.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ All writing on this blog is my original work. Please don’t copy, repost, or claim it as your own. If you'd like to share, link back to the my original post and give proper credit / permission.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ disclaimer: All characters, events, and situations in my stories are completely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
hanji who fingers u roughly after guitar lessons . . ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა also hello fellow filo!! (≧▽≦) idk if u do emoji anons but if u do can i plz be 🐇 ? ^_^
yay another fellow filo !! & ofc you can be 🐇💞
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
FINGER WORK 🎸
HAN JISUNG x READER
.𖥔 ݁ ˖🛸── .✦ smut. fingering. mdni.
It was just supposed to be guitar lessons between you and Jisung. So why were his fingers thrusting deep inside you?
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🐿️❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The studio was quiet after hours, just the low hum of the aircon and the occasional strum of guitar strings. You’d asked Han Jisung for help weeks ago—casual, professional.
You sat on the wide couch with the acoustic guitar across your lap. Jisung was right behind you, his chest lightly pressed to your back so he could see the guitar from your angle. His thighs bracketed yours, caging you in without quite touching.
“Try again,” he said, voice low and close to your ear. “Fourth string, index finger. Don’t rush it.”
His hand covered yours, guiding your fingers into position. His touch lingered longer than necessary, warm and slightly rough from years of playing.
When you strummed the chord correctly, his thumb slowly brushed over your knuckle before he pulled away.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
The praise slid down your spine like warm honey.
You swallowed hard and tried to focus, but every time you shifted, your ass brushed against the front of his sweats. He never moved back.
If anything, he leaned in closer.
The lesson continued like that—torturously slow.
Every correction came with his body pressed tighter against yours. His breath fanned across the side of your neck when he spoke. His fingers would trail down your arm under the excuse of fixing your posture, or rest casually on your waist when you played a longer progression.
At one point you messed up a transition and laughed nervously. Jisung chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back.
“You’re distracted tonight,” he observed, lips barely an inch from your ear. “Something on your mind?”
You shook your head, but your voice came out quieter than you wanted. “Just… trying to get it right.”
“Mhm.” His hand slid from your waist to your thigh, resting there heavily.
Your breath caught.
When you didn’t answer, he hummed softly and leaned in until his lips ghosted along the shell of your ear.
“Keep playing,” he whispered.
You tried. Your fingers trembled on the strings as his palm slowly rubbed up and down your thigh, inching higher each time.
The heat of his body behind you was overwhelming. You could feel him getting hard against your ass, the firm outline pressing insistently every time you shifted.
“Han…” you breathed.
“Shh. Focus on the guitar, baby.” His voice was velvet and sin. He kissed the sensitive spot just below your ear—barely a press of lips, but it sent electricity straight between your legs. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re trying to concentrate while I touch you.”
His hand finally slipped between your thighs, cupping you over your shorts. He groaned quietly at how warm and damp you already were.
He didn’t pull back. Instead, his gaze dropped to your lips for a second before returning to your eyes. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You didn’t.
His fingers left the guitar strings and slid slowly up your thigh instead, warm and deliberate.
The instrument was gently set aside.
“Been thinking about this,” he admitted, voice husky as he leaned in and brushed his lips against your cheek. “Every time you bite your lip when you concentrate.”
He kissed your jaw, then lower, open-mouthed against your neck while his fingers slipped under the waistband of your shorts and panties. The first touch of his bare fingers against your slick folds drew a soft gasp from you. He groaned quietly against your skin.
“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear.
Two fingers glided along your entrance, teasing, coating themselves before he slowly pushed one inside.
You clenched around him instinctively. Jisung let out a shaky breath and kissed you properly this time—deep, slow, and hungry—his tongue sliding against yours as he began to move his finger in and out.
He added a second finger, curling them just right, stroking that spot that made your thighs tremble. His thumb found your clit and circled it with steady pressure. All while he kept kissing you—your mouth, the corner of your lips, your flushed cheek, then back down to suck lightly at your neck.
You moaned into his mouth as his pace quickened. The wet sound of his fingers pumping into you filled the quiet studio, obscene and intimate. Jisung pulled back just enough to watch your face, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded and dark.
“Look at you,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “So pretty when you fall apart on my fingers.”
He kissed you again, harder this time, swallowing every whimper and moan while his fingers fucked into you faster, deeper. His other hand lightly on your neck, keeping you close as your hips started rolling to meet his thrusts.
You were close—embarrassingly close already—and he could feel it in the way you tightened around him.
“Come for me,” he murmured against your lips, thumb pressing firmer on your clit. “Let me feel it.”
Your orgasm hit hard, pulsing around his fingers as pleasure crashed through you. Jisung kept kissing you through it—soft, lingering presses on your mouth, your cheek, your throat—while his fingers slowed but didn’t stop, drawing out every last wave until you were trembling and breathless in his arms.
He finally eased his hand out, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and tasting you with a low, satisfied hum.
Then he smiled, that familiar Han Jisung grin, now dangerously satisfied.
“Still wanna keep practicing guitar?” he asked, voice rough. “Or should we move on to the next lesson?”
Can I request a SUPER smutty and filthy jeongin fic?
Let’s just say that fem reader has to go on a business trip for two weeks and jeongin is SUPER NEEDY like absolutely horny and just really needs fem reader!! It starts slow in the beginning but it gets really SPICY like jeongin will get her panties, bras whatever he can find to satisfy his NEEDS and always has this DESIRE of being caught when fem reader arrives MUCH Earlier than anticipated. Let’s just say it’s PURE FILTH and LOTS of SMUT!!!
There’s NO pressure if you don’t want to write it but anyway thanks so much!!! 😏🩷🫶🏽
You come home early from a work trip and catch Jeongin’s filthy secret with your panties scattered around the apartment. Shameless and desperate, he finally fucks you hard like he’s been starving for two weeks.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🦊❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The first three days were manageable.
Jeongin texted you good morning and good night like always, sent you selfies from practice, and told you he missed you in that soft, sweet way of his.
But by the fifth day, the messages started changing.
Jeongin: Baby… it’s been a whole week. I’m losing my mind. When are you coming back? I need you so bad it hurts.
You replied when you could, but meetings ran late, time zones sucked, and your replies were getting slower and shorter. You could feel his frustration growing through the screen.
You: I know, baby. Just one more week. I miss you too ❤️
That night, back at your shared apartment, Jeongin stared at your message for a long time, jaw tight, cock already half-hard just from thinking about you.
He lasted another two days.
Then the neediness truly hit.
It started slow.
He’d crawl into your side of the bed, burying his face in your pillow, inhaling the faint trace of your scent that still lingered. His hand would slip under his sweatpants as he imagined you under him, your voice moaning his name instead of the cold silence of the apartment.
But that wasn’t enough anymore.
On day nine, he opened your drawer.
His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out a pair of your black lace panties. He brought them to his nose, breathing in deeply, eyes fluttering shut.
“Fuck… you smell so good,” he whispered to himself.
That night he came with your panties wrapped around his cock, biting down on your pillow to muffle the broken whimpers of your name.
It didn’t stop there.
The next day he found one of your bras — the soft baby pink one you wore when you wanted to feel cute. He pressed it against his face while he stroked himself again, slower this time, dragging it out.
He even took photos—just for himself, he told himself. Your lingerie draped over his hard cock, precum already leaking.
He was getting reckless.
He started leaving your panties on the bed, on the couch, sometimes even on the kitchen counter like a silent, filthy invitation.
Every time he touched himself he imagined you walking in unexpectedly, catching him with your used underwear pressed to his face while he fucked his fist desperately.
The thought of being caught made him throb harder than anything else.
Day 12 — Jeongin was a mess.
His hair was messy, lips bitten raw. He was wearing your oversized hoodie, the one that still carried your perfume, and nothing underneath.
His cock was aching again, flushed and heavy between his legs.
He was on your bed, knees spread, scrolling through the photos he’d secretly taken of your lingerie on his body when his phone buzzed.
You: Hey love, meeting just ended. I’ll be home in a few days. Can’t wait to see you ❤️ How are you holding up?
Jeongin let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a whine.
He typed back with one hand, the other slowly stroking his cock.
