future.

A future you suddenly couldn't see.

And through all of it—

one thought appeared.

Han.

Immediately, not yourself.

Han.

You pictured him helping Felix unpack boxes, laughing, probably complaining, completely unaware that your world had just shattered, again, but this time wasn´t a solution.

And suddenly—

for the first time—

you cried. Not because you were sick, not because you were scared, because of him. Because there were only three months left, three months, three months before New York, hree months before the goodbye you'd already spent months preparing for.

And suddenly there was something bigger. Something worse, something that threatened to swallow all of those months whole.

That night you sat in your bedroom, the hospital bracelet still around your wrist, the diagnosis echoing endlessly inside your head.

Dori curled beside you, the apartment dark.

Your phone lit up.

Han.

Of course.

A picture arrived. Felix asleep in the middle of moving boxes.

The caption:

this idiot is dead

Under normal circumstances you would've laughed.

Today—

you just stared.

Then another message.

miss you

Your vision blurred instantly.

Because suddenly—

more than anything—

you wanted to tell him, you wanted him here, you wanted his arms around you, you wanted somebody to tell you this wasn't real, that everything would be okay, that you weren't terrified.

Instead—

you typed:

miss you too ❤️

And sent it.

Because the truth was—

you already knew what would happen if you told him. Han wouldn't think about New York anymore, he wouldn't think about Juilliard, he wouldn't think about himself at all, he would stay. And that terrified you almost as much as the diagnosis. Because you loved him, too much. Too much to let him sacrifice his future, not for fear, not for you, not when you'd spent months convincing him to chase his dream.

So you made a decision, a terrible decision, a selfish decision, or maybe a loving one. You weren't sure.

You wouldn't tell him, not yet, not while doctors were still figuring things out. not while treatment plans were still being discussed, not while he only had three months left in Korea.

Three months.

You wanted those three months to be happy, not hospitals, not fear, not tears. Just memories, just love, just the two of you, even if it broke your heart, even if one day he'd hate you for keeping it from him.

Across the country—

Han smiled at your text, completely unaware. Thinking about seeing you again tomorrow, thinking about your next date, thinking about the future.

While miles away—

you sat alone in the dark. Trying to learn how to breathe in a world that had suddenly become unrecognizable.

And for the first time since losing everything—

you were truly afraid.

Han came back three days later, completely exhausted, and completely excited to see you, which immediately made everything worse. Because now you had a secret, a horrible one.

And every time he smiled at you—

it hurt.

Not because you didn't love him, because you did.

God.

You loved him so much.

Maybe that's why you couldn't tell him, at least not yet.

The moment he got back to Seoul, he showed up at your apartment, of course.

The second you opened the door—

Han wrapped his arms around you, immediately, like he'd been deprived of oxygen for three days. Which honestly? Maybe he had.

"Soojiiiiin."

"Han."

"I missed you."

"It was three days."

"Exactly."

"Normal people survive that."

"I didn't."

You laughed, actually laughed.

And for a second—

everything felt normal again. Then Han pulled away slightly, his smile faltered, only a little.

"...You okay?"

Your heart stopped, just for a moment.

"Yeah."

Too fast, way too fast. Han narrowed his eyes, then immediately got distracted by Dori attacking his shoelaces.

Thank God.

The next day—

Han arrived with a plan.

A terrifying concept, because Han never planned dates, which meant this one mattered.

"Get dressed."

"Why."

"Date."

"Where."

"Secret."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

An hour later you found yourself on a train leaving Seoul, immediately suspicious.

"Han."

"What."

"Where are we going."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"You literally didn't answer."

"Correct."

You considered pushing him off the train, briefly.

The truth was—

Han had spent weeks planning this, not because it was expensive, because it wasn't. Not because it was impressive, because it wasn't.

Han had simply been paying attention, again, the way he always did.

Months ago—

back in October—

you'd stopped in front of a photograph, an old photograph, one hanging in a bookstore, a snowy lighthouse beside the sea, and you'd stared at it for almost ten minutes.

Han remembered, of course he did, because unfortunately he remembered everything about you.

So now—

after a train ride and a bus ride—

you found yourself standing near the coast. Winter ocean stretching endlessly before you, gray waves, cold wind, snow dusting the ground.

And in the distance—

a lighthouse.

You froze, then looked at him, then back at the lighthouse, then back at him.

"...Han."

He immediately looked embarrassed. The universal sign he'd done something sweet.

"I remembered."

And just like that—

your eyes burned, again, because of course he remembered, he always remembered.

The two of you spent hours exploring. The coastline nearly empty, only a few people walking nearby. The winter air freezing. Your hands permanently trapped inside his jacket pockets, which somehow became a shared activity.

At one point Han wrapped his scarf around both of you again, for absolutely no reason, except he liked being close to you.

The lighthouse itself was beautiful, old, quiet, the kind of place that felt forgotten by time, perfect for photographs.

You took dozens, the ocean, the snow, the sky, and Han, mostly Han, always Han.

At one point he caught you, again.

"Soojin."

"What."

"Another picture."

"No."

"You literally clicked the button."

Evidence, a terrible thing.

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

Or—

You thought it was from laughing. The pain had been coming and going lately, small flashes, little reminders.

Nothing like that day in the kitchen, but enough, enough to notice.

You ignored it, immediately, because today was too beautiful, and because Han was smiling.

And because for a few hours—

you wanted to pretend nothing had changed.

The afternoon ended at a tiny restaurant overlooking the sea, warm lights, foggy windows, the kind of place tourists never found. The kind of place Han somehow always found.

You sat across from him, watching the ocean beyond the glass. Listening to his endless stories, watching his hands move whenever he got excited.

And suddenly—

a horrible realization hit you.

Not because of cancer, not because of hospitals, not because of treatment.

Because one day—

you wouldn't get this anymore. Whether he left for New York, whether life changed, whether anything happened. Nothing stayed the same forever.

And suddenly—

you wanted to freeze this moment, forever.

Han noticed you staring.

"What."

You smiled.

"Nothing."

"You've been looking at me for like three minutes."

"No."

"Soojin."

"Maybe."

Han laughed. Then reached across the table, taking your hand, automatically, comfortably, like he'd done it a thousand times, because he had.

Outside—

snow began falling, slowly, beautifully. The first real snowfall of the year.

And for a moment—

the entire world looked softer, quieter, like a photograph.

Han smiled, looking out the window, then back at you.

And God.

You wished you could tell him everything, you wished you could lean across the table and admit how scared you were, how much you needed him, how much this hurt.

Instead—

you squeezed his hand, just once, and smiled, because today wasn't a, bout fear.

Today was about a lighthouse, atrain ride, snow, the sea. And a boy who remembered a photograph you'd looked at for ten minutes three months ago, a boy who loved you enough to build entire days out of tiny details, a boy who had no idea that while he was planning the perfect January date—

you'd been counting every second with him like it mattered.

Because now—

more than ever—

it did.

One year, one entire year, three hundred and sixty-five days.

And somehow—

it felt impossible, because a year ago you weren't even sure your life would ever be okay again, a year ago you were standing on a rooftop with a second-hand camera in your hands and a boy you barely understood smiling at you.

Now—

that same boy was the love of your life, and that somehow felt even more impossible.

The morning of your anniversary, Han sent exactly one text.

wear something warm ❤️

Which immediately made you suspicious, because every time Han planned something, it was either incredibly romantic or incredibly dangerous, sometimes both.

The train ride took almost an hour, then there was a bus, then walking, alot of walking. You complained the entire time, naturally. Meanwhile Han looked far too excited, s terrible sign.

Eventually you reached the top.

And for a moment—

you forgot how to breathe, because below you stretched the entire city, not Seoul. A smaller coastal city, the ocean meeting lights, the cliffs overlooking everything, the horizon endless, beautiful, so beautiful it almost hurt.

And suddenly you understood. The abandoned building had been your beginning, but this? This was better, s secret place. A place that felt like the edge of the world, a place where the sky seemed bigger somehow, a place that felt like it belonged to the two of you.

Then you noticed the picnic, and immediately froze.

"...Han."

A blanket, flowers, your favorite snacks, photographs, actual printed photographs, a whole year of memories, the bus rides, the river, the photo booths, Dori, birthdays, the amusement park, the bookstore, the lighthouse. Your entire relationship spread across a blanket, your entire year.

And suddenly your eyes burned, again, always, because somehow Han never stopped making you feel loved.

He looked nervous, which immediately made things worse, because Han only got nervous when something mattered , a lot.

"Do you like it?"

You stared at him, then at the picnic, then back at him.

"...You're an idiot."

Silence.

Then:

"...Good idiot?"

Your voice cracked.

"The best one."

For a while you simply sat together. Watching the ocean, watching the city, watching the wind move through the grass, not talking much, just existing together, yhe way you always had, comfortably, like home.

The truth was—

there were things neither of you wanted to mention today. One month, only one month before New York, one month before everything changed.

And for you—

something else, something much scarier. Lately you found yourself awake at night, staring at the ceiling, thinking, wondering if you'd even make it to university, wondering if you'd ever sit in those journalism classes, wondering if you'd ever become the person you imagined.

The doctors were still talking, still testing, still planning.

And sometimes—

when nobody was looking—

you became terrified. Not of dying, of leaving people behind, of leaving him behind, but not today. Today wasn't about fear, today was about love. A year of it, a year of choosing each other, every day, a year of staying, a year of healing, a year of becoming home.

The sun slowly began setting, the sky turning gold, then orange, then pink. The entire world glowing. And then Han stood up, immediately suspicious.

"What are you doing."

He swallowed, actually swallowed, nervous, nery nervous. Then reached for a guitar case, and your heart stopped.

Because suddenly—

you knew.

"Oh my God."

Han looked embarrassed immediately.

"Oh my God."

"Stop."

"You wrote something."

"Stop."

"You wrote something."

His ears turned red, disastrously red.

Then he sat down, the wind moving through his dark hair, the ocean behind him, the city lights beginning to appear below.

And suddenly—

he looked exactly like the boy you'd fallen in love with, the boy who belonged on stages, the boy who belonged in music, then he started playing, softly. The melody familiar, not because you'd heard it before, because it sounded like him.

And then he sang, at first the lyrics hurt. Not because they were sad, because they were honest.

He sang about loneliness, about feeling lost, about trying, trying, trying, and never feeling like it was enough, about dreams that felt impossible, about nights spent wondering if he'd ever become anyone.

And immediately—

you remembered.

Alien. That song, the one he'd written before, the one about feeling out of place, lost, like nobody understood him, back then you hadn't fully understood it. Not really, because you hadn't known him enough yet.

But now—

now you did. And suddenly every lyric made sense, every insecurity, every fear, every lonely night, the Han before you, the Han before music, the Han before love, then the song changed, softened.

And suddenly—

there was an angel. A pair of arms, a safe place, someone who let him cry, someone who stayed, someone who held him together when he felt broken. And your chest immediately shattered, because you knew, you knew exactly who he was singing about.

You.

His voice grew stronger, the chorus arrived, and the words wrapped around your heart.

Cause I'm only human.

Only human, not perfect, not invincible, not fearless, human. Someone who failed, who doubted, who hurt, someone who needed people, someone who needed love.

And somewhere in that song—

he thanked you, not directly. But he did, gor staying, gor believing, for loving him, for becoming the wall he could lean against, for becoming home.

By the time the final note faded—

you were crying, not gracefully, not romantically, actual tears. Because nobody had ever loved you like this, nobody, not in your old life, not ever.

Han looked horrified, immediately.

"Oh no."

You laughed through tears, which only confused him.

Then you stood up, crossed the blanket, and kissed him, hard, desperately, like words weren't enough.

Because they weren't, not for this, not for him, not for a year of memories, not for a year of love.

When you finally pulled away—

both of you were crying a little, which felt appropriate.

"I love you."

The words slipped out naturally, effortlessly, the way breathing happened, the way your heart beat, the way you loved him. Han smiled, that smile, the one you'd spend the rest of your life remembering.

And softly—

like it was the easiest truth in the world—

he answered:

"I love you too."

The sun disappeared below the horizon. The city lights sparkled below, the flowers swayed gently in the wind.

And for one perfect evening—

there was no cancer, no airports, no countdown, no fear. Just a boy, a girl, a guitar, a year of memories, and enough love to fill an entire lifetime.

February arrived far too quickly. One day there were two months left.

Then suddenly—

there weren't. Now there were weeks, actual weeks.

And for the first time—

New York didn't feel like a distant future anymore, it felt real, painfully real. Because now there were suitcases, there were documents, there were flights, there were acceptance letters pinned to walls, there were piles of clothes covering Han's bedroom floor.

And somehow—

that made everything worse, because a suitcase meant leaving and leaving meant goodbye.

You sat cross-legged on Han's bedroom floor, surrounded by chaos, actual chaos.

His room looked like it had been hit by a natural disaster, clothes everywhere, music sheets, books, headphones, half-packed boxes.

And in the middle of it all—

Han.

Looking completely overwhelmed.

"You own too many things."

"I literally don't."

"You absolutely do."

Han held up a hoodie.

"You stole half of these."

"...That's not relevant."

"It is extremely relevant."

You laughed, then immediately regretted it. Because a sharp pain twisted through your abdomen, fast, violent, gone almost immediately, but enough to make you freeze. Just for a second.

Han didn't notice. Thank God.

Because lately—

that had become your greatest fear, not hospitals, not treatment, not cancer, him noticing.

So you smiled, and kept folding clothes, like nothing happened.

The truth was—

it was getting harder, much harder. You'd lost more weight, the exhaustion was worse now, some mornings felt impossible.

And lately—

even climbing stairs left you tired.

But every single time somebody asked—

you smiled, every single time.

Because if you told Han now—

he wouldn't leave. You knew that, without question, he wouldn't even hesitate, and you couldn't let that happen. So you kept pretending, even when it hurt.

Han tossed another sweater into a suitcase. Then immediately frowned.

"Wait."

"What."

"This is your hoodie."

Silence. You looked, he looked, the hoodie.

"...No."

"Soojin."

"No."

"Soojin."

"It's ours."

Han immediately started laughing.

"You've literally annexed my wardrobe."

"Correct."

For a while things felt normal again.

The two of you sitting together, packing, talking, pretending time wasn't running out.

At one point Han found the photo booth strips, all of them, because apparently neither of you knew how to throw things away. The amusement park, the Christmas market, the random street booth, an entire relationship captured in tiny printed squares.

Han sat there smiling at them, for way too long.

"You look ridiculous."

"I know."

"You've been staring at those for ten minutes."

"I know."

You smiled. Then quietly took one, the amusement park one, the one where Han was looking at you instead of the camera, again, of course.

Your chest tightened.

Because suddenly—

you wanted more time. Not because of New York, not just because of New York, because of everything, because lately every moment felt precious, dangerously precious.

And God.

You were scared, bot of dying, you'd already cried about that, already screamed about that, already sat awake at three in the morning thinking about that.

No.

You were scared of leaving people behind. Your mom, Dori, Felix, Hyunjin, Changbin, your dad, Han, especially Han.

You looked over. He was sitting on the floor, trying to fit too many clothes into one suitcase, muttering to himself, completely focused, completely unaware.

And suddenly—

you felt tears threatening, immediately. Because he looked so happy, excited, nervous, hopeful. The way somebody should look before chasing their dream, and you couldn't ruin that, you wouldn't.

So you swallowed it, again, just like every other day.

Then Han looked up, immediately smiling when he saw you, every single time, like it was automatic.

And suddenly—

that hurt more than the pain, because he loved you so completely, without conditions, without hesitation.

And you were keeping something from him, something enormous.

"You okay?"

The question came so casually, so innocently.

And for one terrible second—

you almost told him, almost. The words reached your throat, almost escaped.

Han.

I'm sick.

I'm scared.

I don't know if I'll be okay.

Please hold me.

Please tell me everything is going to be alright.

Almost.

Then you smiled, the same smile, the one you'd been using for weeks.

"Yeah."

Lie. Beautiful, horrible, necessary, lie.

Han nodded, satisfied. Then returned to packing, and you hated yourself a little.

The afternoon slowly faded into evening, the suitcases gradually filled, the room became less chaotic, more organized, more real, too real.

Eventually the sun began setting, golden light spilling through the window, the same golden light that reminded you of rooftops, of cameras, of first dates, of first kisses, of a whole year together.

Han stretched dramatically, then immediately collapsed beside you on the floor. Half on top of you, like a giant cat.

"Done."

"You packed two socks."

"Done enough."

You laughed, a real laugh this time. And Han smiled. Then wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer, instinctively, naturally, like he'd done a thousand times before, because he had.

For a while neither of you spoke. The room quiet, the sunset warm, the future approaching.

Then softly—

Han pressed a kiss against your shoulder, and another, and another, until you started laughing.

"Han."

"What."

"You're weird."

"I know."

And for one beautiful moment—

you let yourself forget, forget hospitals, forget test results, forget fear. Just for a moment you let yourself be nineteen, in love.

Curled up on the floor beside the boy who still looked at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him.

And as Han rested his head against yours—

already talking excitedly about all the places he wanted to show you in New York someday—

you smiled, even though your heart was breaking.

Because more than anything—

you hoped he'd still get the chance.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

│in burgundy, you bloom

│ synopsis: When a shy interior designer is nominated for the prestigious Best Interior Designer Award, she finds herself stepping into a world of flashing cameras, elegant gowns, and Seoul's biggest stars—only to discover that the greatest surprise of the night is the unwavering love and quiet devotion of her boyfriend, Kim Seungmin.

☾ pairing ─ boyfriend!seungmin x fem!reader

☾ genre ─ fluff

☾ gallery notice ─ Established relationship, Interior Designer!Reader, Tomboy!Reader, Award Show AU, Supportive Boyfriend Seungmin, Acts of Service, Gentle Romance, Reader wears a dress, Soft teasing, Light flirting, Public affection, No smut

☾ length ─ 3.4k

request! by @vernorica123

The first thing people noticed about you was never your appearance.

It was your work.

Every apartment, café, office, or home that left your hands somehow felt warmer than before. You had an eye for details that others overlooked—a ray of sunlight hitting a wooden floor, the perfect shade of cream to brighten a room, the way a simple vase of flowers could completely transform an empty space.

You poured your heart into every project.

Maybe that was why your clients adored you.

Not because you were loud or charismatic.

But because you listened.

You were kind.

Soft-spoken.

A little shy.

And incredibly stubborn whenever it came to your work.

Which was exactly what Kim Seungmin loved most about you.

Unlike the public image people had of him, he wasn't someone who constantly showered you with extravagant gifts or dramatic confessions.

Instead, his love lived in the smallest things.

He always remembered how you liked your coffee.

He'd quietly massage your shoulders after you spent hours hunched over design sketches.

He'd leave little handwritten notes inside your planner before an important presentation.

