i genuinely have the urge to write the wildest dirty talk smut ever. like “ok getting carried away here” level shit. maybe itll get me out if my writing slump.
...love physical affection. Like, love love it. A lot. And not just pecks on the cheek or casual hand holding. Oh no, he’s all in. We're talking the kind of clingy that borders on overwhelming. But it's never suffocating. He just wants to feel you. Your arms around his shoulders. Your fingers in his hair. Your head on his arm like a pillow. Your body tucked into his side when you walk. And he wants you to feel him, too. His head in your lap. His nose brushing yours as you fall asleep. His chin resting on your shoulder. There’s something about you that makes him want to stay as close as humanly possible all the time. If he could, he’d keep an arm around your waist every second of the day. It's weird to think that someone could go through genuine withdrawals from something like snuggles, but somehow Jisung does. Daily.
...take pictures constantly because he’s low-key afraid of losing special moments. And with you, there are just too many worth keeping to miss even one of them. First meeting. First date. First late night drive. First sunrise. First kiss. First everything! He wants proof they happened. Something solid to hold onto to remind himself how he felt during those precious moments. His sentimental ass really does him in when it comes to memories of your relationship stiring in his heart. Still, he tries not to spend too much time behind a screen. When you gently pull him back, he listens immediately. No argument, no defensiveness, just a quiet “okay, baby” as he locks his phone and focuses on you instead.
...want to be the soft one sometimes. Not in a dramatic way, but just in a quiet way. He wants to be taken care of. Thought of sweetly. Considered fondly. He likes being pampered, being doted on, being treated like he matters in the smallest details. It didn’t always come naturally to him, but with you, he’s learned it’s okay to want to be handled gently. To be the one who's protected instead of always protecting. Of course, he’ll still protect you, obviously, always. But some days, he just wants to be your baby for a while. The one getting his hair played with, the one napping against your chest while you talk softly to him. And thanks to you, he doesn’t feel the need to justify that to anyone anymore.
...keep a journal full of lyrics, thoughts, half-written songs, minor observations -- anything that captures what he feels when it comes to you. He’s a hopeful romantic, what else can he do? No point pretending otherwise. Feelings sit heavy in him, the good and the bad. And writing is one way he makes sense of them. So, he scribbles things down whenever they come to mind. On paper, in his notes app, on a napkin, on his hand, wherever he can. And sometimes, when the night feels right, he lets you see them. He plays something soft on his guitar while you sit under the stars, pretending you’re not recording him when he gets lost in the words and sound. When he gets lost in you. It's moments like that where you get to see his beautiful vulnerability, and your simply starstruck that someone like him could be madly in love with someone like you.
..."accidentally" leave his shirt at your place on the days he can tell you’re a little off. He notices more than you think, like how you get quieter, how your energy dips, how your gaze falls just short of his, how you start picking at your skin without realizing it. He knows you don’t always say what you need, and that's okay. Because he's paying attention regardless. When he leaves, there’s always something left behind. His hoodie draped over your chair. His comfort shirt tossed nonchalantly on your bed as if he just so happened to forget it. He never brings it up. Never asks if you found it. But later when he sees you wearing it, the sleeves too long and the fabric swallowing you whole, his expression softens in that quiet, loving way. You look so soft and lovely in his clothes, and honestly he loves to see you wear them. You look like you're his. And that’s just how he is with you. He doesn't make a big deal out of things. He just...takes care of you naturally. Refilling your water without asking. Plugging your phone in when it’s about to die. Pulling a blanket over you when you fall asleep mid-conversation. Letting you lean into him without asking questions, adjusting so you fit more comfortably. He's the type that doesn’t ask to be noticed, just loved in return. And you do. You notice him and love him. Very much.
Summary: You and Chan clash but eventually it turns into chemistry
Warnings: None
Word Count: 959
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The tension between you and Chan is the kind that makes meetings last twice as long. You’re the creative producer brought in to manage the documentary team. He’s the hands-on group leader who apparently needs to have input on everything.
From the very first meeting, it’s clear you’re going to clash.
He doesn’t like how you arrange your team’s camera workflow. You don’t like how he paces the edit feedback. He says “Are you sure that’s the best cut?” with that infuriating tilt of his head. You say “You’re not the only one in the room with vision, Bang Chan,” with a smile so fake it makes the interns flinch.
And yet. Somehow, you always end up near each other. Side by side on benches at location shoots. Across from each other in edit bays. Walking in step down hallways even when you don’t mean to.
You chalk it up to coincidence. He blames logistics.
Everyone else calls it what it is. Chemistry. The hostile, unresolved kind.
The first time you actually laugh around him is accidental.
It’s past midnight after a long shoot. You’re both still at the company building, fighting over the structure of a voiceover segment. You’re tense and tired and practically vibrating with annoyance. Then, out of nowhere, Chan mutters under his breath, “This would be easier if you weren’t so hot when you argue.”
Your brain short-circuits.
He goes pale, like he can’t believe he said it out loud.
You burst out laughing.
He stares at you. “You’re not mad?”
“No,” you say, grinning. “Just shocked you finally admitted it.”
From that night forward, something shifts. It’s not that the fighting stops. But now it sparkles with something else. A kind of spark that doesn’t burn so much as glow.
He teases you at every opportunity. You roll your eyes but your smile starts coming easier. He brings you the wrong coffee on purpose just to watch you scowl, then slides the right one into your hand two minutes later. You pretend to be annoyed. He pretends not to love every second of it.
He does.
It builds slowly. Lingering glances. Accidental touches. Banter that walks the line between sarcastic and intimate. There’s a night when you drop your pen under the conference table and bump into his hand reaching for it at the same time, and you both freeze, fingers touching.
You say nothing. He doesn’t move.
But your heart kicks like it’s trying to escape your chest.
The real turning point happens in Busan.
You go with the team for a week of concert filming. It’s chaos, sleepless and loud, but there’s something magical about it too. You’re sharing a van with Chan and a few others when your phone dies, your camera battery shorts out, and a key file goes missing all in the same hour. You snap. Not at anyone in particular, just the air, the world, the chaos.
Chan notices. Quietly.
Later, after rehearsal, he knocks on your hotel room door with a charger in one hand and a convenience store bag in the other.
“I brought snacks,” he says. “And I found the missing file. It was in the wrong folder.”
You stare at him. “Are you being… helpful?”
He shrugs. “Don’t get used to it.”
You laugh, softer this time.
You let him in.
