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⋆｡°✩ Meddling SKZOOs ✩°｡⋆
a/n: first post of the meddling skzoos au!! i'm so SO excited for this! i hope it lives up to expectations! my inbox is always, ALWAYS open, so feel free to stop by and give me your thoughts and/or ideas! i love hearing from you guys! enjoy part one of chan's series! part 1 of lee know's will be next!
Summary: Chan has a rough morning, and he thinks the cherry on top is possibly spraining his ankle. His little wolf friend, however, proves him wrong when he returns from getting help, holding hands with the barista Chan's been crushing on.
Pairing: bang chan x fem! reader
Word Count: 1.3k+
Content/Warnings: she/her pronouns used, chan hurts his ankle, chan is also embarrassed for the majority of the fic (??), only partly proof read, let me know if i've missed anything!!
bang chan masterlist | Meddling SKZOOs
Everything was going wrong for Chan today. He’d planned on taking his little wolf companion to the park early this morning, but of course, he’d overslept, which led to a not-so-fun wake-up call from his little guy. Being brought to consciousness by a small, bipedal, talking wolf is not the magical experience it might sound like, especially when said wolf is jumping on your bed, scolding you while he holds back tears—dramatic little thing, that one.
Really, though, Chan was the only person the little wolf let himself get that way around. He was a happy little guy, by all means, but he didn’t like showing his emotions too much. It had taken Chan months to get him to open up and stop bottling things up, especially since he feels such big emotions for such a tiny being. Chan loves being the one his little wolf feels so comfortable with, but he does not enjoy it when the result is an unfortunate wake-up call.
Still, Chan got out of bed and got dressed to take his SKZOO to the park, but his bad morning couldn’t end there. He’d decided to stop at his usual coffee shop for a little pick-me-up before he chases his furry companion around the park for a few hours. However, his favorite barista wasn’t working today, so, of course, his order was made wrong. She always made it perfectly, and the one day she’s off, the one day he needs a decent coffee, his order couldn’t be further from correct.
He grimaces after taking the first sip, eyes clenched and nose scrunched in disbelief at the taste. He flinches back to look at it in disdain, holding it out in front of him with the hand that isn’t clasping his little wolf’s hand. Finally, he sighs with a shake of his head, deciding to drink it despite the less-than-pleasant taste as he exits the small coffee shop, not wanting to waste the money he’d spent on it.
Chan assumes that’s it. He doesn’t have anything else going on for the rest of the day, so surely it can’t go any further downhill. Except, he seems to have jinxed himself. Right as he and his companion approach the park entrance, he steps on a stick, which then rolls on the concrete sidewalk, causing his ankle to move in a way it definitely shouldn’t.
He’s not able to catch himself on his way down, despite his best efforts, so he ends up on his butt on a sidewalk right in front of the park, unable to move his foot due to pain. Meanwhile, his still gross coffee had slipped from his hand as he tried to catch himself, resulting in it covering the small, furry wolf beside him, who was currently staring at his owner in shock.
“I’m so sorry, Wolfie! Let me get- Ah!” Chan cuts himself off with a hiss of pain. He’d tried to stand up to comfort and clean the wolf, but the sharp, stabbing pain that shoots up his leg when he moves brings him to a halt. Before he can say anything else, the wolf jumps into action.
“Don’t worry, Channie! I’ll get help!” He’s scampered off to who knows where before Chan can even attempt to stop him. Great. Now, he’s probably lost his SKZOO because he can’t get up to chase him. He lets out a frustrated sigh, combing a hand through his hair as he runs through about seventy different ways he can fix this, but none of them seem like a good option. It’d be amazing if he could ask someone for help, but of course, there’s not a soul in sight. Seriously? A warm, sunny Saturday at the park, and no one is around? What does the universe have against him today?
Eventually, though, he hears the pitter-patter of paws that could only belong to his Wolfie. His head shoots up, and he almost passes out when he sees who the little critter is dragging behind him. His favorite barista. The barista he’d been harboring a crush on for at least two months now. The barista who is the entire reason he even goes to that coffee shop at all. Yeah…the universe hates him.
“Channie! I got help, and I think she’s a princess! Look at her pretty dress!” The small animal whispers the last part when he gets close enough to his owner, but his whispers are about as quiet as fighter jet engines. So, the girl had clearly heard, judging by the blush on her face. Chan is sporting a similar flush, embarrassed by his furry companion.
“I’m sorry about him…” He mumbles, not quite meeting her eye.
“No, don’t even worry about it. He’s sweet…” She smiles, and Chan thinks his heart is gonna beat out of his chest. That’s exactly what he needs, a heart attack on top of his probably broken ankle. “How can I help?”
“Ah, I’m not too sure… I tripped, and now I can’t really put pressure on my ankle.” He winces, even more humiliated by the fact that he’s being forced to explain his needless injury to the woman he’s been crushing on.
The woman grimaces slightly. “That sounds kinda bad… Can I maybe help you stand up? My car isn’t too far from here. I can totally drive you to the hospital.”
“You really don’t have to-” This time, he’s cut off by his wolf.
“Uh, Channie,” he starts sassily, crossing his arms and cocking his head to one side, hip jutted out, “you always tell me not to hide what I’m feeling. If you’re hurt, you need to see a doctor.” Jeez, why does Chan love this little guy so much again? He’s struggling to remember right now.
The woman snorts out a laugh at the wolf’s insistence and decides that she’s not gonna let up, either. “C’mon, let’s get you to a hospital.” She doesn’t give Chan a choice, grabbing one of his arms and wrapping it around her shoulders as she helps him stand. Chan winces with a hiss at the movement, but keeps his complaints to himself. Logically, he knows they’re right; he should see a doctor about his ankle.
As they walk toward her car, she realizes that no introductions have been made. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”
Chan fights the urge to say that he knows. He’s seen it on her nametag at the coffee shop countless times by now, but he doesn’t want to come across as a creep. “Chan,” he replies simply.
She smiles at him, repeating the name to see how it feels leaving her lips. “What about the little guy?” She turns her smile to the little wolf walking closely to Chan’s leg.
“Ah…” he trails off, the tips of his ears turning red once more. “WolfChan, actually.”
She lets out a small giggle, and all Chan can think is how much he’d give to hear that sound every day for the rest of his life. “Chan and WolfChan, huh? Easy to remember, then.”
Chan laughs in return, as best he can with the pain still shooting up his leg. “Yeah…it came from my sister. When I first adopted him, she kept saying he acted like a mini-me, so she started calling him WolfChan as a joke. But it kind of just…stuck. I usually call him Wolfie, though. I think he likes it a bit better.”
“Wolfie is cute. It fits him.” Her smile widens when the little wolf turns bashful, but it doesn’t last long.
His chin juts out confidently, and he starts walking with a bit more pep in his step. “Yeah, well, I’m gonna call you princess, ‘cause you look like a princess,” he decides with a huff, his furry little tail swinging proudly behind him.
The woman laughs. Sure, the sundress she was wearing was cute, but she didn’t think it was exactly princess-worthy. Still, she wasn’t about to argue with the adorable little wolf. “I think I can live with that title.”
Soon enough, they make it to her car, and she helps Chan into the passenger seat as Wolfie crawls into the back. She rounds the car quickly once they’re both settled before climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the car. “Alright, next stop, hospital.”
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I have been keeping this series for months because I didn't have the tim to read it. AND today I finally read it. I'm sooo excited for this seriess. I know Wolfchan going to become their cupid, that little wolf seem like he got something up his sleeve 👀👀👀
Girlfriend | pt 5
-> You don't like Han Jisung's girlfriend. He needs a new one.
nerd!jisung x fem!reader
strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt / comfort, college!au, suggestive
6.3K
Warnings: cursing, toxic relationship dynamics, Minji (yes, she gets a warning bc she's that aggravating), sexual themes, making out/kissing, reader is down bad, Jisung is too but not admitting it yet
Inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne
series mlist
-------------------------------------------------
It's been a fantastic few weeks since you decided to openly pursue Jisung despite the fact that he's in a committed relationship.
Okay, maybe that's not the best way to explain your plans, but it is the simplest. You're flirting your way right into his heart, with one specific objective in mind:
Convince this man that his value as a human being isn't dependent on how useful he can be to someone else. That he deserves to be appreciated and respected. That his kindness shouldn't be mistaken for weakness or taken advantage of. That being chosen means absolutely nothing if the person choosing you doesn't treat you with care.
And sure, it would be great if he developed a life ruining crush on you somewhere along the way. Two things can be true at once.
Also, since you’re no longer bothering yourself with the obligation to respect his bitch of a girlfriend, you feel free to flirt as hard and as shamelessly as you deem fit.
And boy, oh boy, has it been fun.
Unfortunately for Jisung, your full time flirting is deeply flustering. Fortunately for you, the universe seems quite pleased with your plans to spoil him rotten and even fated the two of you to end up in the same class this semester!
Environmental Consciousness was never going to be at the top of your list, but it's quickly become your favorite. Sitting next to an adorable, studious Jisung for an hour and a half twice a week has proven exceptionally beneficial to your well-being. And your mission.
“What's this?" he asks, carefully lowering himself into his usual seat beside you.
Except this time, there's something unusual waiting on his desk.
You swivel toward him in your chair, unable to hide your grin as he examines the cup with the cautious curiosity of a puppy discovering a new toy.
"Just something I picked up on the way here," you say casually. "I saw it and thought of you."
"A boba tea?"
"Mhm."
He turns the cup in his hands, reading the label. "Milk tea reminds you of me?"
"Almost exclusively.”
Jisung stabs his straw through the top and takes a tentative sip.
His eyes widen.
There it is.
That brief flash of delighted surprise he never quite manages to hide when something makes him happy.
Before he can stop himself, he takes another sip.
"It's strawberry taro!”
"Of course it is,” you reply nonchalantly. “That's your favorite."
He pauses. Then slowly turns toward you, brows furrowed but eyes still sparkling and delicious like the boba in his drink.
"How do you know that?"
"You told me, duh.”
"I did?"
"Yeah.”
"When?"
“Umm, about two – no, three weeks ago, maybe?”
"No way, I would've remembered that."
"Yeah, you were talking about how the boba place near your dorm keeps running out of taro, and you were bummed because you hadn't had any in a long time.”
Jisung blinks, the memory slowly taking shape in his mind. "You remember that?"
"Why wouldn't I?”
Because he just said it in passing, tucked somewhere between complaining about assignments and ranking fictional characters in terms of survivability during a zombie apocalypse. Because he wasn't expecting you to actually listen. Because people don't usually remember little things like favorite drinks or offhand comments, the tiny preferences that make up the shape of a person. Especially not when they belong to him.
He looks at the cup again, turning it in his hand when he notices something strange about the label.
“Wait a second, this isn't from that boba shop.”
“Oh, you're right,” you reply as if also just noticing. “They were still out. So I went to the other one.”
“You mean the one on the other side of campus?”
“Yeah,” you say as if that should be expected. But then your expression changes. “Crap, did I get the wrong one? Their menu is different, so I just picked what looked like–”
“No, it's perfect!” he quickly assures you. “I just…I don't usually go to that one because it's not worth the really long walk and really long lines.”
"You're worth it, Sungie."
You say it so matter of factly. Like it's so obvious.
Like the sky is blue, and water is wet, and Han Jisung is worth going out of your way for just because.
Judging by the expression on his face, this information is completely new to him.
He opens his mouth, hesitates, then lets out a quiet laugh of disbelief instead, as though the idea of someone thinking he's worth the effort has short-circuited his ability to speak.
You tilt your head cutely, hair cascading effortlessly over your shoulder, immediately introducing Jisung to a brand new problem.
Your neck.
Has it always been that pretty? Or is he just imagining things?
"Earth to Jisung, you still here?"
Instead of answering, he gives a single nod and seals his useless lips around the straw.
You watch a few boba pearls race up the clear plastic and disappear into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully, eyes fixed very intensely on absolutely anything that isn't you to mask his fluttering heart.
Unfortunately for him, the growing pink tint across his cheeks is a considerable giveaway.
Unfortunately for you, watching him try and fail not to blush is ridiculously cute.
You rest your jaw in your hand, elbow propped on the desk as you watch him.
And watch him.
And watch him.
So much so that your previously retracted title of “stalker” may need to be revisited.
Eventually, Jisung glances over. The moment his eyes meet yours, he freezes.
"What?”
“Nothing.” Just a soft, enchanted, fond smile. "I like seeing you happy, that's all.”
Jisung bashfully lowers his gaze again, taking another long sip of his drink, sucking as many boba pearls as he can into his cheeks before chewing.
Then he swallows, hard.
Slowly, his eyes lift back to you. The bewilderment on his face is straight comical. Like he just spent the last thirty seconds buffering before his brain finally loaded.
And for a brief, gloriously adorable moment, you watch it unfold across his face in stages: confusion, recognition, disbelief.
"You called me Sungie."
"Oh." You blink innocently. "Is that not your name?"
He narrows his eyes at you, lips pressing into a flat line to show he's not impressed with your antics. (Jokes on him – his dimples show when he does that.)
"You know that's not what I mean."
“No, I'm pretty sure that's your name.”
“No, I'm pretty sure you're just flirting with me again,” he says, voice softening.
You lean in slightly, chin still in your hand as you give him a playful smirk. “You say that as if you don’t enjoy being flirted with.”
“I don't.” he responds, mirroring your body by resting his chin in his hand as well, leaning in just a bit closer.
“Liar.”
“I really don't.”
“Oh wow, that was almost convincing,” you say pretending to be impressed. “But your cute little smile kinda gave it away. Wanna try again?”
He presses his lips together and clears his throat in an attempt to regain composure.
"I don't like your flirting," he insists, voice steadier but still soft as butter.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” you sing-song.
“What are you, a third grader?”
“No,” you shrug, “but the kid who beat you in League last week was.”
Jisung's smile immediately falters. He stammers, trying to come up with a comeback, but before he can, you reach out and poke his nose. His eyes cross to follow your finger, and you pull it back with a playful hiss.
"Ooh, you might need some aloe for that burn, babe," you giggle with a teasing smile.
“Hey, some of those kids are ruthless!” he defends, pushing his glasses up his nose – which only makes you want to boop it again.
"Oh, come on,” you roll your eyes. "He was, like, ten."
"Thirteen!”
"Whatever,” you sit back, arms crossed in a mock show of superiority. “How hard can League be if you're losing to middle schoolers?”
“You wanna go?” Jisung suddenly asks, voice full of that competitive energy you’d expect from a professional athlete.
“You're not serious.”
He leans in that much closer, offering a handshake that looks more like he’s about to set up for an arm-wrestling match.
“I've never been more serious about anything in my entire life.”
You eye his hand cautiously. He’s not usually like this, but you’re not mad. Competitive Jisung? Kinda super hot.
“Alright, nerd.” You shake his hand with an equally confident smirk. “You're on.”
“Have you ever even played League before?” he asks.
“Pfft,” you scoff, shaking your head. “No. But that doesn't matter. I'm still gonna wipe the floor with you.”
“Dream on,” he quips. "But we'll have to schedule your humiliating defeat for tomorrow or Thursday.”
“Why can't I beat your ass today?"
“I've got a date with Minji.”
Your hand slaps over your mouth and you jerk forward. “Sorry, gag reflex.”
Oh, shit. That was too much, wasn’t it?
Aw fuck, come on! Things were going so well! The banter was bantering. You swear you saw a romantic sparkle in his eye at the idea of playing League together. And now you’re going to have to traverse Jisung defending his stupid girlfriend again.
You brace yourself for the usual, sickening “don’t talk about her that way” speech.
But instead, he starts laughing.
Not the polite chuckles or amused huffs you've grown accustomed to. But a genuine, unrestrained laugh that bubbles up from deep within his gut, spilling out without any attempt to hold it back.
Then suddenly he's laughing so hard he can't seem to breathe.
His giggles climb higher and higher until the sound disappears altogether. He doubles over in his seat, one hand clutching his stomach while tiny tears gather at the corners of his eyes.
He doesn't have anything beside him to smack, so he settles for shoving your shoulder instead, nearly knocking himself out of his chair in the process.
When Jisung laughs, he laughs with his whole body. Every inch of him is involved. His shoulders shake. His head drops forward. His arms flail uselessly in a poor attempt to regain control of himself.
You love it. You're in love with it.
Because right now he's completely authentic. Completely uncensored. So unequivocally Jisung.
At first, you thought you'd seen this before.
Back at the diner, he laughed then too. Enough that you went home thinking you'd caught a glimpse of the real Han Jisung hiding beneath all the awkwardness and nervous smiles.
Apparently, you were wrong.
Because that laugh? That was just the trailer. A sneak peek. This is what happens when he completely forgets to be self-conscious.
No overthinking. No second-guessing. No carefully measured responses.
Just pure, unfiltered joy.
God, if he wanted you to fall in love with him any faster, all he had to do was ask.
Honestly, your slapstick gag wasn't even that funny. A little funny, sure maybe. Definitely worthy of a chuckle or maybe even a snort.
But this? This feels like someone who just really needed to laugh.
You wonder if he ever laughs like this around Minji.
Probably not. For some reason, you can't imagine her appreciating this version of him. The loud version. The messy version. The one laughing so hard he’s probably forgotten what he's laughing about.
Her fucking loss. He's beautiful.
After a few moments of gasping for air and wiping tears from under his eyes only to crack up again at the sight of himself, Jisung manages to calm down enough to form words.
“Sorry…” he says, breathless. “That was…I mean, you’re ridiculous sometimes.”
With a hum of agreement, you fold your arms on the desk and rest your cheek on them, peering up at him with a soft smile. “...so cute.”
Jisung watches you for a moment before almost absentmindedly folding his own arms on the desk too, resting his cheek against them so he can be eye-level with you.
"I haven't laughed like that in forever,” he admits with a cough. “Don't tell Minji I laughed at her.”
“Take a drink, giggles.”
Because he’s a good boy and mostly listens to you, he sits up enough to take a sip of his milk tea. Then he lays back down onto the desk, seemingly more than content to just be near you in the quiet, happy mess of this moment.
Jisung’s expression softens into a gentle, warm smile. His eyes linger on you for a moment longer, filled with a tenderness that was once shy, but has grown more confident. Which can only mean one thing…
He's changing.
The flirty attention that used to make him flustered, nervous, and insecure has instead become what makes him feel safe and valued and attractive. It’s like you’re watching him shed layers of self-doubt, revealing a version of himself that’s more assured, more at ease, more willing to laugh.
And it's all happening because he’s beginning to see himself the way you see him – worthy, valuable, and undeniably special. Not because someone else determined he is. But because he intrinsically is.
Of course, that means you’ll have to up your antics and your flirting, pushing just a little beyond what's the typical comfort zone for “friends”, but if it’s helping him believe in himself more, it’s worth every playful challenge.
The corners of his lips curl upward naturally, and you feel a little flutter of happiness settle deep inside your bones. For a brief moment, looking into each others eyes like this, everything feels right.
"...thanks," he mumbles.
"For what?"
"The boba,” he takes a breath, “and for making me laugh.”
Something warm spreads throughout your chest seeing him accept the kind of treatment he should have been receiving from his partner all along.
"Of course.”
"You remember a lot of things about me, huh?”
"Why shouldn't I?" you reply bravely. "It's the bare minimum when you're falling in love with someone.”
“Yeah, I guess….wait, what–!?”
“Shh,” you cut him off, sitting up and pointing to the front of the class, “the professor is starting.”
You look ahead, but you don't miss that Jisung can't seem to keep his eyes from drifting to you the entire class period.
Eventually, you glance sideways. Only to catch him immediately jerking his gaze back to the front every time.
Oh, yeah. Subtle as a gun.
::
There’s something about you that draws Jisung in. Something he can’t quite explain, even though he’s spent countless hours lost in his own head trying to figure you out.
The layers around you are seemingly endless. One moment, you're cute. The next, you're flirting. And then, suddenly, you're walking three miles just to bring him his favorite boba tea because it reminds you of him.
Who does that!? Crazy people, that's who.
You're crazy. In a really attractive way.
Even more, Jisung feels crazy when he's with you – crazy at ease, crazy shy, crazy confident, crazy himself.
When he's with you, he feels like he’s worth more than he probably is. Somehow, you’ve planted this idea in his head that he’s supposed to be praised just for existing. When in reality, that’s not true. There’s the bare minimum, and then there’s whatever kind of treatment you give him.
“Princess treatment.” That's what you called it once. He's your “princess.”
He prefers Sungie. But he’d also be lying if he said he doesn’t find your other term of endearment just as flattering (maybe even more so).
Spending time with you feels effortless, even with his heart hammering in his chest the whole time. Definitely more than he should admit, especially since he's spent more time with you than anyone else these past few months.
Including…in the library when he was supposed to be on a study date with his girlfriend.
God, that scene hasn't left his mind since. He was…fuck, he was so lost in that moment. No wonder he hasn't been able to find his way back to himself yet.
All he can remember clearly are your words swimming inside his head and the shape of your lips when you got close to him…
And when you held his hand? Oh my god, it was like a current of electricity bringing his whole body alive. His skin burned where your fingers intertwined, and he felt jolts of lightning surge through his veins, like every nerve ending was overloaded at once – holy shit, no wonder so many guys chase you.
Every heartbeat was amplified, in perfect time with yours. And for a moment, all he could focus on was that connection. On how your hand fit so perfectly in his, as if it was made for him.
And when you looked into his eyes, his whole world stopped. Every word you said was genuine and selfless. He's never had someone feel so strongly about how he's being treated, how he's living.
Unsure of how to react to your passion, Jisung finds himself replaying your words in his mind at every moment.
“How am I supposed to respect someone who treats you like that?”
"You say you're lucky. But I think you've got it backwards…she's the one who's lucky to have you.”
“Get ready to have your ass properly flirted with, nerd. I'm gonna show you how you should be treated."
Not only did you leave a lasting impression in the library, but you’ve continued to leave impressions every time he sees you. The boba tea, the cute nicknames, going on errands together, remembering his schedule, making him laugh, sending him random texts just to “check in.”
There has to be a limit, right? Like, some point where you draw the line, when you realize enough is enough. Eventually, you’ll get tired of doing all these things for someone who isn’t offering any benefits in return. And then, perhaps, you’ll slowly back away or just cut him off entirely.
That’s usually what people do in situations like this, isn’t it? But Jisung gets the feeling that you’re different somehow. That’s not the kind of person you are.
But what is he kidding? Someone like you wanting someone like him? It’s a joke, a tease, a bit, a laugh.