Whenever you forgot to eat while working, he somehow appeared at your office with takeout, pretending he "just happened to be nearby."

You always teased him for it.

"You were never nearby."

"I know."

"You drove forty minutes."

"...Maybe."

"You didn't have to."

"I wanted to."

Simple.

Honest.

That was Seungmin.

And somehow, he made you feel loved every single day.

"You're still working?"

You looked up from your laptop to find Seungmin leaning against your office door, dressed in a gray hoodie and black jeans, a paper bag dangling from his fingers.

"I have one more proposal to finish."

"You've been saying that for three hours."

You pouted.

"It needs to be perfect."

"It already is."

"You haven't even seen it."

"I don't need to."

He walked over before setting the paper bag on your desk.

"Dinner."

"I told you not to buy me food."

"And I told you that you forget to eat."

"..."

"You have no argument."

You sighed dramatically before taking the container from the bag.

"...Thank you."

"You're welcome."

As you ate, Seungmin quietly wandered around your office, stopping in front of the mood boards pinned against the wall.

Every board looked different.

Minimalist.

Scandinavian.

Japandi.

Modern luxury.

Vintage.

Each one filled with tiny notes written in your neat handwriting.

His smile softened.

"You've really worked hard."

You looked over at him.

"I still have a long way to go."

"You always say that."

"Because it's true."

"No."

He turned toward you.

"You just never give yourself enough credit."

Your cheeks warmed.

"You sound biased."

"I am."

"You have to say that."

"I don't."

"I do because I'm your boyfriend."

He stepped closer before gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

"But I also say it because you're talented."

You looked away first.

You always did.

Compliments embarrassed you more than anything.

───────────── ☕︎

A week later...

You were reviewing fabric samples when your phone vibrated across your desk.

Unknown Number.

You frowned before answering.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon. May I speak with Miss Y/N?"

"This is she."

"I'm calling on behalf of the Korea Interior Design Association."

You straightened in your chair.

"Yes?"

"We're pleased to inform you that you've officially been nominated for the Best Interior Designer Award this year."

Silence.

Complete silence.

"...Miss Y/N?"

"I..."

You blinked.

"I'm sorry."

"Could you repeat that?"

The woman chuckled softly.

"You've been nominated for Best Interior Designer of the Year."

Your heart nearly stopped.

After hanging up, you simply stared at your phone.

It had to be a prank.

There was no way.

Not you.

You were still trying to convince yourself when another email appeared.

Official Nomination Letter.

Attached.

Signed.

Real.

Your hands began shaking.

Almost instinctively, you reached for your phone and called Seungmin.

He answered after the second ring.

"Hey."

"..."

"Baby?"

"I..."

Your voice cracked.

"I got nominated."

"For what?"

"The Interior Design Awards."

Another silence.

Longer this time.

Then—

"Stay where you are."

"What?"

"I'm coming."

"You have practice."

"I don't care."

"The members—"

"They'll survive ten minutes."

Before you could protest, he had already hung up.

───────────── ☕︎

Exactly twenty-three minutes later, your office door burst open.

You barely had time to stand before Seungmin wrapped both arms around you. He hugged you so tightly your feet almost left the ground.

"You did it."

His voice was full of pride.

"So what if it's only a nomination?"

He pulled back just enough to cup your face.

"They recognized your work."

"I still can't believe it."

"I can."

"I haven't even won."

"I don't care."

He smiled.

"You've already won to me."

Your eyes immediately filled with tears.

"No crying."

"I'm trying."

"You'll ruin your mascara."

"I'm not wearing any."

"...Right."

You laughed through your tears.

"I love you."

He smiled so softly your heart nearly melted.

"I know."

Then he kissed your forehead.

"And I'm incredibly proud of you."

───────────── ☕︎

News traveled surprisingly fast. By the weekend, everyone knew.

The members insisted on celebrating after practice, dragging you and Seungmin to one of your favorite barbecue restaurants.

"I told you she'd make it someday."

Changbin proudly pointed his chopsticks toward everyone.

"I've literally been saying it for years."

"You say that about everybody," Hyunjin teased.

"Not true."

"It is."

Felix leaned across the table before smiling brightly at you.

"I'm really happy for you."

"You deserve it."

"Thank you."

Lee Know nodded once.

"Congratulations."

Coming from him...

That alone made you smile.

Han dramatically wiped an imaginary tear.

"Our little designer is growing up."

"I'm older than you."

"Details."

Everyone laughed.

Even Bang Chan smiled warmly.

"You've worked hard."

"I hope you win."

"I'll try."

Seungmin looked at you before speaking without hesitation.

"She will."

You immediately nudged his arm.

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"What if I lose?"

He shrugged.

"Then I'll still be proud."

"..."

"You've already accomplished something incredible."

Your heart fluttered.

Sometimes you wondered how one person could make you feel so safe.

───────────── ☕︎

After dinner, while the boys were busy arguing over who was paying the bill, Felix's girlfriend gently looped her arm through yours.

"So..."

Changbin's girlfriend joined the other side with a grin.

"What are you wearing?"

You frowned.

"...For what?"

"The awards."

"Oh."

You scratched the back of your neck.

"I actually haven't thought about it."

The two girls exchanged a look.

"You haven't?"

"I'll probably just wear one of my black suits."

Silence.

"...A suit?"

You nodded innocently.

"I mean..."

"I'm kind of a tomboy."

"I don't really own dresses."

Changbin's girlfriend looked absolutely horrified.

"No."

"What?"

"No."

"I like my suits."

"They're staying in the closet."

Felix's girlfriend giggled.

"We're taking you shopping."

Your eyes widened.

"...Now?"

"Right now."

"I don't think—"

"You don't have a choice."

Before you could protest again, both girls had already grabbed your hands and started pulling you toward the parking lot.

"Boys!"

Changbin called after them.

"Where are you taking her?"

Changbin's girlfriend didn't even turn around.

"Girl business!"

The boys simply laughed.

Seungmin watched you being dragged away with an amused smile.

As your eyes met his, you silently pleaded for help.

Instead...

He only smiled.

"You'll have fun."

You narrowed your eyes.

"Traitor."

He laughed.

"I'll see you later, baby."

You huffed dramatically as the girls shoved you into the backseat.

"You are absolutely impossible."

"And you're absolutely wearing a dress."

───────────── ☕︎

The ride to the shopping district was filled with laughter.

Well...

Mostly theirs.

You spent the entire drive trying to convince them that there was absolutely nothing wrong with wearing a tailored black suit to an award ceremony.

"It fits my style."

Changbin's girlfriend looked at you through the rearview mirror.

"And?"

"And that's it."

Felix's girlfriend shook her head.

"You've spent years making everyone else's dreams come true."

"So?"

"So tonight you deserve to feel beautiful too."

"I already do."

They both smiled.

"You know what we mean."

You sighed dramatically.

"I hate when people are right."

The boutique they entered looked far too expensive.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling.

Soft piano music echoed through the elegant space while racks of designer gowns surrounded you.

You immediately wanted to leave.

"...This place is intimidating."

Felix's girlfriend giggled.

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is."

"I feel like I'm going to accidentally breathe on something and owe them three million won."

Changbin's girlfriend laughed.

"You'll be fine."

A stylist greeted the three of you with a warm smile.

"Welcome. How may I help you today?"

"We need a dress for an awards ceremony."

The stylist's eyes landed on you.

"Oh..."

"You'll look stunning."

You awkwardly smiled.

"...We'll see."

───────────── ☕︎

Two hours later...

You had already tried on more dresses than you could count.

Black.

Emerald.

Silver.

Champagne.

Navy.

Every single one earned the same response from you.

"It feels weird."

"It's too shiny."

"I can't breathe."

"It has feathers."

"Why does it have feathers?"

"I look like someone's expensive curtain."

Felix's girlfriend laughed so hard she had to hold onto a clothing rack.

Changbin's girlfriend pinched the bridge of her nose.

"You are impossible."

"I know."

While you disappeared back into the fitting room after rejecting yet another dress, Changbin's girlfriend wandered toward the back of the boutique.

Her eyes scanned dozens of gowns before suddenly stopping.

"There."

Hanging alone beneath the warm lights was a deep burgundy gown.

Simple.

Elegant.

No glitter.

No sequins.

No excessive decorations.

Just smooth silk that flowed effortlessly from the waist to the floor.

A tasteful slit along one leg.

A graceful open back.

Long sleeves that balanced the design perfectly.

She smiled.

"Found it."

"I'm not wearing that."

"You haven't even tried it on."

"I don't need to."

"You do."

"It has a slit."

"A very tasteful slit."

"It shows my back."

"A tasteful back."

"I'm going to die."

"No, you're going to look gorgeous."

Felix's girlfriend gently pushed the dress into your arms.

"Please?"

You looked down at the rich burgundy silk.

"...It's pretty."

"We know."

"...Fine."

───────────── ☕︎

A few minutes later...

The boutique became unusually quiet.

The curtain slowly opened.

You stepped outside.

For a second...

Neither girl said anything.

Your hair, usually tied into a loose ponytail, now fell freely over your shoulders in soft waves.

The deep burgundy silk hugged your waist before cascading elegantly to the floor.

The fabric shimmered every time you moved beneath the boutique lights.

It wasn't revealing.

But it was...

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Sophisticated.

Nothing like what you usually wore.

Instinctively, your hands moved to cover your stomach.

"I don't know..."

"I feel..."

"So exposed."

Changbin's girlfriend walked over first.

She gently lowered your hands.

"Don't hide."

"But—"

"You don't have to."

Felix's girlfriend smiled warmly.

"You look breathtaking."

"I've never worn anything like this before."

"Exactly."

You stared at your reflection.

The woman in the mirror barely looked like you.

"...I don't think Seungmin has ever seen me in a dress."

Changbin's girlfriend smirked.

"Oh."

"Then he's done for."

Your face immediately turned bright red.

"Stop..."

Felix's girlfriend laughed.

"I can't wait to see his reaction."

"I'm scared of his reaction."

"You should be."

By the time the shopping bags were loaded into the car, you were still unconvinced.

The girls, however, looked incredibly satisfied.

"I still think a suit would've been easier."

Changbin's girlfriend rolled her eyes.

"You say that now."

"But when Seungmin sees you..."

She wiggled her eyebrows.

"You'll understand."

───────────── ☕︎

The day of the awards arrived faster than expected.

Your apartment had become strangely quiet.

Your makeup artist had just finished.

Your hair had been styled into soft, loose waves.

The burgundy silk dress fit perfectly.

Even after looking in the mirror for nearly five minutes...

You still couldn't believe it was you.

A knock echoed through the apartment.

When you opened the door...

Felix's girlfriend gasped dramatically.

"Oh."

"My."

"God."

Changbin's girlfriend covered her mouth.

"I knew she'd look gorgeous."

You looked down shyly.

"Is it... too much?"

"Too much?"

Felix's girlfriend shook her head.

"It's perfect."

"I feel nervous."

Changbin's girlfriend gently squeezed your hand.

"That's normal."

"You'll be amazing."

The black SUV eventually pulled up outside one of Seoul's most prestigious award venues.

Bright camera flashes exploded from every direction.

Actors.

Actresses.

Idols.

CEOs.

Fashion designers.

Everywhere you looked were familiar faces.

Your stomach twisted.

"...There are so many people."

Felix's girlfriend smiled.

"Don't look at them."

"Easy for you to say."

"You've got us."

You smiled softly.

"...Thank you."

Inside, staff members guided everyone toward the entrance hall.

You glanced around.

"...Where's Seungmin?"

"He said he'd meet us here."

No answer.

You checked your phone.

Nothing.

No messages.

No missed calls.

Your fingers instinctively tightened around your clutch.

"...That's strange."

"Y/N!"

You turned around.

Bang Chan was walking toward you, followed closely by the rest of Stray Kids.

Your breath caught.

Every single one of them wore perfectly tailored black tuxedos.

Bang Chan looked effortlessly elegant.

Lee Know adjusted the cuff of his jacket with practiced ease.

Changbin somehow managed to make a tuxedo look intimidating.

Hyunjin looked like he'd walked straight off the cover of a luxury fashion magazine.

Han's smile somehow made formalwear look adorable.

Felix's blond hair contrasted beautifully against his black suit.

Jeongin looked unexpectedly mature.

For a moment...

You simply stared.

Han laughed.

"What?"

"You all..."

"...Look really handsome."

Changbin smirked.

"So do you."

"You look incredible."

Felix nodded enthusiastically.

"I almost didn't recognize you."

Hyunjin smiled.

"The burgundy suits you."

Lee Know simply nodded once.

"You clean up well."

Your cheeks immediately warmed.

"Thank you..."

"I still feel a little awkward."

"Why?" Chan asked.

"I don't usually wear dresses."

"It shows."

Your eyes widened.

Hyunjin immediately elbowed Chan.

"What he means," Hyunjin corrected with a laugh, "is that you're clearly not used to dressing up."

"But you look beautiful."

"Very beautiful."

You looked down at the floor.

"...Thank you."

Behind everyone, Changbin's girlfriend quietly leaned closer.

She whispered so only you could hear.

"Don't panic."

You frowned.

"What?"

"Seungmin's late on purpose."

"What?"

"He's planning something."

Your heart skipped.

"...Really?"

She simply smiled.

"Trust him."

The group slowly made their way toward the main auditorium.

Each member walked beside their girlfriend, chatting quietly as photographers captured every moment.

You instinctively slowed your pace.

Your eyes searched every corner of the venue.

Still nothing.

No Seungmin.

Not even a text.

A strange feeling settled in your chest.

He had never forgotten something important.

Especially not something like this.

Felix's girlfriend noticed almost immediately.

"You keep looking for him."

"...Is it that obvious?"

She smiled sympathetically.

"A little."

"I'm just worried."

"He'll come."

"...What if something happened?"

She gently linked her arm with yours.

"Nothing happened."

"How do you know?"

"Because Seungmin loves you."

"And he wouldn't miss tonight."

You wanted to believe her.

You really did.

But as the doors to the grand auditorium opened before you...

His seat was still empty.

The grand auditorium was breathtaking.

Golden chandeliers sparkled above hundreds of elegantly dressed guests while soft classical music echoed through the enormous hall. Cameras moved across the audience, occasionally stopping to film celebrities exchanging greetings or laughing together.

An usher led your group toward your reserved seats.

The girls sat together in the front row reserved for nominees and their guests, while the members settled just behind you.

Well...

Almost all of them.

There was still one empty seat.

The one beside you.

You couldn't stop staring at it.

Felix's girlfriend noticed immediately.

"You've looked at that chair at least twenty times."

You sighed quietly.

"I know."

"He'll come."

"I just..."

Your fingers nervously played with the fabric of your burgundy dress.

"...I wish he'd answer his phone."

Changbin's girlfriend smiled knowingly but said nothing.

Instead, she reached over and gently squeezed your hand.

"Trust him."

You nodded.

You trusted him.

More than anyone.

But that didn't stop the tiny voice inside your head from whispering endless what ifs.

What if he couldn't make it?

What if practice ran longer than expected?

What if something happened?

You hated overthinking.

Unfortunately...

You were very good at it.

The lights slowly dimmed.

A spotlight illuminated the center stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

The host stepped onto the stage as applause erupted throughout the venue.

"Welcome to this year's Seoul Creative Arts Awards."

Another wave of applause filled the auditorium.

One by one, awards were announced.

Best Costume Design.

Best Director.

Best Cinematography.

Best Actor.

Best Actress.

You tried paying attention.

You really did.

But every few minutes your eyes wandered back toward the entrance.

Still nothing.

Your heart slowly sank.

Behind you, Han leaned toward Felix.

"...She's worried."

"I know."

Felix glanced at the empty seat before looking at Seungmin's manager standing discreetly near one of the side entrances.

"He should be here soon."

Chan quietly smiled.

"Just a little longer."

Back on stage, another presenter appeared.

"Our next category recognizes the people responsible for transforming spaces into works of art..."

Your heartbeat quickened.

"...The nominees for Best Interior Designer of the Year."

The enormous screens around the venue displayed photos of each nominee's work.

Luxury hotels.

Restaurants.

Museums.

Private homes.

Then...

Your projects appeared.

The café you'd redesigned two years ago.

The riverside apartment filled with warm oak furniture.

The boutique hotel that had become one of Seoul's most talked-about renovations.

A short video played, showing before-and-after shots of your designs.

The audience applauded.

You felt like you couldn't breathe.

Felix's girlfriend leaned closer.

"You okay?"

"...Barely."

"You've got this."

Just as the presenter prepared to announce the winner...

Someone quietly pulled out the chair beside you.

You froze.

A familiar cologne filled the air.

Fresh laundry.

Soft cedar.

Clean musk.

Your heart instantly recognized it before your mind did.

Slowly...

You turned your head.

There he was.

Kim Seungmin.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.

His hair had been neatly styled back, revealing his forehead, making him somehow look even more handsome than usual.

He looked breathtaking.

Before you could say a word...

He leaned close enough for only you to hear.

"I think everyone in this room forgot something."

His deep voice brushed against your ear, making goosebumps spread across your skin.

"W-What...?"

"They've been looking at the stage all night..."

He smiled faintly.

"...when the prettiest person is sitting right here."

Your entire face exploded with heat.

"S-Seungmin..."

He chuckled softly.

"There she is."

"My shy girl."

"You scared me."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

His shoulder lightly brushed yours as he settled into the chair.

"I wanted it to be a surprise."

"You almost gave me a heart attack."

"Worth it."

You stared at him in disbelief.

"...You're unbelievable."

"I've been told."

He looked at you from head to toe.

For several long seconds...

He simply stared.

His expression softened completely.

"...Wow."

You immediately looked away.

"What?"

"I..."

He let out a quiet laugh.

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a dress before."

"...No."

"You haven't."

Another silence.

Then he whispered again.

"You look absolutely stunning."

Your hands instinctively smoothed the fabric over your knees.

"I feel weird."

"You shouldn't."

"I'm not used to this."

"I know."

He reached beneath the table until his fingers found yours.

Slowly...

Carefully...

He intertwined them.

"You know what I saw when you walked in?"

You shook your head.

"The woman I fell in love with."

Your heart skipped.

"Not because of the dress."

He gently squeezed your hand.

"But because you were smiling."

His thumb slowly traced circles across your knuckles.

"I've seen you wearing oversized hoodies."

"Paint-covered sweatshirts."

"Baggy jeans."

"My clothes."

He grinned.

"You somehow stole half my wardrobe."

"I did not."

"You definitely did."

A tiny laugh escaped your lips.

"There it is."

"What?"

"The smile I've been waiting for."

On stage, applause echoed again.

Neither of you noticed.

Not until Changbin quietly cleared his throat from behind.

"You two..."

He whispered with a teasing grin.

"Maybe pay attention?"

Your face immediately turned scarlet.