He sits on the floor beside your bed. You stay on the edge of the mattress, legs crossed, hair a mess, your heart too raw from the day to pretend you’re invincible.
“I’m sorry I snapped,” you say.
He looks up at you, calm and gentle. “You don’t always have to be perfect.”
That shouldn’t be what makes you cry, but it is.
He doesn’t freak out. He just shifts closer, slow and respectful, and rests his hand on your knee.
That’s all it takes.
You lean down and kiss him. Soft. Careful. Just once.
Then again.
And again.
He pulls you into his lap and cups your face like you’re something fragile. You’re not. You’re tired, worn down, and shaking from being seen so clearly. But he kisses you like he likes all of it. All of you. The fight, the mess, the sharp edges.
When his hand slides under your shirt, you don’t stop him. When your lips drag down his throat, he tilts his head and breathes your name like a prayer. You end up under the sheets, tangled and flushed, his voice low and sweet in your ear as he murmurs things like, “You drive me crazy, you know that?” and “I was gone the second I met you.”
He’s slow. Gentle. A little bossy.
You like it more than you want to admit.
Afterward, you lie with your head on his chest and his fingers tracing lazy circles against your spine.
“You’re warm,” he says, half asleep.
“You’re clingy,” you mumble.
He laughs. “Yeah. Get used to that.”
And you do.
Back in Seoul, everything softens.
He brings you food. You text him dumb memes at midnight. He leaves stickers on your laptop and takes pictures of you when you’re not looking, then pretends it’s for “reference footage.”
He holds your hand when no one’s looking. He kisses your cheek when everyone is looking.
You still argue. Of course you do.
But now it ends in kisses.
And when the final cut of the documentary premieres, he pulls you aside in the green room and says, “We made something beautiful. Together.”
You nod. “Even with all the yelling.”
He grins. “Especially with all the yelling.”
He kisses you then. Slow. Certain. Like you’re not a challenge anymore, but a choice.
warnings: infidelity, mentions of suggestive content, morally gray characters, MDNI
a/n: based on this request, this fic explores fictional situations that are morally very very wrong and I do NOT condone cheating, lying, or breaking up relationships
Masterlist
~°~
You joined the SKZ writing team as a junior lyricist few months ago, still half-convinced someone would tap you on the shoulder and tell you there’d been a mistake.
You kept your head down at first and just observed the process, you learned the rhythms of the JYPE building—the way nights stretched longer than days, the way creativity bloomed best when everyone else had gone home. You didn’t mind the late nights. You actually felt calmer then, more focused, the lyrics coming easier, more relatable.
Then Bang Chan started staying late on the same nights you did.
Then Bang Chan started staying late on the same nights you did.
At first, he was just there. Black hoodie pulled up, headphones hanging loose around his neck, humming melodies under his breath while you scribbled lines that never felt good enough. He worked harder than anyone you’d ever seen, yet there was an ease to him too—a quiet warmth that made the studio feel less empty.
Somewhere along the way, you stopped seeing the idol and started noticing the person beneath it. Someone human. Someone who cared deeply about the work in front of him.
You noticed his silly habits too, like the way he’d tap his feet constantly when he was thinking. The way he thanked you sincerely when you offered feedback. The soft, approving hum he let out when something finally clicked. The way he slipped into a baby voice with his members during recording sessions. He was effortlessly charming, carrying an aura that made it hard not to be drawn in. It didn’t take long before you realized you were starting to crush on him.
You told yourself it was harmless because crushes happen, especially when you’re young, ambitious, and surrounded by people who feel larger than life. But of course you’d never act on it. You weren’t stupid.
Then one night, during a late session that had dragged well past midnight, his phone lit up on the desk beside him.
Baby <3
Your heart dropped so hard you thought you might feel it in your stomach.
You hadn’t meant to see it, but you did, and it felt like being caught doing something wrong—even though all you’d done was exist too close.
Chan glanced down and his expression softened and then he stood up quickly.
“Sorry,” he said, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll be right back.”
He stepped out of the studio, voice lowering as the door closed behind him.
The room felt quieter without him. You stared at your notebook, the words blurring together, chest tight with something you hadn’t prepared yourself for. You swallowed and turned slowly toward Han, who was sprawled across a chair nearby, scrolling on his phone.
“Hey,” you asked, trying to sound casual. “Chan… he has a partner?”
Han looked up immediately, like the question surprised him. Then he grinned.
“Yeah,” he said easily. “They’re, like, that couple. Always super lovey-dovey.”
Your fingers curled tighter around your pen.
“She’s in Italy right now,” he continued. “Doing her PhD. Crazy smart and beautiful. Totally hyung’s type.”
“And honestly,” Han added, chuckling, “I’ve never seen hyung that happy before. Ever since he started dating her, it’s like—boom. Man’s glowing. She’s definitely the love of his life.”
Love of his life.
The words echoed heavily in that confined studio.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Han didn’t notice the way your smile faltered. He just went back to his phone. You looked down at your notebook again, blinking hard.
If only he was single, a traitorous part of you whispered.
You swallowed it down like poison and forced your pen to move again. The door opened a minute later.
Chan came back in, slipping his phone into his pocket. His eyes flicked toward you—just briefly—but something in his expression made your breath hitch. It was gone in a second, replaced by focus and professionalism.
Still, you could’ve sworn you saw something like sadness there.
Everyone got back to work and life went on.
The late nights didn’t stop. If anything, they multiplied. It was their comeback season afterall. Sometimes it was the full team. Sometimes it was just you and him, the studio dim except for the glow of screens and the quiet hum of creativity.
You started sharing meals, he’d order and treat you recommending his favourite places. And those nights would look like takeout containers spread across the table, you both laughing over dumb jokes and bickering about lyrics that didn’t quite land. You learned how he took his coffee. He learned you liked extra chili oil even though you pretended it didn’t affect you. And somewhere along the way, you became friends.
You talked about everything—music, childhood memories, fears about not being good enough. He listened like what you said mattered. You found yourself looking forward to nights you knew he’d be there.
Once, you asked about his girlfriend.
“Long distance must be hard,” you smiled gently at him.
He nodded, eyes on his screen. “Yeah. It is.”
That was it, then he changed the topic, and you let it go because pressing felt like crossing a line you didn’t want to acknowledge.
One night, exhaustion finally caught up to you.
You must have fallen asleep on the studio couch without realizing it, notebook slipping from your hands sometime after 3 a.m.
When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was how quiet it was. The second thing you noticed was him.