Unless…it’s not. And maybe, just maybe, you’re actually falling for someone like him. Which, again, circles him right back to CRAZY.
The war continues on in his head as he walks.
He looks down at Minji’s hand tucked in his, slender fingers intertwined and swinging gently in the air. She's wearing a chunky ring on every other finger, so they don't slot with his perfectly. And her hand is overly relaxed, so much so that if he let go, she would probably slip right out of his grasp.
All of this makes him feel very small. Tiny. Like he’s just a shadow in what’s supposed to be a shared moment. He can’t say he feels nothing, because he does feel gratitude and a small hint of affection.
But it’s not lightning strikes.
He follows the line of her arm up to her face, where she’s currently glued to her phone, talking animatedly to one of her friends about some guy they hooked up with and wanting “every steamy detail.”
He watches her smile at her screen, gasp at juicy reveals, and ask more questions than he's gotten in what feels like forever. Never thought it was possible, but turns out he can be a third wheel on his own date. Or, at least, what he had intended to be a date.
He’d planned to take Minji to the mall because she loves the mall and never once has refused the opportunity. But she said she’d gone yesterday with her friends and didn’t want to go again today.
So, he suggested a casual walk through the park, just some quiet time to enjoy the weather and each other's company.
That plan lasted all of three minutes before her phone rang, and suddenly, he was shoved into second place.
Now, he's here, staring absentmindedly at her hand loosely hung on his hand and the surrounding couples in the park, none of which are on their phones.
“Jisung?”
Her voice breaks him out of his daze, his attention immediately locking back in on her.
“Huh? Yeah?”
She raises an eyebrow, holding her phone a little ways away for a moment. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head.
“You dropped my hand.”
“Oh,” he answers, lips parting in surprise when he looks down and, sure enough, notices their hands fallen away from each other. “Sorry, umm, it's getting a little sweaty. I didn't want to ruin your rings.”
A lie. Jisung just lied. To his girlfriend. He's not a liar! And yet, he can't bring himself to be honest: that she makes him feel like an annoyance, a bother, an inconvenience. The conflict, although probably needed, seems futile to him.
Minji sighs, annoyed, and turns back to her phone. “I'll call you back in a few.”
“You didn't have to hang up,” he says quietly.
“Yeah, I did,” she insists with another deep sigh – each one pressing a bruise into his chest. “Now, tell me what's wrong.”
“But you really wanted to have that call.”
“You're right, I did. But I hung up for you,” she says sassily, grabbing his hand again. “You're obviously upset. So, talk to me.”
Why is he hesitating? She passed up her phone call to talk to him. He should feel prioritized and valuable. But actually, this feels far worse. Because now he's a nuisance, an irritation she’d rather ignore but can't. A problem she's obligated to deal with instead of a person she gets the chance to love.
“Seriously? You're not going to share?” Minji asks in (what Jisung suspects was intended to be) a cute voice. “Come on, I cut my phone call short for you, and you're not even gonna tell me?”
“Well…” Jisung finally speaks, guilt ridden to tell her something. “You know how I'm taking a coding class this semester?”
“Yeah.”
“I have this project that spans the whole class, and then I submit it as my final grade.”
“Mhm.”
“I have to write the code for my own app using my own original idea.”
“Uh huh.”
“And I'm not sure what to do. I mean, I really like the class so far, and I want to get a good grade, so maybe I shouldn’t aim too high? But there's so many things I could do. Like, should I make the app for fun, or educational, or medical care, or business? I guess, I actually do have a lot of cool ideas now that I say it out loud. I just don't know which one to…”
He glances over and sees Minji has pulled out her phone again, texting.
“...choose,” he finishes softly.
A brief silence settles between them as her thumb swipes over her phone screen, holding down for a second before sending whatever she found to multiple group chats.
Once she notices Jisung has stopped talking, she turns her head back toward him. “Yeah? I'm listening.”
He hesitates for a moment before asking, “What do you think I should make?”
“I don’t know. That’s a tough one,” she hums thoughtfully. “You should make whatever you want. It’s your game, after all.”
“So, you think I should make the app a game?”
“Uh, sure! Yeah, that's what I meant,” she shrugs, eyes already gone back to her phone and whatever saucy reply she just got from the chat. “Umm, what level of the league thingy or whatever is this for again?”
Is it bad he doesn't want to dwell on it any longer? Honestly, Jisung doesn’t really feel like talking at all right now, let alone thinking about deadlines and projects.
So, instead, he does something that always works when he wants to avoid sharing or engaging – a way to deflect that has yet to fail him.
“It's not important. How’s the guy your friend’s seeing?”
And that’s all it takes.
“Oh my god, he’s a piece of work,” Minji immediately replies, voice filled with character and emotion Jisung was never going to get any other way. “I swear, this is the craziest shit she’s pulled in a minute. I told her not to let him buy her drinks. I told her! And now, she’s got this guy on the hook for her, which is hilarious because he’s so not her type. But she's already bagged him like three times! I’m dying laughing at her, like, she’s actually insane for this—”
She keeps talking, but Jisung tunes her out pretty easily once she gets going. Her rant will probably last for another fifteen minutes or so, the cycle repeating as he asks another question about Minji, her friend, or some guy, and she launches into another story.
It's not that Jisung tries to avoid talking about himself, but it's hard to talk about himself when his partner smiles more at her friend’s spicy text messages than she ever has at him. He doesn't want to see her bored or annoyed. And she looks happiest when talking about herself and her friends.
So, what starts as a walk in the park quickly turns into a one-sided monologue about her friend's sex life, making Jisung feel more invisible than ever.
But she’s happy – that’s all that matters. So, the date is a success.
Right?
Yeah. As long as she's happy. No matter how much he sacrifices or how much he holds back, his greatest wish is for her to find joy, peace, and contentment in their relationship. That's what a boyfriend is supposed to provide. Even if it means putting his own feelings aside every time.
Carrying that quiet sense of obligation when he's with Minji is just part of the deal. It's what he signed up for. He feels compelled to give her the better parts of himself – his kindness, his attentiveness, his gentle patience – because that’s what a boyfriend should do. Even when those efforts go unnoticed or unappreciated, it’s still his duty to treat her well, regardless of how she responds.
Deep down, Jisung knows that love isn’t about keeping score or expecting gratitude, but…sometimes the fact that he’s constantly giving more than he’s receiving is hard to brush under the rug.
But he has to push those feelings aside. His responsibility is to be better – more caring, more patient, more loving. Because that’s what it means to truly care for someone.
Even if she doesn't care about—
She does care about me…right?
::
When they reach his dorm, Jisung hesitates in front of the door, his mind still racing. He gently swings her hand now that it's not holding her phone, a silent gesture filled with all his unspoken thoughts.
Maybe he shouldn't be waiting so long to take the initiative based on the way Minji checks the time and sighs. But for the first time since they started dating, he's pausing, carefully weighing his feelings before asking…
“Do you want to come in for a bit?”
A question Minji has heard at the end of every date he's taken her on, though he's usually more enthusiastic than this.
Perhaps it's because, for the first time since they started dating, he's not expecting much from her.
It’s not like she’s given any indication that she’s going to say yes or that she even wants to. Minji doesn’t crave Jisung the way he craves her, and he’s come to accept that. (Although it hurts more than he cares to admit.)
He’s exhausted himself trying to understand her, trying to piece together what she wants or what she’s really thinking. Every effort feels like banging his head against a wall. Maybe this is just who she is – indifferent, detached, always a step ahead, always leaving him to wonder if he’s enough.
Minji smiles softly and slides her arms around his shoulders, leaning in close so he can feel her breasts against his body.
“I guess we haven’t cuddled or made out in a while, huh?” she hums softly, her pitying eyes drifting to his lips.
He nods silently, feeling his cheeks warm when she moves in a little closer to brush their noses.
“Does my baby need some attention?”
He nods again, leaning into her a little more, instinctively chasing that closeness.
For someone who openly lives for intimacy and knows that physical touch is one of his love languages, it’s rare for Minji to offer this kind of attention without a catch.
So, when moments like this happen, Jisung can’t help but feel a little bit of excitement. Despite being an inexperienced nerd, he’s still a guy – one who yearns to make his partner feel all kinds of things. Fantasies, fairytales, desires hiding in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind.
And he knows Minji would be down if she would take two minutes to listen. If he could only figure out why she always stops halfway.
The theories about why she hasn’t slept with him after almost six months of dating haven’t changed since the last time he spiraled. He’s gone over every possibility, every excuse, every reason so many times he has a semi-permanent headache.
Maybe it's his room? Maybe it's too messy? Maybe it's too cold? Maybe it's cursed?
Maybe it's his bed? Maybe it's too firm? Maybe it's too small? Maybe it doesn't smell right?
Minji can be rather particular.
Maybe it's him? Maybe he's too quiet? Maybe he's too thin? Maybe he's too dorky? Maybe he's not good enough?
As they step inside and his dorm door swings shut behind them, it becomes painfully obvious that this isn’t about his room or his bed.
Before he can even process what’s happening, she’s on him. Minji’s hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, guiding him backward with a confident, relentless energy, shoving him onto the bed with a force that leaves no room for hesitation.
He stumbles, his body hitting the mattress with a grunt as she falls on top of him.
Her kiss is nothing short of masterful. Lips confident and commanding, capable of turning even the most stoic of men into beggars. Her touch is precise, her presence overwhelming, and her skills unmatched. There's no question as to how she's able to command men the way that she does.
It's hopeless. Jisung feels himself get drawn in within seconds, the weight of her body settled over his waist, the press of her hands on his chest as they drag down to the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath without permission.
Jisung has never considered himself to have the most tempting body, but he often wishes that Minji would be inexplicably and irresistibly drawn to him. And in this fleeting instant, he allows himself to believe that she actually is.
With her hips not-so-gently rocking against him and her nails dragging down his chest, Jisung feels his world start to melt away and fall out of his mind. His eyes roll back into his head, and all the sensation on his skin amplifies at the feeling of her lips on his neck.
This. This is what he's been craving.
Although it may be embarrassing to admit out loud, in his heart, Jisung knows he's a hopeless romantic. He wants nothing more than to share any and every kind of intimacy with his person. To feel them in and around every part of him – emotionally and physically – and to make them feel just as encompassed by him.
How often Jisung's pictured his first time is borderline delusional. Always with a girlfriend who’s kind, experienced, and able to guide him all the way through. The kind of girlfriend that could snap her fingers and have anyone she wants, but she chooses him anyway. The kind who's gentle but dangerous, sensual but eager, rough but caring.
The longer Jisung lays underneath Minji’s touch, eyes shut and body heated, he can't keep convincing himself that it'll be like that with her.
Minji’s not the type to guide. She's not the type to slow down or appreciate every inch of him. And she's not the type to care if he does any of that crap for her.
Then comes a dangerous thought. His hands are on her waist, his hips matching her rhythm, but behind his eyelids, another face appears.
Not hers.
“Fuck—” he mutters, his voice cracking.
He tries to curse the image away, but you remain, like a stain in his mind he can't erase.
Each time her lips brush against his skin, he feels you.
Every time her hips grind against him, he feels you.
Every time her hands glide across his abdomen and beneath his waistline, he feels you.
You. You. You.
Fuck! You're all he can think about.
Minji lifts her head just enough to meet his gaze, a teasing yet proud smile curling on her swollen lips.
“You sound pretty,” she says softly, then shifts to sit upright on his lap, letting her weight settle right where he needs her most, yet offering no relief. “I'm going to go freshen up, okay? Don’t move.”
Damn, the agony of her dragging herself away is like peeling a sticker off paint. Jisung stays reaching for her, not wanting or even caring if she freshens up. They're already in it, why leave now?
Then again, maybe it's a good thing he takes a moment to clear his head. Or at least, clear his mind of anyone else.
Where did the thought of you even come from!? Of all the times to think about you, now is perhaps the most inconvenient and inappropriate. He can't have sex with Minji while thinking about you! And yet, no matter how hard he tries, every time he closes his eyes, he doesn't see his girlfriend…he sees you.
Beautiful, caring, sexy, funny, charming, crazy you.
Is he insane!? He's about to finally, finally have sex with the girl he's been bending over backwards to date. And his mind and heart aren't even in it! Sure, his dick is getting happy, but the rest of him feels…out of place.
It’s as if her lips and hands are moving with familiarity, but not the warmth or urgency he believes is supposed to be present when you're about to make love to someone.
When she touches him, he doesn't feel like she's touching deep inside his bones. He doesn't feel like she's reaching into his soul, let alone past the first layer of skin. Everything she does and says and kisses is on the surface. Nothing deeper.
As if she doesn't even really…want him at all.
The sudden sound of a phone vibrating against his side startles him to sit up. When he reaches over, he finds Minji’s phone lost in the comforter. It must have fallen out of her pocket when she climbed on top of him.
He doesn't mean to, honest, he doesn't. Jisung isn't the type to snoop, and he's definitely not the type to invade someone else's conversation. But he gets a glimpse of the screen when it turns on automatically, and the texts just keep coming in.
[Jae] hey
[Jae] u busy?
[Jae] got 25 min before my class
[Jae] usual spot?
[Jae] come on baby i miss u
[Jae] dont tell me ur with that nerd again
[Jae] ditch him already
[Jae] need u so bad baby
[Jae] my hands just not the same
[Jae] need ur mouth
[Jae] fuck baby answer me
[Jae] im dying over here
[Jae] dont make me beg
[Jae] …again
Can he even admit it? That a part of him figured as much.
Without opening the texts, Jisung tucks the phone back into his blankets where he found it. Laying still as if nothing had happened.
No. He can't bring himself to say it out loud. Minji isn’t about to, so maybe some foolish part of his heart doesn’t want to accept it either. If she never comes clean, then maybe he can keep pretending it’s not happening too, keep pretending everything’s fine?
Minutes pass in silence.
Then, Minji steps out of the bathroom, hair tousled and face shimmering. She climbs back on top of him, her body pressing soft and warm against his. Without so much as a word or smile, her lips find his again, slow and deliberate, trying to ignite that familiar spark.
But he can't feel anything now. Not even you.
“Minji?” Jisung mutters against her lips, not waiting for a natural pause or for her to pull away.
“Yes, baby?”
“While you were in the bathroom…umm, something--"
A deep rumble of vibration suddenly echoes from somewhere inside his blankets, making them both freeze in surprise. Minji’s fingers fumble instinctively through the comforter as she searches for it. When she finally finds the phone and looks at the screen, her eyes widen, and she gasps softly, her breath catching in her throat.
“Oh no!”
“What’s wrong?” he asks with a hard swallow.
“My sister was in an accident. My mom needs me to call her,” she says hurriedly, placing a hand on his chest and trailing her finger along his septum. “I’m so sorry, baby, can we take a rain check?”
This isn’t a breakup. So why does it feel like he’s about to let her walk out of his heart instead of his dorm room?
“Of course. Go call your mom. Text me so I know you're okay?”
“Mhm!” She quickly kisses his cheek and says she’ll text him later. But as he watches her skip away, he can’t shake the feeling that she’s much too giddy for someone who just got bad news.
He sits up in his bed in silence. Alone.
So. This is what it feels like to be played. Cheated on. Used. Discarded.
It's a lot more fragile than he anticipated.
His heart feels heavy, but deep down, he probably always kind of knew the truth. He’s just background noise in her life, someone she keeps around for when she’s bored or lonely.
In the subconscious parts of his mind and heart, he prepared for this. But he’d prepared himself for something far worse than this quiet, lingering, persistent ache.
Isn’t heartbreak supposed to cause a storm? To shatter his every reality and tear him apart at every seam?
But no. His heart is breaking so slowly. Softly. Slipping through tiny cracks in ways he never anticipated, letting water seep in little by little. Just enough to cause panic, but not enough to drown him.
He stares at the door she left through, feeling hollow, betrayed, and barraged with questions.
How long has he been just a pawn in her game? How long has he been nothing more than someone she uses when it suits her? How long has he been blindly devoted while she ran around treating his loyalty like shit? Was any of it ever real? Was she ever into him at all?
He closes his eyes, trying to breathe, trying to process. But all he can feel is a gnawing emptiness inside his chest getting bigger, bigger. And he doesn't know how to stop it.
There's no pretending or denying any longer. He’s just another player in her sick game. And no matter how much of himself he gives, he’ll never be more than that to her.
He'll never be enough.
::
GF taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @velvetmoonlght @dearbisky @hwangjoanna @jeonginnieswifey @firstdivisiongirl @mikachux3 @pineapple-burgah @eyyyylucieeee
@barbie-girl84 @mysticetti @whights-t @d3kstar @dreamerwasfound @ahseyy @1-800-changkyun @tzukiko-liz @tboboee @mimadymo @alicaster @fxckinmingi @iknowuknowleeknows @linoschickenbreasts @vxyselectric @tsunderelino @imnotsop @hanniesbubuwife @simpingshit24 @coquette-dreamszie @skzbbyyy @leefelex @7sunny07 @thepoeticpurplepotato @ccatpawzz @starrynightviper @cheribloss @foreveralistener1
What a sentence to start the chapter— I MEAN, MINJI CAN'T YOU BE A LITTLE PRESENT WHILE YOU'RE ON A DATE?!? I SWEAR ATP I'M GONNA STEAL JISUNG FROM YOU, YOU LITTLE JERK. Also, yes, loving someone means you remember the little things about them, go girl, go show how valuable Jisung is!
Noooo Jisung :(((. He was so happy at the beginning with his boba tea :((((not me remembering that one tik tok audio when she said "...so cute") IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT MINJI 😤😤
Also... don't mind my reblog👉👈 I'm currently binge reading(?) girlfriend rn 👉👈 although it's already 1 am in my country, I need to sleep :<
Girlfriend | pt 3
-> You don't like Han Jisung's girlfriend. He needs a new one.
nerd!jisung x fem!reader
strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt / comfort, college!au, suggestive
3.2K
warnings: cursing, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of cheating, reader is an unreliable narrator
inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne
series mlist
-------------------------------------------------
The campus diner is loud in a comforting sort of way. Week old grease popping behind the counter, retro music humming through blown-out speakers, students half-asleep and half-high on milkshakes and fries.
Memories of this place from freshman year flood your mind the moment you step inside, back when the campus still felt exciting and full of possibility. Even the questionable food and multiple health code violations were somehow charming.
You used to come here alone all the time, before your reputation. Studying felt less miserable when you had a greasy snack and the option to periodically pass out in one of the most ridiculously uncomfortable diner booths on planet earth.
Back then, you’d spread your notes across the table and stay for hours, tucked into the corner with headphones on and a milkshake sweating beside your textbooks. It felt peaceful.
Until that peace turned into loneliness. And you stopped coming so often.
But you’re not alone anymore.
Jisung sits across from you now, hoodie sleeves pushed up enough to expose his forearms as he casually steals one of your fries. You watch him drag it through your dipping sauce like it naturally belongs to both of you, completely unbothered (or clueless) by the intimacy of it.
And maybe that’s what gets you the most. Because a week ago, Han Jisung was just some random guy sitting alone at a party next to a drink he wasn’t even drinking.
And now somehow the two of you have slipped into this strange comfortability that usually takes months to build, stuck in this weird limbo where it feels normal for him to eat off your plate, but not to ask for his number.
“You know,” Jisung says around a mouthful of stolen fries, “this is probably the weirdest origin story I’ve ever experienced.”
“Origin story?” you raise a brow. “That’s what we’re calling it?”
“Mhm.”
“Is that nerd language for friendship?”
“Pretty much.”
“So, we're friends?”
“I mean,” he replies slowly, “Do you want to be?”
Oh, hell to the no. The last thing you want is to be shoved into the friendzone with Han Jisung. If you’re going to end up in anything involving Jisung, you’d strongly prefer it be his bedsheets.
“Sure,” you say sweetly instead. “I’d like that.”
Even though you lied, the way his face brightens feels dangerously rewarding.
You watch, deeply distracted, as he takes a bite of his burger before swiping his thumb through the ketchup at the corner of his mouth and absentmindedly licking it clean. Something about watching him eat is oddly satisfying.
His cheeks are three times their normal size when he talks with food in his mouth, soft and round in a way that should not be as cute as it is on a grown ass man. It gives him this unfairly adorable quality that completely clashes with the fact that you’ve spent at least half the week imagining him in morally questionable scenarios.
“Can you believe that a week ago you were trying to seduce me in a hallway?” he continues, pausing to chew only after speaking. “What an introduction.”
Even more concerning, you’re starting to realize Jisung never seems to finish chewing what’s already stored in his cheeks before immediately putting more food in his mouth.
The man is going to choke, and surprisingly, it will have nothing to do with your hand around his neck.
“Oh my god,” you groan, dropping your forehead dramatically into your palm. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”
“I’m just saying,” he swallows, “most people start conversations by asking about my major or hobbies, not putting their hand on my thigh.”
“In my defense,” you point at him with a fry, “you looked easy.”
“Easy?”
“You were way too innocent to be at that party, what was I supposed to do?”
“Not try to corrupt me?”
“Okay, before we start judging, I would just like it to be noted that the second I found out you had a girlfriend, I backed off.”
Jisung gives you a look over the edge of his glasses before pushing them back up his nose. “Backed off?”
“Yes.”
“You stalked us for a week.”
“That was investigative journalism!”
He laughs again, warm and bright enough that a couple people glance over. “Oh, right. My bad.”
“Seriously,” you reply, trying to hide your smile behind your drink before it betrays how much his laugh affects you. “I could’ve been a terrible person about it, but I wasn’t.”
“You bought a — well actually, I don't know if I can even call it a disguise.”
“Okay first, I didn't buy anything. I had that trenchcoat. Second, my outfit choices are unrelated to my moral integrity.”
“The trench coat was an insane move.”
“It was fashion.”
“It was seventy-eight degrees outside.”
"You know what?" A giggle slips free before you can catch it. So much for maintaining the bit. You quickly pull yourself together, adopting your most serious expression. "You're being really judgmental for a guy who plays League of Legends behind his girlfriend's back."
He gasps softly, a hand gripping his shirt like you’ve wounded him. “Low blow.”
“Be grateful I’m keeping your secret, nerd.”
“We're friends now,” he points out. “You have to.”
“So the reason you wanted to be friends wasn't because you like me? You just didn't want me to tattle on you?” A dramatic hand lands across your heart, little sniffles and fake sobs between your words. “I'm hurt.”
Jisung shakes his head, still smiling to himself as he reaches for another fry off your plate. “Nah, of course I like you.”