You and Seungmin looked toward the stage at the exact same time.

The presenter was already opening the envelope.

"Oh my God..."

You whispered.

"I almost missed it."

Seungmin leaned close again.

"You would've blamed me forever."

"I probably would."

"I'd deserve it."

"And the winner..."

The presenter paused dramatically.

"...for Best Interior Designer of the Year..."

You squeezed Seungmin's hand so tightly he almost laughed.

Your breathing stopped.

"...is..."

Everything around you seemed to disappear.

The audience.

The lights.

The cameras.

Until—

"Y/N."

For a second...

You didn't move.

The auditorium erupted into applause.

Felix was the first to stand.

Then Han.

Chan.

Hyunjin.

Lee Know.

Jeongin.

Changbin.

Soon the entire Stray Kids table was on its feet, clapping louder than almost anyone else in the room.

Felix actually whistled.

"THAT'S OUR GIRL!"

Changbin laughed proudly.

"I TOLD YOU SHE'D WIN!"

Tears instantly filled your eyes.

"...I..."

"I actually..."

You couldn't finish your sentence.

Seungmin smiled more brightly than you had ever seen.

"I told you."

"You did it."

He stood before gently placing both hands on your shoulders.

"Go."

"I can't."

"You can."

"My legs..."

"They're shaking."

"So are mine."

You laughed through your tears.

He leaned forward and kissed your forehead.

"I'm so proud of you."

The cameras immediately caught the moment.

A collective chorus of soft "awws" spread through the audience.

"You've worked so hard for this."

"You deserve every second."

You looked at him with watery eyes.

"I love you."

His smile softened.

"I love you more."

Changbin laughed from behind.

"Save it for after the speech!"

Everyone burst into laughter.

Still smiling through your tears, you finally made your way toward the stage while the audience continued applauding.

As you reached the stairs...

You glanced back one last time.

Seungmin was still standing.

Watching you.

Clapping the loudest.

Looking at you as though you'd just won the greatest award in the world.

And somehow...

That look meant even more than the trophy waiting for you on stage.

The applause seemed endless.

You accepted the trophy with trembling hands, bowing politely before standing in front of the microphone.

Hundreds of faces looked back at you.

Some of the biggest names in the industry.

Actors.

Actresses.

Idols.

Designers.

You took a slow breath.

"...I wasn't expecting to be standing here tonight."

A few people chuckled softly.

"I've always believed that a house isn't just made of walls or furniture."

"It's made of the people who fill it with love."

"So... every project I've worked on has carried a little piece of my heart."

Your grip tightened around the trophy.

"I want to thank my clients for trusting me..."

"My team..."

"My family..."

"And..."

Your eyes instinctively searched the audience until they found him.

Seungmin.

He smiled the moment your eyes met.

"...The person who has believed in me long before anyone else did."

"He reminded me that success isn't about being perfect."

"It's about never giving up."

"So..."

A shy smile spread across your face.

"Thank you."

The audience applauded once more before you bowed and stepped away from the podium.

───────────── ☕︎

As soon as you walked backstage, a familiar pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

"I knew you'd win."

You laughed.

"You literally manifested it."

"I did."

You turned around to face Seungmin.

The two of you simply stood there for a moment, smiling like idiots.

"You looked so handsome tonight."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"You finally noticed?"

"I noticed the second you walked in."

"And you..."

His eyes slowly traveled over the burgundy silk dress again.

"...I don't think I've stopped looking at you since I arrived."

Your cheeks immediately warmed.

"Stop."

"I mean it."

"You look beautiful."

"You've said that like ten times."

"I can say it ten more."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"That dress..."

"...might be my new favorite thing."

You playfully nudged his shoulder.

"It's just a dress."

"No."

"It's the woman wearing it."

Your heart melted.

The rest of Stray Kids soon joined the two of you backstage.

Felix rushed over first.

"I'M SO PROUD OF YOU!"

Before you could react, he had already pulled you into the biggest hug imaginable.

"Felix..."

"I knew you'd win!"

Changbin laughed as he walked over.

"I told everyone."

"I literally told everyone."

"You did," Chan agreed with a grin.

Hyunjin smiled warmly.

"You looked so confident up there."

"I was terrified."

"We couldn't even tell."

Lee Know gave you a small nod.

"Congratulations."

Coming from him...

It felt like another award.

Han dramatically wiped fake tears from his face.

"Our designer is famous now."

Jeongin laughed.

"She's going to be impossible to book."

Everyone laughed together.

For a moment, the celebration felt wonderfully normal.

Later that night, after the interviews, photographs, and congratulations had finally come to an end, Seungmin quietly took your hand.

"Come with me."

"Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"You and your surprises."

He simply smiled.

He led you onto one of the venue's quiet rooftop terraces overlooking Seoul.

The city lights sparkled beneath the summer night sky.

For a few peaceful moments, neither of you spoke.

Then Seungmin reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket.

"I wasn't late because I forgot."

"I know."

"I was picking this up."

He handed you a small velvet box.

You blinked.

"...Seungmin?"

"It's not what you think."

You laughed nervously.

"You've somehow made that sentence even scarier."

He chuckled.

"Open it."

Inside wasn't a ring.

It was a tiny silver key attached to a burgundy ribbon.

You looked at him in confusion.

"A key?"

He nodded.

"Remember the studio you've always dreamed of?"

Your eyes widened.

"The one with the huge windows..."

"...and the old brick walls?"

"I found one."

"You... what?"

"I signed the lease yesterday."

You stared at him, speechless.

"You've spent years helping other people create beautiful spaces."

He gently closed your fingers around the key.

"I thought it was time you had one of your own."

Tears instantly filled your eyes.

"You deserve a place where every dream you have can become reality."

Your lips trembled.

"You..."

"I don't even know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

You threw your arms around him without another word.

He caught you effortlessly, laughing as he held you close.

"You really know how to surprise me."

"I try."

After a moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him.

"I love you."

His smile was soft.

"I know."

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear before gently cupping your cheek.

"And I'm going to keep reminding you every day just how proud I am of you."

Your forehead rested against his.

The trophy was tucked safely under your arm.

The silver key rested in your hand.

And standing beneath the lights of Seoul, wearing the burgundy dress you had been so afraid to wear, you finally realized something.

The award recognized your talent.

But the people waiting for you at the end of the night—

Your friends.

Your family.

And the man who loved you through every success and every doubt—

They were always going to be your greatest achievement.

The cameras, the applause, and the spotlight would eventually fade.

But the way Seungmin looked at you that night...

As though you were the most extraordinary person in the room...

That was a memory you knew you'd carry with you forever.

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXVIII

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 3.6 k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

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December arrived wrapped in lights, not snow, not yet. Just lights. Strings of golden lights hanging from cafés, lights wrapped around trees, lights reflected in shop windows.

The city looked softer in December, warmer, een when it wasn't. And honestly? You loved it.

December had always been one of your favorite months, even before everything changed, even before losing everything, even before Han. And now? How it felt even more special. Because this would be your last December together before New York, neither of you said that part out loud, nut both of you thought about it, constantly.

The idea for the date came from Felix, unfortunately, which immediately made it suspicious.

"You HAVE to go."

"Why."

"Christmas market."

"It's not even Christmas."

"Exactly."

Nobody understood his logic, not even Felix.

Still—

a few days later you found yourself standing beside Han at a winter bazaar, and honestly? Felix had been right. It was beautiful. The kind of place that looked like it belonged inside a snow globe, tiny wooden stalls, warm lights, handmade ornaments, scarves, candles, pastries, everything glowed.

The cold air made people's breath visible, music played softly somewhere, and suddenly December felt real.

Han immediately grabbed your hand, of course. Then pulled you toward the first stall, like an excited child. You laughed.

"What are you doing."

"Looking."

"At what."

"Everything."

Reasonable, apparently.

The two of you wandered between stalls for nearly an hour, looking at handmade jewelry, old books, small paintings.

At one point Han picked up an ugly Christmas ornament, the ugliest thing you'd ever seen, then looked completely serious.

"We should buy this."

"No."

"Why."

"Look at it."

Han looked, then nodded.

"...You make a good point."

A few stalls later you found hot chocolate, immediately, because it was cold, very cold.

Han paid before you could protest, as usual. Then handed you the cup, like it was a sacred offering. The warmth felt nice, especially against your cold hands. You smiled. Han immediately looked proud of himself, again.

The afternoon passed slowly, the good kind of slowly, the kind where nobody checks the time, nobody rushes. Just wandering, talking, laughing, being together.

At one point you stopped near a booth selling handmade candles. The scents filled the air. Pine, vanilla, cinnamon, christmas.

You leaned forward slightly to smell one. Then unexpectedly felt a little dizzy, only for a second. The feeling disappeared almost immediately, so you ignored it, probably nothing.

Han noticed you pause.

"What."

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

And honestly? It wasn't a lie.

Because by the time he'd asked—

the feeling was already gone.

A little later you sat together near a food stall, sharing a table, surrounded by people, lights, music. The market felt alive, happy.

The vendor handed over food. Han immediately started eating, as expected. Meanwhile you picked at yours for a moment, not intentionally, you just weren't very hungry, which felt strange, because usually winter made you hungry, not the opposite.

Eventually you ate anyway, enough, just slower than normal. Han was too busy talking about something ridiculous to notice, probably for the best.

The conversation drifted toward university, again. The future always found its way into conversations lately.

Then suddenly:

"Look."

Han pointed dramatically. You turned. A photo booth, of course, a curse, an actual curse. Because apparently every important date eventually involved a photo booth.

Twenty minutes later you were squeezed inside one, again. Neither of you knew how to pose, again.

The first photo looked normal.

The second—

Han made a face.

The third—

you laughed.

The fourth—

Han was looking at you instead of the camera, again. You were beginning to suspect he physically couldn't help it.

The photos printed. Warm from the machine. You held them carefully, already knowing you'd keep them forever.

Outside the market the sky had darkened completely, the lights looked even prettier now, everything glowed gold.

December. The city looked magical.

The two of you walked slowly, no destination, no rush, just enjoying the night.

At some point Han wrapped his scarf around both of you, for absolutely no reason. You immediately started laughing.

"What are you doing."

"It's efficient."

"It absolutely isn't."

"It is."

"Han."

"It is."

The discussion ended there, because neither of you actually wanted it to stop.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, you leaned slightly closer to him, not even thinking about it. And immediately felt his hand find yours, automatic, comfortable, home.

For a moment neither of you spoke. The city lights reflected in puddles, music drifted from the market behind you.

And suddenly—

you felt tired, not sleepy, just tired, adeep kind of tired. The sort that settled in your bones.

You frowned slightly, weird. You'd slept fine, probably all the walking, the cold, nothing important. You pushed the thought away, then smiled when Han squeezed your hand.

And just like that—

the feeling disappeared beneath laughter again, because Han was telling another ridiculous story, because the lights were beautiful, because December felt magical, because you were in love.

And for now—

that was enough.

Even if, every once in a while, Han caught himself looking at you for a second longer than usual, not because he knew something was wrong, because lately he couldn't shake the feeling that you looked tired.

And every time he thought about asking—

you smiled, and he convinced himself everything was fine, at least for tonight.

December 17th. Your birthday.

Nineteen.

The number felt strange, not because you were getting older, because last year felt like an entirely different lifetime, s completely different person.

Sometimes you thought about your eighteenth birthday and it almost felt like remembering somebody else's life, not because it wasn't important, because it was. One of the most important days of your life, the day everything started changing.

You remembered it clearly, the tiny apartment, the uncertainty, the fear, the loneliness, the feeling that your entire world had collapsed. You'd lost everything.

Or at least—

that's what you'd thought. Money, status, certainty, all gone.

And then Han showed up, not with a grand plan, not with some magical solution, just with himself.

And somehow—

that had been enough.

You remembered the abandoned building, the rooftop, the wind, the city, the sunset.

And most of all—

the camera.

That camera, the camera that changed everything, because it wasn't expensive, it wasn't new, it wasn't luxury. In your old life you would've barely looked twice at it. But Han had saved for it, thought about it, chosen it.

And when he'd handed it to you—

something had shifted.

For the first time since losing everything—

you felt seen, actually seen. Not as the daughter of someone important, not as the rich girl, not as the girl who lost everything. Just Soojin, the girl who loved stories, the girl who loved photographs, the girl who looked at the world differently.

And somehow—

that old second-hand camera became more valuable than every designer bag you'd ever owned.

That had been your eighteenth birthday, beautiful, but also painful, because you were still healing, still grieving, still learning how to be happy again.

This year felt different, not better because the last one wasn't good, different, calmer, more stable. Like finally reaching shore after spending months in rough water.

You still missed things sometimes, your dad, yhe old house, certain memories. But they no longer felt like open wounds, just scars, part of your story.

And for the first time in a very long time—

you felt okay, actually okay.

You woke up on December 17th to seventeen text messages, because apparently your friends had formed a group chat specifically for birthday harassment.

Felix was responsible, obviously.

The messages included:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

OLD

NINETEEN?????

DON'T DIE

Nobody knew what the last one meant, not even Felix.

Then another message arrived, from Han, simple.

happy birthday ❤️

And somehow—

that one made your heart race the most.

When you opened your apartment door—

Han was already outside,of course. Holding breakfast, of course. Snd a small paper bag, which immediately made you suspicious.

"What is that."

Han smiled.

"Nothing."

Lie, massive lie.

The entire day felt warm, not because of the weather, because of the people.

The five of you spent most of it together, lunch, walking, photographs, the usual, like when they were in high school, but now no one knows when the next outing will be.

Except every few minutes somebody remembered it was your birthday, and immediately became emotional, especially Felix.

At one point the conversation drifted toward last year, and suddenly everybody got quiet, because they remembered too. The girl who arrived at school angry at the world, the girl who sat alone, the girl who barely smiled, compared to now, compared to this.

You laughing, taking pictures, holding Han's hand.

The difference felt unbelievable.

As evening approached—

the group eventually left, one by one. Until it was just you and Han, as always. The city glowed beneath winter lights, cold air, warm hands.

You found yourselves walking without direction again, one of your favorite traditions. Then eventually Han stopped, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the small paper bag.

Oh.

The suspicious bag. You'd almost forgotten.

"Han."

"What."

"You got me something."

"No."

"Han."

"...Maybe."

You laughed immediately, because some things never changed.

Inside was something small, simple, not expensive.

A little silver keychain, a camera, a tiny camera charm. Silence, immediate silence.

Because suddenly—

you remembered, the rooftop, the sunset, the camera, everything. Your eyes immediately filled.

"Han."

His ears turned red, immediately.

"I just saw it."

You looked down again. The tiny camera, the tiny reminder, of the day your life changed, of the day you met yourself again.

And suddenly tears appeared, not sad tears, the opposite. The kind that happen when happiness becomes too big.

Then quietly:

"My eighteenth birthday was amazing."

Han smiled softly.

"It was."

You nodded. Then looked up.

"But this one feels different."

Silence.

The city lights reflected in your eyes. Winter air surrounded both of you. And suddenly the words came easily.

"Last year I was scared."

Han listened, as always.

"Last year I didn't know what my future looked like."

A pause.

"I didn't know who I was anymore."

Your hand tightened around the little camera charm.

"But now I do."

Silence.

Then:

"I'm happy."

The words surprised even you, because they were true. completely true. Not perfect, not painless, not easy, but happy.

And somehow—

Han looked more emotional hearing that than hearing "I love you."

Because honestly? Making you happy had always been his favorite thing.

A few moments later you were sitting together on a bench. The city glowing around you. Your shoulder against his, your hand in his. And for a while neither of you spoke. Just existed together, comfortably, peacefully, home.

Then quietly—

Han kissed your forehead, of course, and smiled, the soft smile, the one that belonged only to you.

"Nineteen looks good on you."

You laughed. Then leaned into him, and thought about your eighteenth birthday, the camera, the rooftop, the beginning.

And now—

one year later—

you had friends, a future, a life you loved, and the boy who gave you that camera was still sitting beside you. Still holding your hand, still choosing you, every day.

Honestly?cNineteen already felt like your favorite year.

Christmas arrived quietly, which felt wrong, because all month everyone had been talking about it. The decorations, the lights, the gifts, the music.

And then suddenly—

it was Christmas Eve, just like that. Another reminder that time refused to slow down. Three months, just under three months until New York now. Neither of you mentioned it, not today.

Christmas belonged to the present, not the future.

The day started with a message from Han, of course.

merry christmas ❤️

Sent at 6:12 AM.

Psychotic behavior.

You immediately replied.

why are you awake

Three dots appeared.

too excited

You laughed, because honestly? That sounded exactly like him.

By noon Han was at your apartment, also unsurprising. At this point your mother stopped asking why he was there, because the answer was always:

Because he's Han.

The apartment smelled like cinnamon.

Your mother had somehow decided Christmas required baking, which was unfortunate, because Han immediately inserted himself into the process, and immediately became a problem.

"Don't eat that."

"I wasn't."

He was.

Five minutes later—

"Han."

"What."

"That's decoration."

Silence.

"...Not anymore."

Your mother laughed so hard she had to sit down.

The best part, however—

was Dori, because Dori was officially one year old, one year, n entire year. Neither of you could believe it.

The tiny kitten Han had found in a box, the tiny creature who fit inside one hand, gone. Now Dori was a full-grown menace, a criminal, a tyrant, a beloved tyrant.

At some point Han picked him up, immediately regretting it. because Dori hated being held. The betrayal in Dori's face was incredible. You took a picture, obviously, yhen another, and another, because Han being attacked by a cat was objectively funny.

Eventually evening arrived. The city outside glowed with Christmas lights, families gathered, restaurants filled, music drifted through the streets, everything felt warm, even the cold air somehow felt softer.

The original plan had been simple, dinner, movies, christmas, but then Felix happened, ss usual.

The group chat exploded, pictures, messages, voice notes. Changbin's family dinner, Hyunjin's gifts, Felix somehow wearing a Christmas sweater that looked illegal.

And suddenly the five of you spent almost an hour laughing through video calls, like nothing had changed, like graduation never happened, like nobody was leaving. Eventually the call ended.

The apartment grew quiet again. Your mother had gone to sleep, Dori had claimed a spot near the heater.

And suddenly—

it was just you and Han, again. Your favorite part of every day.

The Christmas tree lights remained on, soft golden light filled the room. The television played some Christmas movie neither of you were watching, because honestly? You never paid attention to movies anymore.

You sat together on the couch, wrapped beneath blankets, comfortable, warm, home. For a while neither of you spoke, just listening to the quiet, listening to Christmas happening outside.

Then Han looked over, and smiled, that smile. The one that always made your chest hurt, in the best way.

"What."

"Nothing."

Lie, massive lie. You knew it immediately.

"What."

Han hesitated, then laughed softly.

"I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Very."

You smiled. Then leaned closer, waiting.