Chan was sitting on the floor beside the couch, legs folded in that loose criss-cross position, elbow resting on his knee, cheek propped in his hand. He wasn’t working, or looking at the screen, but he was looking at you.
Your eyes fluttered open fully, and the moment you met his gaze, you caught the fondness there. He blinked quickly, like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, then straightened up and rose to his feet
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, teasing, slipping into that baby voice.
You groaned softly, rolling your eyes as you pushed yourself upright. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He shrugged, voice light. “You just looked really adorable.”
Heat rushed to your face before you could stop it.
“I did not,” you muttered, rubbing at your eyes.
He laughed quietly, the sound warm and soft in the early hours.
And then, like the universe loved irony, his phone rang.
Baby <3
You saw it, he did too and froze.
The space between you felt suddenly charged, heavy with something unspoken. His smile faded just a little as he stared at the screen, jaw tightening.
He declined the call. Your heart sank.
“You should answer her,” you said, trying to keep your voice neutral.
He hesitated, phone still in his hand, then shook his head slightly. “I’ll call her later,” he mumbled.
You nodded, pushing yourself to your feet, muttering something about going to freshen up.
**************************************
The tension between you and Chan continued to grow. You hate to admit it but you could tell it was more than platonic from his end too.
The late nights stopped feeling lonely once he was there. You stopped checking the clock, because neither of you wanted to be the first to leave. Hours passed quietly, in that soft rhythm of shared work and unspoken companionship. He stayed close without crowding, careful in the way that made the studio feel alive, warm, almost like home.
Some nights, you caught him out of the corner of your eye, abandoning his work just to watch you scribble lyrics. There was something almost magnetic in the way his stare lingered and sometimes your laughter would collide and hang in the air long after a joke, and in those small and intimate moments, it felt as if the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. He teased you lightly—remarking on the way your lip quivered when you were lost in thought, the purple felt-tip pen you always saved for the final draft, the tiny ritual of two cups of tea to revive yourself after a draining writing session. But when he spoke about these, you were amazed at his observation on you and how he paid attention to you and it made your heart lurch in ways that felt achingly wrong.
He asked for hugs, and when you wrapped yourself in each other’s arms, it lasted long enough that the world outside seemed to disappear. He held you the way someone might hold a fragile thing, afraid it could vanish if they let go. You could just feel the attraction because it was so obvious it hurt. Yet neither of you named it.
You never crossed the line, but you hovered so close that sometimes you wondered if that unspoken tension was worse than giving in. Like the way his hand would linger on your arm when he laughed, or your fingers would brush as you passed something, and the spark between you would hum in the quiet. Sometimes he would look at you just a second too long with such a yearning that your heart would start pounding in a way that left you breathless.
Then came the team party, that ruined everything.
But, you reminded yourself constantly:
He has a girlfriend. She’s perfect. He loves her.
After a brutal week of deadlines, sleepless nights, and endless studio sessions, everyone was exhausted yet wired. The CEO suggested drinks to unwind, and somehow you all ended up at a private bar so lavish it felt unreal, tucked away from the rest of the city.
Chan sticks close to you and offers you a drink.
You noticed the way his hand kept finding your back. The way he leaned down to talk to you even though you could hear him just fine. The way your name sounded wrong and right all at once on his lips. Drinks kept coming, and before you knew it, the warm buzz of alcohol had already settled in. He nudged you toward the dance floor, you followed him without really thinking. After a few songs, you stumbled back into a booth, laughing and catching your breath, watching everyone else let loose around you. Yet somehow, it felt like the two of you were in your own little world.
“It’s been a long week,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair.
“Yeah, I’m glad it’s over,” you giggled.
He leans a little closer. “I don’t usually get this… relaxed.”
“Guess you need someone to drag it out of you,” you tease.
He laughs softly, and the warmth of it lingers. “Maybe… or maybe I just needed the right company.”
The music pulses around you, but the space between you feels insulated, private. Your hands brush, lingering, and he doesn’t pull away.
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he murmurs.
You barely have time to answer before his lips meet yours and after the initial shock you kissed him back. Everything you’d buried—months of tension, stolen glances, longing, restraint—comes rushing to the surface.
The kiss wasn’t tender or careful, instead it was desperate and messy and soaked in alcohol and everything you’ve been pretending not to feel. You know it’s wrong. You know it’s dangerous. You know it changes everything, but you melt into it anyway.
When you finally pull away, breathless, your heart hammering like a drum, panic claws at you. The reality—the girlfriend, the life you shouldn’t be destroying—screams at you.
You push back and stumble away, chest heaving. “I… no.. no,” you manage, voice trembling. You get up and run toward the bathroom, leaving him sitting there, frozen for a second.
“Wait!” His voice calls after you. “Y/N!”
He follows, matching your pace. The hallway feels eerily quiet compared to the bar. You enter the empty washroom, take deep breaths, and stare at yourself in the mirror, willing yourself to pull it together.
Then the door opens and Chan steps in, locking it behind him before you can think to stop him.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The space is small. You can feel the heat between you, the tension that’s been building for months pressing in from all sides.
“Leave me alone,” you slur.
“Baby—”
“Stop!”
He doesn’t listen. He trips slightly, and you instinctively reach to steady him, even though you’re barely keeping your balance yourself. His gaze flicks to your lips, and you feel the pull too strongly to resist.
“This is a bad idea,” you whisper, almost to yourself.
“I know,” he replies, voice low and urgent.
And then he’s reaching for you again. The kiss comes fast and hungry. He presses you against the wall, your bodies flush, breaths uneven, hands gripping at fabric as if to anchor yourselves in the chaos of the moment. Foreheads press together between kisses, both of you gasping, and moaning in the shared heat of the instant.
Every rational thought, every moral boundary, every flicker of guilt—they all crumble under the weight of the ache for holding each other. The kiss deepens and you both begin to cross every boundary that you set all these months, desperation fueled with intoxication consumed every corner of your senses.
**************************************
You woke up the next morning with a headache and a sick feeling curling in your stomach. You quickly realised it was at the bar’s hotel room. The room felt too quiet but the memory of his touch came back rushing like a wave. The weight of what you’d done pressing down on your chest until it felt hard to breathe. And then you saw him. He was awake and avoiding your eyes like if he didn’t look at you, it hadn’t happened.
Neither of you said a word. You got dressed in silence. You left without touching him and without even saying goodbye.
After that, the studio became a battlefield.