Jeongin: I’m not okay. I’m so fucking horny, baby. I can’t stop thinking about you.
He sent it before he could overthink.
Then, because he was too far gone, he took a photo anyway — lying on his back, hoodie pushed up, hand wrapped tight around his thick, leaking cock. His face was flushed, lips parted, fox-like eyes hazy with desperation.
He didn’t show the panties.
Your reply took longer than usual.
When it finally came, Jeongin’s heart nearly stopped.
You: Jeongin. Are you jerking off right now?
Jeongin: Yes. I’m so hard it hurts. I keep imagining you walking through the door and seeing me like this.
Jeongin: Would you be mad? Or would you watch me?
He was stroking faster now, thighs trembling.
You: I think I’d watch for a little while. Then I’d probably push you down and ride you until you cry.
Jeongin moaned loudly, the sound echoing in the empty apartment. His hips bucked up into his fist as he read your message again and again.
Jeongin: Yes please. I need you so bad.
I’m gonna cum…
He didn’t even finish typing.
He came hard with a broken cry of your name, spilling over the black lace panties wrapped around his cock, hips jerking uncontrollably his cum painted the fabric white.
Even after he came, he kept the messy panties pressed against his softening length, chest heaving.
Three more days.
He wasn’t sure he would survive.
But one thing was certain — the moment you walked through that door, he wasn’t letting you leave the bed for at least 48 hours.
And he secretly hoped you’d “catch” him… just so you could punish him properly.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You pushed open the apartment door quietly, the weight of your suitcase barely making a sound against the wooden floor. Your flight had landed hours earlier than planned — a last-minute schedule change you hadn’t told Jeongin about.
You wanted to surprise him.
The first thing you noticed was the black lace panties draped carelessly over the arm of the living room couch.
Your lips curled into a smirk.
You took a few more steps. On the kitchen counter, another pair — soft cotton ones you usually wore to sleep — was folded sloppily, a faint white stain visible on the fabric.
Your pussy throbbed at the sight.
By the time you reached the bedroom, your core was already aching.
There, right in the middle of your shared bed, lay your favorite baby pink bra, one cup clearly used as a makeshift sleeve, dried cum crusting the delicate lace.
The shower in the bathroom turned off.
Jeongin stepped out a moment later, towel loosely hanging around his narrow hips, water still dripping down his toned chest and abs. His damp hair stuck to his forehead, fox eyes widening the second they landed on you.
“Baby…?” His voice cracked with disbelief and raw relief.
Then he was on you.
Jeongin practically lunged forward, arms wrapping tight around your waist as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling your scent like a man starved. His body was still warm and damp from the shower, pressing flush against your fully clothed frame.
“I missed you so fucking much,” he whined, voice muffled against your skin. His hands roamed desperately — squeezing your waist, sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you harder against him. “Two weeks… I thought I was gonna lose my mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
You smiled, running your fingers through his wet hair before tugging his head back gently so you could look at his face. His cheeks were already flushed, eyes glassy with need.
“Oh, I can tell exactly what you’ve been thinking about, Innie,” you purred, voice low and teasing. “Found your little collection on the way in.”
Jeongin froze for half a second, eyes widening. Then his ears turned bright red, but his cock twitched hard under the towel.
“You… you saw?”
“Mhm.” You dragged a finger down his chest, tracing the droplets of water. “Panties on the couch. Another pair on the kitchen counter. My favorite bra all messy on the bed. Been using it to get off like a desperate little pervert while I was gone?”
He let out a shaky whimper, hips involuntarily pressing forward so you could feel how hard he already was.
“I’m sorry… I just— I needed you so bad. Your smell… it was the only thing keeping me sane.”
You clicked your tongue, smirking as you hooked two fingers into the edge of the towel.
“Well, let’s see how bad you really needed me.”
With one swift tug, the towel dropped to the floor.
Jeongin’s cock sprang free — thick, flushed pink, already fully hard and leaking precum from the swollen tip. It bobbed heavily between his legs, veins prominent, the head glistening.
“Fuck, look at you,” you murmured, sinking to your knees right there in the bedroom doorway. “So hard just from me catching you.”
You didn’t tease for long.
You wrapped your hand around the base and took him into your mouth in one smooth motion, lips stretching around his girth. Jeongin’s head fell back with a loud, broken moan.
“Oh my god— baby— fuck!”
His hands flew to your hair, fingers threading tightly as you bobbed your head, sucking him deep and wet. You hollowed your cheeks, tongue swirling around the sensitive head every time you pulled back, tasting the salty precum that kept leaking for you.
Jeongin’s thighs trembled. Whimpers and curses spilled from his lips nonstop.
“Shit— your mouth feels so good… I missed this so much. Missed your tongue— ahh— missed how you suck me like you’re starving for my cock.”
You took him deeper, relaxing your throat until your nose brushed his pelvis. Jeongin’s hips jerked, a guttural groan tearing from his chest. You let him fuck your throat for a few messy thrusts before pulling off with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his throbbing dick.
“Get on the bed,” you ordered, voice husky.
He obeyed instantly, scrambling backward onto the mattress, eyes never leaving you as you stripped. The moment your clothes hit the floor and you were fully naked, Jeongin looked like he might cum untouched just from the sight.
You crawled over him, but before you could do anything else, he grabbed your thighs and flipped you onto your back with surprising strength.
“My turn,” he growled, voice cracking with desperation. “Please— I’ve been dreaming about eating your pussy for two fucking weeks.”
He shoved your legs apart roughly, settling between them like a man possessed. The second his mouth latched onto your soaked cunt, he moaned loudly against you, the vibration shooting straight to your clit.
“Fuck, you’re so wet already…” he mumbled, tongue dragging messily through your folds. “All this for me? Missed my mouth that bad too?”
Jeongin was anything but gentle.
He ate you out like he was starving — loud, sloppy, and greedy. His tongue flicked rapidly over your swollen clit before sucking it hard between his lips. Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling instantly to rub against that spot that made your back arch off the bed.
“Innie— ahh fuck— just like that—”
He whimpered into your pussy, hips grinding desperately against the mattress as he devoured you. His free hand gripped your thigh hard enough to leave marks, holding you open while he tongue-fucked you deeper, nose buried against your clit.
“You taste so fucking good,” he gasped between messy licks. “I could cum just from eating you out… please cum on my tongue, baby. I need it. I need you to soak my face.”
He added a third finger, stretching you open, pumping them fast and rough while his mouth worked your clit without mercy. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers plunging into your dripping cunt filled the room, mixed with his needy moans.
You came hard, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking as you cried out his name. Jeongin didn’t stop — he kept licking and sucking through your orgasm, drinking every drop like he’d die without it.
The moment your body stopped shaking, he crawled up your body, cock sliding hot and heavy against your thigh.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he panted, eyes wild. “Need to be inside you— need to fuck you so hard.”
He didn’t even give you time to answer.
Jeongin grabbed your hips, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up. One hand pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning your chest to the bed as he lined his cock up with your soaked entrance.
Then he slammed in.
You both moaned loudly as he bottomed out in one brutal thrust, his thick cock stretching you perfectly.
“Fuck— so tight— missed this pussy so much,” he groaned, voice hoarse.
He didn’t start slow.
Jeongin fucked you hard and rough from the very first stroke — deep, punishing thrusts that made the bed creak and your moans turn into broken sobs of pleasure. Skin slapped loudly against skin. His hips snapped forward relentlessly, balls smacking against your clit with every thrust.
“Taking me so well,” he growled, leaning down to bite your shoulder. “This pussy is mine. Been jerking off with your panties because nothing else felt as good as you.”
He reached around, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.
“Gonna fill you up— gonna cum so deep inside you. Two weeks worth— fuck— you’re gonna be leaking me for days.”
You could barely form words, only able to moan and push back against his brutal pace.
Jeongin pulled your hair, forcing your head back so he could kiss you messily over your shoulder, tongues sliding together as he continued pounding into you.
He suddenly pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and pushed your legs up to your chest. The new angle let him drive even deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with every rough thrust.
“Look at me,” he demanded, voice strained. “Want to watch your face while I ruin you.”