Han looked toward the Christmas tree, then toward Dori, then finally toward you, and his expression softened, completely.

"I think this was my favorite year."

Silence, immediate silence.

Because suddenly—

you understood.

The rooftop, the camera, the birthdays, the river, the bus rides, the dates, the late-night conversations, the cookies, the photo booths, the cat, everything. An entire year, together.

Your eyes burned immediately, because honestly? It was your favorite year too. Not because it was easy, because it was real.

And because somehow—

you found people who loved you, people who would've loved you even if you'd never had money, people who chose you, every day.

Then quietly:

"Mine too."

Han smiled, then reached over. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture felt so familiar now, do natural, like breathing.

You leaned forward first, just slightly, snd Han met you halfway, ss always. The kiss was soft, not desperate, not dramatic, just warm, comfortable, like Christmas, like home, like him.

When you pulled apart—

neither of you moved very far. Foreheads touching, smiling, because apparently being normal around each other was impossible.

"Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas."

Then another kiss, because apparently one wasn't enough.

Then another, because apparently two wasn't enough either.

Eventually you were both laughing, because honestly? You were ridiculous, completely ridiculous, and very much in love.

Outside, Christmas lights illuminated Seoul. Inside, Dori snored dramatically near the heater, the Christmas tree glowed softly, and the two of you remained curled together on the couch. Holding hands, stealing kisses, talking about nothing.

Completely unaware that years later—

when people asked about your favorite Christmas—

neither of you would remember the gifts, or the food, or the decorations. You'd remember this, the apartment, the lights, the cat, the boy who gave you a secondhand camera, the girl who taught him what home felt like.

And the quiet certainty that for one perfect Christmas night—

everything was exactly as it should be.

New Year's Eve felt different this year, not because of the fireworkw, not because of the alcohol, not because of the countdown.

Because everybody knew something, this was the last time, not the last time forever, but the last time all five of you would be together before life pulled everyone in different directions.

January was only hours away, and with January came departures.

Felix would leave for Ulsan, Changbin would start university in Seoul, but between classes, training, and work, things would change.

And then—

a few months later—

Han. New York, nobody wanted to think about that part tonight.

So naturally—

Felix forced everybody to think about it immediately.

"WE HAVE TO DO SOMETHING MEMORABLE."

"Why are you yelling?"

"BECAUSE IT'S NEW YEAR'S."

Reasonable, apparently.

The final decision was obvious, the abandoned building, the rooftop, your rooftop, the place where everything started, the place where Han gave you a camera, the place where your eighteenth birthday stopped being a disaster, the place where countless memories lived.

So just before sunset—

the five of you climbed the familiar stairs, and immediately felt nostalgic, even though nobody had actually gone anywhere yet.

The winter air bit at your cheeks, the city stretched endlessly below, lights already beginning to glow as darkness approached, beautiful.

And somehow—

sad.

Felix brought snacks, too many snacks. Changbin brought drinks, too many drinks. Hyunjin brought a sketchbook, because of course he did. And Han brought a blanket, which somehow immediately became your blanket, nobody was surprised, least of all Han.

The evening passed slowly, stories, laughter, old memories. At one point Felix forced everyone to recount their first impressions of each other, a terrible idea.

Apparently:

Changbin thought you were scary, Hyunjin thought you looked sad, Felix thought you hated everyone.

Han looked suspiciously quiet, yoo quiet. Immediately suspicious.

"What."

Han looked away.

"What."

"Nothing."

"Han."

Silence.

Then:

"...I thought you were pretty."

Immediate chaos, absolute chaos. Felix nearly fell over, Changbin screamed, Hyunjin looked disgusted. You covered your face, and Han immediately regretted speaking.

As the night grew later—

the city below became brighter, fireworks occasionally appeared in the distance, music drifted up from somewhere.

The entire city seemed awake, waiting, counting down.

Around ten—

you started feeling strange, nothing dramatic.

Just...

uncomfortable.

A dull ache low in your abdomen. You frowned slightly, probably nothing. Yoo much walking, maybe the cold. You ignored it. An hour later it was still there, a little worse now, not enough to ruin the evening, just enough to notice.

Han noticed you shift slightly beside him, immediately, of course he did.

"What."

You shook your head.

"Nothing."

Not technically a lie, because honestly? You didn't know what it was.

The discomfort faded a few minutes later anyway, so you forgot about it, mostly.

Eventually—

11:58 PM.

The city below erupted with anticipation, people shouting, music, fireworks preparing to launch.

The five of you stood together near the edge of the rooftop, watching, waiting.

And suddenly—

nobody was talking.

Because somehow—

it felt emotional, another year ending, another chapter ending, everything changing, again.

11:59.

Felix immediately started the countdown early, wrong, as always.

"THIRTY."

"It's not thirty."

"IT'S CLOSE ENOUGH."

The countdown eventually synchronized, the city, the rooftop, the world.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

HAPPY NEW YEAR.

The sky exploded. Color everywhere, gold, red, blue. Fireworks reflected across Seoul, the city cheered.

And suddenly everyone was hugging. Felix tackled Changbin, Hyunjin immediately regretted being near Felix. Chaos, pure chaos.

Meanwhile—

you turned toward Han, and immediately found him already looking at you, of course he was.

Fireworks illuminated his face, his smile, his eyes, and suddenly everything else disappeared. The city, the nois, the people, just him, just you.

For a moment neither of you moved, then Han stepped closer, carefully, like this moment mattered, because it did. One hand found yours, the other gently touched your cheek.

And softly—

beneath exploding fireworks and a sky full of light—

he kissed you.

Not rushed, not desperate, slow, warm, certain. A New Year's kiss, the kind people write songs about, the kind people remember forever.

And for a moment—

the world felt perfect.

When you finally pulled apart—

both of you were smiling, foreheads touching, breath visible in the cold air.

And quietly—

so quietly only you heard—

Han whispered:

"Happy New Year, Soojin."

Your heart immediately melted.

"Happy New Year."

The fireworks continued. The boys continued being idiots, life continued moving forward.

And as you stood there surrounded by the people who changed your life—

you felt something, not sadness, not fear. Gratitude, for this year, for these people, for Han, for every moment that brought you here.

Though as the night wore on—

that ache in your stomach returned briefly, sharper this time, only for a second, enough to make you pause. Then it disappeared again, leaving behind only a faint uneasiness, nothing important. At least that's what you told yourself, because tonight wasn't about pain. Tonight was about fireworks, about friendship, about love, about the final New Year's Eve before everything changed.

And for a few precious hours—

that was enough.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXVII

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reader

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 2.9k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing, smut, portected sex, oral sex (m! and f! reciving), aftercare

⋆｡°✩

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November arrived quietly, no dramatic entrance, no sudden snowfall, no grand announcement. Just colder mornings, longer nights, and the realization that there were only four months left.

Four.

Neither of you said it out loud anymore. The number lived between you, in train rides, in sunsets. in random conversations that suddenly became emotional, in the way Han held your hand a little tighter lately, in the way you took a few extra photos every time you saw him laugh.

Four months, snd somehow that felt both impossibly long and terrifyingly short.

This particular date started on a Sunday, the kind of gray November day where the sky looked sleepy, the kind of day that practically begged people to stay inside.

Which was exactly why Han texted you at nine in the morning.

come outside

You immediately replied.

it is literally freezing

Three dots appeared.

Then:

exactly

No explanation, typical.

Twenty minutes later you stepped outside, and immediately spotted him. Standing near your apartment entrance, wearing a huge coat, a scarf, gloves and holding two paper cups. Hot chocolate. Your favorite, immediately your heart melted, again, it happened constantly, at this point it was becoming a problem.

"Morning."

"Morning."

You accepted the drink, the warmth immediately spread through your hands.

Han smiled, like seeing you happy was the entire point. Which honestly? It probably was.

"Where are we going?"

Han shrugged.

"No idea."

Of course.

The two of you started walking.

Because somehow—

some of your favorite dates were the ones without plans, no destination, no schedule, no pressure, just time, yime together.

The city looked beautiful in November, the trees were almost bare now, golden leaves covered sidewalks, the air smelled cold, people hurried past wrapped in coats and scarves.

Meanwhile the two of you walked slowly, no rush, no reason to rush.

At some point Han slipped his hand into yours, without asking, without thinking, automatically, the way breathing happened automatically, and honestly? You barely noticed anymore, not because it wasn't special, because it felt natural, like your hand belonged there.

Half an hour later you found a tiny used bookstore, one you'd never seen before, the kind hidden between older buildings.

The windows crowded with books, the door slightly crooke, perfect. The inside smelled like paper and time. The kind of smell you wanted to live inside forever.

You wandered separate aisles, occasionally holding up books, showing each other weird covers, terrible titles, embarrassing poetry.

At one point Han found a romance novel, then dramatically read a line aloud, in the most serious voice possible. You laughed so hard you nearly knocked over a shelf.

Eventually you found a photography book, old, worn, beautiful. The photographs inside were decades old, cities, people, moments frozen forever. You became completely absorbed, of course, because that's what happened whenever photography was involved.

Meanwhile Han stood nearby, not looking at the book, looking at you, again, always. The owner probably thought he was ridiculous and honestly? He was.

When you finally looked up—

Han immediately looked away, too late. You'd seen him, again.

"Why do you keep staring at me?"

Han froze.

Then:

"...I don't."

Liar, terrible liar. Eventually you bought the photography book.

Or rather—

Han bought the photography book, despite your protests, again, naturally.

By early afternoon it started drizzling, not rain, just enough to make everything shiny. The sidewalks reflected lights, the air grew colder. And suddenly Seoul looked like one of your photographs.

You stopped, lifted your camera.

CLICK.

Another photo.

Then another.

And another.

The city transformed when it rained, everything felt softer, more honest somehow. At one point you turned, and caught Han watching you through the camera lens, not the city, not the rain, you.

The image made your heart hurt, because he looked so happy, just standing there looking at you. Like you were the thing worth photographing.

The afternoon eventually led you to a small café, the kind with warm lights and old wooden tables. You ended up sharing a slice of cake, because Han claimed he wasn't hungry, a lie, n obvious lie. You caught him stealing bites twice.

The conversation drifted naturally, music, photography, university, the future. Always the future eventually.

"Are you excited?"

You asked quietly. Han understood immediately, New York.

Silence.

Then:

"...Yeah."

Honest, always honest. You smiled softly, because you wanted that answer, even if it hurt.

Then he added:

"...And terrified."

You laughed.

"Good."

"Good?"

"If you're scared it means you care."

Han considered that, then nodded, maybe.

By evening the rain had stopped, the city glowed, streetlights reflected in puddles, everything looked cinematic, like one of those moments people remember forever.

You found yourselves sitting on a bench overlooking the river, a familiar place, one of your places. The cold air turned your breath visible, november, almost winter.

Without saying anything—

Han opened his coat, then pulled you closer, immediately, because apparently personal space no longer existed.

You laughed.

"What are you doing?"

"You're cold."

"I'm fine."

"No."

"I'm literally fine."

"No."

And that was the end of the discussion, because Han had decided, and unfortunately Han was stubborn.

You eventually gave up, resting against him, listening to the river, listening to the city, ñistening to his heartbeat.

And for a while—

everything felt still, peaceful. The kind of peace that's only possible when you're with the person you love.

Then quietly—

Han kissed your forehead, of course. You smiled immediately, because honestly? You'd miss that, one day. The forehead kisses, the hand holding, the way he looked at you, everything. Maybe Han was thinking the same thing.

Because after a long silence—

he intertwined his fingers with yours.

Then simply sat there, holding your hand, not saying anything, just memorizing. The November air, the river, the city, you.

And somehow—

without either of you realizing it—

that became the entire date. Not the bookstore, not the café. not the photographs. This, two people in love, sitting together in the cold, trying to make a moment last a little longer, knowing time was moving. But choosing happiness anyway. And honestly? It was one of the most beautiful dates you'd ever had.

To be honest, it was already a bit suspicious that you wanted to watch the series on your computer in your room instead of in the living room like always. But a few minutes later, Han understood everything. Now the two of you were tangled together on your bed, some drama played on your computer, neither of you were paying attention.

You were too busy tasting him. Your mouth wrapped around his cock, sliding down his length slowly, taking him deep. Han groaned above you, his fingers tangled in your hair, his hips bucking slightly upward.

"Fuck, Soojin—" he breathed, his voice wrecked already. "Shit, your mouth feels so good."

You hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder. Han's head fell back against the bed cushions, his eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving.

You could feel him throbbing against your tongue, twitching, getting harder by the second.

"Baby, wait—" he gasped, trying to pull you back gently. "I'm gonna—if you keep doing that I'm gonna—"

You pulled off slowly. A wet, filthy sound filling the quiet room. Han's cock stood thick and heavy against his stomach, glistening from your mouth. He was right on the edge, panting, desperate.

"Why'd you stop?" he groaned, his voice strained.

"Because you were about to come," you said simply, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"I know, but—fuck, I wanted to—" He cut himself off, his hips jerking slightly as he tried to regain control. "I wanted to be inside you."

You smiled, teasing.

"Patience."

Han glared at you, but his eyes were dark, hungry.

"Come here," he demanded, reaching for you.

You crawled up his body, but he stopped you halfway.

"Wait."

You raised an eyebrow.

"Let me—" He hesitated, his hands on your hips. "Let me taste you first. Please. I've been thinking about it all day."

The begging in his voice made you shiver.

"You don't have to beg, Han."

"I want to," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Please, Soojin. Let me. I need to. I need to feel you. Taste you."

The desperation in his eyes was intoxicating. You nodded. Han didn't waste a second. He lifted you easily, maneuvering you until you were straddling his face.

"Fuck, yes," he breathed, his hands gripping your thighs. "This is what I wanted. This is what I need."

And then his mouth was on you. His tongue dragged through your folds, slow and deliberate, collecting every drop of your arousal.

"Shit," he groaned against you, the vibration making you gasp. "You taste so fucking good. So sweet. So perfect."

He dove back in, ravenous. His tongue circled your clit, sucked it into his mouth, flicked it rapidly.

You cried out, your hands finding the back of the bedframe for support.

"Han—"

He didn't stop, couldn't stop. He was obsessed.

You could feel it in the way he devoured you. The way he moaned into your skin like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"I could do this for hours," he mumbled, his words muffled. "I could live right here. Between your thighs. Fuck, you taste like heaven."

His tongue dipped lowe, pressed inside you. You gasped, your hips grinding down against his face.

"That's it," he encouraged, his breath hot against you. "Ride my face. Take what you need. God, you're so wet for me. So ready."

You moved your hips in small circles, chasing the friction, the pressure. Han's hands tightened on your thighs. His tongue worked you mercilessly.

He was making sounds, hungry, desperate sounds, like he couldn't get enough.

"Please don't stop," you begged, your voice high and breathless. "Han, please—"

"Never," he promised, sucking your clit hard. "I could eat you out every day for the rest of my life and it still wouldn't be enough. I love how you taste. I love how you feel. I love everything about you."

The combination of his words and his mouth sent you spiraling. Your orgasm hit suddenly, intense. You cried out, your body shaking, your thighs trembling around his head.

Han didn't stop, licked you through it, drank every drop.

"Fuck," he breathed, finally pulling back, his chin glistening. "You have no idea what you do to me. No fucking idea."

You slid down his body, felt how hard he still was, throbbing against your stomach.

"I think I have some idea," you whispered.

"Need you," he groaned, his hands everywhere. "Need to be inside you. Right now. Please."

You reached for his wallet, found the condom. Rolled it down his length while he watched, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged.

"You're so beautiful," he said, his voice rough. "So fucking beautiful. I don't deserve you."

You moan, positioning yourself above him. You sank down slowly. Both of you groaning as he filled you, stretched you.

"Shit," he hissed, his head falling back. "Every time. Every fucking time you feel this good. How is that possible?"

You started to move, slow circles of your hips. Han's hands gripped your waist, his eyes locked on yours.

"I love you," he breathed. "I love you so fucking much. You feel incredible."

"I love you too," you gasped, picking up the pace.

The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin meeting skin filling the room.

Han's desperation had returned, his thrusts became harder, more urgent.

Han's hands were roaming all over your body—your hips, your waist, squeezing your breasts—until they reached the place you desired most. He started touching your clitoris, making it throb with desesperation.

"That's it," he praised, his voice strained. "Just like that. Fuck, you feel so tight when you're about to cum. You're perfect. Absolutely perfect."

The pressure built quickly, coiling tight.

"Han—I'm close—"

"Please, babe, cum all over my cock. Let me feel you."

His words pushed you over. You cried out, your second orgasm crashing through you. Your body convulsing.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" Han chanted, feeling you pulse around him.

A few more desperate, hard thrusts, and then he buried his face in your neck, groaning long and low as he came. You felt him throb inside you, even through the condom.

For a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing hard, sweaty, sated.

Han pressed kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your jaw.

"I love you," he whispered again.

Like a prayer, like a promise.

"I love you too," you murmured back, still trembling.

He helped you clean up. Took care of the condom.

Pulled you back onto the bed with him. You lay curled against his chest beneath blankets. His arm wrapped around your waist, your fingers lazily intertwined, neither of you were asleep yet, just listening to each other's breathing.

Eventually Han pressed a kiss to the top of your head, soft, careful. The same way he always did.

Then quietly:

"…I love you."

You smiled against his shoulder.

"I love you too."

And somehow—

with the apartment dark around you and Han holding you close—

the future didn't feel scary anymore.

You slept peacefully beside Han, curled beneath blankets. The kind of comfortable sleep that only happened when you felt completely safe.

Meanwhile Han woke first, slowly, still half asleep, for a moment he simply stared at the ceiling. Listening, the distant sound of traffic, the heater, your breathing, then he looked over, and immediately smiled. Because there you were, still asleep, hair messy, blankets tangled, completely unaware you were being admired, again, as always.

Han reached over, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face, carefully, trying not to wake you. His chest immediately filled with that familiar feeling, the one that happened every time he looked at you, love, simple, overwhelming.

Then something made him pause, a tiny feeling, a thought, something he couldn't quite place.His eyes drifted over you again.

And suddenly—

he frowned.

Because something looked…

different.

Not wrong, different. Han sat up slightly, trying to figure it out, then realization hit.

Your shoulders, your arms, your face, even your hands, you looked thinner, noticible thinner.

The realization immediately woke him up, completely.

Because now that he'd noticed—

he couldn't unnotice it.

How long had this been happening? Two weeks? Maybe longer? His stomach tightened, because honestly? You spent almost every day together, almost every day. How had he missed it?

You ate with him constantly, ramen, convenience store snacks, cafés, restaurants.

He literally watched you eat, so what was going on? Han stared, trying to convince himself he was imagining it. Maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the blankets, maybe he was tired, but no.

The more he looked—

the more certain he became.