You avoided each other like strangers. Conversations became clipped and professional.
He didn’t sit near you anymore. You didn’t stay late anymore. But the silence was worse than the guilt.
You replayed that night over and over—every look, every breath, every second you should’ve stopped. You hated yourself for wanting him still. For noticing the way his voice sounded rough nowadays. For missing the way he used to look at you when he thought no one noticed.
You couldn’t live with it. So by the third day, when the studio was quiet again and it was just the two of you, you broke.
“Chan,” you said softly, heart pounding. “We need to talk.”
He froze. The air shifted instantly.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “No,” he says. “We really don’t.”
“Yes,” you insist, voice trembling despite your effort. “Because pretending nothing happened is killing me.”
He finally turns to face you and his expression is guarded—leader mode engaged, walls fully up. Whatever softness you saw since you began working with him was gone.
“That never happens again,” he says flatly.
You swallow. “I know. I’m not—this isn’t me asking for more. I just—what happened was wrong. We crossed a line. And I feel sick about it.”
His jaw tightens.
“It was a mistake,” he repeats, like a mantra. “One time. Fueled by alcohol and bad judgment.”
You nod. “I know. But it did happen. And ignoring it doesn’t make it—”
He cuts you off sharply.
“You will not talk about this. To anyone. Ever.”
The finality in his voice makes your stomach drop.
“I’m serious,” he continues, stepping closer, his voice dangerously low. “This cannot get out. Not to the team. Not to friends. Not to anyone.”
Your eyes burn. “I would never—”
“You don’t understand,” he says, voice low. “If this comes out, it doesn’t just hurt me. It destroys her. And I won’t let that happen.”
Her.
The reminder slices clean through you.
“I love her,” he says, firmer now, like he needs you to hear it clearly. “She’s the love of my life. And whatever that night was—it doesn’t change that.”
You nod again, too quickly, shame flooding your chest.
“I hate myself for it,” you whisper. “I know what I did. I know what that makes me.”
He doesn’t soften.
“Then we’re on the same page,” he says. “Because this ends here. We stay professional. Cordial. Nothing more.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks at you and for a split second, something like regret flickers in his eyes.
“Keep it to yourself, please,” he says. “I can;t lose her.”
Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy.
“Don’t worry,” you say finally. “I won’t say a word.”
“Good,” he lets out a sigh.
And that’s it. No apology was shared, it was like agreeing to a contract. You just agreed to bury it, and to lock it away forever and pretend you didn’t still feel something every time he walked into a room. It was the closure to that night.
**************************************
From that day on, you become professional to the point of coldness.
You arrive on time. You leave on time. You don’t stay late unless absolutely necessary. You don’t laugh as freely. You don’t linger. You don’t sit near him if you can avoid it.
You don’t let yourself imagine what ifs.
One afternoon, you were carrying a stack of lyric sheets and tripped over the edge of the carpet. Papers went flying in every direction, but before you could even scramble to gather them, Chan’s voice cut sharply through the air:
“Y/N! Watch where you’re going!”
You froze, cheeks burning, bracing for the scolding you fully deserved. But the moment he saw your stunned, embarrassed expression, his tone softened. His hand reached out gently to steady you.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” he muttered, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Be careful next time.”
Your chest lurched. You wanted to protest, to step back, to remind him he wasn’t supposed to care, but the other staff were around, watching the exchange, and you had no words that could make sense of the storm rising inside you.
Another evening, you stayed late again, the studio empty except for the hum of the connected electric guitar. Chan lingered near the console, playing a melody softly. You were engrossed in your writing when a chair scraped quietly behind you.
He fidgeted with the rings on his fingers and cleared his throat. You looked up at him, but before he could say anything, the door burst open and Minho and Seungmin came in with coffee, and the moment ended. You couldn’t help but wonder what Chan had wanted to say.
Another day, you didn’t show up at the studio because you were feeling a little under the weather. The next day when you went to work, Han cornered you as soon as you walked in, a teasing grin on his face.
“You’re taking Innie’s spot as hyung’s most favorite friend,” he said, nudging you lightly. “He was so worried about you yesterday.”
You froze, a flush rising to your cheeks. “He was? That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, trying to sound dismissive.
“Ridiculous?” Han echoed, grinning wider. “Channie hyung literally called me three times asking where you were. He looked… tense, like he was going to explode. I’ve never seen him so—”
“Stop.” Your voice was sharper than intended. You couldn’t bear it—the attention, the implication, the way it made your chest flutter against your will.
Han raised his hands in mock surrender, clearly amused by your flustered state. “Alright, alright. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?”
You huffed, crossing your arms. You couldn’t tell Han how much Chan’s behavior was driving you insane. First, he tells you to forget that night, to erase it as if it never happened. Then he ignores your existence for hours on end, only to turn around and worry over you, to glance at you like… like you were the one he let slip through his fingers. He’s infuriatingly complicated, and it makes your chest ache with frustration. Why can’t he just leave you alone, like he so harshly insisted that night?
You just wished he would stop with this nonsense, because it wasn’t just the moments when you were alone with him that set your chest on fire—it was also the tiny interactions scattered across ordinary days.
One afternoon, Hyunjin was lounging in the studio, clearly bored, and started a conversation with you. “You know,” he said casually, “I could set you up with one of my friends. Really nice guy. You’d get along.”
You smiled politely, shrugging it off, trying to keep the conversation light. But the moment his words hit, you felt a presence behind you—Chan, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. His eyes flitted between you and Hyunjin, and suddenly, his expression was unreadable, but the tension radiating off him made it impossible to ignore.
You blinked, unsure how to respond, and turned back to Hyunjin. “Yeah, thanks for thinking of me,” you said carefully.
Chan’s gaze lingered longer than it should, burning into your back. You could feel the heat of it on your skin, and your chest tightened.
Another day, you opened the studio door and froze mid-step.
Chan was on the phone, mid-call, and the soft laughter that reached your ears made your stomach twist. He was on a facetime call with her.
Chan’s head shot up, eyes briefly flicking toward you, a hint of guilt—or maybe irritation—passing over his features before he quickly returned to the call.
“I’ll… come back later,” you mumbled automatically, heart thudding.
You walked back out, trying to force your pulse to slow, wishing you could stop the jealousy creeping through your veins.
Then there were days when Changbin would sit too close to you in the studio—leaning over to see your lyrics, brushing shoulders while pointing at the monitor—and you would feel Chan’s eyes on you before you even noticed.