Holy shit, get it together. He didn't mean it like that.
His bangs keep falling in front of his eyes every time he laughs, and you have to physically stop yourself from reaching across the table to fix them. (Which is ridiculous behavior. Deeply embarrassing, honestly.)
It doesn't take long. The two of you dissolve into laughter again and again, eventually drawing attention from the handful of other students scattered through the diner. But you couldn't care less.
Jisung’s shoulders shake when he laughs hard. His head falls back against the booth and his arm lands over his stomach. Every so often he smacks the seat beside him or his own thigh, only to immediately wince afterward and grab his wrist dramatically.
Shit, you really like this.
You like having a shared history with him. Inside jokes only the two of you fully understand. They make you feel close to him in a way that’s probably not very smart.
Perhaps you should be embarrassed about how much you're enjoying spending time with someone else's boyfriend. But instead, it just makes your heart ache.
Truthfully, you feel a little guilty about how happy you are that he's not where he was originally supposed to be – with his girlfriend.
But rather, he’s here. Stealing your fries and laughing at your jokes like he genuinely enjoys being around you.
And selfishly, you want to keep him here for as long as possible.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what?”
You give a small, nonchalant shrug. “I needed to laugh, I guess.”
Goddamn it, there he goes again. You didn't realize a smile could look like that. Small at first before it spreads fully across his face like he just can’t help it. As if you're the charming one here.
Those gorgeous boba eyes practically disappear into crescents, rosy cheeks pushing up high behind his glasses. And the way his smile shows a little bit of his top gums!? Holy fuck, he's adorable. Like a proud kid who just got told he did something right for once.
Your gaze lingers on him for too long. How long? You don't know. Long enough that you catch yourself smiling too, simply because he is.
The realization hits you like a slap to the back of the head. Oh, you are so down catastrophically bad.
You clear your throat quickly and look down at your basket of fries instead, suddenly very interested in the three lonely fries left at the bottom.
“You know,” you say after a while, nudging fries around in circles, “most people would’ve asked why I was crying by now.”
Jisung tilts his head curiously, eyes dipping low to catch your downcast gaze. “Do you want me to ask why you were crying?”
You shrug one shoulder, not really nodding but definitely not shaking your head. “I don’t know. It's whatever. Just saying.”
And that’s the truth. You’re not even sure why you brought it up. Normally, if people ask personal questions, you dodge them with inappropriate humor or flirt your way out of it until the conversation moves on. Vulnerability has never really been your thing.
But Jisung just sits there quietly. No pressure. No pushing. He studies you, gaze softening as he takes in the way you’re nibbling absentmindedly at the corner of a fry instead of eating it properly. The way your shoulders keep tightening every few seconds like you’re bracing for some kind of impact.
Then, very gently, he asks, “Why were you crying, ___?"
A small breath escapes your lips, a hesitation some might say. But then you decide there’s no point in avoiding honesty when Jisung has never given you any reason to.
“I ran into my ex.”
“Yikes.”
“And he’s still the same jerk I left three months ago.”
“Why’d you two break up?”
“Because it felt like I only mattered to him when he wanted something from me,” you admit quietly. “And then I found out he cheated.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah.” You let out a small laugh even though there's nothing funny about it. “But apparently I wasn’t allowed to be upset.”
“What do you mean?”
You shrug, even though the motion feels stiff. “When I confronted him, he basically said it was my fault. Said I treat sex too casually, and I let guys use me, so I have no right to get mad when he did the same thing."
The words leave a sour taste in your mouth all over again, as if tasting them for the first time.
“Jerk,” you mutter under your breath, blinking quickly as you look away.
Jisung goes quiet after that. Not awkwardly. Not dismissively. He just lets the silence settle for a moment when he notices your eyes starting to gloss over again.
“Is it okay if I say something?” he finally asks.
You nod. “Please.”
Jisung adjusts his glasses before continuing, quieter this time. “Honestly? When you first sat down next to me at that party, I felt uncomfortable and really nervous.”
Okay, ouch. But before embarrassment can fully crawl up your spine, he quickly adds, “Not because I thought you were bad or annoying or anything. I just…I didn’t really know what to do with that version of you.”
Your gaze lands on his only to find those precious boba eyes sparkling back at you.
“But the more we talked that night, the more I started seeing the real you underneath all that hypersexual facade.” His voice softens, immediately softening the knot in your chest as well. “The way you joked. The way you talked. The way you flirted with me and then pretended to get upset when I turned you down–”
“Not pretending, but go on."
“--that version of you? The real one. I actually liked her. A lot.”
An unstoppable heat creeps up your neck.
Is it just you or did the diner suddenly get way too warm to be sitting inside? The air goes thick, and you can't seem to get enough oxygen breathing through your nose, so your lips part and you take in a deep, slow breath.
“That’s the person I actually wanted to keep talking to after the party," he admits. “That’s the person I want to be friends with.”
Right about now is typically when you would fire off some snarky, sarcastic comeback to leave him flustered and fumbling.
But nothing comes out. Your throat suddenly feels too tight for sarcasm.
Well, shit.
How did he say all that so simply? As if your most heavily guarded insecurity was so obvious to him? What, does he have x-ray vision or something? Fuck, you weren't ready for that. And the longer you let his words hang in the air, the more you realize just how absolutely insane what he just said is.
Guys are not supposed to make you nervous! That’s never how this works. You make guys nervous. You’re the one who leans in first. The one who flirts first. The one who leaves boys red-faced and fumbling over their own name.
But right now?
Looking into Jisung’s eyes is making your stomach twist and your nerves tingle. And for maybe the first time in years, you feel shy. Legitimately shy.
“Okay, hold on,” you blurt out, waving a hand through the air to cut the scene.
Jisung watches you for another second before the corner of his mouth lifts into something softer. “What?”
“Really? Are you serious right now? You're just going to say that while looking at me like that?”
His gaze goes right and left and then comes back to you. “Looking at you like what?”
Your face lands in your hands. “Oh my god, it's so stressful.”
“What is?”
“You! And your relationship status.”
He just stares at you. Somehow this man is both the most intuitive and yet oblivious person you've ever met. In a matter of minutes, he's able to make you cry, stop your crying, make you blush, and make you want to punch a cement wall.
But is he going to take responsibility for all this?
Don't count on it.
No, instead he's just going to sit there with his head tilted and his bangs gently falling in front of his eyes. Fuck, you just want to kiss his stupid, pouty lips until they're swollen and he's breathless underneath you in the corner booth.
“I don't get it,” he replies slowly, brows knitting together cutely.
“Okay,” you start by sitting forward and placing your hands on the table, a deep breath to prepare yourself. “Look, I’m aware you don’t want me commenting on your girlfriend."
Jisung immediately groans under his breath. “Oh no.”
“But,” you continue anyway, holding an innocent hand out, “Just hear me out. I just have to say it.”
"Why do I feel like I’m about to get bullied?”
“Because you are low-key.”
He leans back cautiously, already looking not prepared.
“Minji does not deserve you.”
“___," you can't say that--"
“No, listen to me.” You cut him off before he can argue. “I genuinely hope one day she realizes what a ridiculously good guy she has. Because it's actually stupid that she would cancel any chance she had to spend time with you."
Jisung’s ears start turning pink already. He tries to play it off by adjusting his glasses and swallowing nothing, but it's too late, you've already noticed and memorized the pretty color.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I’m correct.”
“You barely know me.”
“And yet somehow I already know you’re too nice for like eighty percent of this campus.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he reaches for his drink again.
You watch him for a second before adding casually, “Or, alternatively, I hope she never figures it out and dumps you, so I can have you instead.”
Jisung nearly chokes, a small spill of his drink leaking from his lips.
You grin innocently while he coughs into his fist, face flushing pink all over again. Oh yeah, you just found your new favorite color.
“Oh my god,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes now. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”
“Why not? I believe in honesty.”
“I think you believe in causing chaos on purpose.”
“That too.”
He laughs despite himself, ducking his head as he pushes his glasses back up his nose. Goddamn, that smile tugging at his mouth, so small and unassuming, like he’s trying not to enjoy this conversation as much as he is.
You don't understand why he doesn't just admit he enjoys it when you flirt with him. It's not like his loser girlfriend is doing it for him. Nor could she! He already admitted she doesn't give him the physical attention he would like. You can only imagine what kind of emotional attention is missing from his relationship too.
And yet, at the same time, Jisung continues to demonstrate one of the reasons you respect him so much: he sticks up for his girlfriend regardless of her presence. Whether she's here or not, he's not willing to speak ill of her – even if the things you're saying are a hundred percent true.
With your stomach in knots, you're the first to break eye contact, fixing your gaze on your straw instead.
Jisung drops his head into one hand with a quiet sigh, shoulders shaking from embarrassed energy and laughter at the same time.
“You know, I meant for this conversation to make you feel better because you were crying,” he says, eyes sparkling with each word, “not psychologically torture me.”
“Psychologically torturing you does make me feel better."
“Be serious."
“I am. You're too cute when you're flustered. Can't help it."
You intended that line to once again show you that adorably addictive shade of pink on the tips of his ears. But instead, he just looks at you. Not dramatically. Not defensively. Not embarrassed or flustered at all actually.
He just…looks at you.
And for some reason, that’s so much worse.
Because there’s no annoyance in his expression. No discomfort. Just those big, boba brown eyes fixed on you with this quiet, unreadable softness that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly and your toes curl in your shoes.
It lasts maybe two seconds. Probably less.
But it feels intimate enough during those brief moments that you feel a pinch of guilt in your side, making you sit up straight and pull your feet closer under the table.
“Fine,” you mutter, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ll stop flirting.”
“Promise?”
You place a hand dramatically over your heart and raise the other into the air. “I promise to stop verbally hitting on you while you're in a relationship."
A shy smile slips onto his face. “Thanks,” he says quietly.
The thing is, technically, you keep your promise. Your mouth behaves for the rest of the meal, no instances even though plenty of opportunities present themselves.
Your eyes, however, are another story entirely.
Because every time he laughs, your gaze lingers too long on his mouth and that little glimpse of his gums when he smiles really big.
Every time he pushes his glasses up his nose, you notice that little bit underneath the band that's paler than the rest of his honey skin.
Every time he ducks his head while smiling at something stupid you said, you notice the natural part in his bangs and how he shakes his head to get them out of his eyes.
And every time he says your name, you notice the way the syllables seem to melt off his tongue and rest on his lips for a moment longer, as if being kissed before they finally reach your ears.
::
taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @velvetmoonlght @dearbisky @hwangjoanna @jeonginnieswifey @firstdivisiongirl @mikachux3 @pineapple-burgah @eyyyylucieeee
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Your Honour, I disagree with her idea to stop flirting with Jisung, instead please keep flirting with him. I would appreciate that so much :>
AND, this scene
I physically say out loud, "I'm gonna hold your hand while I say this bestie" — HONESTLY???!!! She's damn right!
Anyway—the ex is a jerk. A big, large red flag over here. He deserves to be kicked in the stomach (sorry for choosing violence 😶🌫️)
This chapter is so domestic for someone who's not in a relationship :((( It's just sooo adorable, I might as well melt into a puddle 🫠🫠
Girlfriend | pt 1
-> You don't like Han Jisung's girlfriend. He needs a new one.
nerd!jisung x fem!reader
strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt / comfort, college!au, suggestive
5.2K
warnings: reader has low self worth and a poor self image hidden behind shamelessness, mentions of infidelity, cursing, inappropriate clothes and flirting, kissing, dancing (Jisung is a complete gentleman), a college party with alcohol, suggestive comments and sexual themes, reader is an unreliable narrator
Inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne
series mlist
-------------------------------------------------
He’s kissing you like he's been starved for days.
Fingers digging into your waist. Mouth moving hard and messy against yours like you’re the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him (which, let's be honest, you probably are).
But there's way too much tongue. His other hand slipped under your shirt like five minutes ago and still hasn't figured out what to do.
You tilt your head away and let him kiss your neck under the impression that you're super into this. Let him think he’s turning you on, so you don't have to battle his bad breath and clanking teeth.
He’s fine. Definitely not deserving of the hype around his skills, but he's not the worst you've encountered.
Kinda cute. A little too eager. Doing all the same things every other guy does. He skimmed the manual as most guys do, so he's got the basics down…sorta. But he doesn't understand the assignment.
You got him easy. A glance, a smile, a brush of your fingers under his jaw, and he was tripping over his own feet to follow you upstairs. Practically on his knees as you dragged him into a spare bedroom.
But he's not anything great, despite what his cocky smirk and dirty talk may lead you to think. No matter how many times he says, “You like that?” You, in fact, do not like that.
You give him two more seconds, then pull back.
“I’m a little thirsty…” you say, letting your breath hitch just enough to sound aroused, even though you’re perfectly fine.
He blinks, dazed. “Oh uh. I’ll grab you something from the kitchen–”
You place a finger on his lips, inching closer to press your body against his, intimidating and intoxicating enough to silence his stuttering immediately.
“You know what would be really hot? I'll go get a drink, and when I come back, I want you naked on the bed, waiting for me. Okay?”
It'd be a lie to say you've never seen a dude’s eyes bug out of his head like that before. Because you have. About a hundred times. It doesn't entice you at all anymore, at least not from this doormat.
He nods frantically, already starting to strip as you walk out the door, not even a glance over your shoulder.
You don’t want a drink. Alcohol only weakens the senses and makes sex worse, in your opinion. It's only good for two things: motivation and boredom.
This party is trash. The music is worse. Not even the thrill of being wanted by the campus hunk is doing it for you tonight.
The whistles and catcalls are background noise at this point. They don't even register in the back of your mind. Guys always look; that’s just how it is. You’re beautiful, and not by accident. You’ve spent years of effort, time, and money perfecting every detail of yourself, so why shouldn't guys stare?
Being irresistible isn't a gift -- it's a carefully honed skill.
Usually, these parties offer some kind of talent. Some kind of excitement that keeps you from becoming this dangerously bored. But every guy here has either already slept with you or isn't even worth it.
Except…hold on, there may be one last hope in the building after all.
Han Jisung. The campus leader of the nerds.
If there's one thing you can do, it's spot talent. Han Jisung is hot. His hotness just happens to be disguised by bangs that are in desperate need of a perm, oversized outdated sweater vests, glasses, and nerdy vocabulary. (Actually, the glasses work for him, you can't lie).
He's slouched on an upstairs hallway couch all alone, thumbs tapping his phone. Thighs spread. Arms surprisingly solid. Pastel sweater vest loose around his waist with a button up underneath.
You're surprised, honestly, because a party like this one is definitely not his scene. Why is he even here? And even more importantly, why is he here looking like that?
His whole vibe screams easy. Soft-spoken. Submissive. Gullible. The kind of guy who wouldn't know he was being taken advantage of until he was shirtless on the bed with his wrists tied to the headboard.
You smirk to yourself.
This could be a fun little ride. As far as you know he's inexperienced and alone. No harm, no foul. A little bit of corruption is typical for guys his age anyway.
You pop one more button on your blouse, fan yourself dramatically, and start walking, hips swinging just enough to catch attention.
Let’s see how long it takes him to crack.
“Mind if I sit?” you ask, already halfway into the empty space beside him.
He looks up, startled, then shifts slightly. “Oh, uh, sure.”
“Thanks,” you sigh, smoothing your miniskirt as you settle in. “It’s hard to find a place to sit down at one of these.”
He nods once, polite but distracted, and goes right back to his phone, thumbs tapping out a message.
You stretch like a cat, legs out and back arched with an exaggerated groan that sounds way too suggestive for a simple stretch, shoulders rolling, bumping into him on purpose.
“Oops! Sorry,” you giggle, voice light and airy. “I’m just so stiff. You don’t mind if I…?” You motion vaguely like you’re going to take up a little more space.
He shakes his head. “No, that's fine," he says, already scooting over to give you more room.
But you stretch again and end up even closer, blouse opening like an invitation. You let your head fall back just so, thighs rubbing together subtly and knees turned in, letting the angle do the work for you.
He blinks in your direction before adjusting in his seat and refocusing on his phone. Not as much of a reaction as you were hoping for, but he's not invincible.
You let your eyes drift over him lazily, a slow and deliberate scan up and down. “Not much of a drinker?”
“Huh?” He looks at you now, intentionally not looking below your chin.
You point to the untouched cup sitting on the table beside him.
“Oh, that’s not mine,” he says.
“A friend’s?”
“I don’t know. It was here when I sat down.”
“Hmm.” You lean in slightly, letting your finger trail down his arm for a second. “Would you like to get a drink with me then?”
Ah, yes. There's a face you recognize. That stunned expression that can't believe someone like you wants to drink with someone like him. Finally, some territory you're used to and thrive in.
He offers a breathless chuckle as his expression fixes itself into a small, apologetic smile. “No, thank you.”
You pout, drawing it out like a playful game. “Mmm, no fun. Come on, you’re at a party. Loosen up a bit. It wouldn't take much. Just one drink?”
“I came with someone else.”
“Oh, I get it,” you tease. “You got dragged along.”
“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, yes. But I wanted to come.”
“Wait, I’m confused. Did you get dragged or did you actually want to be here?”
“I wanted to be dragged here…for someone else.”
You blink, amused. “That’s incredibly cryptic of you.”
He doesn’t respond, just checks his phone again and peers down the hallway like he’s expecting someone to appear any minute now. But no one shows. His face drops.
You grin at the empty hall and the perfect opportunity to make your move. “Well, they obviously didn't mind leaving you all alone,” you purr, fingertips barely grazing the inside of his thigh. “How about you hang out with me for a bit instead? I'm open to anything.”
He stiffens, not pulling away but not leaning in either. “You’re very beautiful,” he says, voice low and sincere, "but I’m not really interested in a one night stand. Thanks, though.”
A beat of silence stretches, the rejection not stinging, but definitely surprising. “Come on,” you laugh, almost disbelieving. “I’m guaranteeing you a score. You can brag to all your friends that I let you play out all your nerdiest fantasies.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “Sorry.”
“You sure?” You lean in a little closer, tilting your head to place your lips beside his ear. “We don’t have to call it a one night stand. It could just be our dirty little secret–”
“I have a girlfriend.”
“Oh.” You move away. Not in shock, just mild annoyance. “Why didn’t you say that from the beginning?”
“I honestly didn't expect you to ask me to sleep with you, so…”
You sit back, suddenly over it. The heat in your gaze cools, lips flattening into something disinterested, body language slumping against the couch as you button up your blouse.
“Yeah, well I don’t go for committed guys. Cheating’s not my game. I’m trying to wreck your innocence, not your relationship.”
He sits frozen for a beat, blinking at you like he’s trying to recalibrate. His brows draw together, confusion flickering in his eyes as he tries to figure out where your sudden switch came from and what it means.
You look over to see him staring at you.
“What?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, fixing his face.
You gesture lazily toward the cup on the table. “Hand me that.”
“That might not be the best idea. I mean, there's no way to know where or who–”
You cut him off by reaching across his body and taking it for yourself. “For god's sake, what are you, my dad?”
Before he can reply, you’re already tipping it back, draining it in one go.
“If I’m gonna be bored at a party, might as well be buzzed. You were the last decent guy here anyway,” you mutter, tongue tapping the inside of your cheek as the disappointment settles. You glance back at him. “Sorry for stroking your thigh.”
"That's okay," he chuckles, the sound soft and surprisingly nonchalant. And then he says something you definitely weren't expecting. "To be honest, it's the most action I've gotten in a while."
You stick out your bottom lip in playful pity. "Aw, your girlfriend doesn't stroke your thigh?"
"It's not that…" he rubs the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink.
"Hold on, don't tell me your girlfriend doesn't do it for you?"
"Of course, she does," he says quickly, glancing up defensively. "She’s amazing and beautiful and everything a guy could want."
"But?"
He hesitates, then exhales. "But…we haven't…"
"You haven't had sex with her yet?"
He gives a small, silent nod, his eyes dropping to his phone in his hands.
“I'm sensing this is a sore spot in your relationship?”
He shrugs, not really answering but not denying anything either.
“How long have you been together?”
“Three months.” Jisung narrows his eyes slightly afterward. “Wait. Why am I telling you all this?”
“The mystical power of oversharing with a stranger at a college party.”
He snorts quietly.
You tilt your head, pretending to think it over seriously. “Three months though…I guess some people are capable of waiting that long. Personally, I would’ve jumped you in the back seat of a car by now--"
He lets out a shy giggle at that, his smile flawed but real. His fingers fidget with the edge of his phone case, and you can't help but find the habit endearing.
“--but everyone goes at their own pace. Maybe she’s just waiting,” you say with a shrug, keeping your tone easy and gentle.
“Maybe,” Jisung murmurs, not quite meeting your eyes. “She’s not usually the waiting type.”
“Oooh, okay, so let’s talk theories,” you say, suddenly perking up with mock-serious enthusiasm. “Potential reasons your girlfriend hasn’t slept with you after three months. Go."
Although clearly a little unsure of the direction this is heading, he doesn’t shut you down. He seems surprisingly okay with it actually. At least, more comfortable than he expected to be considering you sat down earlier with your boobs out and your hand on his leg.
But now, you're kneeling on the couch beside him like you’re at a middle school sleepover ready to spill secrets, and you’re...kind of adorable. Way easier to talk to when you’re not actively trying to seduce him.
“She’s nervous about her first time?” you offer, tapping your chin in thought.
“She’s not a virgin,” he says immediately, adding a mumbled, “not even close.”
“Okay, then…maybe she’s waiting until she falls in love with you to be sure.”
“She already told me she loves me,” he says, but his tone is uncertain. “Plus, she slept with her last boyfriend without saying it.”
“Oh. Alright then. Maybe she doesn’t want to push you into anything too fast.”
“I told her I was ready whenever she was,” he replies. “She still turned me down.”
You lean back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Damn. Is she questioning her sexuality or something?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Maybe she’s worried about your size.” You let the words hang for effect before dragging your teeth over your bottom lip. “Although, I find that theory hard to believe.”
“My eyes are up here,” Jisung jests with two of his fingers directing your line of sight away from his lap.
Caught, you drag your gaze back up before giving him an exaggerated little pout. The faint smile tugging at his lips makes it worth it. Shit, he’s really cute when he tries to play it cool.
It’s unfair how someone can be this awkward and still somehow pull off sexy. The way he tries to scold you with a joke instead of shutting you down immediately. It shouldn’t work, but it does. And when his mouth quirks like that, you find yourself growing increasingly aggressive over how stupid pink his lips are.