His pace somehow turned even more feral — short, hard, deep strokes that had you screaming his name. Sweat dripped down his chest. His hair stuck to his forehead. His eyes were blown wide with pure lust and overwhelming need.
“Cum for me again— please— I’m so close. Want you to cum on my cock while I fill you up.”
His fingers returned to your clit, rubbing relentlessly until your second orgasm crashed over you, walls clenching tight around his throbbing length.
Jeongin followed right after with a loud, broken cry.
“Fuck— baby— I’m cumming—!”
His hips stuttered as he buried himself to the hilt, pulsing deep inside you. Thick, hot cum flooded your pussy, so much that it started leaking out around his cock with every shallow thrust he gave while riding out his orgasm.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you panting, sweaty, and trembling.
But even then, Jeongin didn’t pull out.
He stayed buried inside you, face buried in your neck, placing soft, lazy kisses against your skin as his cock twitched with aftershocks.
“Missed you…” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t ever leave me for that long again.”
You laughed breathlessly, running your fingers through his damp hair.
“Next time I might come home even earlier and catch you again.”
He groaned, hips giving one weak, needy roll against yours.
He loves you out loud—not so subtle confessions, songs written with you in mind, a heart he offers again and again. You turn him down each time. Then one day, he stops trying. And the silence he leaves behind is louder than anything he ever said.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🐿️❫･━━━━━━ ❜
Han Jisung was not subtle.
Not in the way his eyes lit up when you walked into the studio, not in the way he straightened in his seat like he’d just been caught doing something embarrassing, and definitely not in the way he always—always—found a reason to be wherever you were.
“Ah, you’re here already?” he’d say, like he hadn’t checked the schedule three times just to make sure he’d “accidentally” run into you.
You worked as a producer at JYP, which meant your days were filled with tracks, deadlines, and long hours in dim studios.
For Jisung, it was the perfect excuse.
As part of 3RACHA, he had all the reason in the world to drop by.
Sometimes it was “feedback” on a demo that somehow always turned into him watching you work, chin resting in his hand, gaze soft and a little too fond.
Sometimes it was him bringing coffee—never asking, just remembering.
“I got you the one you like,” he’d mumble, placing it beside your keyboard, scratching the back of his neck like it wasn’t a big deal.
You’d glance at the drink, then at him. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he’d shrug, smiling anyway.
That was the thing about Jisung. He never made it feel like pressure. Never overwhelming, never demanding.
Just consistently there.
And incredibly obvious.
“Jisung,” you said one night, gently.
The studio was quieter than usual, lights dimmed, the soft hum of equipment filling the space. He sat across from you, spinning slightly in his chair, eyes flickering toward you every few seconds like he couldn’t help it.
You’d noticed everything.
Of course you did.
The coffees. The lingering glances. The way his voice softened when he spoke to you, like you were something fragile but precious.
“I know,” you continued, offering a small, careful smile. “And I really… appreciate it. I do.”
His movements stilled.
“But I’m not ready for anything yet.”
There it was. Soft, honest, and firm.
For a second, you thought you saw something flicker across his face—disappointment, maybe—but it didn’t linger.
Jisung just nodded, slow and understanding.
“Okay,” he said quietly. No dramatics. No guilt-tripping. No pushing.
Just acceptance.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“I hope that’s okay,” you added.
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and smiled—small, but real.
“It is.”
Nothing changed, and yet, everything felt softer.
Jisung still showed up at your door. He still brought you coffee. He still found reasons to sit beside you, his shoulder occasionally brushing yours as he pointed something out on the screen, his voice low and focused. He still laughed at your jokes a little too hard and still looked at you like you were his favorite part of the room.
But he never crossed the line you drew.
Instead, his affection settled into something quieter and much gentler.
“I wrote something,” he said one evening, handing you a pair of headphones. “Can you… tell me what you think?”
You listened, eyes softening as his voice filled your ears—raw, emotional, a little vulnerable in a way he didn’t show often.
When you took the headphones off, he was watching you carefully.
“Well?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful,” you said and you truly mean it.
His shoulders relaxed instantly, like your words mattered more than anything.
“They always are,” you added without thinking.
And that made him freeze.
“Always?” he echoed.
You blinked, realizing what you said, then looked away, a little flustered. “Yeah. You’re really talented, Jisung.”
He ducked his head, his ears turning bright red as a smile began creeping back onto his face.
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
But the way he looked at you after that was undeniably hopeful.
There were no big confessions under the rain or dramatic ultimatums.
It was just the small things—like the way he saved you a seat without asking, the way he’d quietly adjust the volume when you looked tired, and the way he never let you leave the studio without asking, “Did you eat?”
And sometimes, when the night stretched too long and the world felt too quiet, you’d find yourself leaning into it.
Into him.
Like when your head accidentally rested on his shoulder one late night, exhaustion finally catching up to you.
Jisung went completely still. Like if he moved, the moment would break.
“…You okay?” he whispered.
You hummed softly, not moving away.
“Just tired.”
He swallowed, heart racing, but carefully—so carefully—he adjusted himself so you’d be more comfortable.
“Then rest,” he murmured.
And he stayed like that—didn’t move, didn’t speak, just let you be.
He never stopped caring, but he never rushed you either. And somewhere in between the quiet glances and the shared silences, you began to wonder if maybe one day, you’d be ready.
And maybe—just maybe—he’d still be there.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Long nights stacked on top of each other. Deadlines pressing in, revisions piling up, producers asking for changes that don’t make sense anymore because your brain feels like it’s running on static. You haven’t slept properly in days, haven’t eaten more than whatever was closest to you.
And then, Jisung shows up.
“Hey,” he says softly, like he always does, setting a drink beside you. “You’ve been here all day, right? I—uh—I thought you might—”
“Can you not?”
The words come out sharper than you meant. You don’t even look at him, eyes glued to the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard like if you stop now, everything will fall apart.
“I’m just trying to finish this,” you mutter. “I don’t need—distractions.”
There’s a heavy pause.
“…Right,” he says quietly.
But he doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. Because he never does.
“Did you eat?” he asks after a second, voice careful. “You look kinda—”
“I said I’m fine, Jisung.”
You hear the edge in your own voice this time—the irritation and the way his name sounds like a burden instead of a comfort.
Still, he tries.
“Okay, okay, I just— I can help if you want. Or we can listen to the track together? I noticed the bridge might need—”
“Why are you always here?”
Your hands finally stop moving.
The question hangs there, heavier than anything else you’ve said.
And slowly—too slowly—you turn to look at him. He looks caught off guard like you just said something he wasn’t prepared to hear from you.
“I just—” he starts, then falters.
Something in your chest twists because you know why he’s here.
“I told you already,” you continue, voice tighter now, frustration bleeding through. “I’m not ready for anything. I don’t— I don’t even know what I feel half the time and you just keep showing up like—like it’s going to change something.”
His lips press together.
You hate that he’s not interrupting. You hate that he’s just listening.
“I appreciate it, okay?” you say quickly, words starting to spill out now, messy and unfiltered. “I do. But it’s confusing, Jisung. You keep doing all this—this stuff and I don’t know what you expect from me.”
“I don’t expect anything—”
“Then why won’t you stop?”
You see the way his expression shifts—not dramatically, but subtly—like something inside him just dropped.
“I’m tired,” you add, softer but no less strained. “I’m tired of feeling like I owe you something just because you’re… like this.”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back.
Because that’s not what you meant. Not really.
But it’s too late.
Jisung goes very still.
For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t defend himself or argue. He just nods once.
“…Okay,” he says, and it’s quieter than you’ve ever heard him. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”
There’s no hurt in his tone, and that’s what makes it worse.
It’s just pure sincerity.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
“I’ll—” he swallows, glancing down for a second before stepping back. “I’ll give you space.”
And then he leaves.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
At first, you think nothing of it.
You tell yourself it’s what you wanted—space, less distraction, and more focus. And technically, you get exactly that.
No more coffee appearing beside you.
No more quiet “did you eat?” in the middle of the night.
No more Jisung leaning over your shoulder, pointing out something small in a track, voice warm and close.
But it’s fine. You’re fine. You get more work done, you meet your deadlines, and you sleep a little more.