It wasn’t overt jealousy at first. It was a subtle tightening of his jaw, a sharp glance, a hand tightening unconsciously on his pen. You would catch him watching your every movement, and sometimes, just sometimes, he’d mutter under his breath, “That’s … way too close.”
You hated yourself for noticing. Hated that it made your stomach twist, hated that the flush on your cheeks came every time he looked at you that way. And you knew that he wasn’t supposed to care like this, he had a life, a girlfriend, a future separate from you.
But all of these moments—his small jealousy, the lingering looks, the quiet possessiveness—built tension you couldn’t run from. Each one made the line between professional and forbidden blur just a little more, until you couldn’t remember where it started and where it ended.
Even though you tried to stay distant, tried to bury yourself in work, Chan’s presence and his every glance, every word, every tiny gesture reminded you of what you both couldn’t have and made the longing all the more impossible to ignore.
And you felt pathetic for feeling this way.
**************************************
JYP had invited everyone to his farmhouse for a weekend party, a fancy affair tucked away from the city, somewhere that felt like a world of its own.
You did not want to go. Parties weren’t your thing, and farmhouse weekends were definitely not your thing. But, as usual, Changbin and Han had other ideas.
“You have to come,” Changbin said, grinning like a child who already knew he’d won. “It’s amazing. The place is huge, the food is unreal, and—wait for it—there’s an elevator inside a house! Who even has that?”
Han nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, come on. You can’t just sit this one out. You’d be missing it for no reason.”
You groaned, crossing your arms. “I really don’t care about elevators inside houses.”
“Of course you do,” Changbin said smugly. “Everyone does. It’s insane.”
“You’ll see!” Han added, giving you a playful shove. “We’re not taking no for an answer.”
You sighed, knowing that arguing would be useless. These two always got what they wanted, and if you tried to resist… well, you’d just end up in their crosshairs until you gave in.
“Fine,” you muttered, finally relenting. “I’ll go. But only because I want to see this ridiculous indoor elevator.”
Changbin and Han high-fived like you’d just handed them a victory. “Yes! You won’t regret it!” Changbin cheered.
“Trust me,” Han added, smirking, “you’re gonna love it. And maybe… you’ll enjoy the party too.”
You rolled your eyes but secretly wondered if maybe, just maybe, there was a part of you curious about the farmhouse too. After all, this was JYP’s place—the kind of fantasy space that seemed worlds away from your average life.
As the weekend rolled around, you drove out with Changbin and Han, and tried to focus on the scenery—the rolling fields, the warm glow of the farmhouse in the distance—but your thoughts kept drifting to him.
“Is everyone going?” you asked from the backseat, trying to sound casual.
“Yeah, Minho hyung is driving the rest of the members,” Han replied, leaning over slightly, fiddling with a music cord to connect it to Changbin’s car.
Changbin, behind the wheel, shot him a playful glare. “Yah, stop messing with the aux cord, I’m trying to focus here!”
Han just laughed, clearly enjoying his antics. “Relax, Binnie. I’m just making sure we have the perfect playlist for the trip!”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling at their energy. “Perfect playlist for what? For annoying me on the drive?”
“Exactly,” Changbin said with a grin, tossing a small look over his shoulder. “But also for the farmhouse vibes. You’re going to love it.”
Han chimed in, “It’s insane. Honestly, this is why we insisted you come. You can’t say no to a JYP party.”
You huffed, but the tension in your chest eased a little, replaced by amusement. “I can’t believe I let you two convince me to come. I should’ve stayed home.”
“Pfft,” Changbin snorted. “You’d have missed all the fun, and we can’t have that.”
You leaned back in your seat chuckling as the music filled the car. As the farmhouse drew closer, glowing like a golden oasis in the dusk, you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest at the thought that tonight, for better or worse, you would see him again.
The farmhouse was even more stunning than you’d imagined. Lanterns hung from wooden beams, casting a warm golden glow across the wide, open living area. The scent of polished wood and fresh flowers mingled with the faint aroma of food from the kitchen. Outside, strings of fairy lights twinkled along the patio, reflecting on the small pond nearby. You took a slow breath, trying to drink it all in, and felt a strange mix of awe and nerves.
Changbin and Han led the way, laughing and pointing out little details—an antique vase here, a hidden bookshelf there, and yes, the infamous indoor elevator. You rolled your eyes at the elevator but couldn’t suppress a smile; the energy the two of them carried was contagious.
Just as you were settling into the flow of the party, you noticed Bambam and Jackson making their way over, laughing and teasing each other as they moved through the crowd. Gosh, they were even more handsome in real life.
Han and Changbin immediately stepped forward to introduce you.
“Y/N, this is Bambam and Jackson,” Han said cheerily, nudging you forward slightly. “They’re part of the fun squad for the weekend.”
Jackson extended a hand, grinning warmly. “Hey! Finally get to meet you. Changbin and Han have been talking about you all week.”
You shook his hand, smiling politely. “It’s nice to meet you too.”
Bambam leaned a little closer, his mischievous grin spreading. “So you’re the one they’ve been hyping up? I can see why. You’ve got a presence about you.”
You chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat up. “They probably exaggerated a little.”
“Exaggerated?” Jackson echoed, mock horror in his voice. “I think they undersold you.”
The conversation flowed easily, and before long, the five of you had claimed a cozy couch at the edge of the main hall. Jackson left after a few drinks and Changbin and Han lingered just long enough to make sure you were comfortable, shooting each other knowing looks before wandering off into the crowd.
Bambam leaned back, smirking, resting an arm along the back of the booth. “Finally, some uninterrupted time with me,” he said, tone playful. “I thought they’ll bother us all evening.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “Hey, they’re my friends! Are these parties always so glamorous?”
“Well, it’s a JYP party,” he teased, nudging your shoulder lightly. “This is nothing compared to Jackson’s parties though. Maybe you should come as my date for the next one?”
Your chest fluttered, and for a moment, you let yourself laugh freely. The night felt lighter than it had in months. The banter, the warmth, the easy camaraderie—it was intoxicating.
Bambam leaned closer, whispering something jokingly, making you chuckle. He dropped playful comments and flirtatious remarks, making the conversation crackle with energy.
But then, out of the corner of your eye, you felt it. Chan’s presence.
He was standing at the entrance of the main hall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you. Not the subtle, professional glance you were used to. His gaze was sharp, intense, and it made your chest tighten. Every laugh, every brush of Bambam’s shoulder against yours, seemed magnified under his scrutiny.