“Well, then I’m out of theories,” you say, throwing your hands up in surrender.
You pause for a moment, chewing on your lip. There’s actually one more theory lingering at the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it. You don’t want to be the downer who suggests that maybe she just doesn’t want to sleep with him. You have no idea what kind of insecurities Jisung quietly wrestles with when no one’s looking, and tonight, you’re not in the mood to play therapist.
Instead, you glance over at him and nudge his arm gently. “I’m sure she has her reasons. Girls are weird sometimes.”
He sighs, and it seems as though he's been grappling with this issue for some time, “Yeah, I guess…”
You squint at him, leaning closer as if investigating something suspicious. “What’s with the face?”
“What face?”
“That face,” you insist, pointing a finger at his nose, moving in closer to boop it because you can't help yourself. “The one that says you’ve got one more theory.”
“I don’t,” he says, a little too fast, nose wriggling.
“Share with the class, nerd.”
He exhales slowly, fingers fidgeting with his phone case to stall. “I mean, maybe…it crossed my mind before that, maybe, she doesn’t think I’m…”
“She doesn’t think you’re what?” you whisper, tilting your head like you’re coaxing a secret out of him.
“Attractive."
For a half second, you just stare at him. Then you burst out laughing so hard your arm curls over your stomach and your other hand lands on his shoulder for balance. “Wait, seriously? Is she blind or blonde? Because that’s the stupidest theory yet.”
“It is?”
“Yeah!” you exclaim, still half-laughing.
“So…” He clears his throat, sitting up a little straighter, a small shred of confidence growing in his voice. “Do you think I’m...?"
"Hot?"
He nods.
Your smile says you've been there, survived that. You remember what it felt like to second-guess the mirror, to wonder if anyone would ever actually look twice. It makes his doubt feel familiar and makes you feel responsible for helping the poor little mochi.
“Oh, nerds are always underratedly hot. It’s a fact.”
“What do you mean?”
You prop your elbow on the back of the couch, ticking points off on your fingers. “Well, for one, you guys have spent how many hours watching the same, repetitive anime? That’s commitment. Two, you’ve built teamwork and leadership skills playing those online RGT shooter game things."
"RPG's."
"Whatever. And three,” you spread your legs just an inch and angle your hips toward him, flashing a teasing grin, “all that hand-eye coordination? You just need someone to show you how to put it to good use.”
His eyes flicker down for a split second before darting away again, his face heating up fast and sudden. He's cute when he's shy. But he also totally looked and you totally liked it.
“Well,” he coughs, trying not to stare, “thanks for thinking so highly of us.”
“Mhm.” You grin, biting back the urge to tease him further. “So where is your girlfriend, anyway?”
“Talking to some friends, I think.”
“You think?"
He shifts in his seat, eyes darting toward the muffled bass thumping down the hall. “Well, she said she wanted to come here to see friends, so…”
“But you don’t actually know where she is right now?”
He shrugs.
You tilt your head, softening your tone. “So, your girlfriend brought you to a party just so you could sit on a couch in the hallway and do nothing while she has a good time without you?"
“No,” he says quickly, “she brought me so I could get out of my comfort zone while supporting her in the things she likes to do too."
Your nose scrunches in disapproval. “Her words, I’m assuming?”
He nods earnestly, bangs bouncing a little with the motion. Wide and warm brown eyes like a cup of boba tea, all sweet and round and way too easy to get lost in. Does this girl even know what she's got? If Jisung was your boytoy, you'd be staring into those eyes all night.
You gesture vaguely toward the chaos humming from the main room downstairs. “Well, like I said, you can hang out with me if you want. Since your girlfriend clearly doesn’t care."
“I’m not going to sleep with you."
“Disappointing, but not what I meant.” You wave him off with a dramatic flick of your wrist. “I meant we could actually hang out and enjoy the party. If you’re not gonna let me sit on your face, I’m not really interested in anyone else here.”
You expect him to choke on air, fan his scarlet cheeks, or at least flash you some of those wide, innocent boba eyes. Instead, he lets out this low, easy laugh, warm enough to make your stomach twist. He’s laughing with you, like the two of you just slipped into some weird, half-flirty inside joke no one else gets to know.
It catches you off guard a little. Because that's like the fourth or fifth time he's laughed during this conversation. Most people don’t think you’re all that funny. They think you’re sexy. A body to be used. But Jisung looks at you like you’re a real person with timing and wit. For a second, you're not sure how to react.
He cocks his head to the side, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re weird, you know that?”
“Weird?” you repeat in humorous disgust. “Most people call me hot.”
“I mean, you are hot, obviously.” He gestures to you up and down, but you don't feel disrespected or like an object when he does it. “But you're weird. In a good way.”
"I'm going to take that as a compliment," you decide, suddenly feeling very comfortable with the nerd you tried to bag. “So what do you want to do to get out of your comfort zone?”
“What do people usually do at parties like this?” he asks, a little skeptical.
“Make out,” you reply without missing a beat.
His ears go red, but he hides the cute reaction with a dramatic eye roll and a scoff. “Right. What else do people do at parties besides that?”
“Dance. Drink. Dance some more. Make out again. That’s pretty much the whole idea."
“Well, we’ve already established that we’re not making out--"
"Again, disappointing."
"--and I don't really drink."
You glance up at him with a hopeful eyebrow raised. “So...dance?”
“I’m not a very good dancer,” he admits.
“Can you move your hips to a beat?”
“Probably.”
“Then you’ll be fine.” You hop to your feet and offer your hand. “Come on. I'll help you.”
Jisung hesitates for a second before taking a breath. “I don’t even know your name.”
"___."
And for some reason, the atmosphere shifts after you tell him, something settling into place, subtly but undeniably.
“___,” he repeats slowly, testing it out under his breath before looking back up at you. "I'm Jisung."
Yes, you already knew that, but that doesn't stop your stomach from flipping.
He said your name so carefully, as if committing it to memory. And when your eyes meet his again, something inside you starts to violently rattle your bones.
He’s just sitting there, looking up at you with the hugest, brownest eyes you've ever had the pleasure of getting lost in, so warm and soft and stupidly pretty under the dim house lights. And you swear they actually sparkle a little when he smiles. The kind of smile that mimics a little kid who's just found an unexpected friend.
Is this what he looks like when he's genuinely happy? Oh fuck, that expression on him is dangerous. Suddenly, you don’t just want to flirt with Han Jisung.
You want to keep him. So badly, your confidence falters for the first time that entire night.
He eyes your hand before slowly standing – without taking it. You notice the deliberate avoidance and bite back a teasing comment about his height being only a couple inches more than yours.
“If we’re going to dance,” you attempt to say casually, “you’re gonna have to be okay with at least a little touching.”
“But I have a girlfriend,” he says quickly.
“I’m not gonna grind on your crotch, nerd. Chill. I just meant the dance floor is crowded and sometimes people get close," you tell him with a drawn out tone. “It’s innocent. Just follow the beat and have fun, alright? Like I said, I don’t go after committed guys.”
“Okay.” He bounces his shoulders and takes a deep breath in preparation. “Getting out of my comfort zone. Trying something new. Let's dance then.”
Making your way to the main room, the two of you push into the crowd, weaving toward the middle of the dance floor. The bass hums through your chest as you start to move with the rhythm, spinning, swaying, bouncing in any way you please. It feels good to let it all out after such a disappointing make out sesh and then an even more disappointing attempt to bed the hot nerd.
Jisung is awkward as hell, unsure of where to place his limbs, but you keep it light and easy until he's at least got the beat of the song in his knees. You stay close enough to share energy but never touch, aside from the accidental brush of your hands or shoulders.
He smiles at you more than once, shouts something into the space, but you can't understand a word he says. And unexpectedly, amongst the awkward bouncing and foot tapping, he drops some pretty strange but hilarious dance moves that have you throwing your head back in the kind of laughter you haven't laughed in god knows how long.
It's all fun and games until some sleezy stranger slides up behind you.
You feel him before you see him, his hand grazing your waist as he tries to grind against you without so much as a word. Immediately, you stiffen and try to step away, but he persists, following you closely. You try to dance away from him again, and yet, he sticks to you like gum on your shoe.
In a final attempt, you end up spinning around and harshly pushing him away before taking Jisung by the wrist and going to a different part of the dance floor.
The pervert takes a step back, still grooving to the music. But he doesn't miss a beat before he starts making his way back to you, eyes like a predator, ruthless and not taking no for an answer.
This is not the first time you've been groped at a party, so you're not shocked by his behavior. But it still makes you uncomfortable to an alarming degree.
You can see him approaching you again, so you ready yourself to either ditch or start using your claws.
But then, right before the guy reaches you, there’s a gentle tug on your waist. Without saying a word, Jisung moves in behind you, sliding seamlessly into place and boxing the guy out. The stranger takes one look at him and backs off, muttering something under his breath before disappearing into the crowd.
You expect Jisung to step away now that the coast is clear, but he doesn’t.
He stays behind you.
His body mirrors yours, close but not too close, the heat of him warming your back but never sweaty. His hips move, just enough to match your rhythm. His hands hover at your sides, never touching, respecting a boundary you definitely didn’t set, but could if you wanted to.
You keep dancing, your bodies moving in sync, the pulse of the music taking over. At one point, you throw it back just a little harder, and your hips briefly connect with his. He freezes, just for a second, then picks the beat back up, fluid again. Relaxing a little more.
But he still doesn’t touch you.
He simply lets you exist, never moving away but keeping a respectful inch of space between your ass and his jeans.
And maybe it’s the music, or the crowd, or the feeling of finally enjoying yourself without the overhanging threat of being groped by a random dude. But you really like the way Jisung feels behind you. The way he lets you lead. The way he responds without expecting anything.
The only time he actually touches you is when another guy tries to squeeze in, to sandwich you or take Jisung's place. As if on cue, Jisung gently slides his arm around the front of your tummy, grabs your hip, and guides you to a safer part of the floor.
That one touch makes you tremble.
Every guy you’ve ever danced with had the same agenda. They never said it outright, but you always knew. From the moment their hands slid too low on your waist, from the way they pressed into you, hungry on your neck – dancing was just an excuse. They wanted friction, not fun. Touch for the sake of getting off. Every time, it felt less like dancing and more like foreplay.
But Jisung doesn’t touch you like that. He doesn't touch you at all unless someone else gets too close, and even then, it’s just enough to guide you out of their reach, his hand a buffer instead of a claim. He doesn't treat you like a body to grind on. He treats you like someone to protect.
And it messes with your head more than it should.
Because he dances with you like it’s not about him. Like it’s not about what he could get out of it. He doesn’t take anything from you – he moves with you. Matches your rhythm. Respects your space, even when the music begs for something sweatier and grittier. Even when your body betrays you and pushes into him. He still doesn't cross a line.
He makes sure you’re safe even when outside his comfort zone.
…no one’s ever done that before.
Your stomach knots, tight and unrelenting. You don’t know what to do with this kind of care. Especially when it comes from someone who belongs to someone else.
Shit. He has a girlfriend.
Suddenly, the fun drains out of the moment. You turn in his arms to face him instead.
He looks wrecked in the softest way. Hair a little messy, strands falling out of place from where he brushed it back with his fingers. There’s a flush on his cheeks and under his glasses. The warmth of the dance still lingers in his knees and feet. His top clings a bit tighter from the heat, collar askew under his sweater vest, and there’s a hint of sweat at his temples, just enough to make him look real and touchable.
His eyes find yours, brighter now, somehow dazed but also more focused. They look at you like he might have a different answer if you asked to sleep with him now. Maybe not yes. But maybe not a no either.
You were drawn to him before. But damn...
“We should stop,” you say, pulling him off the floor. “That was...I had a lot of fun.”
He nods, slightly winded but still smiling. “Yeah, it was...certainly something. Umm, do guys usually harass you like that when you're dancing?”
“Oh, that? Yeah, that's normal. What can I say, my ass has a fanclub. I should start charging rent for how often guys try to park behind it.” You laugh a little, but there’s no real humor in your voice. It’s just muscle memory now, a joke you’ve told a hundred times as if it's normal.
Because it is normal. For you, at least.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped expecting more than a whistle and an ass grab. Being wanted meant being touched. Being seen meant being stared at. So no, it doesn’t feel demeaning. It doesn’t even sting anymore. It's just annoying sometimes.
That's just the way it is.
But Jisung doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t roll his eyes or even awkwardly grin. He just looks at you, and for a second, it feels like he sees too much.
His expression isn’t pity. It’s not even sadness. It’s something sharper.
Like he’s looking straight past your smirk, past the shrug in your voice, and right into that tiny, buried part of you that winces every time you talk like this. The part that doesn’t actually believe what you’re saying, but says it anyway because it’s easier than dealing with your actual problems.
He doesn’t call you out. Doesn’t challenge you.
He just looks at you like he knows. Like he hears the echo under the humor. And that silent refusal to play along lands harder than anything you were ready for.
Instead of replying to your comment, he says, “I’ve never done anything like that before. I kinda get why people like parties now.”
"Maybe we can do it again sometime?"
The words slip out before you can reel them back in, and instant panic floods your nerves like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.
Never ask to see a guy twice. That’s rule number one! Have fun, leave, don’t text, don’t linger, and definitely don’t hand over an open invitation when he's already spoken for.
Technically, you didn’t hook up with Jisung -- you didn't even kiss him -- so maybe that’s where the sudden bravery is stemming from. But still, the same principle applies. There should be no attachments of any kind.
And yet here you are, tossing your own rulebook out the damn window just because he didn't put his hand down your pants and looks kinda cute with messy hair and flushed cheeks.
Seriously, what the hell are you thinking?
Just then, his phone buzzes in his back pocket. He checks it, and you catch the flicker of recognition in his eyes.
“She just texted me. I should go meet her by the front door.”
You nod, not trusting your voice. You should just walk away, go back to dancing or grab another drink, but your legs move without asking permission. You follow him, weaving between bodies until the thump of the music fades into the background.
“Hey!” Jisung calls when he sees her, picking up the pace to meet her just outside the building.
And then she appears. Framed in the open doorway, backlit by the porch light, scanning the crowd with a soft, practiced smile.
She steps forward with a squeal, tossing her arms around his neck like they haven't seen each other in months. Jisung smiles down at her, and you freeze, blood icing over.
Oh.
You know her.
You know her.
She used to be infamous on campus, a walking cautionary tale dressed in heels and lace stockings. The stories about her were endless (and most of them were true because you saw them happen). You’ve watched her crawl out of dorm room windows at dawn, take off her top for free drinks, sneak guys into her room at god forsaken hours of the night.
And worse? You saw her two months ago sneaking into your ex-boyfriend’s dorm while you were busy plotting revenge on him yourself.
If Jisung’s been dating her for three months…you do the math.
Your lips press into a thin line.
Don’t say anything -- it’s not your place. But your spine straightens painfully. Your head starts pounding. And deep in your chest, something settles with quiet conviction.
If she’s the one he’s committed to, and she’s a liar with grabby hands and no concept of loyalty, then you don’t really feel bad for wanting him anymore.
Jisung needs a new girlfriend.
::
general taglist: @nightmarenyxx @cepheus3 @strawberriesoup @kayleefriedchicken @hannamoon143 @0omillo0 @fly-you-dam-fools @urlocalmultigroupfan @inlovewithstraykids @felixleftchickennugget @hityoulikebahng @imfoive @imeverycliche @hannieslittlerockstar @staybabblingbaby @somber-reads @hyunjinxxs @straberieslee @brbwritingfanfic @velvetmoonlght @dearbisky @hwangjoanna @jeonginnieswifey @firstdivisiongirl @mikachux3 @pineapple-burgah @eyyyylucieeee
DHHDHDJDJD I LOVE THAT THEY WERE HAVING A GIRLS TALK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARTY😭😭😭
And I'm about to cry because how loyal Jisung to his 'girlfriend' (my eyes are on you Jisung's girlfriend, when I get you). And yes, JISUNG NEED A NEW GIRLFRIEND, WE NEED TO BREAK THEM APART.
Secrets • Part 5
Masterlist
Genre: Dark Stalker Romance
Pairing: Stalker Minho x Fem!reader
WC: 5432
TW: 18+, MDNI, Stalking, home invasion, Non-con, sexual assault, Physical restraint, loss of bodily autonomy, Psychological manipulation, fear, Dubious consent, coercion, Themes of helplessness and vulnerability
Synopsis: What begins as a terrifying home invasion evolves into something far more complex and disturbing. An encounter that blurs the lines between fear and unwanted desire.
AN:⚠️ PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION ⚠️
Thanks to @snow-flake-writes for her hard work as always 🖤❤️ and thank you, Dear Readers for being here. Love you guys!
Y/n’s POV
The evening had settled into that particular kind of cold that seeps through windows and walls, turning the bookstore into a cave of shadows and amber light. Wind howled outside, rattling the old wooden sign that hung above the entrance, its chains creaking in protest. I hummed softly to myself—some half-remembered melody that felt appropriate for the dying light—as I climbed the ladder to return a collection of leather-bound classics to their proper shelf.
The sun was drowning somewhere beyond the storm clouds, painting the sky in bruised purples and grays that bled through the tall windows. Rain began to fall, tentatively at first, then with increasing urgency, drumming against the glass like desperate fingers seeking entry. The sound was almost soothing, a rhythm to work by as I straightened spines and realigned titles that customers had left askew.
The last patron had left minutes ago—an elderly woman who'd purchased a worn copy of Wuthering Heights and commented on the approaching storm. I'd meant to lock the door behind her, but got distracted by a toppled display of poetry collections near the register.
I reached for a heavy anthology on the top shelf when the rain intensified, transforming from steady percussion to violent assault. The water struck the windows with such force I could almost believe the thick glass might surrender, splintering inward in a shower of crystalline daggers. The storm had teeth now, and it wanted in.
Thunder cracked across the sky—not the distant rumble of a storm passing by, but an immediate, deafening boom that seemed to split the world in two. My body jolted involuntarily, hands releasing their grip. The anthology tumbled from my grasp, its pages fluttering like broken wings as it fell.
I descended the ladder quickly, my flats finding each rung with practiced ease despite my racing heart. The book had landed face-down, spine bent at an ugly angle that made me wince. I knelt to retrieve it, fingers already reaching to smooth the crumpled pages, to apologize to the wounded thing.
That's when I saw them.
Black boots. Expensive-looking, dark leather polished to a mirror shine despite the weather. They stood perhaps three feet from where I crouched, perfectly still, water pooling beneath them on my worn wooden floor. I hadn't heard the door open. Hadn't heard footsteps. The storm should have announced any arrival, yet here they were—silent as a held breath.
My own breath caught in my throat. The air in the bookstore suddenly felt different, heavier, charged with something that made the hair on my arms stand at attention. The warm amber light that had felt cozy moments ago now seemed insufficient, leaving too many shadows, too many places for darkness to gather and watch.
I remained frozen in my crouch, the damaged book forgotten in my hands, my eyes fixed on those boots. On the water dripping from them. On the absolute stillness of whoever wore them. Outside, the storm raged on, thunder rolling through the sky like a warning I should have heeded.
Slowly, my gaze traveled upward. Past the boots, past dark jeans sodden with rain, past hands gloved in black leather. My eyes climbed with the terrible inevitability of someone ascending gallows steps, knowing what waited at the top but unable to stop the ascent.
The hoodie. That thick, black hoodie I'd seen before—in the café window's reflection, in the corner of my vision on empty streets, in the gap between parked cars. The fabric was heavy, weighted with rain, and it cast the face beneath in impenetrable shadow. No features visible. Just darkness where a face should be, a void in the shape of a person.
The gasp tore from my throat before I could stop it, a sharp intake of air that seemed deafening in the quiet bookstore. My mouth opened wider, lungs expanding, preparing to release the scream building in my chest like a physical thing trying to claw its way out.
I moved without thinking, muscles finally remembering how to work. I dropped the book, pushed up from my crouch, turned toward the back exit—toward escape, toward safety, toward anywhere but here.
I made it exactly one step.
His arm shot out with frightening speed, fingers closing around my upper arm like a vice. The grip was iron, unyielding, and it yanked me backward with such force that my feet nearly left the ground. My body collided with his, my back slamming against his chest, and I could feel the cold radiating from his rain-soaked clothes seeping through my thin sweater.
The scream was halfway up my throat when his other hand clamped over my mouth.
The gloved leather was smooth and cold against my lips, pressing hard enough that my teeth cut into the soft flesh of my inner cheek. I tasted copper, sharp and metallic. His palm covered everything—my mouth, half my nose—and suddenly breathing became a conscious effort, something I had to fight for through the gaps between his fingers.
His other arm locked around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides, crushing me against him with bruising force. I could feel his heartbeat against my spine—steady, unhurried, terrifyingly calm. While mine hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird beating itself bloody against cage bars, his remained constant, measured. He wasn't afraid. Wasn't even excited. This was routine for him.
I struggled anyway, some primal part of my brain refusing to accept what was happening. My feet kicked out, heels connecting with his shins, but it was like striking stone. He didn't even grunt. Didn't shift his stance. Just held me tighter, his arm constricting around my middle until I couldn't draw a full breath, until spots began dancing at the edges of my vision.
He leaned down then, and I felt the fabric of his hood brush against my ear. Still, he said nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. Just his breathing—slow, controlled, while mine came in panicked gasps through my nose. The silence was worse than any threat he could have spoken. Words would have been human. This silence was something else entirely.
I could feel him waiting. Feel his attention focused entirely on me with the weight of a physical thing. He was giving me time to understand. Time to feel my own helplessness. Time to recognize the truth that was crystallizing in my mind with horrible clarity: he could do anything he wanted to me, and there wasn't a single thing I could do to stop him.
The storm continued its assault on the windows, rain and wind drowning out any sound I might have made even if his hand hadn't been sealed over my mouth. The bookstore that had been my sanctuary, my safe haven, had transformed into a trap. All those locked doors I was so careful about—they locked things out, yes. But they also locked things in.
Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, hot against my cold cheeks, soaking into the leather of his glove. My body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle taut with terror and the effort of trying to draw air through the minimal space he allowed me. The edges of my vision were growing darker now, narrowing to a tunnel.
And still, he stood there holding me, silent as death, patient as stone, waiting for me to stop fighting. Waiting for me to accept what was about to happen.
And then I woke up.
The thunder crack was real—so loud and violent it felt like the sky itself had been torn open. My eyes flew open, pupils struggling to adjust to the darkness of my bedroom. My heart was still racing, still caught in the nightmare's grip, hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. Feel it in my throat.