Something had changed, and suddenly he felt uneasy. Because Han knew you. He knew your habits, your routines, and this didn't make sense, not at all.

A few minutes later you stirred, yawning softly, still sleepy, still unaware. Then your eyes opened, and immediately landed on Han.

"…Why are you staring at me?"

His expression changed instantly, too quickly, suspiciously quickly.

"Nothing."

You narrowed your eyes.

"That's a lie."

"No."

"Han."

"No."

"Han."

Silence.

Then:

"…Maybe."

You laughed softly, because of course.

"What."

Han hesitated, which immediately made you suspicious, because Han usually spoke before thinking, not after.

"What?"

This time more insistently. Han looked away, then back.

Then quietly:

"…Have you lost weight?"

Silence. You blinked.

"Oh."

Not the question you expected, at all. You thought for a second.

Yes, you've noticed how your jeans started fitting differently, but you didn't think much of it.

Stress, that's what you told yourself. Probably stress. People lost weight when they were stressed, right?

And honestly—

you still ate.

"Maybe."

Han immediately frowned.

"Maybe?"

You shrugged again.

"Some of my clothes fit differently."

The casual answer did not help, at all.

"Soojin."

"What."

"How much?"

You thought, then made a face.

"…I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No?"

Han looked horrified. You started laughing, immediately, because honestly? His reaction was adorable, and slightly dramatic.

"Han."

"What."

"I'm fine."

Silence. He didn't look convinced, not even a little. You reached over, tapping his forehead lightly.

"Stop making that face."

"What face."

"The worried one."

"I'm not worried."

The biggest lie of the morning, because he was worried, not panicking, not catastrophizing.

Just…

worried.

Something wasn't adding up, and Han hated things that didn't add up, epecially when they involved you.

The conversation moved on eventually, breakfast, coffee, Dori being annoying, normal things.

But throughout the morning—

Han kept glancing over, noticing, thinking.

And every time he did—

that uneasy feeling returned.

Because deep down—

he knew this wasn't stress. Maybe you'd told yourself that, maybe everyone else had too, but something about it felt different.

And for the first time in a long while—

Han had a feeling, the kind he hated, the kind that sat quietly in his chest, waiting. Telling him that something wasn't right, he just didn't know what yet.

And as you laughed at something Dori did and completely forgot about the conversation—

Han found himself watching you again, not because you were beautiful, though you were. Not because he loved you, though he did.

But because suddenly—

for the first time in months—

he was scared of something that wasn't New York.

And he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was happening…

had only just begun.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXVI

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reader

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 2.6k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

← previous | index | next →

October arrived wrapped in cold air, and Han immediately became unbearable, actually unbearable, because autumn brought one very specific thing into his life. Oversized hoodies.

More specifically—

you wearing his oversized hoodies.

Which apparently was his favorite thing on Earth. Nobody understood why, not even Han, one day he was normal.

The next—

he saw you wearing one of his hoodies and suddenly forgot how to function, a terrifying development.

The date started on a chilly Saturday afternoon, you opened your apartment door, and immediately found Han waiting outside, as usual. Honestly at this point he should've just paid rent.

You stepped outside, wearing one of his hoodies, ahuge dark gray one, the sleeves covered half your hands, the hood looked too big, the whole thing practically swallowed you. And Han froze immediate, completely, like somebody had unplugged him.

"...Han?"

Silence.

"...Han."

Still nothing.

Then:

"...You stole that."

You looked down, the hoodie, then back at him.

"Technically."

"That's my hoodie."

"It became my hoodie."

Han stared, then looked away.

Because unfortunately—

you looked adorable, dangerously adorable, the kind of adorable that made his heart physically hurt.

And suddenly he remembered, six months, nnly six months.

No.

He wasn't thinking about that today.

The moment you started walking—

Han grabbed your hand, immediately, not even pretending anymore, you laughed.

"Good afternoon to you too."

"I'm cold."

"You're literally wearing a jacket."

"I'm emotionally cold."

Silence.

Then:

"...That's not a thing."

"It is."

"No."

"It is."

You rolled your eyes. Han smiled, victory.

The city looked different now, the trees glowed orange, leaves covered sidewalks, the air smelled like autumn, everthing felt softer somehow, like the entire world had become nostalgic.

You wandered through a small neighborhood market, looking at handmade things, books, candles, old records, at one point you stopped to photograph leaves, of course. Meanwhile Han photographed you photographing leaves, with his phone, like a stalker. You noticed immediately.

"...Did you just take a picture of me."

"No."

"Han."

"No."

"Han."

"...Maybe. We swapped roles."

You laughed, because honestly? Now both of you were equally guilty.

The afternoon eventually led you to a small café, the kind hidden in side streets, tiny, warm. The windows fogged slightly from the temperature difference, perfect.

You sat near the window, and immediately wrapped both hands around your hot chocolate, trying to warm up. Han watched, completely distracted.

Because again—

the hoodie, the stupid hoodie. You noticed eventually.

"...Why are you staring."

Han looked away immediately, too late.

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"No."

"Han."

Silence.

Then:

"...You look cute."

Oh.

Immediate damage. You looked away, your face warm now.

And unfortunately—

Han noticed, which made him smile, which made things worse.

The rest of the afternoon passed lazily, exactly how autumn should. You talked about university, future classes, photography, music. At one point Han started talking about a song idea, then got distracted halfway through, because your hands looked cold, immediately, without tinking. He grabbed them, both, and tucked them into the pocket of his jacket.

Silence. You stared, Han stared.

Then:

"What."

"Nothing."

"Your hands were cold."

You laughed softly. Because honestly? He always did things like that. Tiny things, the kind nobody else noticed, the kind that made you feel loved.

By evening the temperature dropped even more, the city lights reflected off wet streets, the trees rustled softly, people hurried home. Meanwhile neither of you seemed interested in going anywhere.

So naturally—

you ended up sitting together at a bus stop, not waiting for a bus, just sitting there, talking, because apparently that was a date now.

And somehow—

it was one of your favorites. You leaned against Han's shoulder, Han immediately leaned his head on top of yours, like always, then wrapped an arm around you, like always, then pulled you slightly closer, like always. Extra clingy lately, very suspicious.

You smiled.

Then quietly:

"You're really affectionate lately."

Silence.

Han looked toward the street. Then laughed softly.

"...Maybe."

You waited, because there was more, you knew there was.

Then quietly—

so quietly you almost missed it—

"I just wanna remember everything."

Silence.

Your chest tightened immediately.

Because suddenly—

you understood. The hand holding, the hugs, the forehead kisses, the photographs, everything, not because he was afraid, because he loved you so much that every ordinary moment felt precious.

You reached over, intertwined your fingers with his, then squeezed once, softly, and for a while neither of you spoke. Just watched autumn move around you, leaves falling, cars passing, people rushing home.

And somehow—

the moment felt perfect.

Not because anything extraordinary happened, because nothing did, it was just you, his hoodie, a cold October evening.

And the boy who looked at you like every season was his favorite—

as long as you were in it.

October had fully settled into Seoul, the air was cold now, not winter cold, but the kind of cold that made you reach for hoodies automatically.

Which meant Han was happy, because autumn meant one thing. You stealing his clothes, a crime he fully supported.

The idea started because Felix wouldn't stop talking.

"YOU TWO ARE BORING."

You blinked.

"What."

"You've been dating for months."

"And?"

"Where are the matching pajamas."

Silence. Han immediately looked interested, very interested, a dangerous amount of interested. You pointed.

"No."

Han pointed.

"Yes."

Three days later—

you found yourself standing in a store, looking at matching pajamas, light blue, with strips. Ridiculously soft. You hated how cute they were, which meant you bought them, unfortunately.

The official pajama night happened on a Friday. Your mom had another late shift, Dori was already asleep. The apartment felt warm, safe, comfortable. home.

Han arrived carrying approximately ten bags, you stared.

"What is all that."

"Supplies."

"Han."

"Supplies."

The supplies included:

popcorn, candy, ramen, chips, hot chocolate, ingredients for cookies, more candy and somehow even more candy

You looked horrified.

"Are you feeding an army."

"Maybe."

"There are two people."

"Three."

Dori meowed, Han pointed.

"See."

Reasonable, apparently.

The cooking portion of the evening started because of a TikTok recipe. Which, in retrospect, should have been a warning sign.

Because no recipe that starts with:

"This is SO easy!"

has ever been easy, ever.

You were both already wearing the matching pajamas because Han had insisted.

"Normal people change before bed."

"It's seven in the evening."

"Exactly."

"What does that even mean?"

"I don't know."

Then he'd stolen a chocolate chip, and the cooking hadn't even started yet.

The recipe looked simple, cookie dough, chocolate, marshmallows, some ridiculous folding technique, nothing complicated, or at least that was what the video promised.

The video was a liar, immediately.

The first problem happened when Han forgot to read the measurements.

"How much flour?"

"A cup."

"Okay."

"Han."

"What."

"That's sugar."

Silence.

Han slowly looked down. Then at the bag, then back at you.

"...No wonder it looked shiny."

You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

The second disaster happened because Han insisted on cracking eggs with one hand.

"Why."

"Because it looks cool."

"You're not a chef."

"I could be."

He could not. Five seconds later half an eggshell ended up in the bowl.

"You manifested that."

"I don't think that's how manifestation works."

Then somehow—

somehow—

the kitchen became chaos, not stressful chaos, happy chaos. The kind that only happens when you're with the right person.

Music played quietly from someone's phone, the windows fogged from the warmth, flour ended up on the counter, then on the floor, then somehow on Han. Nobody understood how, not even him.

At one point you looked up from mixing the dough, and immediately froze, because Han was smiling, not laughing, not joking, just smiling. Looking at you, softly, the kind of smile that made your chest hurt.

"What."

Han blinked.

"What."

"Why are you looking at me like that."

He immediately looked away, too late. You'd caught him, and honestly? He'd been doing it all night.

The truth was—

Han couldn't stop thinking about how normal this felt, and how much he loved that, not the date, not the matching pajamas, this. You standing in a kitchen, trying to follow a stupid TikTok recipe, arguing about measurements, laughing every five seconds, domestic. The kind of thing he'd never really thought about before meeting you, the kind of thing that suddenly felt more precious than anything.

Eventually the cookies made it into the oven, miraculously, neither of you trusted them at all.

So while they baked—

you sat on the floor, because neither of you felt like moving. Dori wandered into the kitchen, immediatly demanding attention.

Han sat beside you, shoulders touching, your knees bumping occasionally.

And for some reason—

the conversation drifted toward childhood, the way it always seemed to lately, maybe because graduation had happened, maybe because growing up felt very real now, maybe because both of you were secretly trying to memorize each other.

You told him stories about traveling.

Italy.

France.

New York.

The version of you that felt like a different person now. Han listened quietly, like he always did, not interrupting, not judging, just listening. Like your stories mattered, like you mattered.

Then he told you stories too, about being little, about music, about getting in trouble, about his first terrible song, which was apparently so bad he almost buried the notebook. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

The timer eventually went off, saving him, barely.

The cookies came out...

Questionable, very questionable. One side looked burnt, the other looked raw, a scientific mystery.

Han broke one in half, steam escaped.

You both stared, then looked at each other, then took a bite.

Silence, long silence.

Then:

"...Wait."

"What."

"...That's actually good."

The shock in Han's voice was offensive.

The rest of the evening passed like that, simple, warm. The kind of happiness people rarely notice while it's happening, the kind that only becomes special later.

Afterward came the movies, the horror movies. Which had been your idea. A mistake, a massive mistake, because the first movie started.

And within twenty minutes—

you regretted everything. Han noticed immediately.

"...You're scared."

"No."

"You just jumped."

"I was surprised."

"Soojin."

"I was surprised."

Han started laughing, the audacity. Then a jumpscare happened, and you grabbed his arm, immediately, without thinking.

Han looked so pleased with himself that you considered violence.

The second movie was worse, much worse. By now you were sitting closer, strictly for survival reasons, obviously. Then another jumpscare happened, you buried your face in his shoulder. Han completely stopped paying attention to the movie, because suddenly his brain had stopped functioning.

"You okay?"

"No."

"Want me to turn it off?"

"No."

"You're literally hiding."

"I can do both."

Han laughed so hard he nearly choked.

By midnight the horror marathon had failed completely. Neither of you were watching anymore. The television continued playing, meanwhile you sat together under blankets, talking, as always.

He had already arrived wearing his pajamas, so at some point you changed into the matching pajamas, which immediately destroyed Han, completely. The oversized sleeves, the line pattern, the sleepy smile, dangerous, extremely dangerous.

"You keep staring."

"I know."

Silence.

"...At least you're honest."

One in the morning became two, two became three. The apartment grew quieter, the city outside fell asleep, even Dori had given up on both of you. Eventually you yawned, then Han yawned. Then neither of you could keep your eyes open.

You looked toward your bedroom, then toward him, then back, silence. A slightly awkward silence, not uncomfortable, just new, because tonight wasn't an accident. Not the couch, not falling asleep during a movie, tonight had always been the plan. A sleepover, together.

Han rubbed the back of his neck.

"...You sure?"

The question was soft, careful. You smiled.

"Yeah."

Immediate relief, because honestly?

The thought of going home at three in the morning sounded terrible.

The bedroom felt different somehow, not because it changed, because Han was there. The room where he'd spent countless afternoons, the room where he'd found that hidden photo of himself months ago, now it felt smaller, wamer, more intimate.

The lights went out, the room became quiet, for a while neither of you slept, just talked, the way people always do before sleep, the honest conversations, the random thoughts, the things that only exist after midnight.

Eventually the conversation faded and sleep arrived, slowly, comfortably.

Your eyes grew heavier, your words slower.

Until eventually—

without really thinking—

you shifted closer, just a little. Han immediately noticed, of course he did, because he noticed everything about you. The way your hand found the sleeve of his shirt, the way your breathing slowed, the way your head settled comfortably near his shoulder, trusting, completely. And suddenly his chest ached, because moments like this always did. The small moments, the ones nobody takes pictures of, the ones that feel ordinary while they're happening, the ones that become irreplaceable later.

Han looked toward the ceiling, listening to the soft sounds of the apartment, the refrigerator humming, the distant city outside. Dori probably causing problems somewhere.

And you, breathing softly beside him, safe, happy, home.

The realization arrived so quietly it almost scared him.

Not because it was new. because it wasn't.

He'd known for months.

But sometimes—

late at night—

when the world became quiet enough—

he felt the full weight of it.

How much he loved you, how deeply, how completely, enough that New York scared him, enough that the future scared him, enough that six months felt unfair, enough that he'd gladly spend the rest of his life making burnt cookies with you if given the chance.

And somewhere between that thought and sleep—

Han's arm settled around you naturally, like it belonged there, like it always would.

Then, finally—

the two of you fell asleep, wrapped in the warmth of autumn. The smell of cookies still lingering faintly in the apartment, the memory of laughter still hanging in the air.

Completely unaware that years later—

this would be one of the nights you'd both remember most, not because anything extraordinary happened, because everything ordinary did.

Han woke first, the room was still dark, early morning. For a moment he didn't know where he was, then he felt warmth, and remembered.

Oh.

His eyes slowly opened, and immediately his heart stopped.

Because somehow—

during the night—

you'd ended up curled against him, completely. Your face buried against his chest, one hand lightly holding his shirt, his arm wrapped around your waist, like it belonged there.

For a long moment he didn't move, couldn't move.

Because suddenly—

all he could think about was how much he loved you, not the dramatic kind, not movie love, not fireworks, not grand speeches, just this. The quiet morning, the warm room, the girl sleeping peacefully beside him. home.

The realization hit harder than ever before.

Because in a few months—

he'd be across an ocean, different country, different city, different life.

And somehow the thought hurt more now, because this felt so right, so natural. Like waking up beside you was the easiest thing in the world.

Han carefully brushed a strand of hair away from your face, trying not to wake you. Then smiled, the softest smile, the kind nobody else ever saw.

And quietly—

so quietly only the morning could hear—

he whispered:

"I really, really love you."

You didn't hear it, still asleep, but your hand tightened slightly against his shirt.

And somehow—

that felt like an answer.

So Han closed his eyes again, pulled you a little closer.

And for one more hour—

before the world woke up—

he let himself pretend that mornings like this could last forever.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXV

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 1.8k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

← previous | index | next →

August slowly turned into September, which was unfair, because summer had just started, at least that's what it felt like, except it hadn't.

Time kept moving, seven months became six and a half, the countdown never stopped. Neither did Han, though you didn't know that.

Because lately Han had been tired, not dramatically, not enough to worry you, just little things. Arriving a bit later, yawning more often, dark circles under his eyes some mornings.

When you asked, he always shrugged.

"Couldn't sleep."

Which technically wasn't a lie.

The problem was that after you fell asleep—

Han had started taking small jobs, deliveries, late-night shifts, anything. Not because he needed to, because he wanted money. Money for dates, money for memories, money for experiences.

Because somewhere inside his ridiculous brain—

Han had decided these last months needed to be perfect.

And unfortunately for his sleep schedule—

that mission was expensive.

One Saturday morning he appeared outside your apartment, looking suspiciously excited, immediately concerning.

"What are you planning?"

Han grinned.

"A surprise."

"Oh no."

"A good surprise."

"Those don't exist."

"They do."

"They don't."

"They do."

You sighed. Then followed him anyway.

Because somehow—

you always did.

Thirty minutes later you arrived at a bicycle rental place, and immediately froze.

Oh.

Oh no.

Han didn't notice, not at first, because he was busy paying. Then he turned around, holding two helmets, smiling. and immediately stopped. Because you looked terrified, actual terror, not nervous, not uncertain, terrified.

"...Soojin?"

Silence.

You stared at the bicycles, then at him, then back at the bicycles.

Then quietly:

"...I don't know how."

Silence. Han blinked.

"What."

You looked away immediately, because suddenly this was the most embarrassing thing in the world.

"...I don't know how to ride a bike."

Silence.

Long silence.

Then:

"Oh."

You wanted the earth to open and swallow you, immediately, because honestly? Who didn't know how to ride a bike? Apparently you. The girl who'd traveled internationally, the girl who spoke multiple languages, the girl who attended private schools, couldn't ride a bicycle, wonderful.

Han immediately looked horrified, not at you, at himself.

"Oh my God."

"What."

"I assumed."

You crossed your arms.

"Thanks."

"No."

Han looked genuinely guilty.

"No, that's not—"

You looked away, face burning.

"I know."

And somehow that made him feel worse, because suddenly he realized, of course you never learned. When would you have? You had drivers, cars, assistants, you probably never needed to. Meanwhile he'd grown up riding bikes everywhere. The thought had literally never crossed his mind.

For a moment both of you stood there awkwardly, then Han carefully set down his bicycle and smiled, a soft smile, the one reserved for moments when you were embarrassed.

The one that always meant:

It's okay.