Everything should feel better, so why doesn’t it?
“Have you seen Jisung today?” you ask casually. Too casually.
Chan glances at you for half a second before looking back at his screen. “He’s busy.”
“Oh.”
That’s all he says, and somehow, that tells you everything.
Jisung keeps his distance. He is professional when he has to be, polite, respectful, and entirely distant.
If you’re in the studio, he isn’t.
If you walk in, he finds a reason to leave.
If you speak to him, he answers—but briefly and carefully, like he’s measuring every word to make sure it doesn’t cross a line.
There are no more soft smiles.
No more lingering glances.
No more him.
It’s like he took everything he used to give you and locked it away.
One night, you stay later than usual. Not because of work. But because you don’t really want to go back to an empty apartment just yet.
The studio is quiet. Too quiet.
You find yourself staring at the empty chair beside you, the one he used to sit in, and your chest tightens.
“…You wanted this,” you whisper to yourself.
You don’t see him for three days straight, not even in passing.
And that’s when it hits you.
Jisung didn’t just step back; he disappeared. Completely.
Exactly like you asked him to. And somehow, that hurts more than anything.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Just one drink.
That’s what you tell yourself when your friend invites you out—something light, something to take the edge off after weeks of stress and everything else.
But one drink turns into three, and then you stop counting.
“Okay, that’s enough,” your friend says, gently pulling your glass away, brows furrowed. “You’re not even pacing yourself anymore.”
“I messed up,” you slur, leaning your head against your hand. “I really, really messed up.”
“Snapping at him?”
You nod, a little too fast. “He just—he kept showing up and being nice and I didn’t know what to do with it and I was so tired and confused and—and I said things I didn’t mean.”
Your friend sighs softly. “Have you talked to him since?”
“No,” you whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because he stopped,” you say, voice wobbling now. “He actually stopped.”
And that hurts more than anything.
“He doesn’t come by anymore,” you continue, words tumbling out uncontrollably. “He doesn’t sit with me, he doesn’t—he doesn’t even look at me the same. He just… listens. Leaves. Like I’m—like I’m just another person.”
“You told him to give you space,” your friend points out carefully.
“I didn’t mean like that,” you mumble, eyes stinging. “I didn’t mean for him to disappear.”
She watches you for a moment, then pushes the glass further away.
“Okay. We’re done drinking.”
“No,” you protest weakly.
“Yes,” she insists. “I’m taking you home.”
You shake your head immediately, grabbing her arm. “Not home.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Jisung’s.”
Your friend stares at you. “You’re drunk. That’s a terrible idea.”
“I know. But I miss him.” The honesty in your voice makes her pause. “I need to see him.”
You grip her sleeve, eyes glossy, stubborn.
“Please,” you whine softly. “Just… take me there.”
She hesitates.
“You’re going to regret this in the morning.”
“I already regret everything,” you mumble.
That does it.
She sighs, long and defeated. “God. Fine. But if this goes badly, I’m saying ‘I told you so’ for the rest of your life.”
“Okay,” you say instantly.
The car ride is a blur.
You’re half-slumped against the window, mumbling to yourself, occasionally whispering Jisung’s name like it’s something fragile.
When you get there, you can barely stand properly.
Your friend has an arm around your waist, practically holding you up as she rings the doorbell.
“Last chance to back out,” she mutters.
“No,” you say immediately, gripping her tighter.
The door opens, and there he is.
Han Jisung.
He looks surprised—of course he does. It’s late, and the last person he expects to see is you. Drunk.
His eyes flicker between you and your friend, confusion settling in fast. “Uh—”
“Hi,” your friend says awkwardly. “Sorry, I—she insisted—”
But she doesn’t get to finish.
Because the second you register him, you pull away from your friend and lunge, crashing into him and wrapping your arms tightly around his waist.
“Jisung.” Your voice is small.
He stiffens. He doesn't push you away, but he doesn't hug you back either.
“YN—” he starts, startled, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides. “You’re—”
“I’m sorry.”
The words hit him instantly. Muffled against his shirt, slurred slightly—but clear.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat, grip tightening. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”
“You’re drunk,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t be here like this.”
“I know,” you mumble again, voice cracking now. “But you won’t come see me anymore.”
That makes his hands twitch.
“I miss you,” you whisper.
Jisung closes his eyes, trying to steady himself. “You told me to stop.”
“I didn’t mean disappear,” you murmur, clinging tighter. “I didn’t mean for you to act like I don’t exist.”
“I don’t—” he stops, swallowing. “I don’t act like you don’t exist.”
“It feels like it,” you whisper.
Slowly—hesitantly—his hands finally come up to rest lightly against your arms.
Like he’s afraid this is temporary.
Like you’ll pull away any second.
“You said you felt like you owed me,” he says, voice quieter now. “I didn’t want you to feel that anymore.”
Your grip tightens.
“I don’t,” you insist, shaking your head against him. “I don’t, Jisung. I just— I didn’t know what to do with how much you care about me.”
He goes still at that.
“I still don’t,” you admit softly. “But… I don’t want you gone.”
Behind you, your friend clears her throat gently. “I, uh… I’m gonna go. Call me if you need anything.”
Neither of you respond.
You’re too wrapped up in each other.
The door closes quietly and now it’s just you and him.
Jisung looks down at you, still clinging to him like if you let go, he’ll disappear again.
He finally wraps his arms around you fully. You don’t realize what you’re saying as your head rests against his chest.
“I kept looking for you,” you whisper. “Even when I said I didn’t want you there.”
Something in his chest twists painfully.
“So stupid” you breathe out a quiet, broken laugh. “I push you away and then… miss you anyway.”
He swallows hard.
Your voice softens even more, barely there now.
“I think I liked you long before I was ready to admit it.”
Jisung’s heart stutters, but before he can respond, your body goes slack.
Sleep.
Just like that.
“YN?” he murmurs, gently shaking you once.
No response.
He lifts you up, and carries you to his bed with deliberate, slow movements. You barely stir, head falling against his shoulder, arms loose now. He carries you to his bed, movements slow, deliberate—like he’s handling something fragile.
He lays you down, pulling the blanket over you, hesitating for just a second before brushing a strand of hair away from your face.
“You don’t get to say things like that and then fall asleep,” he whispers, more to himself than to you.
But you’re already gone.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Morning comes with a throbbing headache. You jolt upright immediately, heart racing, eyes scanning the unfamiliar space.
“What—”
A soft knock interrupts you.
The door opens and Jisung steps in holding a glass of water, hangover pills, and a bowl of soup.
He looks composed. Too composed.
“Here,” he says simply, setting everything down beside you.
You blink at him, still trying to piece everything together, your chest tightening as the memories settle in.
You came here.
You said things—a lot of things.
“Thanks,” you mumble, voice dry.
He nods once.
That’s it.
You take the pills, drinking the water slowly, your hands slightly unsteady.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.
He doesn’t leave. But he doesn’t come closer either.
Just stands there like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do anymore.
You glance at him.
He’s looking anywhere but you.
“Jisung,” you start.
“Drink the soup before it gets cold,” he cuts in quietly.
“Okay.”
You take a few spoonfuls, but you can’t focus. Your eyes keep drifting back to him—his stiff posture, the way his arms are folded like he’s holding himself back.
“I remember some of last night,” you say carefully.
He nods once. “You were drunk.”
“I know.” You set the spoon down. “I meant what I said.”
That makes him finally look at you. But only for a second. Then his gaze drops again.
“You were drunk,” he repeats.
Your chest tightens. “So?”
“So,” he exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “people say things when they’re drunk.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
And that’s when something in you shifts.
Because if you don’t say it now, you might never get the chance again.
“I was confused,” you admit, voice quieter now, more fragile. “I didn’t know what I felt, and instead of figuring it out, I took it out on you.”
He stays still.
“I didn’t hate that you were there,” you continue, eyes stinging. “I hated that I started needing you there.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I got scared,” you whisper. “Because you were… constant. And I wasn’t ready to rely on someone like that. Not when I didn’t even understand my own feelings yet.”
Still nothing.
You slowly stand up.
Your legs feel weak, but you force yourself to walk toward him anyway, stopping right in front of him.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t step back but he doesn’t step closer either.