Before you could even process it, Chan was beside you. “Y/N,” he murmured, low and urgent, tugging gently at your arm. “We need to talk. Now.”
Bambam looked between the two of you, confusion flickering across his face, but Chan’s intensity silenced him. You didn’t even have time to respond before he guided you out of the hallway, past the crowd, and toward a quiet room on the second floor of the farmhouse. The music dulled as he pushed open the door to an empty room and shut it behind you.
The silence was loud.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you snapped, yanking your hand free. “Why were you staring at me like that?”
He turned to you slowly, eyes dark. “Why were you laughing with him like that?”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Seriously? That’s your problem?”
“Yes,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s exactly my problem.”
“So what?” you shot back. “Am I not allowed to breathe near other people now?”
He reached out suddenly, gripping your shoulders, fingers digging in like he was holding onto the edge of a cliff. “Do you even understand what you do to me?”
Your breath hitched. “What?”
“I love you!” he yelled, the words ripping out of him, raw and unfiltered.
Your knees nearly buckled. “What…?”
“I said it!” His voice cracked, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears. “I can’t stop thinking about you. Every day. Every damn night. I wake up and it’s you. I sleep and it’s you. If only—if only you had met me earlier… I could’ve—God, I could’ve chosen differently.”
“Don’t,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Don’t say that.”
He let out a broken laugh. “But I can’t leave her. I won’t.” His voice dropped, heavy with truth. “She’s been with me for years. My mom… she gave me her ring. Her ring, Y/N. I’m supposed to propose. Our families know. Everything’s already planned.”
The words sliced straight through you.
Each word felt like a blade.
“I can’t destroy that many lives,” he continued quietly. “I can’t break her. I can’t disappoint my family.”
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his voice softened in a way that hurt worse than shouting.
“But you,” he continued, stepping closer, eyes softening in a way that made your chest ache. “You feel like home. You feel like everything I didn’t know I was missing.”
Tears burned behind your eyes. “This is wrong,” you whispered. “You don’t get to say that to me while choosing her. You don’t get to love me in private and erase me in public.”
“I know,” he said, almost pleading. “I know it’s wrong. But everything in me—against all odds—wants you. I don’t know how to shut it off.”
You shoved his hands away, voice breaking. “You treat me like shit, Chan. You tell me to forget, to act normal, to pretend nothing happened—and then you get jealous, you corner me, you say you love me? Do you know how cruel that is?”
He flinched.
“What we did was horrible,” you continued, anger mixing with grief. “I hate myself for it. I hate that I was the other woman. I hate that I let myself believe—”
“Don’t say that,” he whispered.
“I will,” you said fiercely. “Because someone has to be honest. And since you can’t choose, I will.”
Silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating.
“I’m leaving the team,” you said quietly. “I won’t renew my contract with SKZ. I’ll go to another band.”
His head snapped up. “That’s not necessary.”
“Yes, it is,” you said firmly. “Because you can’t… and I can’t. I can’t have another drunken mistake. I can’t be the girl you look at when your life feels too heavy. I deserve more than that.”
He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “But I’ll lose you, forever.”
“No,” you whispered. “I was never yours.”
He let out a sob, “This hurts.”
You shook your head and as you were beginning to leave, he grabbed your wrist to stop you. Then he stepped forward, forehead resting against yours, breath uneven. “Just… just once more,” he murmured. “So I don’t forget what this felt like.”
You should’ve said no. You should’ve pushed him away… but you kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate this time. It was slow. It was a goodbye pressed into trembling lips. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious, something he was already mourning. When you pulled away, both of you were crying.
“Be happy,” you whispered. “With her.”
He shook his head, unable to speak. As you walked out, you didn’t look back. It was their love story and you were just the other woman.
I’m about to go on a rant that will probably cost me some followers, but honestly, who fucking cares because this shit needs to be said. Read below the cut.
Sorry, but this isn’t stray kids related.
Yes, I care about Palestine. Yes, I care about what’s going on. Yes, they need a ceasefire.
BUT CAN WE PLEASE FOCUS ON WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING IN OUR OWN GODDAMN SHIT SHOW OF A COUNTRY RIGHT NOW?!
We have white supremacist cocksuckers acting all high and mighty, breaking into people’s houses and tear-gassing six-month-old fucking babies!
WE HAVE NAZIS IN OUR FUCKING STREETS GETTING AWAY WITH ANYTHING THEY FUCKING WANT.
Our president is bombing other countries and random boats for no fucking reason. A college student was shot in the eye by an ICE agent and is now permanently blind in that eye. After a six-hour surgery, he STILL has metal fragments in his goddamn skull!
A WOMAN WAS SHOT POINT BLANK RANGE IN THE FACE AND A MAN HAD A WHOLE CLIP UNLOADED IN HIM.
I understand that you care, and I’m glad that you care, because you should. But the United States is turning into Nazi Germany right before our goddamn eyes.
WE NEED TO FIX OUR SHIT BEFORE WE START WORRYING ABOUT OTHER COUNTRIES. IT PISSES ME OFF TO NO FUCKING END TO SEE MY MUTUALS ON INSTAGRAM POSTING TONS ABOUT PALESTINE BUT ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
GIVING AWAY A STRAY KIDS MOVIE TICKET REDEEM CODE 💌💙
I ended up with two tickets since they announced the Stay Together bundle late (Thanks a lot JYP🙃), and I’d really love to give away the extra redeem code to a Stay who hasn’t been able to get a ticket yet.
This is one digital code for the movie. I keep the souvenir ticket and you get to see the film 🎬🍿
Please reblog to help this reach someone who really needs it. I’ll DM the code privately. 🫰🏽
♫ every guy in here wants me, but the thing is, i want you.
୨୧ summary: a stupid party game leads to you being dared to make out with the hottest guy there. who would have thought that’d be jisung?
୨୧ pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!fem!reader
୨୧ genre: college!au, some fluff, smut MDNI.