Then:

"...Want me to teach you?"

Silence.

You stared. Then immediately:

"No."

Han laughed.

"Soojin."

"No."

"You absolutely can learn."

"No."

"You can."

"No."

"Soojin."

You groaned dramatically.

Because unfortunately—

you knew he was right.

Ten minutes later you were sitting on a bicycle, and regretting every life choice that had led here, every single one.

Han stood beside you, holding the seat, patiently.

"Okay."

"This is terrifying."

"It's not."

"It absolutely is."

"It isn't."

"Han."

"It isn't."

Silence.

Then:

"...You're holding it right?"

"Yes."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

"Han."

"Soojin."

"Promise."

"I promise."

You took a breath, then started pedaling, very slowly, very shakily, very badly.

Three seconds later—

you nearly crashed into a bush. Han physically wheezed.

"STOP LAUGHING."

"I'M SORRY."

"YOU'RE NOT."

"I'M REALLY NOT."

The next hour became chaos, pure chaos.

You almost hit:

a trash can

a sign

Han

another bush

yourself somehow

Nobody understood the last one, not even Han.

At one point you stopped dramatically.

"I'm quitting."

"No."

"I'm serious."

"No."

"I'm bad at this."

Han looked at you, then smiled, the annoying kind.

"You were bad at buses too."

Betrayal, immediate betrayal.

"EXCUSE ME?"

"You literally stared at a bus stop for three hours."

"I WAS GOING THROUGH SOMETHING."

Han laughed so hard he almost fell off his bike.

Eventually—

something clicked, not perfectly, not gracefully, but enough, enough to move, enough to balance, enough to ride.

And suddenly—

you were actually doing it. The wind pushed through your hair, the path stretched ahead.

And for the first time—

you weren't terrified, You were having fun, Actual fun.

"LOOK."

Han pointed.

"I'M LOOKING."

"NO."

His grin widened.

"YOU'RE DOING IT."

Silence, Then you realized.

Oh.

You were. No crashing, no panic, no disaster, just riding. And suddenly you laughed, the loud kind, the uncontrollable kind, and God. Han loved that laugh, he always would. Eventually you reached the mountain trail, not a real mountain, more like a giant hill, but still.

The view was beautiful, the city stretched endlessly below, the beginning of autumn painted everything gold, and for a while neither of you spoke. Just sat together, breathing, watching, happy.

Then quietly:

"Thanks."

Han looked over.

"For what?"

You smiled.

"For teaching me."

His expression softened immediately, then he shrugged, like it wasn't a big deal, even though it was, even though everything with him somehow was.

Then softly:

"There's still a lot of stuff we haven't done."

Your chest tightened.

Because suddenly—

you knew what he meant. Not bicycles, life, the months ahead, the memories still waiting, the time left. Six and a half months, not enough, never enough.

And yet—

you found yourself smiling, because if there was anyone you'd want to spend those months with—

it was him.

The boy who spent all his money on you, the boy who secretly worked too hard, the boy who taught you how to ride a bike, the boy who made ordinary days feel extraordinary, the boy who somehow became your favorite memory, before he even left.

September arrived carrying that strange feeling between summer and autumn, not cold, not warm.

Just...

changing.

The mornings were cooler now, the sunsets arrived earlier, the trees had begun thinking about turning orange.

And somehow—

every little sign of change felt personal, because every season that passed meant one thing. Less time, six months, a little less now. Neither of you talked about it much, but Han felt it, every day. The calendar in his room felt louder than ever.

October.

November.

December.

January.

February.

Then New York.

And honestly? He hated thinking about it, because lately he kept having moments where he'd look at you and think:

I only get this for six more months.

Then immediately get sad. Which was why Han had become even clingier, s horrifying development. Because he was already clingy, now? Now he was basically attached to you by an invisible rope.

This particular date started with you trying to leave your apartment building, trying, the important word.

Because the second you stepped outside—

Han immediately grabbed your hand, normal. Then wrapped an arm around your shoulders, less normal. Then kissed your temple, very suspicious. You narrowed your eyes.

"...What are you doing?"

Han blinked.

"What."

"You're being weird."

"I'm not."

"You kissed me three times in thirty seconds."

Silence.

Then:

"...Maybe."

You laughed immediately, because honestly? He wasn't even trying to hide it anymore.

The date itself had no plan, again, of course.

You walked through Seoul, holding hands, well, mostly because Han refused to let go, at one point you tried, just to test something.

And immediately—

"What are you doing?"

You stared.

"...Nothing."

Han grabbed your hand again, immediately, like a reflex. Then continued walking, as if nothing happened. You laughed so hard you almost tripped.

The first stop was a bookstore, because Han remembered you'd mentioned wanting a photography magazine, once, two months ago, for approximately three seconds, naturally he remembered. Because unfortunately Han remembered everything about you.

You found the magazine, immediately, then looked at the price, and put it back, immediately, because honestly? University was starting soon, money mattered.

Before you could blink—

Han grabbed it, then walked directly toward the register. You gasped.

"NO."

"Yes."

"Han."

"Yes."

"NO."

"Too late."

"YOU DON'T HAVE MONEY."

Han looked offended.

"I have some money."

The fact that he said some instead of enough was deeply concerning. Five minutes later you were holding the magazine, and Han was holding approximately seventeen won, a slight exaggeration, maybe.

The next victim was lunch, you wanted something cheap. Han insisted, you argued, Han lost. Then somehow still paid, nobody understood how, not even him.

By the afternoon the weather had become perfect, cool enough for hoodies, warm enough for walking.

You ended up near the river, again, because apparently every road in your relationship led there eventually.

The two of you sat together on the grass, your shoulder pressed against his. Han immediately rested his head on top of yours, without asking, without warning, like a cat, an oversized clingy cat.

For a while neither of you spoke. The river reflected the afternoon light, the breeze moved softly through the trees.

Then suddenly:

"Soojin."

"What."

Silence.

Then:

"I love you."

You looked up immediately.

"...What."

Han blinked.

"What."

"You just said it randomly."

"So?"

You stared, then laughed. Because apparently this had become a thing, Han randomly telling you he loved you, anywhere, anytime, no context required. One time he'd said it while buying ramen, another while crossing a street, once while discussing Dori's eating habits. Nobody knew why, not even Han.

Then suddenly—

he kissed your forehead, again. You sighed dramatically.

"There it is."

"What."

"The forehead kiss."

Han looked proud.

"What about it."

"You do that every twenty minutes."

Silence.

Then:

"...Maybe."

The truth was—

Han wasn't doing it on purpose, not entirely. He just couldn't help it, because lately every moment felt important.

And every time he saw you—

he wanted to remember. The way your hand felt in his, the way your laugh sounded, the way you looked when reading, the way you smiled, everything.

As the sun began setting—

the sky slowly turned gold. Your favorite time of day, the two of you sat on a bench watching it happen, quiet, comfortable.

Then suddenly Han wrapped both arms around you from behind, immediately, without warning, you squeaked.

"Han."

"What."

"People exist."

"I know."

"Han."

"I know."

The fact he didn't move at all was extremely annoying, and unfortunately very cute.

After a minute—

you relaxed against him, giving up, because honestly? You liked it, a lot. Han smiled instantly, victory.

The city lights slowly began turning on. September evenings always felt nostalgic somehow, like the year already knew it was ending, and for a moment neither of you spoke.

Then quietly—

you felt Han squeeze your hand, just once, softly, like he was reminding himself you were there, and maybe he was.

Because sometimes—

when he thought about New York—

he got scared. Not of leaving, of missing this, missing you, missing ordinary days, days exactly like this one, no big events, no dramatic moments, just walking togetherm holding hands, sharing food, watching sunsets, being in love.

The things people never realize they'll miss until they're gone, so Han leaned down, pressed one more kiss against your hair.

And quietly thought:

Six months isn't enough.

Meanwhile you leaned into him, and thought the exact same thing.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXIV

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 2.7 k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

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Summer arrived quietly, no dramatic announcement, no magical moment, no sudden realization.

One day it was spring.

The next—

the air was warmer, the sun stayed out longer, the trees were greener, and graduation was over, done.

High school had ended, and somehow that still felt weird. Every morning for the first week after graduation, you woke up in slight panic, because you thought you were late for school, then remembered. No more school, no more uniforms, no more classrooms, no more pretending to listen to teachers, just summer.

Eight months, eight months before New York, eight months before everything changed.

Neither of you talked about the countdown much anymore, bot because you forgot, because you remembered too much.

So instead—

you made a silent agreement. Every day mattered, every date, every bus ride, every stupid conversation, every photo, everything.

And somehow—

that made ordinary things feel special.

Your first real summer date started with a text, s very Han text.

come outside

No greeting, no explanation, no punctuation. You stared at it.

Then:

????

A reply arrived immediately.

outside now

Ten minutes later you walked out of your apartment building, and immediately smiled, because there he was. Sitting on the curb, waiting, dark hair, oversized shirt, messy morning appearance, cute, extremely cute, though obviously you'd never say that.

His face lit up immediately when he saw you, there it was, your favorite smile. The one that made everything feel okay.

"Hi."

"Hi."

And just like that—

your day got better.

Han stood up, then held out something, a plastic bag. You blinked.

"What is that?"

"Breakfast."

Silence.

You looked inside. Convenience store pastries, banana milk, strawberry milk, your favorites. Immediately your heart melted, again, it happened too often, at this point it was embarrassing.

"Where are we going?"

Han shrugged.

"No idea."

Of course. Of course he had no plan. Why would he?

The two of you started walking anyway, and honestly? That was kind of your thing, no destination, no schedule, no rush, just together.

The city felt different during summer, slower, lazier, like everyone secretly wanted to spend the day doing nothing, which was exactly what you were doing.

You walked for almost an hour, talking, about everything, nothing, Dori, university, music, photography. At one point Han spent ten minutes explaining a song idea, you understood maybe twenty percent, but you listened anyway, because he got excited.

And when Han got excited—

his hands moved, his eyes lit up, his words came too fast, it was adorable.

Eventually you found yourselves near the river, the same river you'd visited countless times before.

Except today—

the grass was greener, the sky brighter, the air warmer, summer. Han immediately dropped onto the grass, you followed.

Then both of you spent several minutes doing absolutely nothing, looking at clouds, because apparently adulthood was starting, snd you deserved a break.

"That one looks like Felix."

You pointed upward. Han looked.

"No it doesn't."

"It does."

"It literally doesn't."

"It does."

Silence.

Then:

"...Actually maybe."

You laughed. Victory.

Hours passed, neither of you noticed, at some point you took pictures, of the sky, of flowers, of random people walking dogs, of Han, lots of Han, an unreasonable amount of Han.

You lifted your camera.

CLICK.

Han looked over.

"...Did you just take another one?"

"No."

"Soojin."

"No."

"Soojin."

You immediately started laughing, because you absolutely had.

"One day I'm stealing that camera."

"You say that every week."

"And one day it'll happen."

"It won't."

"It will."

"It won't."

"You have approximately six hundred photos of me."

"That is not true."

Silence.

"...Five hundred?"

You looked away, Han screamed.

Eventually the heat became unbearable, which led to ice cream, obviously.

You sat on a bench, watching people pass, watching children run around, watching summer happen, and for a while neither of you spoke. Comfortable silence, your favorite kind. Then Han suddenly looked over.

"What."

"Nothing."

"Han."

He smiled softly, then reached over, brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture was so small, so simple, yet somehow it made your heartbeat stumble, even now, months later, still.

"You know..."

His voice was quiet.

"What."

The smile returned, the soft one, the dangerous one, the one reserved only for you.

"I think this might be my favorite summer."

Silence.

Your chest tightened instantly, because you knew what he meant, not because of New York, not because of graduation. Because of this, the ordinary moments, the little things, the things people forgot to appreciate until they became memories.

You smiled, then leaned your head against his shoulder.

And quietly replied:

"Mine too."

The sun continued sinking, the river sparkled, summer stretched endlessly ahead.

And for just a moment—

eight months felt infinite.

Neither of you knew how fast time would move.

So instead—

you sat together, sharing melting ice cream, taking terrible photos, watching clouds, holding hands.

And somehow—

it became one of the happiest days of your lives, not because anything extraordinary happened, because nothing did. It was just you and Han, and summer, and love. Sometimes that was more than enough.

The thing about dating Han was that he had absolutely no concept of self-preservation when it came to you.

None.

Zero.

Money? Yours.

Food? Yours.

Time? Definitely yours.

If Han had one dollar and you wanted something that cost a dollar—

somehow you'd end up with it.

You'd been arguing with him about this for months.

And yet—

nothing changed.

This particular date started on a Thursday. You found him waiting outside your apartment, again. At this point your neighbors probably thought he lived there. Honestly? Sometimes it felt like he did.

You walked outside, iImmediately spotting him sitting on the little wall near the entrance, and immediately noticing something.

"...Why are you smiling like that."

Han looked offended.

"What smile."

"The suspicious one."

"I don't have a suspicious smile."

"You absolutely do."

Han stood.

Then dramatically revealed—

A folded piece of paper. You blinked.

"What is that."

His smile grew.

"Witness."

"Han."

"Witness."

You sighed, then opened it. Silence.

"...Bus schedule?"

Han looked proud.

"Yes."

"Why."

"Date."

Silence.

"Han."

"What."

"You planned public transportation."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"It should've been."

Three buses, one subway, one wrong turn.

And approximately forty minutes later—

you arrived at...

Nowhere, actual nowhere. A small hill overlooking the river, no tourists, no crowds, just grass, trees, wind and one incredible view.

You looked around, then back at Han.

"...Okay."

"What."

"This is actually nice."

Victory. Han immediately celebrated.

"I KNOW."

The afternoon passed slowly, exactly how summer days should.

You took photos.

Lots of photos, mostly of Han, unfortunately. At one point he caught you again.

"Soojin."

"What."

"You took another one."

"No."

"You're literally holding the camera."

Evidence, a terrible thing.

Later you found a tiny street market, the kind hidden between neighborhoods. Han immediately bought you a drink, then a snack.

Then another snack.

Then a second drink because apparently the first one wasn't enough, eventually you narrowed your eyes.

"...How much money do you have."

Han froze. The guilty silence answered for him.

"Oh my God."

"What."

"You spent all your money."

"No."

"Han."

"No."

"Han."

"...Maybe."

You groaned dramatically, because of course, of course he had. The worst part? He looked happy about it, actually happy.

Because every time you smiled—

Han looked like he'd won the lottery, which was deeply concerning.

The sun began setting, golden light covered the city, the kind of evening people wrote songs about, which was unfortunate because Han actually wrote songs.And now he was staring at the sunset looking emotional, dangerous, very dangerous.

Eventually the two of you wandered back toward your apartment, neither wanting the day to end, which had become a recurring problem lately, because every day together suddenly felt important, every ordinary moment felt precious, and neither of you wanted to waste any of them.

By the time you arrived home—

the sky was dark.

Your mom had texted, working late again, of course.

So naturally—

Han came upstairs, also of course, at this point it would've been weirder if he didn't.

The evening became comfortable immediately, shoes off, Dori demanding attention, Han sitting on the floor.

Your apartment, home.

The word appeared again, it always did, a movie started, nobody paid attention.

You spent most of the time talking, about university, about New York, about summer, about absolutely nothing. The conversation drifted lazily from topic to topic.

Then midnight arrived, yhen one in the morning, yhen somehow two, neither of you noticed.

At some point you ended up curled against Han on the couch, dDori asleep nearby, the television still running, summer air drifting through the slightly open window, and honestly? You felt happy, really happy. The kind that arrived quietly, without warning, without effort, just because somebody you loved was beside you.

Han's arm rested around your shoulders, your head rested against him, neither of you spoke much anymore. Sleepy, comfortable, safe.

The movie changed, then changed again, neither of you noticed.

Because eventually—

you fell asleep, completely.

And unfortunately—

Han lasted approximately twenty more minutes before losing that battle too.

The next morning—

sunlight filled the apartment, birds chirped outside. The television displayed a menu screen, Dori sat nearby judging both of you, and you woke first, slowly, comfortably, then froze.

Because somehow during the night—

you'd both shifted, a lot, Your face was buried against Han's chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, one of your hands tangled with his. And honestly? You should move, probably, immediately. Your mom probably saw you when she arrived, and now she's in her room waiting for you to wake up so she can give you a hard time.

Instead—

you stayed exactly where you were, for another minute, maybe two, maybe five. Who's counting? Not you, definitely not you.

Then Han stirred slightly, his eyes opened and immediately landed on you.

Silence, very dangerous silence.

Then:

"...Morning."

Your heart betrayed you instantly.

"Morning."

Neither moved, at all. Which was objectively making the situation worse.

But also—

better.

Somehow.

Then eventually Han smiled, the sleepy version, your favorite version.

And quietly—

like it was the most obvious thing in the world—

he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

"Good date."

You laughed softly, then snuggled slightly closer before you could stop yourself. Han immediately looked like he'd won the Olympics, idiot, complete idiot. And honestly? You loved him so much it hurt.

August arrived too quickly, far too quickly, one day it was the beginning of summer.

The next—

July was gone, and suddenly there were only seven months left. Seven months until New York, seven months until airports, seven months until time zones, seven months until goodbye, neither of you mentioned it much anymore, not because you forgot, because you remembered every single day, the countdown existed quietly in the background, like a song neither of you could stop hearing.

Still—

you refused to let it ruin summer. So when Han texted you one Saturday morning:

wear comfortable shoes

You immediately became suspicious.

why

His reply came instantly.

trust me

Absolutely not.

The most dangerous phrase in the Korean language.

You found him waiting outside your apartment, immediately noticing two things.

First:

He looked nervous.

Second:

He was hiding something, very badly.

You narrowed your eyes.

"...What did you do?"

Han looked offended.

"I didn't do anything."

Lie, massive lie, you could tell.

Forty minutes later—

you understood why, because standing in front of you was:

Lotte World.

And suddenly you stopped walking, completely. Han noticed immediately.

"...Soojin?"

You stared, then looked at him, then back at the entrance, then back at him, and suddenly your chest hurt, because you remembered.

Months ago, before dating, before New York, before graduation, one random conversation. The five of you had been talking about childhood memories, snd you'd casually mentioned something. That one of your happiest memories was coming here as a little girl, going to Lotte World with your father, before everything became complicated, before money became status, before expectations, before pressure, back when life was simple.

You'd forgotten the conversation, Han hadn't, of course he hadn't.

Your eyes immediately filled.

"Han."

His ears turned red, the universal sign that he'd done something emotional and regretted it.

"You said you liked it."

Silence.

Then:

"You remembered?"

Han looked genuinely confused.

"...Obviously."

And just like that—

you almost cried before even entering, great start.