I was drenched in sweat. My sheets clung to my body, twisted around my legs like they'd tried to trap me. My tank top was soaked through, cold and uncomfortable against my skin. I sat up slowly, shaking, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps that I couldn't quite control.
Just a dream. Just a nightmare. I was safe. I was home. I was—
Movement.
My entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked. Every nerve screamed.
There was someone in my room.
The figure emerged from the darkened corner near my closet, moving with that same terrible silence I remembered from the nightmare—except this wasn't a nightmare anymore. This was real. This was happening.
He walked forward, stepping into the weak light filtering through my curtains from the street below. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. The hoodie was up, as always, casting his face in impenetrable shadow. Just that shrouded form I'd seen so many times before. Watching. Following. Waiting.
And now he was here. In my apartment. In my bedroom.
My mouth opened but no sound came out. The scream was lodged somewhere in my chest, trapped behind the terror that had seized my throat and wouldn't let go. I wanted to move—to run, to fight, to do anything—but my body wouldn't respond. I was frozen, sitting up in my bed, staring at the dark figure who stood perfectly still just feet away.
How long had he been there? How long had he been watching me sleep?
The thunder rolled again, distant now, fading. The storm was moving on. But he remained, motionless, a shadow given form. I could feel his eyes on me even though I couldn't see them. Could feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing pressing against my skin.
My breathing was too loud in the silence of my room. Ragged, panicked gasps that seemed to echo. He could hear my fear. Could probably smell it. And still he just stood there, watching, waiting.
This time, there would be no waking up.
My phone.
The thought pierced through the paralysis like a blade of light in darkness. My phone was on the coffee table. Just across the room. Thirty feet, maybe less. Minho was in this building. He'd given me his number after that kiss. We'd seen each other since then. Coffee in the mornings. Cooking together in my tiny kitchen, his shoulder brushing mine as we moved around each other in the cramped space. And yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—he'd asked me out. A proper date. His eyes had been so warm, so genuine.
He could be here in minutes. Seconds, maybe, if I could just reach the phone. Just call him. Just—
I moved.
It was instinct, not thought. My body launched itself from the bed before my mind could catch up, before I could calculate the impossibility of what I was attempting. My bare feet hit the cold floor and I ran—sprinted—toward the living room, toward that rectangle of glass and metal that represented salvation.
I made it three steps.
Maybe four.
He was faster.
I didn't hear him move. Didn't sense him closing the distance. One moment I was running, hope flaring bright and desperate in my chest, and the next his hands were on me. One closed around my upper arm with bruising force, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough that I knew I'd have marks—five dark circles blooming purple and yellow by morning, if I lived to see morning.
The other hand caught my waist, and then I was airborne.
He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Like I was a doll, a thing to be moved and positioned. My feet kicked uselessly at the air, connecting with nothing, and a strangled sound escaped my throat—not quite a scream, more like a sob wrapped around a gasp of terror.
The world spun. He turned, taking me with him, carrying me back toward the bed with determined, unhurried steps. Each footfall was purposeful, measured. He wasn't rushing. Wasn't concerned about my struggling. I was already caught, already his, and we both knew it.
"No—" The word finally tore free from my throat, ragged and desperate. "No, please, don't—"
He didn't respond. Didn't acknowledge that I'd spoken. Just kept moving, kept carrying me, until the back of my legs hit the mattress.
Then he pushed.
I fell backward onto the bed, my body bouncing slightly on the mattress before settling. I tried immediately to roll away, to scramble toward the other side, but he was already on me. His body came down like a storm, like a collapsing building, all that weight and solid mass pressing me into the mattress with inexorable force.
The air rushed from my lungs in a painful wheeze. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. His chest was a wall against mine, crushing down, and I could feel every inch of him—the hard planes of muscle, the cold that still clung to his clothes, the terrible, immovable reality of his presence.
His hands found my wrists. I'd been trying to push him off, palms pressed against his chest, shoving with every ounce of strength I possessed. It didn't matter. His fingers circled my wrists like shackles, and he dragged my arms up, up, pinning them above my head. Both of my wrists trapped in just one of his hands, held against the pillow with such casual strength that I wanted to weep at the unfairness of it.
I bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off. My hips twisted, my legs kicked, my entire body writhed in desperate, animalistic panic. It was useless. He was too heavy, too strong, too utterly in control. For every inch I managed to shift, he simply pressed down harder, adjusting his weight, finding new ways to pin me more completely.
His free hand came to my throat.
Not squeezing. Not yet. Just resting there, his gloved fingers spanning the width of my neck, his thumb pressed against the frantic flutter of my pulse. A reminder. A promise. He could crush my windpipe if he wanted. Could choke the life from me with minimal effort. And there was nothing—nothing—I could do to stop him.
Tears streamed down my temples, soaking into my hair, into the pillow beneath my head. My vision blurred, but I could still see the shape of him above me. Still see that damned hood casting his face in shadow, turning him into something faceless and inhuman.
"Please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Please, I won't—I won't tell anyone. I won't—"
His thumb pressed slightly harder against my throat. Not enough to cut off air. Just enough to silence me. To let me know that my words meant nothing. That my pleas were as insignificant as the rain still pattering weakly against my window.
I was trapped. Pinned. Helpless beneath him on my own bed, in my own home, in the space that was supposed to be safe. And no one was coming. Minho didn't know I needed him. Had no idea that just floors away, I was being held down by the shadow that had been haunting me for weeks.
My phone sat on the coffee table, dark and silent and impossibly far away.
And he just kept pressing down, kept holding me, his weight a prison I couldn't escape, his presence filling every corner of my awareness until there was nothing else. Just him. Just this. Just the terrible knowledge that I had failed, and now I would pay the price for that failure.
I had never felt so small. So powerless. So utterly, completely alone.
The shift happened so suddenly that my brain struggled to process it. His hand left my throat—that terrible weight lifted—and for half a heartbeat I thought maybe he was letting me go. Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe—
His hand withdrew, moving away from my line of sight, reaching into his pocket.
Oh God. Oh God, what was he getting? A knife? A weapon? Something to—
My mind spiraled into a thousand horrible possibilities, each worse than the last. My body went rigid beneath him, every muscle locked in anticipation of pain. Of violence. Of whatever came next when a faceless man pinned you to your bed in the middle of the night.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I couldn't watch. Couldn't bear to see whatever he was pulling from that pocket. If this was how I died, I didn't want the last thing I saw to be the instrument of my death.
My chest heaved with panicked breaths. My wrists ached where his fingers dug in. Tears continued their hot trail down my temples. And I waited—waited for the cut, the stab, the crushing blow that would end this nightmare permanently.
But it didn't come.
Instead, I felt something cool and impossibly soft brush against my wrists. Something that whispered against my skin like a lover's touch, delicate and deliberate. The texture was unmistakable even through the haze of terror—silk.
My eyes flew open.
I could barely see in the darkness, but there was just enough ambient light to catch the color. Red. Deep, blood red silk that gleamed even in shadow, wrapping around my wrists in purposeful loops. He was tying me. Not with rope or zip ties or anything that would make sense for someone trying to restrain a victim. With ribbon. Beautiful, expensive silk ribbon that slid against my skin like water.
Horror and confusion crashed together in my chest, creating something worse than either emotion alone. My mind couldn't make sense of it. Couldn't reconcile the violence of how I'd been thrown down and pinned with the almost tender care he was taking now, winding that ribbon around and around, creating an elaborate binding that was as beautiful as it was inescapable.
"What—" My voice cracked, barely above a whisper. "What are you—"
He didn't answer. Didn't even pause in his work. His gloved fingers moved with practiced precision, weaving the ribbon through and around, creating a pattern I couldn't follow. Each loop pulled snug but not painfully tight. Each knot positioned with deliberate intent. This wasn't rushed. This wasn't improvised. He'd done this before, or at least planned it extensively. Thought about it. Imagined it.
The realization made my stomach turn.
When he was satisfied with the binding at my wrists, he reached up toward my headboard. I felt the shift in his weight, felt him leaning over me, his chest pressing harder against mine for just a moment. Then his hands were above my head, working at something I couldn't see, threading the ribbon through the gaps in my headboard's decorative metalwork.
I tested the bonds instinctively, trying to pull my hands down. The ribbon held firm. No give. No slack. He'd secured it perfectly, leaving my arms stretched above my head, wrists tied together and fastened to the bed frame with that incongruous red silk.
My breathing came faster, shorter. The panic was building again, a wave that threatened to crash over me and drag me under. I was tied down. Bound to my own bed. Completely at his mercy, and he still hadn't said a single word. Hadn't explained. Hadn't given me anything to hold onto except the growing certainty that whatever was about to happen, I'd been prepared for the wrong nightmare entirely.
He settled back, his weight still pinning my lower body but his hands now free. Now available for whatever came next. I stared up at him, at that void where his face should be, and felt something close to madness creeping in at the edges of my mind.
"Why?" The word tore from my throat, raw and desperate. "Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?"
Silence. Always silence. He tilted his head slightly, the movement almost curious, like he was considering my questions. Weighing them. Finding them wanting.
Then his hand moved to the hem of my tank top.
Ice flooded my veins. My entire body went rigid, every nerve screaming in protest. "No—no, please, don't—"
But my pleas dissolved into nothing, swallowed by the darkness and the storm still whispering against the windows and the terrible, patient silence of the man who had me exactly where he wanted me.
Tied down with red silk ribbon like a gift he'd been waiting to unwrap.
His gloved hand moved with excruciating slowness, fingers splayed against the thin fabric of my tank top. Not gripping. Not tearing. Just... touching. The leather was cool through the cotton, a whisper of sensation that traced along my ribs, following the curve of my waist with deliberate, almost reverent precision.
I should have been screaming. Should have been fighting harder, thrashing against the silk binding my wrists. But my body had gone still beneath his touch, frozen in confused terror as his fingers continued their exploration. Up, across my stomach, the movement so gentle it felt like a question being asked in a language I didn't want to understand.
My breath hitched when his hand traveled higher, palm pressing flat just below my breasts. He held it there, not moving, just feeling the frantic rise and fall of my breathing. The heat of my skin bleeding through fabric and leather. My heart hammering so hard I was certain he could feel it too.
"Stop," I whimpered, but the word came out wrong. Too breathless. Too uncertain.
He didn't stop.
His thumb traced the underside of my breast through my tank top, a feather-light touch that sent an unwanted jolt of sensation through my body. I sucked in a sharp breath, hating the sound of it, hating what it betrayed. This wasn't supposed to feel like anything except fear. Except violation. But my traitorous body was responding to the careful, measured way he touched me, to the contrast between his obvious strength and the gentleness of these particular movements.
No. No, this was wrong. This was—
His hand slid lower again, gliding over my stomach, fingers spread wide like he was memorizing every inch. The leather whispered against cotton, and heat bloomed beneath his touch despite everything. Despite the terror still flooding my system. Despite knowing I was tied to my bed by a faceless stranger who'd been watching me, following me, invading my life.
My body didn't care about any of that.
Shame burned through me, hot and acidic. I squeezed my eyes shut again, willing myself not to feel what I was feeling. Not to notice the way my skin had grown hypersensitive, the way every nerve ending seemed to light up beneath his wandering fingers. Not to acknowledge the warmth pooling low in my belly, foreign and unwanted and utterly horrifying.
His other hand joined the first, both now moving in synchronized paths along my sides, my waist, my hips. Never removing clothing. Never exposing anything. Just touching, exploring, learning the shape of me through thin layers of fabric. The leather of his gloves was warming now, heated by my own body temperature, and the sensation shifted from cool to something almost comforting.
God, what was wrong with me?
I bit down hard on my lower lip, trying to center myself in the pain. Trying to remember that this was an attack. That I should be fighting, screaming, doing anything except lying here and letting this happen. Letting my body betray me with its shameful, inexplicable response to his touch.
Every brush of leather against fabric sent sparks across my skin, and I hated it. Hated myself for responding. Hated him for knowing exactly how to touch me to create this confusion, this awful mixture of fear and want that made me feel like I was fracturing into pieces.
His hand curved around my hip, thumb pressing into the hollow there with just enough pressure to make me gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, obscene and damning. He paused at the noise, hand going still, and I could feel his attention sharpening. Could sense him absorbing my reaction, cataloging it, learning from it.
Then his touch resumed, more confident now. More purposeful. Trailing up my side again, this time letting his fingers catch on the hem of my tank top just enough to expose a sliver of skin at my waist. Not removing anything. Just... hinting at the possibility. The cool air hit that exposed strip of flesh and I shivered, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the war being waged inside me.
Fear and arousal tangled together until I couldn't separate them. Until the terror of being helpless somehow fed into the shameful heat building in my core. Until every gentle touch reminded me of how easily those same hands had overpowered me, and that reminder sent another unwanted surge of sensation through my nervous system.
I was broken. Had to be. Because no one in their right mind would feel pleasure while being held captive by their stalker. No one would arch slightly into the touch of gloved hands that belonged to someone who'd terrorized them for weeks. No one would bite back a sound that wasn't quite a whimper, wasn't quite a moan, as leather-clad fingers traced patterns across overheated skin.
But I did all of those things.
And he knew. I could tell by the way his movements shifted, became more exploratory. More deliberate in seeking out the places that made my breath catch. The curve of my waist. The space just below my ribs. The sensitive skin of my inner arms where the silk ribbons held me bound.
Tears leaked from beneath my closed eyelids, tracking hot paths down my temples. I was crying and burning and hating and wanting all at once, and I couldn't make it stop. Couldn't make sense of my own reactions. Couldn't reconcile the terror with the terrible, shameful warmth that continued to build with every passing second, every careful touch.
His hand settled at the center of my chest, right over my heart. Pressing down just enough to feel the wild rhythm there. Claiming it, maybe. Or just acknowledging what he'd already known—that despite everything, despite the fear and the tears and the desperate pleas, some traitorous part of me was responding exactly the way he'd wanted.
Then his hands slid back down to my hips, fingers curling around the flesh there with possessive certainty. Then he moved—a slow, deliberate roll of his hips against mine that sent a shockwave of sensation through my entire body.
I gasped, the sound ripping from my throat before I could stop it. The pressure was everywhere, the friction of denim against thin sleep shorts creating a maddening heat that spread through me like wildfire. He did it again, slower this time, grinding down with measured control that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly what it would do to me.
"No—" The protest died on my lips as he repeated the movement, establishing a rhythm that was torturous in its restraint. I could feel his own arousal pressing into my soaked center. Nothing frantic. Nothing rushed. Just steady, purposeful pressure that built and built until I couldn't think past the sensation of it.
My wrists pulled against the silk ribbons, an instinctive attempt to reach for him—or push him away, I couldn't tell anymore. The distinction had blurred somewhere between terror and this shameful, overwhelming need that was consuming me from the inside out. The ribbons held firm, keeping my arms stretched above my head, keeping me helpless beneath him as he continued that slow, devastating grind.
His gloved hands returned to my body, sliding under my tank top this time to splay across bare skin. The leather was almost hot, and the sensation of it against my overheated flesh made me arch involuntarily. He took advantage of the movement, pressing harder, angling his hips to create friction exactly where my body most desperately needed it.
I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to silence the sounds threatening to escape. Trying to maintain some shred of dignity even as my body betrayed me completely, moving against him in small, helpless motions that matched his rhythm. The shame was suffocating, but it couldn't stop the pleasure building with every roll of his hips, every deliberate grind of his body against mine.
His breathing had changed too—deeper now, more ragged behind that mask. The sound of it mixed with my own gasping breaths, creating an obscene symphony in the darkness. One hand moved to my hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks, holding me in place as he increased the pressure fractionally. Just enough to push me closer to an edge I didn't want to acknowledge.
But I was falling toward it anyway, helpless to stop it.
He ground down harder, the angle perfect, and something inside me shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me without permission, without warning, stealing my breath and my sense and any remaining dignity I'd been clinging to. I came with a broken sob, my body convulsing beneath him as waves of pleasure crashed through me, unwanted and devastating and so intense I thought I might break apart completely. My back arched off the bed, wrists straining against the ribbons, and he held me through it—hands steady on my hips, body pressed close, letting me ride out every aftershock while I fell to pieces beneath him.
When it finally subsided, leaving me trembling and gasping, shame flooded in to fill the space the pleasure had occupied. Hot, acidic shame that burned through me like poison. I'd just—God, I'd just climaxed while being assaulted by my stalker. Had come apart for him, given him exactly what he wanted, proved every terrible thing he must have thought about me.
Fresh tears streamed down my temples as I lay there, boneless and destroyed, unable to meet the void where his face should be. Unable to face what I'd just done. What he'd made me do. What I'd let myself feel.
For a long moment, he didn't move. Just stayed there, hands still on my hips, body still pressed against mine, as if savoring the aftermath. As if drinking in my humiliation and making it part of whatever sick fantasy he'd been living in.
Then, slowly, he shifted his weight off me.
I felt the loss of his heat immediately, my sweat-dampened skin cooling in the night air. He moved up the bed, his presence looming over me one final time, and I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to watch whatever came next.
His gloved fingers worked at the headboard, and I felt the tension in the ribbons release. My arms fell heavily to my sides, muscles protesting the sudden change after being stretched so long. But the silk remained wrapped around my left wrist, the elaborate binding still intact, still beautiful and terrible and wrong.
He didn't remove it. Didn't untie me completely. Just freed me from the headboard and left me marked—branded with red silk that would stay twisted around my wrist until I found the strength to remove it myself.
Then he stood.
I heard the shift of fabric, the soft fall of his footsteps on my bedroom floor. Moving away. Moving toward the door. Leaving as silently as he'd come, taking nothing but the shattered remains of who I'd been before tonight.
The door opened—I heard the whisper of hinges, the subtle change in air pressure. Then it closed again, soft as a secret, and I was alone.
Alone with the storm still murmuring against the windows, with the darkness pressing in from all sides, with red silk ribbons binding my wrists and the shameful, sticky evidence of what he'd made me feel cooling between my thighs.
I lay there for what might have been minutes or hours, unable to move. Unable to process. Unable to do anything except stare at the ceiling and feel the weight of what had just happened crushing down on me like the whole world had collapsed.
He'd left. Just... left. After reducing me to this trembling, tear-stained mess. After proving he could make my body betray every principle I thought I had. After marking me with silk and shame and the memory of pleasure I'd never asked for.
And somehow, that felt like the worst violation of all.
Please keep in mind that…
All pictures used belong to their rightful owners (e.g., Pinterest and RealStrayKids).
I do not condone any inappropriate attractions, actions, or thoughts towards Stray Kids in real life. This is purely fiction and is not true.
Anything written about these men is entirely fictional. It does not reflect how they act, react, or talk in real life, nor is it meant to portray them that way. Nothing written here suggests they do, say, or act these ways.
Tags: @atetheluck @firstdivisiongirl @ayedomino008 @tsumiyaa @skepticalvoidhedgehog @mar1511 @meelbarnes @rylea08 @mrsleeknowsaurus @straysmuchi @angelwings-fly @hearteubeateuxz @nvuueas @king-of-knives @imelteverytimeihearminniesing @soupslvt @nerdypuppylover7 @itsraininghyunebuckets @stargazexo @iseulkm @hollyn1729 @a4bangchan143 @angstylittleb1tch @beppybeesnuggets @barbie-girl84 @dejacircus @compersian @siacb97 @pokalunolino @wolf-eyed-witchh11 @intrikatie @yakuislove
Bro, reading this makes me feel so sad and loathe Minho so much(only in ths fic) My girl doesn't deserve this :(((( She was terrified and Minho is damn heartless.
When I get you Minho, I'm gonna burn your house down. I think I'm gonna be sick for the next chapter, knowing what Minho had done, and bro still has the audacity to play the good, kind and innocent hero to y/n.
Stranger-Danger
Minho x Reader Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Slice-of-life, Unreliable Narrator Warnings: mentions of drinking, cursing, somewhat proofread WC: 0.9k A/N: Happy Minho day! I wanted to do something for this sassy-cat’s birthday but didn’t have the time to write anything lengthy or plot-heavy. So please enjoy this quick little scenario instead 🥺🫶 Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated! Happy reading! ── MASTERLIST
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You huffed for the tenth time, almost throwing your phone clattering against the counter of the bar a little harder than you should, maybe when you’re less intoxicated you will check if you cracked the screen in your fury. Though, even then it should be justified because you have once again, been sent to voicemail.
Your boyfriend’s “Hey! It’s Minho, I’m most likely busy right now so just leave a—” rang in your ears before you hung up yet again.
He’s not picking up, hasn’t been even after he insisted you call him once you’re ready to come home from your night out with friends. Your friends, who left about a few minutes ago, or was it ten? You’re not sure, being drunk and all.
“What terrible friends.” You mutter to yourself, brows furrowed with annoyance.
They didn’t even offer to send you home either, they should have at least called you a cab.
No. Instead they left you with…your eyes darted over to the leather-jacket clad man sitting next to you.
Left you with whoever this guy was.
His finger traced around the glass of his water silently, though his eyes flickered over to you every few seconds.
Who the hell comes to a bar to drink water?
And he’s been silent for however long you have been sitting here trying to get ahold of your boyfriend too.
You had even attempted to leave his side once, but a curt “sit.” from him had you plop back down into your stool, swallowing nervously.
If your boyfriend were here he’d sure show this man. But noooo, the man who claimed to be the love of your life was radio-silent.
Your eyes glance at the imposing, but unfairly pretty stranger. And his stupid leather jacket.
Though you could swear you’ve seen it somewhere before.
Another groan, and you pick up your phone once more to dial your missing boyfriend. And before it rings a second time, the man next to you finally speaks up again.
“You’re so fucking drunk.” His tone is laced with amusement, the little tug at the corner of his lips annoying you in a familiar way.
Phone still pressed against your ear you can’t help but scoff at him and his oh-too-pleased expression.
“‘M not.” You retort, though the slurring in your voice isn’t fooling anyone.
You watch his own phone vibrates against the counter, eyes straining into squints to see the letters flashing. The screen reads “Nuisance ❤️”, a hazy picture of two people tangled in an embrace, lights up with the each buzz. Yet the man next to you makes no moves to answer.
“You should pick up when someone calls you. It’s rude.” You spat, lips pulled into a pout.
The irritation of your own boyfriend not answering slipping through on your face, laced in your tone.
A loud sigh tinged with defeat, escaped him as he reached for the device.
Damn, even his fingers are pretty, you can’t help but gawk.