୨୧ word count: 5.6k
୨୧ warnings: 18+, explicit language, messy makeout sesh in front of people lmao, pet names (baby), dry humping, hair pulling, biting, degradation?, praise, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, kinda sub!jisung and dom!reader ig??, alcohol mention (in the first line mb), mentions of a breakup but it means nothing to the plot whatsoever, afab reader, there's probably more but idk lmk >_<
୨୧ author's note: okay sorry i had to project onto y/n like yes i was too dumb to understand interstellar and yes i did watch almost 300 movies (in 2024 tho)…anyways this was literally supposed to be like 3k words MAX (that's why i wrote it in lowercase as intended for my shorter fics) and then i did that thing where i go insane so here we are.
friday night. changbin’s place. alcohol, loud music, too many bodies to count.
this isn’t really your scene; it’s just the one that’s been forced upon you because of the crowd you hang with.
which also isn’t really your crowd. it’s just the one you were sucked into because pretty people always gravitate towards each other. and you liked some of the girls enough, but most of them basked in their popularity while you just allowed it to exist.
it has its perks, at least. you’ve gotten decent-to-good sex from the hottest guys on campus and an abundance of classmates willing to send over their notes whenever you need.
unfortunately, it also made you a target during truth or dare. yes, the stupid game that has stood the test of time among youthful children and brainless college students alike. horny guys either want to pick apart your brain or want their friends to give them a challenge that’ll end up with you in their lap.
it’s so stupid.
yet here you are, agreeing to play anyways. because you always play. people might start thinking the world is going to end if you don’t.
you recognize most of the faces around you. most fit right in. most belong there.
and then there’s han jisung.
he wasn’t always around. han jisung — immaculate gpa and spotless record — wouldn’t have been caught dead at a party previously. but half a year ago, he met hyunjin in chemistry and became a valuable resource and, eventually, a friend.
at first, it was just for help with studying and trying to maintain a passing grade. along the way, though, hyunjin learned jisung is actually kinda cool, in an only slightly weird nerdy way. so he initiated him into his friend group, and now jisung often found himself at parties he felt out of place in.
but unlike you, he even looks out of place. sitting — no, sinking — against the couch, glasses sliding down his nose, hoodie pulled over his hat like it’ll make him more invisible. you hate that he actually looks maddeningly attractive.
he’s been mostly quiet during the game. everyone’s kept their questions or dares relatively tame when it gets to his turn. they refrain from anything overtly sexual because truthfully, nobody’s even sure he has sex. nobody sees him looking at girls, let alone talking to them. but oh, he looks. at you, actually, when you aren’t paying attention, because you’re too damn beautiful.
as for you, however, they’ve been relentless. and now it’s your turn again, too many sets of eyes falling onto you at once.
“truth or dare,” jeno asks.
“dare,” you answer immediately. you’ve gotten tired of sharing the intimate details of your sex life, like who’s been your best fuck, who’s been the worst, who you’d be willing to sleep with again.
“i dare you,” he begins, eyes twinkling with mischief, “to make out with the hottest guy here.”
none of the guys try to hide their excitement. they all expect it to be them, smirking as your gaze falls over each of them one by one. mingi even purses his lips and blows you a kiss from where he sits across from you.
if they were going to put you through hell, you’d throw it right back in their faces. in an instant, you push off the couch and walk over to where three of them sit: jisung and his two friends, hyunjin and jeongin.
first, you direct your torture to hyunjin. standing between his legs, he wraps his arms around your waist and tries to bring you closer. when you don’t budge, he looks up at you with his chin resting on your stomach.
“sorry, lover boy,” you purr, fingers threading in his hair. and just like that, you move to the next one.
jeongin, a year younger than you but definitely hot and far from inexperienced. this time, you bend down and begin to inch towards him, hands on either side of his thighs.
“i fucking knew it,” he whispers to hyunjin, who only huffs in response. and just as he’s about to sit up to meet you halfway, you grab his cheeks and stop him there. he looks adorable with your grip puffing his lips out.
adorable. but not the hottest guy here.
“don’t get me wrong, innie,” you drawl. “you’re hot.”
you release his face and retreat to stand again. his eyebrows are furrowed, mouth agape — you’ve left him speechless.
and then, just like that, you drop down beside him. right onto’s jisung’s lap.
han fucking jisung, who probably has no idea what to do with someone like you.
“but he’s hotter.”
as you settle against him, it’s clear he’s completely shocked and confused. maybe even a little doubtful this is real. actually, those are sentiments shared by everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“what. the. fuck,” jeno mutters under his breath. he certainly didn’t think his dare would lead you to jisung.
you’re straddling him now, and with the new proximity, you’re certain you made the right decision. his flustered state only adds to the lustful curiosity brewing within you.
“me?” jisung asks quietly, waiting for the laughter. waiting for you to stand up and walk back to jeongin or hyunjin or any of the other guys playing.
it doesn’t come. you just sit there in his lap prettily, staring into his eyes framed behind his glasses.
“yeah, you,” you smile sweetly, and he swears he’s going to die right there on that couch. god, what a good way to go out — with a pretty girl on his lap, completely unaware of how his cock is already twitching beneath you.
wait. he has to kiss you first. then he can die happy for sure.
maybe you’ve read his mind. just as he remembers the dare, you push his hood back and snatch his hat, pulling it onto your head backwards. how do you look even better wearing something of his?
there’s nothing to hide him anymore and nothing to hold you back anymore. your arms slink around his neck and yank him closer.
and then to your surprise, he’s the one closing the final inches, crashing his lips onto yours desperately. it takes only a second for you to fall into rhythm, lips moving against each other with restraint at first. the rest of the room ceases to exist and the music fades into background noise you can barely make out.
right now, it’s just you two. and the only sounds truly reaching your ears are the quiet hums of contentment that escape him. your fingers trail delicately along his skin, leaving a path of goosebumps behind them.
somehow, the kiss slips into something hungrier, messier. you aren’t sure who initiates the descent. you? him? both of you at once? who knows. who cares. all that matters is that jisung is a good fucking kisser.
actually, nevermind — you’re pretty sure it was you. it probably happened when you tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck and slid your tongue inside his mouth as he groaned into yours. the sound was so sinful that you just had to taste where it came from.
and he lets you. encourages you, even, kissing you harder as you taste every inch and quickly decide he’s your new favorite flavor. in the midst of it all, you notice (with great disappointment) that his hands are still resting on his knees awkwardly, and that simply won’t do. you reach behind your back and grab his wrists lightly, guiding them to your ass.
he doesn’t tense or hesitate; he just keeps his hands there, squeezing lightly. now you’re the noisy one, moaning quietly into him, and he prays that you can’t feel his cock beginning to tent in his pants.
you pull away, not because you want to, but because you definitely feel it and it’s driving you crazy. but then he squeezes your ass harder and sucks your tongue back into his mouth, drawing you right back in.
jisung, the “shy” nerd you always asked hyunjin about (in subtle ways, like “do you think he could tutor me?” or “why doesn’t your friend ever talk to anybody besides you and jeongin?”), sucks your tongue like he might pass away if you part from him.
so you don’t. you bite his bottom lip between your teeth and tug, silently telling him you asked for this. your hands land on his jaw, fingers pressing into his skin roughly. a cool sensation sends a tingle up your spine, one of his hands finding a new home just under the hem of your shirt.
without thinking twice, you roll your hips against him. just once, but once is all it takes. everything in him stills, your clothed cunt creating friction right where he’s now dreadfully hard.
you’re still kissing him sloppily, but he’s no longer responsive. sensing his unease, you pull away again, and this time, he doesn’t lure you back in. you remain close to him, faces only centimeters apart.