You look up at him, searching his face.
“I miss you,” you say, softer now.
His expression flickers.
“I miss how things were. I miss you being… you.” Your voice trembles. “And I know I don’t deserve to just ask for that back like nothing happened, but—”
You inhale shakily.
“Can you give me a chance?”
Everything laid out—honest and terrifying.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet,” you admit. “But I want to try. With you.”
Silence.
Jisung doesn’t respond. He just stands there, hesitating.
Like he’s somewhere else entirely.
And the longer he says nothing, the more your chest caves in.
“…Okay,” you whisper, voice small now.
You nod to yourself, like you understand.
Even if it hurts.
“Yeah. That’s fair.”
You step back.
He still doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t say your name.
So you turn around.
Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last.
You pause for just a second—hoping. Anything.
But there’s nothing.
So you open the door and you leave.
Jisung doesn’t move until he hears it close.
And even then, he stays standing there. Staring at the empty space where you were. Hands clenched slightly at his sides.
Because he wanted to say something.
He really did.
But your words from that night,
“I feel like I owe you.”
They echo louder than anything else.
And he can’t tell if this is real or if you’re just trying to fix the guilt.
You don’t remember getting out of the building or how long you’ve been walking.
Everything feels distant.
Your head throbs, each step unsteady, the morning light too harsh against your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the weight sitting in your chest—tight, aching, unbearable.
Your vision blurs, tears spilling faster now, slipping down your cheeks before you can even stop them.
“Stupid,” you whisper to yourself, voice breaking. “You’re so—”
A hand catches your wrist.
You freeze.
Your breath stutters, heart jumping so violently it almost hurts.
But you don’t turn.
You can’t.
Because if it’s not him, you think something inside you might actually break.
“…Did you mean it?”
Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, relief hitting so hard it almost knocks the air out of you.
You turn, and there he is, hair messy and chest heaving as if he ran to catch you.
His hand is still on your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Jisung…” your voice comes out soft, fragile.
His eyes search yours, desperate and unsure all at once.
“What you said,” he continues, swallowing hard. “About wanting to try. About… me.”
His grip tightens just slightly.
“Did you mean it?”
No hesitation this time.
“I did.”
Your voice is quiet. But steady.
“I meant all of it.”
Something in his expression breaks—relief, disbelief,hope— all crashing together at once.
“Even when you’re not drunk?” he asks, almost like he needs to hear it again.
You nod immediately, stepping closer without thinking.
“Especially when I’m not.”
His breath catches.
“I was scared,” you admit, eyes soft but certain now. “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel anything. I just didn’t know how to handle it.”
Your hand lifts, resting lightly against his chest.
“I don’t want you to disappear again.”
That’s all it takes.
Jisung lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been holding it in for days.
And then, he pulls you in. One arm wrapping securely around your waist, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.
So close you can feel his breath.
“I didn’t want to say anything earlier,” he confesses. “I was scared that if I said yes too quickly, it would just be because you felt bad.”
You shake your head immediately. “It’s not.”
“I know now.”
Your eyes soften.
His thumb brushes lightly against your side, almost absentminded, like he just needs to feel that you’re real.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“I stayed because I wanted to. Not because I expected something back.”
You nod, stepping even closer, your forehead still resting against his.
“And I want you,” you say quietly.
That makes him inhale sharply.
“Not because I feel bad,” you add, eyes meeting his. “But because it’s you.”
Silence.
But this time, it’s not heavy.
Jisung lets out a small, breathless laugh, shaking his head slightly.
“…You really don’t know what you do to me.”
You smile faintly. “I’m starting to.”
His grip on you tightens just a little, grounding, protective.
“Then stay,” he murmurs.
You nod without hesitation.
“I will.”
And when he pulls you into a hug, arms wrapped around you fully, holding you close like he never wants to let go, you don’t hesitate.
After songs leak, the members accuse you without hesitation, isolating you with cold stares and cruel whispers. When the truth is revealed, it’s too late—the damage is done, and trust between you is shattered.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪skz❫･━━━━━━ ❜
The first thing you notice is the silence and not the comfortable kind. It’s the kind that usually fills practice rooms when everyone’s too tired to talk, or when Chan is focused on producing.
This silence is sharp.
It presses against your ears, heavy and suffocating, like you’ve walked into a room where something has already gone wrong.
You step inside anyway.
Eight pairs of eyes turn to you, none of them are warm.
“What?” you ask, forcing a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension crawling up your spine. “Why are you all—”
“Where were you last night?” Chan’s voice cuts through you. It’s calm—frighteningly so—and it hits you with a coldness that makes your heart stutter.
You blink confused by the sudden interrogation. “Dorm. Why?”
Then Minho scoffs under his breath, a sharp, bitter sound that makes you flinch.
“You actually expect us to believe that?” he mutters, his gaze fixed on the wall behind you as if looking at you is beneath him.
Your chest tightens. “Believe what?”
Hyunjin tosses his phone onto the table. It slides toward you, stopping just short of your hand.
You look down, and your heart doesn’t just drop—it feels like it stops entirely.
Clips. Snippets. Audio files.
Unreleased tracks.
Your tracks.
They are the unreleased tracks from the album you’ve all been pouring your souls into for months. You see the titles of songs that came from hours of sleepless nights, heated arguments, desperate rewrites, and shared tears. All of it—the culmination of your hard work—was out there.
Leaked.
“No…” your fingers trembling as you scroll through the social media threads and the links. “No, this—this isn’t—”
“You were the last one using the studio computer,” Jisung says flatly.
You freeze, the phone nearly slipping from your hand. “I—yeah, I was, but that doesn’t mean I had anything to do with this!”
“Then what does it mean?” Changbin snaps, voice sharp. “Because that’s the same computer the files were pulled from.”
You feel like the ground has suddenly disappeared beneath your feet, leaving you suspended in a void where your own brothers are looking at you like a criminal.
“I didn’t do this,” you say, quieter now. “You have to believe me.”
Felix looks away, his jaw tight. Jeongin refuses to meet your eyes. Jisung is staring intently at his own shoes. Hyunjin just crosses his arms, his face a mask of hurt and anger.
And Chan… Chan just watches you like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.
But there’s doubt there. You see it, and seeing it hurts more than any of the accusations.
“You’re the only one who had access at that time,” Seungmin adds, his tone cold, calculated. “It’s not exactly a stretch.”
“That’s insane,” you whisper. “Why would I leak our own album?”
“For attention?” Minho says with a shrug. “Wouldn’t be the first time idols did something stupid for buzz.”
Your head snaps toward him like he slapped you.
“What?”
He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t take it back. He just stares at you with a chilling indifference.
“Or money,” Changbin adds. “God knows how much those clips are worth.”
“That’s not funny,” you choke out. “That’s not even—do you hear yourselves?”
But they don’t soften. Not a single one of them offers a hand or a kind word.
“I didn’t do this,” you repeat, voice cracking now. “I swear, I didn’t.”
Chan exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
“We’ll let management handle it,” he says finally. “Until then, just…stay out of the studio.”
The words hit you harder than if he had screamed at you.
Stay out.
Like you don’t belong there. Like you’re a threat to the very thing you helped build. Like you’re the problem they need to contain.
“…okay,” you whisper, the word barely audible.
No one stops you when you turn around and walk out the door.
The next few days feel like a blur of quiet cruelty.
It’s the little things that hurt the most.
No one sits next to you at the kitchen table anymore; they leave a conspicuous, empty gap as if your presence is contagious. No one calls your name when they’re ordering food or headed to the convenience store.
The group chats, once a constant stream of memes and chaotic energy, go silent the moment you reply to something.
Minho brushes past you in the hallway like you’re a piece of furniture, not even bothering to acknowledge your existence. Hyunjin doesn’t even try to hide his glares when you accidentally catch his eye.
Changbin mutters things just loud enough for you to hear—“unbelievable,” “can’t trust anyone.”
Even Felix… sweet, kind-hearted Felix, who usually hugs everyone until they can’t breathe… avoids you like you’re made of glass that’s already shattered.
And Chan? Chan doesn’t look at you at all. He stays buried in his work, eyes fixed on his screens or his feet, treating you like a ghost haunting the dorm.