The sound of your outgoing call is still ringing in your ears before it finally clicks.
“Hello.”
For a second you’re elated that your boyfriend finally picked up. But then your brows once again pinch together in confusion as the man next to you speaks the same words that hit your ears.
“I’m not letting you live this down.” He chuckled this time, the sound coming double from the other side of the phone and the man next to you.
His delighted expression doesn’t help one bit. You’re very confused. Clearly.
“Wait.” You mumble as your brain decides to have some mercy on you, allowing you to think properly.
Glancing down at the ongoing call screen, and blinking at the one silly picture of your boyfriend set as his contact, your eyes shoot up to finally stare at the leather-jacket man. Taking in his features.
“Oh.”
His lips instantly part into a wide grin, a breathy laugh spilling through them as he watched you pout into another frown. Less defensive this time.
“Minho! What took you so long!” You complain, leaning into his arms as he holds you close.
“Baby, I’ve been here before your friends even left. You’re the one who refused to recognize me.” He chucked, breath fanning over your hairs.
You try to think back to ten minutes ago, or was it fifteen now. You don’t know, your brain hurts and you feel sleepy.
Instead you groan, voice muffled against the leather. “Take me home please.”
He hummed in agreement, before he pulled back, taking the water that sat in front of him to bring to your lips.
“Hydrate first.”
Your head tipped back as he allowed the cool drink to run down your throat, wiping away the drops that managed to spill through the sides.
“Let’s go home.” His voice is warm, grasp even warmer as he wraps around you to lead you away.
The two of you manage to get out, though you stumble slightly as he pressed you close.
“Can’t believe you didn’t recognize me.” His tone is airy as the night breeze that hits the two of you.
“You played along.” You retort defensively, clutching onto him tighter.
“I did. Though I must say, I am a little impressed that you managed to retain the concept of stranger-danger even in such a loopy state.” He smiled, pushing away your hair to let his lips kiss your forehead.
“Don’t need anyone. Just you.” You murmur, feeling his mouth smile against your skin.
“And I’ll always be here with you.” He takes your hand, sighing aloud.
“Now let’s get you home, my little dunkard.”
“Hey!” You whine offended, though you allow yourself to be pulled along as his laugh echoes in the night.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ end.
AHHHH LIFE IS GOOD WHEN I CAN READ HANA'S FIC AGAIN😭😭😭 EVERYONE I'M FREE MAN FROM MY EXAMMMSS!!
*sobs* *sobs* this is so freaking cuteee😭😭 you never fail to melt my heart with your fic Hana :((.(Also, don't judge someone just because they drink a cup of water at the bar). Hdhdhdjdj Minho must be so amused by his girlfriend's drunk behaviour that he decided to keep quiet.
Ohhh and and! Did you see any clips from today's concert?? I wish I could go to their concert :(( Alright! I'm going to have a nice sleep thanks to this! (≧▽≦)
kiss it better.
lee minho x reader.
a dramatic... vampire... minho...?
contains: vampire au, frequent mentions of blood, fluff. word count: 1.6k
The night was at peace and quiet as you were slumped into the bed. Your phone laid against a pillow. An episode of a crime documentary kept you company as a lullaby.
The other side of the bed was left cold and freshly made. Minho would occasionally roam around at an ungodly hour to fulfill business he couldn’t have risked carrying out in broad daylight and would only come back sometime around dawn. Except on this day the house had already been left empty when you returned home, when the sun had still been well above the horizon, and he had yet to reach out to you.
You weren’t worried about his wellbeing. He was capable of steering clear of danger or walking out of it uninjured most of the time, but you stayed awake regardless to make sure he came back, and above all, to make sure he hadn’t been out there devouring something—someone—he shouldn’t.
Your eyelids were growing heavier and sagging against your will the longer you tried to keep awake. The grim background music and strained tone of voice when the narrator delivered word by agonizing word gradually eased off into murmurs. The arms propping up your chin began to relax and your cheeks slowly laid flat against the sheets.
You were nigh drifting away into the gate of slumber when a sudden whump and rattling sound from somewhere in the house jolted you up.
Still in a daze, you followed where the noises came from, having partly expected a certain someone since he liked to make an entrance rather than walking normally through the front door.
And there was him.
Minho sat on the floor in the living room. If his heart were to be working like any living beings, you could picture it thumping fast at how exhausted he looked.
Your first aid kit box was next to his knees. A messy roll of bandages, antibiotics and other supplies were scattered about the floor. One of his sleeves was rolled up, revealing a sloppy attempt at wrapping his forearm with bandages.
Crimson fluid streamed along the side of his mouth down to his jaw and down to the side of his neck and collarbone. Massive splotches besmirched his grey hoodie and sweats. An evident trace of the same fresh red stains trailed on the floor leading towards the window that was left wide open.
Your jaw clenched, “what in the world happened?”
Minho turned around in surprise.
“I promise this isn’t my blood,” he clarified almost too quickly with both hands held up, staring up at you with deliberate doe eyed, red irises glimmering apologetically.
“I know.” You said with an arched brow, “you can’t bleed.” You crouched down to get a better look at his condition.
“This isn’t human blood either,” he urgently added with a little bit of pride hinted in his tone, “there was a feral half-goblin in an alley on my way back here from Hyunjin’s coven about to feed off of an elderly woman from down the street. You know, the cat lady! I had no choice but to…” he paused, thinking of a word, “...terminate him.”
The blood at the edge of both his canines dripped to his bottom lip as he was explaining. You noticed there was a shallow cut in the corner of his lips.
“Minho,” you cradled his blood-stained jaw in your palm. You eyed the cut then lowered your gaze at where his forearm was unkemptly bandaged, “you’re injured.”
He scratched the back of his head with a bashful grin, “he bit me and scraped me off.”
“Looks like it.” You sighed, “come let’s take a bath. You smell like a goblin.”
As you were dragging him out of the grimy living room, he just leaned his head on your shoulder and wrapped an arm around your waist for support while whining at the throbbing pain across his arm.
Even as you were taking him out of the restraints of his clothes, rinsing all the grime and blood off his skin under the shower, and eventually laying him gently in the tub filled with aromatherapy bath bombed water, he didn’t stop grumbling.
“That freaky half-goblin’s neck was thorny like a thousand rose stems! Who could’ve guessed!” He sulked as he extended out his injured arm as per your request.
You attentively listened with occasional hums as a response while caressing his hand to soothe him before wiping a cloth that had been soaked with an ointment over the torn tissues of his arm. The ointment had been given by Hyunjin to you the first day Minho had decided to move in with you. It was a lotion as cold as ice meant to cure any injuries that weren’t able to be healed by a vampire’s self-healing abilities. And if there was any creature out there that could cause these sorts of damage to an undead’s body, it was a goblin. Minho was fortunate enough that he’d fought with only a half-goblin.
Minho hissed as soon as the ointment grazed his wound, “it stings.”
You ignored his pained wincing, holding his hand firmly in yours as he was trying to tug it back. “Even if it weren’t thorny it was still a stupid decision to try biting a goblin’s neck. I heard a bear couldn’t tear its tough skin, what makes you think you stand a chance?”
“A half-goblin.”
“Half or not, it was still a goblin.” You rolled your eyes, giving more pressure to the ointment-soaked cloth against his forearm, making him flinch, “and see, it turned out to be thorny and it cut your lips.”
His other hand splashed from underwater, thumb feeling each corner of his lips.
“Oh?” He caressed over one corner where a bloodless nick scarcely stretched. His lips stuck out into a big pout, “am I not pretty anymore?”
You rolled your eyes. Him and his overdramatic tendencies when it comes to his face.
His pout broke into a scowl when a faint sizzling sound from beneath the cloth was heard, he closed his eyes and threw his head back onto the wall, trying not to move as much while you kept the cloth pressed until the sizzles stopped.
When you took the cloth away, the skin around the wound seemed to have stitched itself until there was only a large red mark stretching across his forearm. It would take a few days to completely heal, but at least he wouldn’t have to freak out at a gaping wound whenever he checked himself in the mirror.
You kissed the red scar, almost without thinking, “there.”
But Minho was wide eyed at the abrupt gesture, “why did you kiss it?”
You shrugged, “my mother used to do it. She said it’ll make my wounds heal faster. I guess I sort of got the habit from her.”
Minho momentarily stilled.
Then he shifted in the tub to get closer to you, splashing the water in the process.
“The half-goblin wounded me pretty bad actually,” he raised himself up from the water ever so slightly, revealing a graze across his abdomen that had begun healing courtesy of his own self-healing abilities. Unless he forced his abilities to a halt the moment he showed the wound to you, for whatever reason. That way you knew it wasn’t from the goblin, he must’ve gotten it when he fell during the fight and accidentally scratched it against a sharp-edged something.
“There, you see? It hurt so bad. I think you should kiss it too.”
You snorted a laugh but leaned down anyway. Not one, not two, but three kisses across the line of the graze. “Better?”
He giggled blithely once you sat back on the cold floor, “mm, I can feel it heal faster. Your mom’s right.”
“Mm, sure.”
He tilted his neck to the side this time, showing you a teeny-tiny cut, “this hurts a lot.”
You quietly complied and planted yet another kiss on the ‘hurts a lot’ wound.
You raised a brow as if wordlessly asking if there were any more wounds needing quick healing.
By the full-on grin that exposed his bunny teeth, you knew he was satisfied.
“My lips,” he pointed at the shallow scratch in the corner of his lips, “this one hurts badly. The worst. So you might have to kiss it longer.”
With a knowing grin you instead put the ointment-soaked cloth on where he pointed at, making him flinch and glower at the sudden searing sensation but not pushing your hand away nonetheless.
You removed the cloth and draped it over the edge of the tub. You held the back of his neck with one hand and the other cupped his cheek, lips brushing against where the scratch turned into a scar, barely touching his lips.
He frowned.
“What?” You snickered, “I kissed it.”
Minho clicked his tongue, “but my lips are hurting too!”
Before he complained again, you cupped his jaw and kissed him on where he said were hurting too. Pleased, he smiled against the kiss and with his healthy hand, cradling the side of your face and slithering toward the back of your neck to deepen the kiss.
“Take it off,” he tugged at your shirt, “take everything off.”
You did as told and once all of your clothes were discarded on the floor, you dipped yourself into the tub where he pulled you by the waist and let you rest on his lap.
“My lips are still sore and hurt and it’s just the worst kind of pain!”
“Your lips are okay,” you teased, thumbing his bottom lip.
“Oh, you have no idea!”
The gory living room was momentarily forgotten. There was only the sound of kisses and giggles and hushed whispers and water splashes from the bathroom. Minho was more than pleased, he hugged you closer in delight as if the warmth of your skin would ever soak into his frigid one.
He reclined back, grinning in satisfaction at the lots of kisses he’d gotten, “I should be injured more often.”
a/n: there was actually a red haired minho fanart on insta (or twt??? omg i forgot) that became the original source of inspo for this fic but i couldn't find it 🙁 if i did end up finding it i'll reblog this with the link grrrrrrr
Do not copy/plagiarize/reproduce my work in any form.
Not me giggling and kicking my feet in my bed, in the middle of the night when reading this.
Godddd how long has it been since I read fluff🫠🫠🫠 THIS IS SO ADORABLE😭😭 Pouty Minho asking for kisses, AUGHHHH MY HEART <\333
so close!
bangchan x 9th member fem!reader
summary|| chan's slip up during recording and everyone panic as they try to cover it (jeongin to the rescue)
gener|| fluff, secret relationship
a/n|| this was a part of an ot8 fic of the same theme but i couldn't write anyone other than chan so he get a seperate drabble
you were filming the recording scenes for a new song,
the studio was warm in contrast to the weather outside, all of the members were gathered there, every one of them was too lazy to go back home after they finished their parts, and they had every right to–who would want to go out of a room that felt like a cozy blanket and onto the freezing weather?
so because of that the room felt extra lively, chatter and hot drinks mugs filled it, which also reduced the stress on 3racha as they could relax in this chaotic setting and get the recording lightheartedly.
it was your turn now, you cleared your throat as a warm up while you went into the recording booth. you put the headphones on, the music plastered through it as chan signaled for you to start.
after a few seconds the music dies when you finished, you looked through the glasses to the three who were listening to it again, han looked up at you with wide eyes “whoa that was so good” he said, visibly impressed as he looked at the others, “our y/n is so talented~” changbin said in cutesy–way. you let out giggle and looked down shyly at their praise, a small smile crept on chan's face “of course she's amazing, she was practicing all night yesterday in the house.” he didn't think twice about what he said, too indulgent on the computer in front of him and on matching your singing with the music, but everyone else did–the room suddenly went too quite, everyone paused mid whatever they were doing, you stopped in your tracks in the doorway.
chan slowly realized what he had said upon the sudden tense atmosphere in the room, he looked up at the members “i-uh i mean when..when,” he stuttered as he tried to think of something to escape this situation. suddenly jeongin started to motion vaguely in the air “ah! you mean in our dorm, when noona came to visit us!” even though he tried to say that in a confident way he was very obviously nervous. “i remember, i couldn't sleep because of it.” he looked between you two nodded in confirmation, chan quickly copied him, nodding now himself “yeah yeah! that what i meant” he chuckled nervously and went back to his computer, shaking his head from side to side." I must be really tired, i don't know what I'm saying.”
it was a weak save, and no one bought it, but at least it was something he could repeat everytime he was asked about it.
𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ִֶָ. ..𓂃 @imsleepingwhataboutu @dina-10s-blog @ilvin88 @loonarixsxx @hanniesbubuwife @hyunjinsslut12 @lilyxii @anastarsia-00 @chrispypineappleburger @1-aria-1 @leeknaurrrr @koala-wonderland @jeonginsfavglazer @yngjgn @ren0325 @yourstargirlyyy @viisstrayy @bunbunbl0gs @vernorica123 —𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕/𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒔𝒌 𝒊𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅!!
Thank you Jeongin for your attempt to keep the relationship a secret🫂🫂
And yes...I read this while in my chemistry lab—
“DID YOU BITE YOUR LIPS?”
hyunjin x gn reader (fluff, couple, cute)
you two were sharing quality time in the kitchen, enjoying breakfast. Hyunjin was flipping some pancakes, saying something very funny that happened at work, you were eating them, with little apples in the bowl with oatmeal to reinforce.
he would tell the story with his usual enthusiasm, and you would laugh because he always made you laugh; even more so with that korean intonation when he were imitating a member's voice, you'd be completely gaggling.
in the first few minutes, just as you were about to ask him more, you bite your lips unintentionally, letting out a little ouch!, startled, tasting the bit of blood.
“babe! what happened?” Hyunjin turned around with the groan and immediately went to you, “did you bite your lips?!”
“yeah, I did...”, you were going to put your hand on the wound, but he told you not to touch it, that he would bring some bandages.
you obeyed, watching him leave. your mouth seemed to swell more with each passing minute. goddamn it, why did this have to happen? even stubbing your toe on a corner would have been better than this, because you wouldn't have probly gotten a canker sore that would ruin your next week. but it's okay, doc Hyunjin is already coming back, maybe he can say that you won't get it.
“let me see...”, he leaned down and cupped your face in both hands, seeing the small streak of blood trickling down it. then he simply licked it away. you made a surprise face at him as you blushed. “what? it's just blood, babe”
“yeah... but you just don't suck the blood from people's wounds”
“oh shush it”, he chuckled, then pause. “I don't know either why I did that”
“you're so weird...”
“just let me put the bandage on, okay?” he removed the bandage from its packaging and pressed it against the wound on your lip after applying some ointment. then he kissed the bandage, saying it would help it heal faster. you felt warmed, the heart giving little jumps.
and you got so distracted by it that you could only hear him say “you're going to be ok, k?”, after giving you a few more kisses on the cheeks and the forehead. you answered him. he returns to the stove.
“if anything comes up, let's see a stomatologist”
“it's probably not that bad”
“yeah but we don't know, babe. just let me know if anything, ok?”
“yeah, ok” you said, returning to the meal, still feeling the strong sensations of being loved and cared for, bringing back the same memory.
and he noticed your current demeanor, smiled. “you look cute with that”.
Bdbdbdhdbdjdjissjsh AHHHHH WHAT A CUTE FIC TO START MY READING FIC ERA AGAIN.
Alright alright the sad things about this is how short it is :(( BUT either way I enjoy it!! Thank you writing this(◍•ᴗ•◍)❤
≔ [ ❤︎ ] : (tiger!hybrid) lee minho x (caretaker) female reader ◟ wc : 516 //⬩➤ 【 warning 】 ᝰ. hybrid au and not proofread
It’s been about a couple of days, seven to be exact, that a whole week has gone by miserably due to you catching a cold out of nowhere. You were so out of it. Yet even then, your stubbornness pushed you to go to work. However, you couldn’t step into the facility even if you tried as both your co-workers and supervisor urged you consistently to fully receiver before returning to work. They had to do a lot of convincing before you gave up and headed back home.
During your time spent stuck at home, you couldn’t commit to relaxing. All you could do is worry about how much work your co-workers have to fill in for you and how Minho is doing. Some people may find it ridiculous, but as a hybrid caretaker, like many others in your profession, the hybrids that you take care of have a special bond with each and everyone of you. Although, for Minho, that bond is only reserved for his favorite person on earth. You.
So it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise to your co-workers that you're texting them to get updates about how Minho is doing. From their replies, they all told you that he was doing fine, something you found really hard to believe since he doesn’t like anyone in his environment other than you. Therefore, you tried to get better as soon as possible.
By the time you felt all better, you rushed to work. You clocked in, quickly greeted everyone, and then bolted to Minho’s environment. Your ID scan made the door slide open as you looked around.
“Min? Min where are you?” You called out curiously, walking in to hear a chuff. “Oh? There you are?”
You walked towards the tree that he was resting on.
But as you got close to him, he turned his head.
“Come on, don’t be like that Min.” You cooed, brushing your fingers through his soft fur.
As mad as he is at you, he doesn’t make the attempt to move away, instead he starts purring.
“I didn’t do it on purpose.” You began to explain. “I got sick and had to stay home.”
His ears perked up as he turned his head around to look back at you. To anyone, it would be intimidating to have a grown tiger stare at them directly. Though you have nothing to worry about, not when it's Minho. Then before you could react, he changed back into his human form.
He didn’t say anything as he hugged you tightly and closely with his forehead resting on your shoulder while you hugged him back.
“I thought you finally got tired of me…” He fearfully admitted into the fabric of your shirt.
“Silly Min. I’d never get tired of my favorite feline.”
“I’m your favorite?” He peaks up to look at you.
“Duh, you’re the only feline that I know.”
“Hmph, good. Cause I’ll hate sharing…”
“You won’t have to worry about that any time soon, Min.” You assured, gently scratching his scalp as you felt him pur against your body.
∿۶ৎ🏷️ @wobblewobble822, @firstclassjaylee, @niku0704, @emeraldgem22, @scarlettuce-lettuce, @juju-227592,@geni-627, @iconicallyher, @danielle143, @sammhisphere, @maggicotton, @unenthusiasticmigraine, @zayn-210, @tearsofgenshin, @theaknowsstuff, @instabull
Hehe, I love fluff hybrid au, this makes me so happyyyy!! Thank you for writing this! 🤸
HE'S LUCKY, YOU LOVE HIM
this is just han jisung being your boyfriend and being just a complete idiot sometimes, but you really never mind it at all. you love him regardless and he's lucky, you love him because this exact moments make you just wanna facepalm so hard (not that you haven't already).
a/n: this was so short and spontaeneous but i just know there would be moments like this if you happen to date jisung. he's lucky he's cute and endearing even if like this.
permanent taglist: @hime-honne, @dxllyhorror, @thepoeticpurplepotato, @verslyns, @channlust, @leewayout, @zosauce, @kloversung, @1-aria-1, @vxyselectric, @urfavleobiscuit, @written-by-music, @fanficwriter5, @minniebitesfr, @pedropacals0l0s, @iheartkentonanami, @ncityswrld, @danielle143, @persassyismysecrettwin, @trisha-dear, @pineapple-burgah, @luv4innie, @bunbunbl0gs, @marlboropuffs, @morgangrice18, @33peach33, @peskybirdysya, @ogerontheside4, @theyknowagus, @zerefdragn33l, @melodyladean, @ebnabi, @emeraldgem22, @fweakygyatt, @taekwondoe, @sue-reads, @shinygubbins, @lilmissfergy, @quokkahansung, @binniebb, @clairementsolo, @nclabels, @genuinelybrittleidol , @parkthothwa8, @daphnnie, @hyunnjynn, @sagetakami, @hanniesbubuwife, @hycnsung, @matzduo
all rights reserved © 2026 sitri. none of my works shall be produced or reproduced in any form without consent and proper asking.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH, PLEASE😭😭😭 HOW IN THE WORLD HE COULD FORGET Y/N 😭😭😭
No One Suspects Their OOMFs (April Fools Edition) (SMAU)
Pairings: Chan x fem!reader (could be read as gn if you don't mind that someone calls you "girl" but otherwise no pronouns used!)
Rating: T+
Genre: Established Relationship, SMAU, Twitter, oomfs, goofin and gaffin
Summary: A totally normal day on Twitter leads to your boyfriend acting just a tad jealous hehe
A/N: sooo @pvppymin deadass inspired me to do this LOL i just kept thinking about her April Fools oomf post (GO READ IT) and now here we are HAHA
(masterlist)
Permataglist: @nightmarenyxx @sparky2020sworld @thatgirlangelb @skzzfoxyyy @fweakygyatt @teffyx @91dreams91things @theferretkids @pvppymin @clairementsolo @what-just-happened-to-me @soulphoenix1618 @stay-tiny-things @gadriezmannsgirl @i-am-confused-about-life @cchapssaltteok @lizal1cious @chandlxa @tricky-ritz @bunnythesiren @staytinycassichu @rayraymylove @bbokarismeow @bekindtourself @btch8008s @daphnnie @pineapple-burgah @blindspotquokka @danielle143
Bfhdhdhdhhddh this is so funny😭😭😭😭 help😭😭😭 thank you for making me laugh while I wait for my laundry :> !!!!!
Between schedules
Seungmin x f!reader
Synopsis: After years of loving Seungmin through comebacks and tours, you realise understanding his life doesn’t make the waiting hurt less—and you choose to let go, even though you both still love each other.
a/n: sorry i haven’t posted in so longg ive been super busy but i should be back to posting regularly again
Cw: angst, no happy ending
Wc: 2,181
The months that are yours are always so good it’s almost cruel.