What you didn't know—

what Han would never tell you—

was that he'd been saving for months, months, little by little, skipping snacks, walking instead of taking buses, saving every spare coin. Not because he wanted something extravagant, because he wanted this, one perfect day, for you.

The moment you entered—

everything felt different, the music, the lights, the rides, the smell of food.

It immediately felt nostalgic, like stepping into a memory.

And for a moment—

you weren't eighteen anymore, you were eight. And somehow Han knew that, because he spent the entire day smiling whenever you smiled, which was often, very often.

The first ride nearly killed him, not physically (for now), emotionally. Because you loved roller coasters, pparently, a fact nobody had warned him about.

"AGAIN."

Han stared.

"We just got off."

"Again."

"That thing almost killed me."

"Again."

And somehow—

he went again, because of course he did. By the fifth time, he was scared as fuck, but as soon as he saw your smile, all that fear vanished because you were having the time of your life.

You dragged him across the entire park, every ride, every attraction, every stupid game. At one point you won a tiny stuffed animal, then immediately handed it to him. Han blinked.

"What."

"It's yours."

"...Why."

You smiled.

"Because you look like him."

The stuffed animal looked absolutely nothing like Han, but he kept it anyway.

The afternoon passed in laughter, the kind that left your stomach hurting. the kind that made memories without trying.

At one point you sat together eating overpriced theme park food.

And somehow—

it tasted amazing, not because it was good, because you were together.

As evening approached—

the lights started turning on. The castle glowed, the sky became pink, everything looked beautiful. And suddenly you remembered your camera, of course, immediately.

CLICK.

Han groaned.

"Soojin."

"What."

"That was like the twentieth one."

"It was the nineteenth."

Silence.

"...That's worse."

Then you spotted it, and immediately grabbed his hand.

"COME ON."

"What."

"COME ON."

"What."

"COME ON."

Five minutes later—

you were both squeezed inside a photo booth, again, apparently your favorite activity. The tiny curtain closed, the screen lit up, and suddenly both of you started laughing, because neither of you knew how to pose.

At all.

The countdown began.

3...

2...

1...

FLASH.

The first photo:

Han looking normal, you laughing.

Second photo:

You looking normal, Han blinking.

Third photo:

Both laughing.

Fourth photo:

Han looking at you instead of the camera, again, idiot.

The machine printed the strip, slowly, the pictures emerging one by one, physical proof, a memory you could hold.

You stared at them, then smiled.

Because somehow—

they were perfect.

Not because they looked perfect, because they looked like you, messy, happy, real.

Han looked over your shoulder.

Then quietly:

"Can I keep one?"

Your heart melted immediately.

"Of course."

So you split the photos. One strip for him, one for you.

And neither of you knew it yet—

but years later—

those same photos would still exist.

Tucked inside wallets, books, drawers, phone cases.

Proof that once upon a time—

two teenagers spent a summer day in an amusement park pretending seven months wasn't a countdown.

That night, as the fireworks exploded above Lotte World—

you stood beside Han watching the sky, colors reflected in his eyes, and suddenly you understood something.

The reason this day felt so special wasn't because of the ride, or the food, or the fireworks. It was because Han had listened.

Months ago, to one tiny story, one random memory, one insignificant sentence, and loved you enough to bring it back to life.

You looked over. Han was already looking at you, of course he was.

Then softly:

"Thank you."

Han smiled, that small smile, the one that always belonged only to you, and quietly replied:

"Worth every penny."

You didn't know he'd spent months saving, you didn't know he'd planned this before you were even dating, you didn't know this was one of the first times he'd imagined making you happy forever.

But somehow—

looking at him beneath the fireworks—

you had a feeling.

And God.

You loved him.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXIII

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 3.2 k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing

⋆｡°✩

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Neither of you slept, not really, you spent the entire night staring at your phone, reading old messages, looking through photos, trying not to cry, failing.

Meanwhile Han lay awake in his room. The acceptance letter open on his laptop, your contact open on his phone, neither helping.

Morning arrived anyways, cruel as always.

And somehow—

both of you came to the exact same conclusion.

You needed to find him, immediately.

So at almost the exact same time—

you left your apartment, and Han left his house. Heading toward each other. You reached his house first, your heart was beating so hard it hurt.

The moment his mother opened the door—

her expression softened immediately.

"Oh."

Because she already knew why you were there, of course she did.

"Soojin."

Your voice came out small.

"Is Han here?"

Silence, then she smiled sadly.

"No."

Your stomach dropped, because of course, of course.

Then:

"He went to find you."

Silence.

"What?"

She nodded.

"About twenty minutes ago."

And suddenly—

hope appeared, small, fragile, but there.

Meanwhile—

at your apartment—

Han had received almost the exact same answer. Your mother opened the door, looked at him and immediately sighed.

"You two are ridiculous."

Han blinked.

"...What."

"She left to find you."

Silence.

Then:

"Oh."

Your mother smiled softly.

And suddenly—

both mothers had the exact same thought.

These kids are idiots.

There was only one place left, one place both of you thought of immediately. The abandoned building, the rooftop, your rooftop, not really, but it felt like yours. The place where everything started.

The stairs felt familiar. every step carried a memory, the first camera, the first real conversation, the first time you realized Han mattered.

And when you finally pushed open the rooftop door—

There he was, standing near the edge, looking toward the city, the same place, the same boy, and suddenly your eyes filled with tears. Because there he was, still there, still yours.

Han turned, and immediately froze, because there you were, nd suddenly every speech he'd prepared disappeared, gone.

Neither of you spoke, not at first, just stared, taking each other in, making sure, real, actually there.

Then simultaneously:

"I'm sorry."

Silence.

Then:

"I'm sorry."

Again.

The exact same time.

And somehow—

that broke the tension immediately, atiny laugh escaped both of you, followed immediately by tears, because neither of you had slept, neither of you had stopped thinking, neither of you wanted this.

Han reached you first, closing the distance, and suddenly you were crying, actually crying, the ugly kind, rhe honest kind.

"I'm sorry."

Your voice cracked.

"I'm so sorry."

Han immediately shook his head.

"No."

"Han—"

"I said horrible things too."

"But I—"

"I know."

His voice softened, and somehow that made you cry harder, because he wasn't angry anymore, just sad, and God, you hated making him sad.

"I was scared."

The words finally came out, the real words, not jealousy, not anger, fear, pure fear. Your hands shook.

"I'm scared."

Han's eyes burned immediately.

Because finally—

finally—

you were saying it, the thing he'd known all along, and suddenly he understood. Not the words you'd said yesterday, the ones underneath them, the ones that actually mattered.

"You think you're gonna lose me."

Your face crumpled instantly, because yes, exactly that, and hearing it out loud somehow hurt even more. You nodded, then Han pulled you into his arms, immediately, instinctively, lke breathing.

And for a moment neither of you spoke, just held each other, tightly, like if you let go the other might disappear.

Then quietly—

against your hair—

Han admitted:

"I'm scared too."

That surprised you, you looked up.

"What?"

Han laughed weakly.

"You think moving to New York sounds easy?"

Silence.

Then:

"Soojin."

His voice broke slightly.

"I've never even left Korea."

And suddenly—

for the first time—

you saw it, not the acceptance, not the dream, the fear, the uncertainty, the eighteen-year-old boy underneath all of it, terrified, just like you.

Then quietly—

after a long silence—

Han said something that made your stomach drop.

"I don't have to go."

Silence, you froze. Han looked away, toward the city.

"I mean it."

Your chest tightened painfully.

"Han."

"I could stay."

No, immediately no.

Because suddenly—

for the first time—

you saw the future where he didn't go, and it wasn't beautiful, it wasn't romantic, it wasn't a sacrifice, it was regret, vears of regret. And suddenly a horrible realization hit, you weren't scared because he was leaving, you were scared because you loved him, and those weren't the same thing.

You grabbed his face, firmly, making him look at you.

"No."

Han blinked.

"What."

"No."

Your eyes filled again.

"Don't do that."

"Soojin—"

"No."

Your voice cracked.

"Don't give up your dream because I'm scared."

Silence, complete silence.

Because suddenly—

you understood.

You loved him too much to let him stay, even if it hurt, especially if it hurt.

Han stared, and suddenly tears appeared in his eyes too, because God, how were you real?

Then softly—

you smiled, a broken smile, but a real one.

And quietly:

"New York is beautiful."

Han swallowed hard. You remembered it, the lights, the streets, the people, tour old life, the life that once belonged to you.

And now—

you were giving that dream to him.

"You're gonna fit there."

A tear slipped down your cheek.

"You'll love it."

Han's vision blurred instantly.

Because suddenly—

this wasn't goodbye, this was love, the real kind, the kind that wants the other person to become everything they're capable of becoming, even when it hurts.

A tear escaped him too, you immediately reached up, wiping it away. Han laughed softly through tears, then wiped yours, mand somehow that made both of you cry harder.

Idiot, complete idiots.

Eventually you ended up forehead-to-forehead, still holding each other, still crying, still laughing, still in love.

Then quietly:

"When do classes start?"

Han took a breath, then answered.

"March."

Silence, you calculated immediately.

March.

Eight months.

Not weeks.

Not days.

Eight entire months.

The number felt huge, and impossibly small, because both of you knew, time moved fast, too fast, graduation was proof of that.

Still—

eight months.

Han smiled softly.

"You know."

"What."

"We can do a lot in eight months."

You laughed through tears, then nodded, because he was right.

Eight months of bus rides, eight months of rooftops, eight months of convenience stores, eight months of photographs, eight months of songs, eight months of being together, and maybe that was enough, not forever, not yet, but enough.

So you wrapped your arms around him again, and held on, not because you were afraid anymore, because you wanted to remember, every second, every day, every moment.

And somewhere above Seoul—

on the rooftop where everything had started—

both of you silently made the same promise.

If you only had eight months left together—

you would make every single day count.

The morning of graduation arrived far too quickly, you weren't ready, none of you were.

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror wearing your school uniform for what was supposed to be the last time, the same uniform you'd cried over, the same uniform you'd hated, the same uniform that, a year ago, felt like proof that your life had fallen apart, you remembered standing in front of this exact mirror, terrified, embarrassed, ashamed, a public school.

Back then, those words had felt like a punishment, now? Now your fingers lingered on the fabric, because suddenly it wasn't a uniform anymore, it was bus rides, it was Felix, it was Changbin, it was Hyunjin, it was lunch periods, it was stolen hoodies, it was rooftop sunsets, it was Han, home, and God. You weren't ready to say goodbye.

When you arrived at school, the atmosphere felt strange, nobody was acting normal, some students were crying already, others were taking pictures, groups of friends crowded hallways that would be empty in a few hours. Everybody understood the same thing, this was it.

The end, the final chapter, and somehow—

that hurt more than losing your old school ever had.

Because unlike your old school—

you actually loved this one, not because of the building, because of the people.

You spotted Felix first, hf course he was crying.

"WE HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED."

"I KNOW."

"THEN WHY ARE YOU CRYING?"

"PREPARATION."

Reasonable, apparently.

Changbin looked emotional too, though he denied it aggressively.

"I'm not sad."

"You look sad."

"I'm not."

"You look like you're about to cry."

"I'm allergic to graduation."

Sure.

Hyunjin had brought a sketchbook, inside were drawings, of all of you, throughout the year, even though you were only there for a year, there were quite a few drawings of you too.

Nobody survived that emotionally, least of all Felix.

Then Han appeared.

And for a moment—

everything else disappeared, because he was smiling, not his normal smile, not the goofy one, not the teasing one, a different one. The kind that appeared when he was nervous and excited at the same time, the kind that appeared right before something important, and suddenly you remembered, the performance.

The ceremony started. Rows of chairsm parents, teachers, students. Everyone dressed upm everyone pretending not to cry.

The principal gave a speech, nobody listened. Sorry, principal.

Then came the diplomas, one by one, names called, students walking across the stage, years of work condensed into a few seconds.

When your name was called—

your heart skipped, because suddenly it felt real.

You walked across the stage, accepted the diploma, smiled for the photo.

And somewhere in the audience—

your mother cried, hard, because she remembered too. The apartment, the fear, the uncertainty.

And somehow—

you'd made it.

Then came Han, and honestly? You almost laughed.

Because the second his name was called—

the cheering became ridiculous. Felix nearly got removed from the ceremony, worth it.

Han accepted his diploma, smiling.

And for one brief moment—

you saw it. The future, the musician, the artist, the boy who once filled notebooks with songs, standing at the beginning of everything he'd dreamed about.

Then came the performance.

And suddenly—

the room changed, because everybody knew, Han Jisung was about to perform.

The stage lights turned on, a chair appeared, a guitar.

And then—

Han.

He walked onto the stage, and immediately looked different, not because he changed, because this was where he belonged. You realized that instantly.

The moment he sat down, the moment his fingers touched the guitar, the moment he looked toward the audience, everything else faded, and suddenly there was only music.

The first notes echoed through the auditorium, soft, beautiful, and your chest tightened immediately, because God. He was incredible, not because you loved him, yhough you did, because he genuinely was.

The room fell completely silent, teachers, students, parents, everyone, listening, captivated, because Han had that effect.

Especially when he sang. His voice filled the room effortlessly. The lyrics carried emotion, hope, fear, dreams, everything that came with growing up, everything that came with leaving, everything that came with loving people enough to let them go.

And suddenly—

you were crying, again, because of course you were. Then the rap section arrived, and the audience exploded, even the teachers looked impressed. Meanwhile Felix was having a religious experience, but the thing you remembered most wasn't the song.

It was Han, the smile, the joy, the way he looked completely alive, like he'd forgotten the audience existed, like music was the only thing that mattered.

And suddenly—

for the first time since the acceptance letter—

you stopped being afraid.

Because looking at him now—

you understood.

Juilliard wasn't taking him away from you, Juilliard was giving him the life he was meant to have, the life he'd worked for, the life he'd dreamed about.

And God. How could you ever ask him not to chase that?

The song ended, silence, then thunderous applause, the entire auditorium stood, teachers, students, parents, everyone, standing, clapping, and Han looked shocked, actually shocked. Idiot. As if he didn't deserve it.

When he finally looked into the crowd—

his eyes found yours immediately. Of course they did.

And suddenly—

everything else disappeared. The applause, the crowd, the stage, everything. Because there you were, smiling through tears, and there he was, smiling through tears too.

And in that moment—

you knew something.

Maybe Juilliard was the best thing that had ever happened to Han, maybe New York would change his life, maybe the future would take him far away from Seoul, but none of that changed this:

The boy who taught you how to ride a bus, the boy who gave you a secondhand camera, the boy who became home, would always be your Han.

And as the ceremony ended and the last bell rang for the final time—

you realized something else.

A year ago, you thought your life had ended.

Instead—

it had begun.

And now, standing among your friends, your mother, and the boy you loved—

holding a diploma from a school you once hated—

you found yourself wishing for one impossible thing:

Just one more day.

Graduation ended.

And somehow—

that felt wrong.

Because how could something so important just...

end?

One moment you were sitting in the auditorium listening to speeches and watching Han shine under the stage lights.

The next—

everyone was outside, parents were leaving, teachers were saying goodbye, students were taking pictures, life was moving forward. Whether any of you were ready or not.

The five of you gathered near the school gates, still wearing your uniforms, still holding diplomas, still pretending nobody had cried during the ceremony, which was difficult, because Felix's eyes were still red.

"I HAVE ALLERGIES."

"To what?" Changbin asked.

"MEMORIES."

Reasonable.

Eventually somebody suggested food, which solved approximately ninety percent of the group's problems, so naturally everyone agreed.

But before you could start walking—

you suddenly stopped.

"What."

Felix immediately looked concerned.

Because usually when you stopped walking unexpectedly—

something expensive was involved.

You pointed, across the street, a photo booth. The kind squeezed between convenience stores and cafés, tiny, cheap, a little old, perfect.

"We're taking pictures."

Silence, immediate silence.

Then:

"Oh no."

"No."

"Absolutely not."

Hyunjin looked personally offended.

"Why."

"Because."

"We're doing it."

"We are not."

"We are."

"We're not."

"We are."

Han immediately took your side.

"She's right."

Ten minutes later—

all five of you were somehow crammed inside a booth clearly designed for two people. Nobody fit, literally nobody. Changbin's shoulder was in somebody's face, Felix couldn't stop laughing, Hyunjin regretted everything, and Han was pressed so closely against you that neither of you could move, not that either of you minded.

The countdown began.

3...

2...

1...

FLASH.

Felix blinked.

"WAIT."

Too late, the picture printed, and immediately everyone started laughing, because it was terrible, absolutely terrible. Changbin looked confused, Felix was mid-laugh, Hyunjin looked like he'd been kidnapped, and Han was staring at you instead of the camera.

Your heart immediately melted. Idiot, complete idiot.

You took more, one serious, one making stupid faces, one where Felix forced everyone into finger hearts, one where Changbin almost knocked over the camera.

And one final picture, the last one, nobody planned it, nobody counted, nobody posed. You were all just laughing, actually laughing, happy, together.

And somehow—

that became the best photo.

Later, the printed pictures sat on the restaurant table between half-eaten food and empty glasses. The five of you crowded around them, looking, remembering, snd suddenly your chest hurt, because God.

You loved these idiots, you really did, not the people from your old life, not the ones who disappeared when the money disappeared, not the ones who cared more about your family name than your actual name. These people, these four, the people who met you at your worst, the people who saw everything, the crying, the anger, the fear, the mess, and stayed anyway. Not because you were rich, not because your father was important, not because of status, because you were Soojin, just Soojin, snd somehow that felt more valuable than anything you'd ever owned.

The conversation drifted naturally, food, memories, stories.

Then eventually—

universities, the future, the thing everyone had been avoiding. Felix spoke first.

"Well."

He poked at his food.

"I got into Ulsan."

Silence.

Then:

"WAIT."

"What."

"THAT'S SO FAR."

Felix pointed dramatically.

"I KNOW."

Hyunjin smiled softly.

"The art school accepted me too."

Everybody cheered immediately, because honestly? Of course they did. The guy could draw air and somehow make it beautiful.

Then Changbin.

"Seoul."

Collective relief.

"Oh thank God."

"At least one of you is staying."

Changbin looked pleased, as he should. Then your eyes drifted toward Han, the room grew quieter, because everybody already knew.

Juilliard, New York, sn entire ocean away.

Han smiled weakly, still not fully believing it himself.

"Yeah."

Silence. Then Felix suddenly stood.

"OUR BOY IS GOING TO NEW YORK."

The entire restaurant looked over, nobody cared, because honestly? They were proud too, very proud.

Then finally—

everyone looked at you, and you smiled.

"A journalism program in Seoul."

Changbin immediately pointed.

"LET'S GO."

Which meant—

You snd Changbin. The only two staying.

Silence settled over the table, not uncomfortable.

Just...

real.

Because suddenly everybody understood. The future wasn't abstract anymore. It had names, cities, distances.