That hurts the most of all.
Eventually, you stop trying. You stop going to practice because the atmosphere is too toxic to breathe. You stop hanging around the common areas of the dorm because the silence is too loud.
Because every time you do, it feels like you’re begging for scraps of trust they’ve already decided you don’t deserve.
One night, you hear them all laughing in the living room—a genuine, loud sound that used to include you. For a split second, habit almost pulls you out of your room to join them.
Almost.
Then you remember the way they looked at you.
Like you betrayed them.
Like you ruined everything.
You turn back to your bed instead, burying your face in your pillow to cry where no one can hear you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It’s a week later when everything breaks.
Management calls a mandatory meeting for everyone. All nine of you are ushered into a sterile conference room. You sit at the very end of the long table.
The room is thick with an uncomfortable energy until one of the head managers clears their throat and opens a laptop.
“We’ve concluded the investigation.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure everyone can hear it.
Chan straightens up in his chair, his hands clenched into fists on the table.
“So?” he asks.
The manager slides a thick folder onto the table, the sound of paper hitting wood echoing in the quiet room.
“Evidence shows that the leak did not come from any of you.”
Silence.
Absolute, deafening silence.
You don’t move. You don't even think you’re breathing.
“It was one of the new interns,” they continue. “They accessed the files after hours. We have CCTV footage and email records—communication with external media outlets. They were paid to leak the tracks.”
A sharp intake of breath echoes somewhere down the table.
You continue to stare at your hands. They’re shaking, but it’s not from fear anymore. It’s from a hollow, crushing realization.
“What?” Changbin whispers.
Seungmin leans back slowly, looking like he’s just been punched in the gut. Hyunjin’s face goes deathly pale, his gaze dropping to the floor. Felix looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, his eyes welling with tears.
And Chan finally looks at you. He really looks at you for the first time in what feels like a lifetime.
“…you didn’t…” he starts, voice unsteady.
You let out a short, hollow laugh that has no humor in it. Of course you didn’t. You had told them that. You had told them until your voice was hoarse and your heart was broken.
“I said I didn’t,” you murmur, still refusing to look up from the table.
No one speaks. There’s nothing left to say that can undo the last seven days. No apology can take back the cold shoulders, the venomous whispers, or the way they looked at you like you were a stranger. They didn't just doubt you; they abandoned you when you needed them to be your family the most.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor breaks the silence.
Footsteps approach you, hesitant and slow.
“Hey,” Chan says softly, standing right in front of you. He reaches out a hand as if to touch your shoulder. “I—we—I’m so sorry, I—”
You stand up before he can finish. You don’t do it violently, and you don’t make a scene. You just move enough to make him retract his hand, creating a physical boundary between you and the leader you used to trust implicitly.
“I need some air. Excuse me.” you say.
Your voice is calm. The kind of calm that comes after the storm has already leveled the house.
It makes Chan’s expression twist with a fresh wave of pain.
“Can we please talk about this?” he pleads, his voice cracking.
“Later,” you cut in, though you aren't sure if 'later' will ever actually come.
You don’t wait for permission or for them to explain themselves. You just turn and walk out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.
They don’t go after you right away when the door clicks shut.
It isn't because they don’t want to—it’s because none of them actually know how.
The room feels different now. Heavy in a way that makes breathing feel like work. The truth sits on the table between them like something alive, something ugly.
They were wrong.
Not just factually incorrect, but fundamentally cruel.
Chan drags both hands down his face, the skin stretching under the pressure. He paces the length of the room once, then twice, before stopping abruptly.
“We fucked up,” he says, his voice sounding hollow, like it's echoing from the bottom of a well.
No one argues with him. Because there is absolutely nothing left to argue.
“I told you,” Felix whispers, voice trembling. “She kept saying she didn’t do it…”
“And we didn’t listen,” Hyunjin finishes quietly, his usual composure completely gone.
Jisung leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “We accused her like it was already proven.”
That breaks something.
Because they all remember it now—the details they chose to ignore in their anger. They remember the way your voice shook when you pleaded with them. They remember the way your hands trembled when you held Hyunjin’s phone.
The way you kept saying I didn’t do this—over and over, like if you said it enough times, they’d finally believe you.
But they didn’t.
Chan exhales sharply. “We fix this.”
Jeongin shakes his head slowly. “You can’t just ‘fix’ something like that, Hyung. You don't just glue that kind of trust back together.”
“I know,” Chan says, quieter now. “But we have to try.”
Because now, they finally understand. It was never about whether you were innocent or guilty. It was about the fact that when things got hard, they didn't believe you.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You don’t come back that night.
Or the next night.
Or the one after that.
Every single day that passes without your presence in the dorm feels like a punishment. Your bedroom door stays closed, a silent barrier that none of them dare to cross. Your things remain untouched on the shelves—your favorite mug in the cupboard, your shoes by the door—and your absence becomes a physical thing, louder and more intrusive than any noise you ever made.
It’s four days later when the front door finally clicks open.
You step inside cautiously, moving like a stranger in a house you've lived in for years. You’re careful, quiet, keeping your shoulders hunched as if you’re trying to take up as little space as possible.
It’s the movement of someone who doesn't quite feel like they belong anymore.
Eight heads turn immediately.
The tension is instant.
“Hey,” Chan says, standing up too quickly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t move fast enough.
You give a small nod. “Hi.”
That’s it. No smile. No warmth. Just a polite, distant greeting that hurts more than if you had walked in screaming at them.
Felix is the first one to bridge the gap. He walks toward you slowly, his hands held out slightly as if he’s approaching something fragile that might shatter at the slightest vibration.
“You’re back…”
“Just to grab some things,” you reply softly.
The words land like a physical punch to the gut of everyone in the room.
“Things?” Changbin repeats, panic flickering in his voice. “You’re… leaving?”
You hesitate for a second, and that hesitation says more than a thousand words ever could.
“No,” Chan says quickly, stepping closer. “No, you’re not—we’re not letting it end like that. Please… just talk to us.”
Your grip tightens on your bag.
“I don’t really know what there is to talk about.”
Minho flinches at the coldness in your tone. Seungmin looks down at his hands, unable to face you. Hyunjin finally finds his feet and steps forward, his voice quieter and more broken than they’ve ever heard it.
“We’re sorry.”
You don’t respond, so he keeps going, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have looked at you like that. We shouldn’t have assumed the worst. You didn’t deserve that.”
Jisung runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated—with himself. “I said things I didn’t mean. I was angry and I took it out on you, and that’s not—there’s no excuse for that.”
“I avoided you,” Felix adds, his voice breaking. “Even when I knew something felt off. I’m so sorry…”
Jeongin steps closer, eyes glossy. “I didn’t defend you. I just stayed quiet. That’s on me too.”
Seungmin exhales shakily. “I pride myself on being rational, but I wasn’t. I hurt you.”
Minho finally looks at you—really looks at you. There’s something raw and bleeding in his expression now.
“I said you just wanted attention,” he mutters, the words tasting like ash. “That was… messed up. You’ve never been that person. I knew that in my heart, and I just… I chose to ignore it.”
All of them owning every look, every word, and every silence.
No excuses about the stress of the comeback. No deflecting onto the intern.
Just pure, unadulterated guilt.
And Chan steps in front of you last. His voice is the quietest of all. “I should’ve believed you. More than anyone else in this world, I should have been the one standing in front of you.”
That’s the one that cracks something in your chest.
Because he’s right.
Out of all of them—the leader, the one who calls you family more than anyone—he should have known.
“I trusted evidence more than I trusted you,” he continues, eyes shining. “And that’s not what a leader does. That’s not what someone who cares about you does.”
A heavy silence settles over the dorm. All eyes are on you, waiting. You swallow hard, feeling the lump in your throat.
“…I get why you were upset,” you say slowly. “The situation was bad. I understand that.”
Relief flickers across a few faces but it fades just as quickly when you continue.
“But you didn’t just get upset,” you add, voice tightening. “You decided it was me. Immediately.”
No one interrupts. Because they can’t.
“You didn’t even hesitate.”
Your hands tremble slightly, but you keep going.