They’re the quiet stretches between the noise—when the promotions slow down, when the flights stop stacking like dominoes, when his phone isn’t vibrating every five minutes. Those months feel like you’re allowed to exhale again.
Seungmin cooks badly on purpose because he likes the way you laugh when he pretends it was “definitely meant to taste like that”. He falls asleep with his cheek pressed to your shoulder, arm heavy around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. He sends you voice notes just to say, “I’m walking home,” as if the fact he’s walking home to you is the most ordinary, precious thing in the world.
In those months, it’s easy to forget the other version of your relationship exists.
The one where you become patient by necessity.
The one where you love him through a screen.
The one where “I’ll try” becomes a whole season of your life.
You don’t think he does it because he doesn’t care. That’s never been the issue.
If anything, Seungmin caring is part of the problem—because when he’s drowning, he tries to protect you from the chaos by shrinking himself down and going quiet. He doesn’t turn cold. He turns guilty. He turns careful. He turns into someone who’s trying so hard not to disappoint you that he disappears.
And you’ve spent years learning how to miss him without making it his fault.
But missing someone you love still hurts like hell, even when you understand why.
౨ৎ
This time, it’s tour straight into comeback prep.
This time, it’s the same story—but you’re older now, and you can’t pretend your chest doesn’t ache the way it always does.
He texts when he can.
Seungmin: landed
Seungmin: sorry i’m late again
Seungmin: are you eating?
Seungmin: i miss you
And you believe him, every time.
You also notice the gaps getting easier for him. Or maybe you’re just noticing the pattern more clearly.
Because you’ve done this dance for years.
A few golden months of normal.
Then weeks of him slipping through your fingers again.
Then you rebuilding your expectations down to something smaller so you don’t break.
You keep telling yourself: This is what dating an idol looks like.
And maybe it is.
But you’re starting to wonder what it looks like to date someone and not feel like you’re living on borrowed time.
౨ৎ
When he gets back from tour, you don’t rage. You don’t send paragraphs at 2 a.m. You don’t guilt him for being exhausted.
You wait until you can talk properly.
That’s what mature people do, you tell yourself.
So you wait.
And then comeback prep swallows him whole again, and it becomes another week of almosts. Another string of “I’ll call later” that never lands. Another Sunday you keep free because he might have time—until he doesn’t.
You’re not even surprised when you get:
Seungmin: schedule changed. i’m sorry. can we do another day?
You stare at the message with a calm you don’t recognise at first.
Not numbness. Not bitterness.
Just… clarity.
You type back:
You: Can we talk in person? I’m coming over after your rehearsal. If you’re too tired, I’ll leave.
Three dots.
Seungmin: no. please come. i want to see you.
That last part makes your throat tighten. Because of course he does. He always does.
Wanting has never been the problem.
౨ৎ
He opens the door with that familiar softness in his face—eyes widening, relief flickering before worry catches up.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “Come in.”
He looks like he’s running on fumes: hoodie, damp hair, tired eyes trying their best to stay gentle. He smiles anyway, small and real, like your presence is something his body recognises as safe.
“Are you okay?” he asks immediately, voice careful.
You nod. “Yeah. I am.”
He searches your face. “That sounded like a lie.”
“It’s not,” you say, and you mean it. “I’m just… serious.”
His shoulders dip like he’s bracing himself. “Okay.”
You sit together on the sofa. Not close enough to touch yet. Not far enough to feel like strangers. The space between you feels deliberate, respectful—like you’re both trying not to tip anything over.
He rubs his palms against his joggers, fidgeting. “I’m sorry I’ve been… absent.”
“I know you’re busy,” you say gently. “I know what this part of the year is like.”
He looks up, eyes shining already. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He swallows. “Then why do you look like you’re about to break my heart?”
The honesty in his voice knocks the air out of you.
You exhale slowly. “Because I think I have to.”
Seungmin goes still. Completely still. Like his body is trying to freeze time.
“No,” he whispers. “Please—don’t—”
You lift a hand, not to stop him, but to slow the moment down. “Let me talk. Please.”
He nods once, hard, throat bobbing. His eyes don’t leave yours.
You speak carefully, like you’re carrying something fragile.
“This isn’t just about now,” you say. “It’s not just tour and this comeback.”
His face crumples a fraction. He knows.
“You’ve always had these stretches,” you continue, voice calm even as your eyes burn, “where I get you for a few months—properly—and it’s amazing. I’m not pretending it isn’t. Those months are… they’re some of the happiest times of my life.”
Seungmin’s breath stutters, like he’s relieved and devastated at the same time.
“And then,” you say softly, “it flips. Tour. Comeback. Tour. Promotions. And I become someone who waits.”
Seungmin shakes his head, small and broken. “I never want you to wait.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “I know you don’t. And I know you love me. You’re not cruel. You’re not careless. You’re trying your best.”
His eyes spill over. He scrubs his cheek with his sleeve like he’s embarrassed to cry, but he can’t stop.
“I just—” he starts, voice cracking. “I don’t know how to do it all.”
“And I’m not asking you to,” you say, firmer now. “That’s the point.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t understand.
You swallow. “I can’t keep being in a relationship where the hardest parts are normal. Where every intense schedule means I’m back to counting messages and hoping for ten minutes.”
Seungmin’s mouth opens. Closes. His hands curl tight in his lap.
“I don’t want to make you choose,” you add, immediately, because you see panic bloom in his eyes. “I’m not here to say ‘pick me or your career’. That would be unfair, and it’s not who I am, and it’s not what I want.”
His voice comes out rough. “Then what do you want?”
You blink back tears. “I want a relationship where I don’t feel like my role is to wait for it to start again.”
The silence is heavy, but it isn’t angry. It’s grief.
Seungmin whispers, “But we have months. We do. When it’s calm, we’re good, right? We’re—” He laughs once, broken. “We’re really good.”
You nod. “We are.”
Hope flickers on his face like a match.
“And that’s why this is so hard,” you continue, voice shaking. “Because the good months don’t cancel out how I feel during the bad ones. They just… make the bad ones feel like falling from a higher place.”
His eyes squeeze shut. Another tear slips.
“I don’t blame you,” you say softly. “I don’t blame your job, either. I understand it. I’ve understood it the whole time. I’ve been proud of you the whole time.”
Seungmin looks up, devastated. “Then why can’t you stay?”
You inhale, slow. “Because understanding doesn’t stop me being lonely.”
His breath catches, like the truth physically hurts him.
“I don’t want to become resentful,” you say, voice gentle but steady. “I don’t want to look at your schedule and feel dread. I don’t want to hear ‘comeback’ and feel my stomach drop. I don’t want to start hating the thing you love because it keeps taking you away from me.”
Seungmin shakes his head quickly. “I can fix it. I can— I’ll make time. I’ll talk to—”
“Min,” you interrupt softly.
He stops. His eyes are wide, pleading.
“You shouldn’t have to fight your life to make room for me,” you say. “And I shouldn’t have to shrink myself to fit into whatever space is left.”
He looks like he’s been punched.
You reach out then—careful—and take his hand. His fingers clutch yours instantly like he’s starving for it.
“I love you,” you say. “I love you so much. That’s not the question. The question is… is this good for me? Is it good for you?”
His lips tremble. “It’s good for me,” he whispers, desperate. “You’re—you’re my safe place.”
Your throat tightens. “And I’ve been trying to be that. I really have. But I can’t be your safe place if I’m falling apart quietly in the background.”
Seungmin makes a small sound, like he’s trying not to sob. “So you’re leaving.”
You nod, tears finally spilling. “Yeah.”
His hand grips yours harder, then loosens like he remembers he isn’t allowed to hold you against your will.
He wipes at his face, breath shaking. “Fuck,” he whispers. It’s not anger. It’s just pain.
“I’m sorry,” you say immediately.
He shakes his head, a little frantic. “Don’t—don’t be sorry. You’re not doing anything wrong. I just—” His voice breaks completely. “I don’t want this.”
“I don’t either,” you whisper. “But I think it’s the healthiest thing.”
He stares at you through tears. “Healthy,” he repeats, like the word doesn’t belong here.
You squeeze his hand. “I want you to chase what you love without carrying the guilt of hurting me every time it gets intense. And I want to build a life where I’m not constantly bracing for the next goodbye.”
His face crumples again. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know.” Your voice turns warmer, softer. “That’s why I’m not angry at you, Seungmin. I’m angry at the situation. I’m angry at time. I’m angry at how often I’ve felt like I’m dating your absence.”
He closes his eyes, tears tracking down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
You let yourself look at him properly—this boy who loves you in every way he knows how, and still can’t give you the one thing you need most: consistency.
“I’m proud of you,” you whisper. “I’m proud of how hard you work. I’m proud of how kind you are even when you’re exhausted. I’m proud of you for caring as much as you do.”
Seungmin’s face twists, voice small. “If you’re proud of me, why does it feel like I’m losing everything?”
Because you are, you think. And so am I.
You say, instead: “Because we’re human.”
He laughs once, wet and helpless. “That’s a terrible reason.”
“I know,” you whisper, teary. “I wish love was enough.”
His gaze flickers over your face like he’s memorising you. “Can I… can I hold you? Just for a second?”
You nod.
He pulls you into him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, but he’s still gentle—always gentle—arms wrapping around you carefully, shaking with quiet sobs. He presses his face into your hair and breathes like he’s trying to take you with him into his lungs.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I love you so much.”
You hold him back, and it hurts, because this part has never been difficult. Loving him is the easiest thing you’ve ever done.
“I love you too,” you whisper. “That’s why I’m doing this kindly. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Just… honestly.”
He clings a little tighter, then slowly lets go.
When you pull back, his eyes are red, lashes wet, expression shattered.
He swallows hard. “Can we—” He can’t even finish the sentence. His voice breaks again.
You squeeze his hand one last time. “I don’t think we should do the in-between thing. It’ll just keep us stuck. It’ll keep me waiting, and it’ll keep you guilty.”
He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to beg. Like he wants to promise you the impossible.
Instead, he whispers, “Okay.”
It’s the most devastating kind of respect.
You stand. Your legs feel unsteady, but your decision doesn’t.
At the door, you pause and look back.
Seungmin is sitting exactly where you left him, shoulders shaking, hands twisted together like he doesn’t know what to do with them now. He looks up at you like he’s trying to be brave.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, small.
“I know,” you whisper. “And I forgive you.”
His face crumples at that, like forgiveness is somehow worse than anger.
You swallow your own tears. “Be happy, Min. Really. Be happy.”
He nods, crying. “You too.”
You leave before either of you can say something that would make you stay.
Outside, the air is cold and sharp, and the world moves on like it always does—cars passing, people laughing, time refusing to pause.
Your phone buzzes once as you walk away.
You don’t look.
Not because you don’t care.
Because you care enough to finally stop waiting.
౨ৎ
Tag list
@lucyysthings
🕸️🕷️✮⋆˙ LOG 1 — ANOMALOUS DATA POINTS (chapter 1 of my spiderman!jisung series)
pairing: han jisung x fem!reader, college spider-man au, established relationship synopsis: your boyfriend’s always been really fucking weird. but lately? he’s inconsistently weird. and the more you notice it, the harder it is to ignore. so you do the only logical thing a uni student in stem would do: you start logging. warnings: ~4k words, fluff, mentions of porn, suggestive themes (mdni!), making out, very brief dry humping, profanity, mentions of cheating, kinda loser!hanjisung but he's trapped in a hot body, angst
a/n: i had to consult my friend whos in stem like five separate times to make sure the science i was writing wasn’t absolute clownery. clearly i’m not a stem girl. hope you enjoy! next chapter is already underway <3
next: log 2
you’ve known han jisung since high school.
which means you’ve spent approximately five years observing a loser who somehow manages to be both the love of your life and the human equivalent of dropping a beaker the moment the lab goes quiet.
honestly, if someone asked you to draw him from memory, you could. if someone asked you to write a dissertation on him, you’d win several awards for knowledge. if someone asked you why you love him—well, that answer is weirdly simple:
he’s perfect. not in the traditional never makes mistakes, future nobel prize winner kind of way, but perfect in the way you’ll always find yourself to be attracted to his flaws. perfect for you.
and honestly? your relationship with him has always been smooth. stable. no weird inconsistencies. just two academically overworked university students dating each other like normal, well-adjusted people.
okay, fine. jisung is not normal. or well-adjusted. but he’s consistently not normal. predictably not normal. that counts for something.
your professor clears her throat loudly at the front of the lecture hall.
“now,” she says, projecting her voice with that deadly combination of enthusiasm and exhaustion only university faculty possess, “let’s move on to our next topic: how to identify anomalous data points within an otherwise consistent pattern.”
your pen slips slightly in your hand.
anomalous data points.
huh.
you haven’t thought about “unusual” in a while.
“and remember,” the professor continues, “outliers often indicate that something in the system isn’t what it appears. they can be warning signs. or evidence of a larger pattern.”
you sit up a little straighter.
because sure, your relationship is smooth. predictable. no anomalies.
but there is… one thing.
well—many things. now that the professor mentions it.
you chew the end of your pen, staring at the slide, suddenly replaying the past few months with jisung in your head.
actually there’s a list. a growing list. a list that, if plotted on a graph, would look suspiciously like something was very, very wrong with the trendline known as han jisung.
your brain blanks for a second. how could you not think of an example? you swear there were things. little things you noticed and then forgot. things that pinged your intuition but never loudly enough for you to stop and call them out.
and now your brain has completely blanked. as if the second you try to pin down an example, it slips through your fingers.
you know something was off about him this past year. you just can’t remember the proof.
you tap your pen against your notebook.
okay. starting today, you’re keeping track. a proper record. if your boyfriend is hiding even one more questionable moment, you’re going to catch it from here on out.
at the front of the room, your professor turns back to the class, chalk in hand.
you met jisung after class at the little bubble tea shop near campus, the one with the barista who always added extra pearls when she saw the two of you because she thought you were “adorable.”
he was already waiting outside, backpack half-unzipped, hair slightly messy. he spotted you and his entire face lit up.
“y/n!” he called, waving so aggressively that his sleeve got caught on his backpack strap.
he spun halfway around trying to untangle it, nearly walked into a bike rack, then pretended nothing had happened.
you snorted before you could stop yourself, shaking your head as he finally freed himself from the strap.
he jogged the last couple steps toward you and immediately softened.
“how are you, baby?” he asked, leaning in to kiss the side of your head, warm and familiar.
you squeezed his hand. “i’m great. how was class?”
he grinned, eyes sparkling. “today, professor—wait, hold on, you smell really nice. is that new shampoo?”
“yeah. i ran out cause someone finished my other bottle last time he came over.”
“you said i could use it!” he stammered.
“you used like half of it,” you reminded him.
“i have lots of hair!”
you raised a brow. “jisung, that wasn’t even meant to be a hair-washing shower.”
jisung froze.
his ears went pink.
because the memory hit you both at the same time. jisung was in the steam, hair dripping, breath shallow, eyes blown wide as he blew your back—
thank god you had your own bathroom.
that would’ve been impossible anywhere else.
he slapped a hand over his face. “okay, okay, we don’t need to talk about that in public.”
you laughed, stepping up in the café line as he trailed after you, warm and flustered and trying very hard not to combust. he hovered close, chin nearly on your shoulder.
“so,” you said, amused, “chem class?”
“oh right, yes,” he said, snapping back to his original thought with a tiny gasp. “chem class. i had something important to say about that before i got distracted by—” he paused to inhale dramatically near your hair. “—this incredible shampoo situation.”
you rolled your eyes, smiling. “focus, jisung.”
“sorry,” he continued before clearing his throat, “professor han—no relation to me but i wish there was because he’s so cool—looked at my results and said my solution was ‘fascinatingly incorrect.’” he paused dramatically. “which is basically a compliment if you really think about it.”
you laughed under your breath. “he literally said you were wrong.”
without missing a beat, he lightly punched your arm with the hand that wasn’t holding yours.
“the greatest scientists make mistakes all the time, y/n. it’s all part of a great outcome”
you rolled your eyes. “sure.”
he pointed at you. “professor han would adore you, you know. he loves students who ask a ton of questions and bring their own lab coats.”
you groaned into your hands. “i wish we were in chem together.”
he gasped dramatically. “me too! we’d be unstoppable. or expelled.”
“but silly me decided i needed a ‘balanced schedule,’” you said, using air quotes, “and now i’m stuck with dr. park and her three-hour lectures on covalent bonds instead of being with my stupid boyfriend.”
jisung furrowed his brows as you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, wondering if that was an insult or affection. all of the above?
“next!” the barista called.
“hi,” he said brightly, already pulling out both your student ids. while jisung continued chatting with the barista. your gaze drifted up toward the small tv mounted high behind the register.
“—and once again, spider-man has saved another two civilians after a late-night collision in the downtown core…”
the footage cut to a shaky prerecorded interview clip from last night. spider-man was by the sidewalk as the microphone was held up to him. his voice was deeper than you expected.
“yeah, uh, i was just trying to mind my business,” he said, “but, you know, a car flew past me and i figured that meant i wasn’t allowed to go home yet.”
you laughed quietly.
you felt jisung tug your hand gently.
“what is it?” he said, finished with the order as the two of you stepped aside to wait.
“oh nothing,” you said, nodding toward the tv.
jisung led the way to a table. you heard, rather than fully saw, the chaotic sequence behind you: a chair leg scraping, his foot catching, and the unmistakable thump of him saving himself with a last-second. but your eyes never left the tv screen.
he managed to pull out your chair anyway, breathing a little unsteady, like he hoped you hadn’t noticed him almost eating shit. you were used to it by now.
you sat without looking away, your gaze glued to the footage of the superhero.
“you know,” you said, straw tapping absently against the side of your cup, “i just can’t believe we’ve never seen spiderman in the flesh. you’d think a guy who swings around the city would be easy to catch.”
his eyes flicked toward the tv.
“i feel like everyone has a spider-man story except us,” you added.
he didn’t answer right away. when he finally did, his voice was softer.
“yeah,” he said, staring intently at the screen. “but personally, i wouldn’t wanna see him.”
you blinked, pulled out of the tv trance. “why?”
he shrugged one shoulder, picking at the plastic of his cup. “i don’t know. he attracts danger. chaos. people getting hurt. he only shows up when something bad is happening. like, building-on-fire bad. so i’m good.”
you laughed, nudging him with your shoulder. “okay, dramatic.”
he squeezed your hand. “i’m serious. if you ever see him nearby, get out of there. run home. hide in a trash can. i don’t know—just don’t be around.”
“you know,” you added, teasing, “most people want to take selfies with him. ask for autographs.”
jisung scoffed. “most people don’t value their lives.”
“so you’re saying if spider-man walked in right now, you’d what? scream?”
“i’d exit the premises calmly,” he said, pointing at the door. “and i’d take you with me.”
you grinned, shaking your head. “you’re so fucking odd.”
“trust me when i say this,” he said softly, leaning closer, “let yourself be scared of him.”
suddenly, all your jokes were replaced by something that made your stomach dip.
before you could respond, the cashier called out your order.
jisung straightened instantly, the serious moment evaporating like it never existed. he bounced over to the counter with that familiar lightness in his step, humming under his breath as he collected your drinks. he thanked the cashier enthusiastically, nearly knocking over a stack of lids as he turned back toward you with both cups in hand and the brightest smile on his face.
“look at that,” he said, handing you yours. “i’m your hero. you don’t need to meet spider-man when you see me every day.”
you rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.
the library was unusually quiet in the afternoon, even by university standards. the private study room you booked had thick glass walls and perfect soundproofing. jisung sprawled across from you, laptop open. his knee bounced lightly under the table, his foot occasionally tapping yours.
you flipped through your notes with a sigh. “i swear chemistry makes no sense.”
“it does,” he said, eyes glued to his screen. “you’re just overthinking it. come here.”
he patted the chair beside him without looking up, like he expected you to obey the way someone calls a cat. you huffed, rolling your eyes, but you still got up and moved next to him.
as soon as you sat down, he angled his laptop toward you and pointed at a diagram.
“so here,” he said, tapping the screen, “this is the viscosity curve. if the fluid’s structure changes under stress, it becomes non-newtonian. which is why certain compounds can thicken or stretch depending on the force applied.”
you narrowed your eyes. “so… like slime.”
“not like slime,” he said immediately, offended.
you bit back a laugh.
“now think of it this way. if a substance has really strong intermolecular forces but super flexible bonding patterns, it’ll flow normally until it’s suddenly hit with pressure.” he paused. “then it behaves almost like a web. sticky when you don’t want it to be. stretchy when you don’t expect it. and—”
he stopped mid-sentence.
completely froze.
his eyes locked onto your arm.
“don’t move,” he whispered.
“what?”
then you felt a faint, crawling pressure along your forearm. you looked down.
a huge spider.
your breath caught in your throat.
your chair screeched violently against the floor as you jerked back, heart slamming against your ribs. you flicked the spider off with shaking fingers and slammed your notebook down so hard the thud echoed off the soundproof walls.
silence swallowed the room.
jisung didn’t move, he just stared at the crushed spider with a look you’d never seen before.
silence.
he wasn’t breathing right. his chest rose fast, shoulders tight, eyes still fixed on where the spider used to be.
he finally forced himself to blink, then tore his gaze away.
“um, it’s gone now. it’s dead.” you said softly.
he didn’t answer right away.
“jisung?” you tried again.
he cleared his throat, but his voice came out thin. “i’m gonna go use the bathroom. just for a sec. i’ll be back.”
you frowned. “pee later, sungie, i still need help with this—”
“just look at your notes for now,” he said quickly.
he stood too fast, bumped the table with his knee, apologized to the damn object, and headed for the door with a strange stiffness in his shoulders. and you watched him go, your pen hovering over your notebook.
you had never known jisung to be scared of spiders.
back in your first year of high school, during a field trip to the zoo, you remembered it clearly. the rest of your group had screamed when the handler brought out the tarantula, but jisung wore a stupid smile on his face.
you remembered him asking the poor handler ten questions in a row. you remembered him sticking out his hand so the tarantula could crawl on it while you hid behind your friend’s backpack.
he wasn’t scared then.
so why now?
you glanced toward the door again.
slowly, you turned to your laptop, opened a new document, and typed at the top:
anomalies - hjs
below it, you wrote your first entry.
sudden and intense fear response to spider
reaction does not match past behavior
you stared at the words for a long moment.
you exhaled slowly, then clicked the tab closed. the document winked out of sight. you shut your laptop entirely, pressing the lid down until it clicked. you pulled your notebook back toward you and flipped to the last page you were working on.
you tapped your pen twice against the margin, trying to focus.
the door clicked softly a few minutes later.
you looked up.
jisung stepped back inside, hair a little damp at the fringe. he gave you a small smile.