Soon—

you wouldn't all be together anymore. No more random afternoons after school, no more convenience store dinners, no more skipping class together, no more five-person photo booths, life was moving.

And suddenly—

without warning—

your eyes filled with tears.

"Oh no."

Felix pointed immediately.

"OH NO."

Because he knew.

The second your face crumpled—

everyone knew.

You tried to laugh, failed. Then suddenly tears were falling, actual tears.

Because less than a year ago—

you'd wanted your life to end, and then these idiots showed up. These stupid boys.

And somehow—

they made life worth living again. The realization hit all at once. You loved them, you loved them so much, and now everything was changing.

"I'm gonna miss you."

Your voice cracked immediately, and that was it. Felix started crying, instantly, no hesitation.

"ME TOO."

"You were already crying."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT."

Even Hyunjin looked emotional, which was terrifying, because Hyunjin never cried.

Changbin looked away suspiciously, very suspiciously.

"You guys are being dramatic."

His voice cracked, everyone immediately pointed.

"HE'S CRYING."

"I'M NOT."

"YOU ARE."

"I'm literally not."

Tears, actual tears. The table exploded.

Meanwhile Han sat beside you quietly, watching, listening, and suddenly his eyes burned too.

Because this—

this right here—

was everything.

The group, the family you'd accidentally built, the people who changed your lives, the people you'd carry forever, no matter where you ended up.

New York.

Ulsan.

Art school.

Seoul.

It didn't matter.

Because some people stop being friends, and become part of your story, permanent, forever.

Eventually the five of you ended up taking one last picture outside the restaurant, not because it was the last picture, there would be more, thousands more, but because nobody knew that yet.

So you stood together, arms around each other, diplomas in hand, eyes red from crying.

And when the camera flashed—

all five of you smiled, because maybe the future was scary, maybe everything was changing, maybe nothing would ever be exactly the same again.

But for one beautiful year—

you found each other.

And honestly?

That was enough to change your lives forever.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang

[hanosaurs]

secondhand

"some people leave, but never really disappear."

index

Ⅰ. Secondhand I Ⅱ. Secondhand II Ⅲ. Secondhand III Ⅳ. Secondhand IV Ⅴ. Secondhand V Ⅵ. Secondhand VI Ⅶ. Secondhand VII Ⅷ. Secondhand VIII Ⅸ. Secondhand IX Ⅹ. Secondhand X

Ⅺ. Secondhand XI Ⅻ. Secondhand XII ⅩⅢ. Secondhand XIII ⅩⅣ. Secondhand XIV ⅩⅤ. Secondhand XV ⅩⅥ. Secondhand XVI ⅩⅦ. Secondhand XVII ⅩⅧ. Secondhand XVIII ⅩⅨ. Secondhand XIX ⅩⅩ. Secondhand XX

ⅩⅪ. Secondhand XXI ⅩⅫ. Secondhand XXII ⅩⅩⅢ. Secondhand XXIII ⅩⅩⅣ. Secondhand XXIV ⅩⅩⅤ. Secondhand XXV ⅩⅩⅥ. Secondhand XXVI ⅩⅩⅦ. Secondhand XXVII ⅩⅩⅧ. Secondhand XXVIII ⅩⅩⅨ. Secondhand XXIX ⅩⅩⅩ. Secondhand XXX

"every photograph is proof that someone was loved."

[hanosaurs]

Secondhand XXII

paring: non!idol!han x fem!reade

gender: just a long ass story with some confort and fluff as fuck.

You're a teenager (Soojin) from one of the richest families in Korea, but what happens when you lose all your money and a lower-middle-class boy meets you?

word count: 3.0k

warnings: highschool!au, alcohol, cigarrets, kissing, angst

⋆｡°✩

← previous | index | next →

Han had imagined this moment a thousand times, not the acceptance, that part felt impossible, unrealistic, like one of those dreams you tell yourself not to believe in because it'll hurt less if it doesn't happen, no. He had imagined telling you, because obviously you'd be the first person he'd tell, you were always the first person.

The email arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, at first Han thought he was hallucinating, then he read it again, and again , and again. His hands were shaking, his heart was pounding, his vision was blurry, because the words weren't changing.

Congratulations.

We are pleased to offer you admission...

Admission, not waitlisted, not rejected, accepted, actually accepted.

Then he kept reading, and suddenly sat down, hard, because there was more, much more. The scholarship, the full scholarship, tuition, housing, expenses, everything.

Han stared at the screen, then laughed, then cried a little, then laughed again, because this wasn't supposed to happen. People like him weren't supposed to get opportunities like this, not really, not from Juilliard, not from New York, not from one of the most prestigious music schools in the world.

And yet—

there it was, his dream sitting in an email, real.

Han immediately grabbed his backpack, then ran, literally ran, ignoring calls, ignoring messages, ignoring traffic, because he only wanted one thing. To tell you.

You were sitting at your apartment table when the door burst open, not unusual, Han never knocked, unfortunately.

You looked up and immediately froze, because Han looked insane, breathless, wild-eyed, smiling. The biggest smile you'd ever seen.

"Soojin."

You blinked.

"What happened?"

Han laughed, actually laughed, the kind that happened when someone couldn't contain happiness anymore.

Then:

"They accepted me."

Silence.

Your heart stopped.

Because immediately—

you knew. Not just any acceptance, the acceptance, the one, Juilliard, New York, America. And suddenly your stomach dropped, not because you weren't happy, because you were. God, you were. But another feeling arrived too, something ugly, something you hated. Jealousy, not of Han, of what he'd been given, of the life that should've been yours.

Or at least—

the life you'd always been told would be yours. The girl who traveled, the girl who studied abroad, the girl whose future stretched across oceans, that girl was gone.

And now Han—

Han was standing in front of you holding the future you'd lost. The feeling hit before you could stop it. Han was still smiling, still waiting, still expecting you to be happy.

Then quietly:

"...You got in?"

His smile widened.

"Yeah."

You nodded slowly.

Then:

"...But you don't even speak English that well."

Silence, immediate silence.

The second the words left your mouth—

you wanted them back, immediately.

Han froze, completely froze. The smile disappeared, not slowly, instantly, like someone switched off a light. And suddenly the apartment felt cold.

"What?"

His voice was quiet, too quiet. You looked away, because now you were angry, not at him, at yourself, at life, at everything.

"So what?"

Han stared.

"You think you're just gonna move to New York?"

The words kept coming and you hated every single one, but you couldn't stop.

"Do you even know how hard that's gonna be?"

Han didn't answer, not yet, because honestly? He was still trying to understand what was happening. Five minutes ago he'd been the happiest he'd ever been, now he felt like someone had punched him in the chest.

"You don't understand."

You laughed bitterly.

"No, YOU don't understand, literally and rhetorically, you probably used Google Translate to find out what the email said."

Silence. Han's expression changed, slowly, from hurt, to disbelief.

Then finally:

"I thought you'd be happy for me."

And somehow—

that hurt more, because he sounded so disappointed, not angry, disappointed. Like you'd failed him, which maybe you had.

You looked away, because you couldn't stand looking at him. The acceptance, the scholarship, the dream, everything you'd lost, standing right in front of you.

Then quietly:

"Must be nice."

Silence.

Han blinked.

"...What."

"Getting everything you want."

The moment the words left your mouth—

you knew

You knew.

Too far.

Way too far.

Because Han's face changed immediately. The hurt became something else, something sharper.

And for the first time in a very long time—

Han looked angry, actually angry.

"You think I got everything I wanted?"

His voice rose slightly, not yelling, just hurt, deeply hurt.

"You think this just happened?"

You didn't answer, and somehow that made it worse.

Then Han laughed, not happily, the kind of laugh people make when they're trying not to break.

"Seriously?"

Silence.

Then finally:

"I'm not the reason you lost everything, Soojin."

The words hit instantly, hard, like a slap, because he wasn't wrong, that was the worst part. He wasn't wrong.

Han's chest hurt, because this wasn't supposed to be this conversation, this wasn't how today was supposed to go.He wanted to celebrate with you, he wanted to tell you, he wanted you, and somehow now he felt completely alone.

"You think I don't know your life changed?"

His voice cracked slightly.

"You think I don't know what you gave up?"

Silence.

Then:

"But don't punish me for it."

Your eyes burned, because suddenly you wanted to cry, not because he was wrong, because he was right and you hated it. You hated yourself for saying it, you hated the jealousy, you hated the fear, you hated how much the idea of losing him scared you.

But instead of saying that—

you stayed silent and Han took that silence as his answer. For a long moment neither of you moved, neither of you spoke.

Then finally—

Han grabbed his backpack, slowly, quietly, no dramatic exit, no yelling, no slamming doors. Which somehow felt worse, because Han only got quiet when he was truly hurt, at the doorway he stopped, for a second, like maybe he was hoping you'd say something, anything.

Stay.

Sorry.

Wait.

Something.

But nothing came. So he nodded once and left. The apartment door clicked shut behind him.

And suddenly—

for the first time since meeting Han Jisung—

you felt completely alone.

Meanwhile, walking home, Han stared at the acceptance letter on his phone, the letter he'd dreamed about for years, the letter that should've made him feel invincible.

And somehow—

for the first time all day—

he didn't feel happy anymore, just heartbroken.

The apartment felt wrong after Han left, not quiet, not empty, wrong. Because Han had left before, a thousand times, after movie nights, after studying, after dinner, after dates, but this felt different, because usually when the door closed—

you knew he'd text you five minutes later, or show up tomorrow, or call, or send a meme. This time? You weren't sure and suddenly that terrified you.

You sat frozen at the kitchen table, still staring at the place where he'd been standing, his excitement, his smile.

God.

His smile, the biggest smile you'd ever seen, and what had you done? Destroyed it. You dropped your face into your hands.

"Oh my God."

The words came out as a whisper.

Because suddenly—

the entire fight replayed itself, not how it felt, how it actually happened. Han had come running to tell you, running, like a little kid with good news, like the first person he wanted to tell was you.

And instead of celebrating—

instead of hugging him—

instead of being proud—

You'd hurt him, on purpose, no. The realization hit hard, not on purpose, but the result was the same.

Your chest hurt, because now that the anger was gone—

the truth remained, and the truth was ugly.

It wasn't about Juilliard, it wasn't about scholarships, it wasn't even about your old life, not really. The realization arrived slowly, then all at once, like a wave.

You weren't jealous because Han got accepted, you were terrified because Han got accepted. Your breathing caught.

Because suddenly—

you saw it.

New York, an ocean away, different time zones, different life, different country, different continent, Han walking through streets you'd never seen, Han making new friends, Han building a futur, without you.

And suddenly tears appeared, because there it was. The thing you'd been refusing to think about for months, the thing you'd buried every time the applications came up, the thing that scared you most.

You were going to lose him, not because he stopped loving you, not because he wanted to leave, because life was moving forward.

And for the first time since losing everything—

you couldn't stop it.

A sob escaped before you could stop it, because somehow that hurt more than losing the mansion, more than losing the money, more than losing the school. The thought of losing Han, home.

You curled up on the couch, the same couch where he'd fallen asleep, the same couch where you'd watched movies, the same couch where he'd kissed your forehead a hundred times, and suddenly everything hurt, because now you understood.

You hadn't been angry, you'd been scared, yerrified.

And instead of saying:

I'm scared you're going to leave.

You'd said:

You don't even speak English that well.

Your stomach twisted violently, because God. How could you say that?To Han? Han, who spent nights practicing, Han, who worked harder than anyone you knew, Han, who believed in you before you believed in yourself.

The memory made you feel sick, then another realization hit, even worse.

You laughed bitterly through tears, because the thing you feared most had already happened, not New York, not the distance, not graduation. You had already pushed him away, with your own hands.

Because instead of trusting him—

instead of talking to him—

instead of saying:

I'm scared.

You'd hurt him, and now you remembered his face, the disappointment, not anger, disappointment, like you'd broken something.

Your chest physically ached, because Han had looked at you like he didn't recognize you, and honestly? You didn't recognize yourself either.

The apartment door opened quietly, your mother, much later. She found you exactly where she'd left you, curled into yourself, crying.

The second she saw your face—

she knew, something happened.

She sat beside you, didn't ask questions immediately, just waited, the way mothers do.

Eventually:

"What happened?"

And somehow—

that was all it took, everything came pouring out. The acceptance, the fight, the things you'd said, the things he'd said, the fear, especially the fear.

Your mother listened, quietly, patiently.

Until finally you whispered:

"I think I'm losing him."

Your mother sighed softly.

And for a second—

she looked strangely sad. Not because of Han, because she recognized something, the same thing she'd gone through once.

Then gently:

"No."

You looked up.

"What?"

She smiled sadly.

"You're afraid of losing him."

A pause.

"Those aren't the same thing."

The words hit harder than expected, because she was right. you weren't losing Han, not yet. You were just afraid, and fear had made you cruel.

The apartment fell silent again, then your mother reached over, brushed some hair away from your face, and smiled softly.

"Soojin."

Your eyes burned.

"What?"

"That boy loves you."

Immediate tears, because you knew.

God.

You knew.

"Then why did he leave?"

Your voice cracked. Your mother looked toward the window, thinking, then answered honestly.

"Because you hurt him."

The truth, simple, painful. Then she squeezed your hand.

"But hurting someone isn't the same as losing them."

Your throat tightened.

Because suddenly—

for the first time since the fight—

there was a tiny bit of hope, small, fragile, but there.

And as you sat awake long after midnight—

staring at the photos on your wall, the photos in your camera.

The memories of buses and rooftops and birthdays—

you finally admitted the truth.

The thing you'd been avoiding all day, you weren't scared of New York, you weren't scared of Juilliard, tou weren't even scared of distance.

You were scared because somewhere along the way—

Han Jisung had become the most important person in your life and the idea of a world without him in it felt unbearable.

The worst part? You knew exactly what you needed to do, you just didn't know if he'd still be there to hear it.

Han didn't go home immediately, which was stupid, because it was getting dark, because he had nowhere to go, because his mother was probably wondering where he was. But home was the last place he wanted to be, because home meant questions.

And right now—

he didn't have answers.

So instead he walked, and walked, and walked. Seoul blurred around him, people passed, cars passed, the city continued moving. Meanwhile Han felt stuck, the acceptance email remained open on his phone, still there, still real, still the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

And somehow—

it felt terrible now.

Eventually he ended up in the park, the park, of course. Because apparently every important moment in his life happened there.

He sat on the same bench where all five of you had spent countless afternoons. Then stared at the acceptance letter again. Juilliard, New York, full scholarship, everything, everything he'd wanted. So why did he feel like crying?

Han laughed bitterly, because honestly? The answer was obvious. The first person he'd wanted to tell was you, and somehow the conversation had turned into the worst fight of his life.

His stomach twisted, because now that the adrenaline was gone—

the anger was gone too.

Leaving only hurt, and guilt, a lot of guilt, because yes, you'd hurt him. But God, he'd hurt you too. The memory replayed.

"I'm not the reason you lost everything, Soojin."

Han closed his eyes immediately.

"...Idiot."

The word came out as a whisper, because the second he'd said it—

he'd regretted it.

Not because it wasn't true, because it was. That was the problem, it was true, and he'd used the truth like a weapon.

The realization made him sick, because he knew, more than anyone. He knew what you'd lost, the mansion, the school, the future, the certainty. He'd been there, he'd watched it happen, he'd held you while you cried, he'd sat beside you in silence, he'd listened.

And then today—

the moment he was hurt—

he'd thrown it back at you.

His chest hurt, because that wasn't who he wanted to be, not with you, never with you.

Han rubbed both hands over his face, then looked up at the sky.

And for the first time all day—

another realization arrived. One he hadn't wanted to think about. The possibility that you were right. Not about the English, not about Juilliard, about the fear, because honestly? He was scared too, terrified.

The acceptance letter sat in his lap, proof that everything was changing, proof that his dream was becoming real.

And for weeks—

months—

he'd been pretending not to think about what came after, because thinking about it hurt. The truth? He wanted Juilliard, desperately. He wanted New York, the music, the opportunities, the future, he wanted all of it, but he wanted you too, and suddenly he wasn't sure how both things fit together.

His chest tightened, because maybe that was why your reaction hurt so much, not because you doubted him.

Because part of him had been hoping—

desperately hoping—

you'd tell him everything would be okay. That you'd figure it out together. That somehow there was a future where nobody had to choose.

Instead—

you'd looked afraid, and seeing that fear in your eyes made his own impossible to ignore.

For the first time since receiving the acceptance—

Han allowed himself to think it.

Really think it. New York meant leaving, leaving the apartment, leaving Dori, leaving Felix, leaving Changbin, leaving Hyunjin, leaving you. An ocean, thousands of kilometers, different lives, different futures, and suddenly he felt nauseous.

Because for the first time—

his dream wasn't just exciting. It was terrifying.

A message notification appeared, hHan looked down immediately. Then froze, not you. Felix, of course.

heard u got accepted proud of u idiot

Silence. Then another, Changbin.

don't become american

And then:

Hyunjin.

call me tomorrow congratulations

Han smiled despite himself, small, tired. Then his eyes burned, because suddenly he wanted to text you, more than anything, tell you he was sorry, tell you he understood, tell you he wasn't angry anymore, tell you he was scared to, but his thumb hovered over your contact and stopped, because what if you didn't want to hear from him?

The thought hurt more than expected, so instead he locked his phone.n Coward, complete coward. The same coward who'd spent months trying to confess, some things never changed.

Eventually he made his way home, late, much later than usual. His mother was waiting, of course she was.

The second she saw his face—

she knew.

Something happened, parents always knew, it was unfair.

"Han."

He looked up, and suddenly he felt eighteen years old. Not a future Juilliard student, not a musician, just someone's son, a kid who'd had a terrible day.

"What happened?"

And somehow—

that was enough, because suddenly everything came pouring out. The acceptance, the scholarship, the fight, the things you said, the things he said, everything.

His mother listened quietly, then eventually asked:

"Do you think she was jealous?"

Han shook his head immediately.

"No."

The answer came too fast, too certain.

Because deep down—

he already knew. It wasn't jealousy, uIt was fear.

The same fear currently eating him alive, his mother nodded slowly. Then smiled sadly.

"Sounds like she loves you very much."

Silence. Han stared.

Because somehow—

that hurt, and comforted him, at the same time.

Then softly:

"I love her too."

His voice cracked.

Just a little.

His mother squeezed his shoulder, and suddenly Han realized something, the thing he'd been avoiding all evening.He wasn't scared of New York, not really, he wasn't scared of Juilliard, or moving, or English, or failure.

The thing that terrified him most—

the thing that kept him awake that night—

Was the possibility that the person he loved most in the world had looked at his biggest dream...

And seen goodbye.

taglist: @jiaaabbahng @vixensss @minsified @velvetmoonlght @rrhwang