“I kept telling you I didn’t do it. I was right there, and none of you believed me.”
You don’t stop.
“I felt like I was begging just to be trusted. And that’s…” you shake your head. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”
Chan looks like he’s about to reach out, to say something, but you take a small step back. Just a few inches. That tiny movement says everything.
“I forgive you,” you say.
They all freeze.
“But I don’t feel okay yet.”
The words are soft and painfully honest. They’re somehow heavier than anger.
“I don’t think I can just… go back to normal like nothing happened.”
Minho clenches his jaw, his eyes dropping to the floor. Hyunjin looks away, his shoulders shaking. Changbin nods slowly, accepting the weight of your words even though it clearly hurts him to hear them.
“That’s fair,” Chan says. “You don’t have to.”
You shift your bag on your shoulder.
“I’m not leaving the group,” you add quietly. “But… I need time.”
No one argues. They don’t have the right to demand anything from you anymore.
“Take all the time you need,” Seungmin says gently.
Felix wipes his tears. “We’ll wait.”
Changbin nods. “We’ll do better.”
Jeongin gives you a small, shaky smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Minho just mutters, “We’ll prove we’re worth trusting again.”
Chan steps back, giving you space this time.
“We’re not giving up on you,” he says softly. “Even if you need distance… we’ll be here.”
You nod, but you don’t move closer to them. Not yet.
And they notice that too.
The way you linger near the edges.
The way your voice stays careful and guarded.
The way you look at them like you’re measuring every word, every action like you’re walking on eggshells around people who were once your safest place.
It hurts.
But they don’t rush you.
They don’t demand hugs or smiles or forgiveness.
They just—try.
Small things at first.
Gentler voices when they speak to you. Softer approaches when they enter a room you're in. They check in without pushing for an answer. They give you all the space in the world, while making sure you never actually feel alone.
Because they know now that trust isn’t something you say sorry for.
It’s something you rebuild, brick by brick, day by day.
And this time, they’re not letting it break again.
hey i love your writing so much omg, you write all the boys so well :) i am not sure if your requests are closed im sorry, if they are you can ignore this!
i was wondering if you could write an angsty that leads to fluff/comfort fic about where something gets leaked (songs from the new album, unreleased comeback content, personal info about the members, anything like that) and the boys kind of just jump to the wrong conclusions and blame the reader (could be the ninth reader, a personal assistant, stylist, etc just someone who would know where to get the info) because maybe she was using a computer that had all that info on it before it got leaked or she seems to always be around when the personal information that got leaked was being shared. and they’re just all very mean about it, cold shoulders, glaring, comments under their breath and the readers just really upset because it she hasn’t done anything but they don’t believe her. in the end, after management do a full investigation they find out it was one of the new interns at the company who leaked it all for money from news outlets maybe they find emails on the interns laptop or review cctv and catch them in the act? and the stray kids boys really feel so bad that they jumped on the reader without reason and it just ends with them grovelling and making it up to her.
i am so sorry this is so long but i really think you are the best person to write something like this, i know you will ace it :) thank you in advance if you do write it!
hellooo !! thank u sm ❤️
not really a fluffy ending but there may or may not be a part two 😌
can i request a SUPPERRRR cute and fluffly jeongin fic pls !!
like she’s a part of the dance team with skz and just like a story of how jeongin fell for her and vice versa and the members being supportive and finding them super adorable
basically just yeni being SUPERR cute and romantic and shy hihi
After weeks of lingering glances in the practice room mirror, Jeongin finally does something about it. What starts as a clumsy attempt to protect his personal space—and yours—leads to a private dance lesson that changes everything.
❛ ━━━━━━･❪🦊❫･━━━━━━ ❜
You weren’t supposed to stand out.
That was the rule you set for yourself the moment you joined the dance team—blend in, keep up, don’t be a burden. Especially when you were younger than most. Especially when you were dancing alongside Stray Kids.
And especially when Yang Jeongin was there.
As you stood there, trying to regulate your breathing, you could see the reflection of the group behind you. The members of Stray Kids were scattered in different states of exhaustion. But your eyes kept finding the youngest member.
A glance that lingered a second too long in the mirror. The way your heart stuttered when his voice cut through the practice room—soft, polite, a little hesitant.
“Okay, from the top!”
Music blasted through the speakers again, bass thumping against your chest as everyone snapped into formation. You focused—sharp movements, clean lines, matching energy. You had to keep up.
But halfway through the chorus, during a sharp pivot, you felt that unmistakable heat on the side of your face.
Your eyes flickered to the mirror—and there he was.
Jeongin.
Jeongin wasn't looking at his own form or checking his alignment with the leader. He was focused entirely on you, his expression uncharacteristically intense, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were trying to memorize the way you moved.
His gaze darted away so fast he missed a step, nearly colliding with Hyunjin.
“Yah!” Hyunjin laughed mid-choreo, barely keeping it together. “Focus!”
“I am focused!” Jeongin shot back, voice cracking just slightly. He tried to recover, but the tips of his ears were already turning a shade of red. While you bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
Break time was worse. Because that’s when the teasing started.
“YN~” Changbin sang, flopping down beside you with a grin that immediately set off alarms in your head. “You’ve been working hard.”
“Uh… thanks.” you said cautiously.
“Jeongin noticed too.” he added nonchalantly, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry across the room.
Your brain short-circuited.
“I—what?”
Across the studio, Jeongin, who had been sip, nearly sprayed his water across the floor. He coughed violently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I DID NOT—”
“You did,” Seungmin cut in smoothly, not even looking up from his phone. “You said, and I quote, ‘YN’s movements are really clean today.’”
“That’s just professional feedback!” Jeongin protested, ears turning bright red.
“Feedback” Felix echoed, grinning. “With heart eyes”
“I do not have heart eyes!” Jeongin yelled, though he was currently looking at everything in the room except for you.
“You do” Minho said flatly.
The staff members near the soundboard started giggling, and you felt a wave of heat wash over your own neck.
You wanted to disappear.
Or maybe combust.
Or maybe both.
Jeongin couldn’t look at you after that.
Not properly, at least.
He’d start to—then immediately look at the floor, or the wall, or literally anything else. His ears stayed pink for the rest of practice.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because if he was just nice, just friendly, you could’ve handled it.
But the shy smiles. The stolen glances. The way he’d hover near you like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get the words out?
It made your feelings grow in places you couldn’t control.
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
You’ve been replaying the same eight-count for the past ten minutes, and no matter how many times you try, your body just won’t get it right.
Turn—step—pause—
Too slow. Again.
Turn—step—pause—
Your balance wavered, forcing you to hop slightly to stay upright.
“Ugh,” you groan under your breath, running a hand through your hair. “Why is this so hard?”
“Need help?”
You looked up to see one of the senior backup dancers. He was a nice guy, someone you’d grabbed coffee with a few times after rehearsals.
“Oh—yeah, please,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “I can’t get the timing right.”
“Here,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re overthinking the pause. It’s not a full stop—more like a groove.”
He demonstrated the move with a fluid, effortless grace. You watched his feet, trying to internalize the rhythm. Then you tried to mimic it.
Turn—step—pause—
“…oh.”
“That’s better,” he nods, smiling. “Loosen your shoulders a bit.”
He reaches out, lightly guiding your arm into position.
Hyunjin leans forward like he’s watching a drama unfold. “This is about to get interesting.”
Chan just sighs, amused. “Let’s not make it worse.”
Too late.
Because Jeongin was vibrating. He was staring at the other dancer’s hand on your arm with the intensity of a laser. He felt a sharp, pinch in his chest—a mix of protectiveness and a sudden, desperate need to be the one standing there instead.
Something twists in his chest.
“Hyung,” he says, voice tight.
“Mm?” Chan hums, already knowing.
“He’s standing too close. This is a studio, not a club.”
Changbin snorted, nearly choking on his laugh. “Oh, now you notice personal space?”
Jeongin ignores him.
“I can teach that part better.”
“Then go,” Hyunjin says simply, smirking.
Jeongin hesitated for exactly one second. He knew that walking over there means making it obvious.
Making everything obvious.
“…I’m going,” he decides anyway.
“Of course you are,” Minho mutters.