“hey,” he said, voice light. “sorry. took a bit.”
you smiled back, relieved to see him. “are you okay?”
he nodded quickly. “yeah. perfect. bathroom was… bathroom.”
definitely weird.
several days passed.
your list grew. one odd detail at a time.
and by the end of the first week, your document had an entire scrollable section.
entry 2:unusually tense around windows above the second floor (fear of heights???)
notes: went to the student center rooftop patio and claimed it was “too windy,” refused to go near the railing
entry 5:pretended (?) to struggle to open a jar he could definitely open
notes: watched him open the same brand of jar two months ago with one hand while texting someone; today he pretended to lose a bicep; 1 man, 1 jar
entry 8:hyper-aware of emergency sirens
notes: siren went off down the street and he ducked before the sound even reached us; reaction time suspiciously fast; claims he “thought it was a bird,” which is not how birds work
entry 11:fear of heights confirmed (allegedly…)
notes: claims he’s always been scared of heights; this is so not true; man once climbed a tree on jeju island in tenth grade to steal an orange and fell out of it laughing
you might wonder what happened between those entries.
the short answer? disappearances. just variation after variation of the same pattern. both disappearances without explanation and disappearances with a stupid a explanation.
entry 6, left you in the middle of a date because he “needed to check if his laundry was done,” even though it was nine in the morning and he hadn’t done laundry. entry 9, left a study session because he “sensed something in the air,” whatever that meant. entry 4, left after saying “be right back” and returned an hour later with no explanation at all.
it was weird. really weird.
but this wasn’t new. you were only now paying attention.
before the doc, you always shrugged it off. jisung was quirky. jisung forgot things. jisung wandered. jisung got distracted by anything with a heartbeat or a shiny surface. that was normal.
but now that you were writing it down and seeing it in neat black text on a glowing screen, the pattern looked clearer.
you stared at the last entry and wondered how many of these moments you had missed. how many other strange details had slipped through the cracks because you were too busy ogling him to notice anything else.
a knock sounded at your dorm door.
you froze for a second, blinking at the sound. you weren’t expecting anyone. you pushed your chair back and stood, crossing the room with slow, curious steps.
when you opened the door, jisung was standing there with his backpack hanging off one shoulder.
and then he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into him so fast you stumbled back a step. his face buried itself in your neck, warm breath brushing your skin as he exhaled like he’d needed this more than air.
“whoa hi,” you laughed, arms going around him automatically.
he held you like he always did after a rough day. his hands slid up your back, palms warm through your shirt, and he nuzzled into your shoulder.
such a loverboy. always had been.
and standing there in your doorway with him clinging to you like you were home, your list and all its strange little entries suddenly felt very far away.
“you okay?” you asked quietly, your voice dipping into his shoulder.
he shook his head, the motion brushing his forehead against your collarbone. his fingers tightened where they held you, bunching your shirt in his fist.
“i’m so tired,” he murmured, the words small and honest.
“do you wanna nap?” you murmured into his hair. “we can lie down for a bit.”
jisung let out a groan. a low, exhausted, grateful groan that vibrated against your skin.
“god… yes,” he muttered, voice muffled in the crook of your neck. “that sounds so good right now.”
he didn’t even try to hide how relieved he sounded. his entire body slumped a little, weight leaning into you like he was giving up the last of his energy just standing there.
you smiled and slid a hand down his back.
he finally pulled his face from your neck just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded and unfocused in the soft light.
“you’re the best,” he mumbled.
you nudged the door open and guided him inside, watching him drag his feet. he let go of you only long enough to toe off his shoes, then immediately gravitated back into your space. once he went into your room, you froze.
fuck. your laptop was still open.
still on the document.
you shot forward and slammed the screen shut.
jisung blinked. “what was that?”
“nothing,” you said quickly.
he squinted at you, suspicious but still sleepy. he moved toward the laptop.
you stepped into his path like a guard dog. “don’t.”
he tilted his head. “why not?”
“because,” you said, flailing for the first excuse that popped into your brain, “it’s… porn.”
he stopped. completely froze.
then his eyebrows lifted slowly, like someone pulling up a window blind.
“…porn?”
you nodded vigorously. “yes.”
a beat.
his lips twitched. “what kind?”
you choked. “jisung—”
he took another step toward the desk. “what were you doing before i came over?”
“nothing!”
jisung chuckled—the worst possible reaction for your sanity—and your face went hot instantly. he reached a hand toward your desk, fingers brushing the edge of your laptop.
you wanted to die. actually die. your only options were: 1. letting him read the sacred doc and having a meltdown, or 2. seducing your gorgeous, clingy, tired boyfriend who you’d happily kiss all day anyway.
yeah. option 2 was not exactly a burden.
using seduction as a distraction wasn’t even a sacrifice. you would happily climb this man like a tree at any hour of the day with zero hesitation.
so really, this was a win-win.
before he could even open a crack of the lid, you shoved him—hard enough that he stumbled backward onto your bed, bouncing once. you crawled onto the bed after him, slow and purposeful, and watched his cocky smile falter into something softer. his breath caught when your hand pressed against his chest, pushing him gently down into your pillows.
his breath hitched. “this is not a nap.”
“it’ll wake you up.” you teased with an innocent smile.
you swung one leg over him, sitting on his hips. his hands immediately found your waist like muscle memory.
this was definitely working.
his eyes were wide and hungry.
“oh… oh,” he said, voice dropping. “we’re doing this.”
“yes, jisung,” you said, leaning over him until your noses almost brushed. “i mean… you just found out i’ve been horny, so i assume you’re gonna follow through with it, right?”
his entire body reacted before his brain did as he nodded aggressively.
“oh yeah. for sure. absolutely. don’t even—don’t even ask twice,” he blurted, hand sliding instinctively to your hip. “you say the word and i’m here. i’m ready. always.”
you bit back a grin. “always?”
“always,” he repeated. “literally anytime. literally right now. literally—”
you cut him off by kissing him.
just a soft press of your lips to his, gently shutting him up. he melted instantly, his hands slipped lower, palms dragging down your sides until they cupped your ass like he’d been waiting to touch you there all week. his fingers squeezed and you let out the smallest breath of surprise against his mouth, which he took as a green light to keep going.
your hips rolled instinctively. you didn’t mean to but the contact felt too good to resist. jisung exhaled sharply into your mouth, the sound barely muffled by the heated kiss. you pulled back for a second just to breathe and he chased your lips like he couldn't stand the distance.
you leaned back just enough to grab the hem of your shirt and peel it off in one motion, tossing it to the side. jisung’s jaw slackened and his gaze dropped straight to your chest that was covered by a pink lace bra.
he sat up slightly on his elbows to get a better look, mouth parted, hair falling into his eyes. you could feel the heat radiating off him.
“you’re so pretty,” he whispered, thumb brushing over the lace like he’d never seen anything so perfect.
your cheeks went hot and for a second it looked like he was going to say something else, but you didn’t give him the chance.
you reached for the hem of his shirt.
he blinked, confused for exactly half a second before panic sparked behind his eyes.
“wait, wait, y/n”
“what?” you asked, already tugging the fabric upward, your fingers slipping under the cotton, knuckles brushing his stomach.
his shirt was already rising, lifting inch by inch over his ribs and chest, revealing warm skin and the faint rise and fall of his breathing. when he made the mistake of lifting his arms to help you, it was game over. the fabric came off, hit the floor, and you sat back to take in the view.
and then you saw.
there, smeared faintly across the line of his collarbone and trailing lower along the left side of his chest were purple-red blooms of something fresh.
hickeys.
you stilled instantly.
he knew you saw them.
he knew the moment your body pulled back just an inch too far, the moment your hand lifted off his skin like it had burned you.
“it’s not what it looks like,” he said quickly, voice sharp with panic. “please, listen, i—
“really?” you asked, voice steady, the way voices go when someone’s trying not to crack.
“i didn’t—i wasn’t—fuck, just listen, okay?” his hands came up like he wanted to touch you, but he stopped himself, palms hovering near your hips. “it’s not what you think. i swear on my fucking life. please believe me.”
“why do you have hickeys on you, han jisung?”
“…they’re bruises,” he said.
you stared at him.
where the fuck would jisung get bruises from?
he didn’t play sports. didn’t so much as jog unless someone was chasing him or offering free food at the finish line. and if he somehow did manage to bruise himself at the gym, he’d have sent you ten pictures complaining and begging for sympathy within the hour.
and even if—even if—you suspended every shred of disbelief and assumed it was gym-related... what kind of exercise leaves that fresh of a bruise?
you pulled back without saying a word, climbing off of him like your skin had gone cold. you grabbed your shirt from the floor and turned away, fast.
“wait, please”
your heart was racing, your fingers shaking as you pulled your shirt back on. you couldn’t stop the confusion, betrayal, fear, all of it crashing at once. and suddenly your little document felt more like a trail of breadcrumbs. and you were no longer sure if you wanted to know where it led.
“baby—” he started, his voice cracking on the word. “they’re bruises. i swear to you, that’s all they are. fuck, i thought they’d fade by the time i saw you. normally they would’ve faded.” he kept going, faster now.
your stomach turned.
you blinked.
“…normally?”
his eyes froze.
he realized too late what he’d said.
“so this has been happening frequently?” your voice came out like a whisper at first.
“it’s not like that. it’s not someone else. i’m not cheating on you.” he grabbed at his hair, pulling his fingers through it roughly. “fuck, i can’t explain it. i know how it looks but i’m telling you the truth.”
“what is it, then?” you asked, voice sharp and trembling all at once. “where the fuck are those bruises from, jisung?”
silence.
he didn’t answer.
his mouth twitched but nothing came out. he just looked at you, eyes wide and tearful, chest rising with shallow, panicked breaths.
you took one step back. another. toward the door.
“get out,” you said, low, dangerous. “get the fuck out of my dorm.”
“no,” he breathed, voice breaking. “no, baby, please. don’t do this. you know me, you know i would never do that to you.”
you hated that part of you still wanted to step forward. still wanted to wipe the tears from his face and kiss him until he stops crying. but the rest of you—every furious, aching part—was more powerful.
“i’ve already lost so much to this,” he whispered. “i can’t lose you.”
lost so much to what? the fuck does that even mean?
“you’re being so fucking confusing,” you spat, your own tears starting to well up. “you’re saying shit that makes zero sense, hiding behind this cryptic ‘i can’t tell you’ bullshit, and i’m supposed to what? pretend you’re not lying to my face while covered in hickeys from god knows who?”
he looked like he couldn’t breathe. like every word from you hit him square in the chest. your vision blurred.
your throat burned as your voice cracked. “just—what did i do wrong, jisung? what did i do that made you think you had to cheat on me.”
“baby, you didn’t do anything,” he said, fast, stumbling over the words. “you’re perfect. you’re so good to me. sometimes i don’t even know why you’re still with me. you’re smart and hot and you always smell really fucking nice and i’m such a fucking loser, y/n, how many times do i need to tell you i didn’t cheat on you, why the hell would i ever cheat on you?!”
your chest heaved, breaths coming out shaky and uneven. you wiped at your face, but the tears kept falling.
you believed him. because if there was one thing jisung had always been, it was loyal. so loyal he probably made people think you were some batshit crazy possessive girlfriend.
once, a girl at the gym asked him what machine he was using and he panicked so hard he pointed at every machine except the one he was actually on just so she wouldn’t think he was flirting.
which, honestly, probably made it worse because instead of looking loyal, he probably looked like he was trying to tease her on purpose. ugh, what an fucking idiot your boyfriend is.
so no—him sneaking around with someone else didn’t fit. not even close. not even in an alternate universe.
but even if your brain couldn’t possibly believe it, your heart was still drowning in every awful possibility your mind had created. every horrible scenario you imagined the moment you saw those hickeys.
you were too hurt and scared and angry to let logic settle in. too overwhelmed to let yourself trust anything.
you wrapped your arms around yourself, shoulders curling inward.
“just go, jisung. i need space.”
he froze. “no, no, don’t do this, please.”
“get out, jisung.”
“i didn’t cheat,” he whispered, shattered. “i didn’t. you have to believe me.”
he took a step toward you, desperate.
“out.”
he let out a breathy sob before he bent and picked up his hoodie with slow, trembling hands, pulled it on over the bruises that had started all of this.
this was it.
the exact nightmare he’d replayed in his head a thousand times. he’d known this would happen. if he stayed silent for too long, he’d lose you.
he grabbed the doorknob, fingers curled so tightly around the metal it bit into his skin. he opened the door.
and your voice hit his back like a final blow.
“don’t come back until you’re ready to tell me the truth.”
@estella-novella @rousslut @jinniezret @bangchans-girl
Reblogging this here so I don't lost it again😮💨
BbokAri in Real Life | Lee Felix
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Summary: You surprise Felix with a baby chick he names BbokAri
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1.6k
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Dating Felix is like dating a detective. He’s hyper aware of every little thing you do and if you change the slightest thing, he catches it, which is why keeping a secret from him is nearly impossible. You do your best to just be careful and quiet so you don’t accidentally drop hints. You keep it simple, responsible, and you try not to look at his face too long or you’ll crack.
Because this surprise is little baby, a tiny, fragile, warm little life, and if you’re going to do this, you’re going to do it right.
You spend over a week reading. You talk to a local farm supply store that does proper sourcing and you ask questions until they realize you’re serious.
You check what’s legal where you live and confirm you can actually care for a chick safely and humanely, and then finally you set up the brooder.
The brooder is a safe enclosure with clean bedding, a heat plate and thermometer so the temperature stays stable, water that won’t drown a tiny beak, chick starter feed, electrolytes just in case, and a small “hide” corner so the baby can feel secure. You even get a little dry erase board for nearby because you know Felix will be the type to worry himself sick if he thinks he’s doing something wrong.
You don’t want to bring Felix stress or problems, youre bringing him a baby.
The day of the surprise, he’s in the living room with his hair still damp from his shower, hoodie on, legs tucked up on the couch like he’s made himself small on purpose. He’s scrolling on his phone, humming softly, totally unaware that you’re about to wreck his entire heart in the best way possible.
You come in the room carrying a small box. Felix looks up immediately.
“What’s that?” he asks, already smiling like he can’t help it.
“A surprise.”
His smile turns into a grin so wide it’s ridiculous. “You have a surprise for me?”
“I do.”
He sits up straighter. “Is it food? It’s food, isn’t it? Or a cute thing. Or a food cute thing.”
“It’s a cute very much alive thing,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Felix freezes.
“Alive,” he repeats softly.
Your heart warms at the way his energy shifts from excitement to concern, like his first instinct is the wellbeing of whatever it is.
You nod. “Yeah. But don’t panic. I did everything right. I checked everything. I prepared. I promise.”
He slides off the couch, slow, like he’s approaching something sacred. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. I’m calm. I’m calm.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You sure?”
“I’m calm,” he insists, voice already trembling. “I’m just… excitedly calm.”
You set the box down on the coffee table and sit beside it so you can guide him properly.
“Before you look,” you say gently, “you have to promis you won’t be loud.”
Felix’s eyes widen. “Why?”
“Because it’ll scare it.”
He nods instantly, hands lifting like he’s surrendering. “Okay. No squealing. I won’t squeal.”
“You also can’t just pick it up without supporting it,” you add. “And you need to wash your hands after. And there’s a heat setup ready in the other room.”
His mouth falls open.
“A heat setup,” he repeats, stunned. “You set up a heat setup?”
You nod. Felix looks like he’s about to cry and you haven’t even opened the box yet.
“Okay,” he says, voice small. “Okay. I’m ready.”
You lift the lid slowly.
Inside is a tiny yellow chick, soft and round like a little puff of sunshine, blinking up at the light like it’s confused about this whole weird world.
Felix’s face changes instantly. All the bright, golden energy he always carries turns into something softer. Tender, like he’s looking at the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
He covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh my god,” he whispers.
The chick peeps quietly.
Felix makes a noise that is barely audible, like his heart just got squeezed. “It’s a baby.”
“It’s a baby,” you confirm, smiling.
He leans closer, careful, and the chick tilts its head at him.
“Felix,” you whisper, “are you crying already?”
He nods frantically, tears actually falling. “It’s so small.. I can’t… it’s looking at me.”
The chick peeps again, and Felix’s lips wobble like he’s going to melt into the floor.
“Can I say hi?” he whispers.
“You can say hi,” you say. “Just quietly.”
Felix leans in and whispers like he’s speaking to a tiny queen.
“Hi,” he says softly. “Hello, little one.”
The chick peeps back.
Felix looks at you with wet eyes like he’s just been chosen for a destiny. “It talked to me.”
You snort. “It peeped.”
“It peeped to me,” he corrects, serious. “Specifically to me.”
You reach into the box and gently scoop the chick up, showing him the safe way to support its body, one hand cupping, the other steady.
“Do you want to hold it?” you ask.
Felix nods.
You place the chick into his hands carefully, guiding his fingers.
Felix freezes like he’s afraid to breathe.
The chick settles, warm and impossibly light and Felix’s face crumples again.
“Oh no,” he whispers, voice breaking. “It’s warm.”
“Babies are warm, but he has to be kept warm still too.”
He brings his hands closer to his chest, cradling it like it’s a jewel. The chick peeps once, then tucks itself against his palm like it’s decided Felix is safe enough to make into a nest.
Felix stares down at it with pure devotion.
“What’s its name?” you ask quietly, already having an idea what he’s going to pick.
Felix sniffles, eyes still fixed on the chick. “BbokAri.”
You smile. “Of course it is.”
He looks up, offended through tears. “That’s the only name.”
“Fair,” you say, laughing softly.
Felix looks back down and whispers, “Hi, BbokAri. I’m your dad, you’re like a little sunshine puff.”
You make a face. “You’ve been a dad for three whole seconds.”
Felix nods. “And I’m already doing amazing.”
The chick peeps again.
Felix gasps. “It agrees.”
You stand slowly. “Okay, papa. Let’s get BbokAri to the brooder.”
Felix follows you like you’re leading him through a holy ceremony. When you get to the room, his eyes widen again at the setup, like you built him a castle.
“You did all this,” he whispers.
You nod. “I wanted you to feel safe. And I wanted BbokAri to be safe too.”
Felix’s face softens into something so grateful it makes your throat tighten.
He lowers the chick into the brooder gently, hands shaking with care.
BbokAri waddles two steps, peeps, then immediately goes to the warm spot.
Felix kneels beside the brooder like he’s on watch.
He watches the chick drink a tiny sip of water. He watches it peck at the feed. Then he turns to you with wide, shining eyes.
“It’s eating,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“It’s really eating.”
“Yes, Lix.”
He looks like he might cry again. “It’s so brave.”
You sit down beside him on the floor and bump your shoulder gently against his.
“You’re going to be a really good caretaker,” you tell him.
Felix shakes his head fast. “No, you are. You did everything. I’m just… I’m just emotional support.”
“You’re the type to stay up all night watching it breathe,” you say.
Felix looks offended. “I’m not going to stay up all night.”
Two minutes pass.
He whispers, “Do chicks breathe fast?”
You laugh. “They do.”
He leans closer to peer at BbokAri. “Is it too cold? Is it too hot? Is it happy? Does it miss its siblings?”
Your heart squeezes. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The spiraling,” you say gently.
Felix pouts. “I just love it already.”
You shift a little closer and slide your hand onto his back, rubbing slow circles.
“Okay,” you say, voice soft. “Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to follow the care sheet. We’re going to keep the brooder clean. We’re going to monitor temperature and handle gently and not too much so it doesn’t get stressed and we’re going to check in with the place we got it from if anything seems off.”
Felix nods, eyes still glued to the chick. “Okay.”
You poke his cheek. “Youre going to be obsessed.”
He sighs dramatically. “I’m already obsessed.”
You both sit there for a while, watching BbokAri wobble around like a tiny cotton ball with legs.
Felix whispers little things under his breath like he’s narrating a documentary.
“Look at him go.”
“He’s so small.”
“He’s pecking.”
You keep smiling, because this is exactly what you wanted. The way Felix’s love pours out of him so naturally it’s like breathing.
Eventually, he leans his head on your shoulder, still kneeling.
“Okay,” he says, determination snapping into place. “We need a schedule.”
You blink. “We already have a schedule.”
“We need a Felix schedule,” he says, very earnestly. “Like, feeding, cleaning, temperature checks, BbokAri emotional wellness, bedtime story.”
“Bedtime story.”
Felix nods like that’s obvious. “Yeah. He deserves one.”
You laugh quietly. “You’re going to read a bedtime story to a chick.”
Felix looks at you with full sincerity. “Do you think BbokAri doesn’t deserve literature?”
You laugh harder, and he finally smiles too, that bright sunshine smile that makes everything feel warm.
Then he looks back at the brooder and lowers his voice. “Hi, BbokAri,” he whispers gently. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”
The little chick peeps softly, like it believes him.
Felix’s eyes go wet again. He leans into you, whispering into your shoulder, “I’m going to love him forever.”
You squeeze him gently. “I know you are.”
He sniffs, then pulls back, lip wobbling.
“Can I hold him again later?” he asks.
“Later,” you say. “We’ll let him settle.”
He nods, even though you can tell he wants to scoop BbokAri up and carry him around like a tiny dog in a purse. He settles for sitting there beside the brooder, quietly keeping watch, like he’s guarding the softest little heart in the world.
tag list: @puppymsworld @royallavenderlilac @clairementsolo @1giss4swft3 @hannalegie @stilesstilinskiforlife-blog @skznoir @doodlebob2005 @chandlxa @keymeadoww @cchapssaltteok @kloversung @g0obz @channies-babygurl @lucyysthings @foppishitudinality @ellyyyysstuff @rylea08 @tteokbbokkari @nyaaa-cat @chuahuahua @applesrpeak @thicccurls @pinknymphkisses @zeezo554@mikachux3 @iconicallyher @sanniix33 @lalalili435 @bbokarismeow @delightful-light @karlee10261990
THAT'S FREAKING CUTE?!?!? NOW I'M THE ONE WITH THE WOBBLING LIPS🥹🥹 I miss the chicks that my siblings used to take care of (they already grew unfortunately —)
Thank you for writing this little one, my heart is now all warm and fuzzy<3
I have so many unread stories to the point Idk where to start— :/