You were just about to try the move again when a shadow fell over you.
“Hey.”
You blinked, looking up to find Jeongin standing right there. He was much closer than he’d been all day, his presence suddenly overwhelming.
“Oh…hi?”
He doesn’t look at you immediately. Instead, he looks at the other guy.
“The choreographer’s calling for you.”
“Right now?” The dancer frowned, looking toward the front of the room where the choreographer was busy talking to Chan.
“Yeah,” Jeongin nods, way too quick. “Said he needs you.”
There’s a beat of confusion.
“Okay?” he shrugs, stepping back. “I’ll go check.”
“Mm.”
Jeongin doesn’t move until he’s fully walked away.
Then, he turns to you.
“I’ll take over.”
You blink again. “Oh—okay?”
You don’t question it.
Why would you? He’s part of the team. Of course he can help.
“Show me,” he says.
You nodded, resetting your stance. You went through the motion and once again, you stumbled on the finish.
“Sorry,” you mumble.
“It’s fine.”
He stepped even closer. Now, the gap between you was non-existent. You could smell the faint scent of his cologne beneath the sweat. Your heart began to drum a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
“Your timing’s off because you’re stopping completely,” he says, voice quieter now. “Don’t stop. Just—shift your weight.”
He reached out. His hand hovered over your wrist for a heartbeat.
“…can I?” he asks softly.
Your heart skips.
“Y-yeah.”
He didn't just grab you. He gently circled your wrist with his fingers, his touch surprisingly warm and steady. He used his other hand to lightly steady your waist, guiding your body through the arc of the turn.
“Here.”
Turn—step—pause—
“Don’t lock here,” he murmurs. “Relax.”
You tried it again, letting him lead. This time, the movement felt different. It didn't feel like a struggle against your own limbs it flowed.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “That felt right.”
“It was,” he says, and you can hear the small smile in his voice.
You look up at him and he’s already looking at you. And for a moment, neither of you look away.
“Thanks, Jeongin.”
His ears, which had just started to cool down, flared bright pink again.
“Anytime.”
Across the room, the other dancer finds the choreographer.
“Hey, you called for me?”
The choreographer looked up from his notes, looking entirely confused. “No?”
“What?” The dancer paused, then slowly turned around.
He saw the rest of the Stray Kids members gathered in a loose circle. All watching. All very entertained.
Changbin is barely holding it together. “You should just… let him have this one.”
Hyunjin nods solemnly. “For the sake of romance.”
Minho adds, “And his sanity.”
Chan just laughs, shaking his head. “He’ll explain later. Maybe.”
The dancer blinked, looking back at the corner of the room where Jeongin was still holding your wrist, both of you completely oblivious to the rest of the world.
“…oh,” he muttered, a slow grin forming. “I see.”
Felix claps him on the shoulder. “Welcome to the show.”
Back in your little bubble, you tried the move one more time on your own. You nailed it—the weight shift was perfect, the pause held just the right amount of tension.
You turned to him, your face glowing with excitement.
“Did you see that?”
“I did.” He’s smiling properly now.
You turn to him fully, still a little breathless. “That actually felt right this time.”
“It looked right too,” he nods, and there’s the tiniest hint of pride in his expression—like he’s the one who got it right.
You don’t even think about it.
“Thank you,” you say, genuine, bright. “Seriously. I’ve been stuck on that forever.”
For a second, he just… looks at you. Like he doesn’t know what to do with that.
With you.
His ears slowly turn pink again.
“…yeah,” he mumbles, glancing away before forcing himself to look back. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you insist, a little laugh slipping out. “You explained it better than anyone else.”
That does something to him.
“Then…” he starts, hesitating.
You tilt your head. “Hm?”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly shy again.
“If you—um…” he clears his throat. “If you need help again…”
A pause.
He almost backs out. You can see it. But then he glances at you—really looks at you—and pushes through.
“…you can just call me.”
You blink. “Call you?”
“Not—like—call,” he panics immediately, hands coming up slightly. “I mean—like—just ask me. Anytime. During practice. Or—whatever.”
You stare at him for a second. Then smile.
“Oh,” you nod. “Okay.”
Your tone is light, but something about it makes his heart stutter anyway.
“Then I will.”
── ⟢ ・⸝⸝
It becomes a habit.
A quiet, unspoken one.
Every time something feels off—every time a move doesn’t sit right in your body, every time you get stuck—you don’t even think about it anymore.
“Jeongin?”
And he’s immediately there. Like he’s been waiting for it.
“Show me,” he’ll say, already stepping closer.
At first, the others tried to hide it. The looks. The nudges. The very obvious teasing. Now? They don’t even bother.
“Wow,” Seungmin mutters one day, watching you walk straight past three other perfectly capable dancers. “Not even pretending anymore.”
Jisung nods. “I respect it.”
Felix sighs dreamily. “They’re like a married couple already.”
Chan just laughs. “Let them be.”
Today is no different.
You’re stuck again—some footwork this time—and within seconds, you’re in front of him, slightly out of breath.
“Help?”
He tries—he really tries—not to smile too much.
“Yeah,” he nods, like this isn’t his favorite part of practice. “Come here.”
“Not there—here,” he says, tapping lightly at the right spot. “You’re shifting too early.”
You follow his lead.
Every time you mess up, you try again and again until it clicks.
“Wait—wait—”
You do it one more time. Perfectly.
You light up.
“Oh my god, I got it!”
“I told you,” he says, and there it is again—that soft, proud smile that only seems to show up around you.
You’re still smiling when you turn to him.
“Thank you. Seriously. Again.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But you’ve been around him enough now to know that it’s not nothing to him.
“I feel like I owe you at this point,” you add, half-laughing. You were still riding the high of the success. “You’ve basically been my personal dance coach.”
He huffs out a small breath.
“You don’t owe me.”
“Still,” you insist, nudging his arm lightly. “I feel like I do.”
He looked at you then. The playful atmosphere shifted into something much heavier, much more real. He stopped fidgeting. He stopped looking at the floor.
You saw the gears turning behind his eyes. You saw the moment he decided to stop being the shy boy in the back and actually take what he wanted.
“Then go out with me.”
You blink.
“…what?”
The reality of what he’d said hit him immediately. His eyes went wide, and his hands started flying.
“I mean—!” he starts immediately, panic kicking in. “Not like—you don’t have to—I just meant like, if you want to—or not, it’s totally fine if you don’t, I wasn’t—”
Your brain short-circuits.
A date.
Jeongin is asking you.
“—I didn’t mean to pressure you or anything,” he continues, words spilling out faster and faster. “You can say no, really, it’s okay, I just thought maybe—since you said you owe me—but you don’t actually owe me, so forget I said that, I just—”
“Jeongin.”
He stops. Barely breathing.
“…yeah?”
You took a small step closer, closing the tiny gap he’d created in his panic. You were flustered, your heart was doing backflips, but you’d never felt more sure of anything.
“I’d want to.”
Silence.
For a second, he just stares at you like he didn’t hear you right.
“…you—what?”
“I said,” you repeat, softer now, but smiling, “I’d want to go out with you.”
His whole face lights up.
“Really?”
You laughed, the sound light and relieved. “Yeah. Really.”
“Like—a date date?”
“Yes, Jeongin. A date date.”
“Oh.” He blinked, then a slow, radiant grin took over his face.
Smiled so wide like he physically cannot contain it.
“Okay—okay, yeah—that’s—okay,” he nods rapidly, already starting to ramble again. “You won’t regret it, I promise—I mean, not that there’s anything to regret, I just—I’ll make it good—like, not good good, but—you know what I mean—”
You laugh, covering your mouth slightly.
“I think I do.”
“I’ll plan something,” he continues, pacing a little now. “Not too much—but also not boring—and we can—if you have something you like, we can do that instead, or—”
“Jeongin.”
He stops again.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just a date,” you say gently, smiling at him.
“Right…a date.” He paused, his voice turning soft and sincere. “…with you.”
A pause. Then, “I’m really glad you asked for help that day.”
You laugh again.
He exhales, running a hand through his hair, still smiling like he just won something.
“Me too.”
And as the rest of the team started clapping and whistling from across the room, neither of you cared about it anymore.
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