“everyone’s watching…” he trails, voice low.
oh, right. there are still at least ten people watching this unfold, not expecting a simple makeout dare to turn into softcore porn before their very eyes. especially not between you and jisung.
“yeah,” you breathe out, resting your forehead against his. you’re finally met with the complete visual of his wreckage — flushed cheeks, pupils blown wide, lips tinted a darker shade of pink from your lip gloss. and, of course, the very obvious erection poking into you.
“and i’m hard,” he sighs, but it comes out as almost a whine.
he sounds both needy and humiliated, and you’re damn near soaking in your panties at this point. at least it isn’t outwardly noticeable, otherwise you’d be in the same predicament as him.
“i know,” you tease with a smile, “i’ll get us out of here, mkay?” your voice is syrupy sweet, and he nods quickly at your words. something about it is so pathetic in a cute, intriguing way, so you lean forward and press another much more chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.
you swing your leg over him and throw his hat onto his lap, offering him some coverage for his…problem. even though everyone surely already knows it’s there — he’s only human after all. your aim is impeccable, and he swallows hard as he flashes you a look of gratitude.
when you rise to your feet, it’s like you’ve suddenly flipped everyone’s on switch; the space fills with chatter once more. this will probably be the talk of your friend group for at least the next two business days.
“jesus christ,” mingi curses.
“y/n,” lia giggles, “you’re crazy.”
“well fuck,” hyunjin groans, “i didn’t think this friendship would lead to more competition.”
while you’re unbothered and simply roll your eyes at them, jisung sits stiffly on the couch, clearly at least a little embarrassed by their comments. he manages a small smile when jeongin elbows him and whispers something in his ear.
“thanks for a great game guys,” you smirk, “but jisung and i are tapping out.”
you turn around halfway and reach your hand out towards him. when he clasps his hand in yours, you tug him lightly and he’s on his feet in a second, standing closely behind and using your body as a shield in place of his hat that’s now discarded on the couch.
it hardly seems possible, but disbelief spreads across everyone’s faces even further. they all stare wide-eyed until their expressions settle into knowing smirks and sly grins. the remarks continue as you lead jisung through the living room and up the stairs.
“more like he’s tapping you.”
“y/n, if you change your mind, i’ll be here!”
you’re familiar with changbin’s house from a number of parties and maybe a hook up or two. so you head straight for a room you know to be empty, opening it with your free hand and kicking it shut after.
now that it’s just you two in a quiet room (aside from the thumping music coming from below), jisung is even more confused. how the hell did you consider him to be the hottest guy in a group full of the certified campus fuckboys? and moreover, you felt him literally pop a raging boner and instead of laughing at him with your friends, you brought him upstairs. alone.
he’s silent, but you can tell he’s lost in thought. “what are you thinking?” you purr, snaking your hand into his hair again while he’s backed against the door.
“just uh,” he pauses, “you’re really, really pretty.”
it’s sweet and innocent, yet it has you clenching around nothing. because he’s so unlike the guys you’re used to. nerdy, shy, maybe a little bit of a loser, and then at the same time, he made out with you like he needed it to survive.
“thank you,” you giggle, taking his hand once more and guiding him to the bed. once you’re at the foot of it, you spin around and push his chest with enough force for him to fall to the mattress. you crawl onto him, finding yourself in a familiar position — straddling him, feeling every bit of his arousal.
he leans up on his elbows and looks around, suddenly concerned. which he really shouldn’t be, because he has an actual angel straddling him on a fucking bed and he’s probably ruining it.
too bad he’s unable to turn off his brain for a bit. “wait. whose room is this?” he asks, chewing on his bottom lip subconsciously.
“relax, jisung,” you assure. “it’s changbin’s old roommate’s. but he moved out, so now it’s a spare.”
that should quell his worries, but instead it unleashes a whole new flurry of them. he can’t stop himself from the sarcastic reply he shoots out.
“oh. okay, perfect. the communal sex bedroom. i’m sure this place looks great under black light.”
yeah, you’re definitely going to scoff in his face and leave him there and never look at him again, he thinks.
or not.
you snort and throw your head back, and even the small movements of your body bouncing as you laugh have him going wild.
“you think too much, you know that?” yes, unfortunately he does know that. “i’m friends with changbin, i know he keeps shit clean. mostly.”
of course you’re friends with the older boy whose house you were currently partying in. and whose spare room you were probably about to do unholy things in. jisung doesn’t think changbin even knows his name.
he falls back flat against the mattress, eyes trained on the ceiling now. “you have a lot of friends it seems,” he says, and you wonder if it’s meant to sound as envious as it does.
part of you wants to tell him it’s not worth it. that he should appreciate the few friends he has because at least they’re genuine; popularity doesn’t equate to fulfillment. but that sounds like a whole ted talk you’re not sure you have the time or willpower to get into when all you want right now is to bring the boy beneath you to absolute ruin.
“i guess,” you agree simply. “i use ‘friends’ loosely. it’s all transactional.”
“transactional?”
“mhm. that’s just how things go in these crowds. these people don’t really know me,” you shrug.
you’ve piqued his interest now — or rather, he’s been interested, but now he’s gnawingly curious. from the outside, you fit right in with everyone downstairs. you laugh easily, you complete stupid dares without a second thought, you flirt and flip your hair and flutter your eyelashes. to think there’s a whole other side under all of it makes him crave to know more.
“what don’t they know?” he questions softly.
“hm,” you hum, thinking of something that’ll really throw him off. “they don’t know that i logged almost three hundred movies on letterboxd last year.”
he scoffs in disbelief and you just stare him, unwavering.
“three hundred?!” you nod. “bullshit.”
you roll your hips against him again, this time as a punishment for doubting your movie-watching abilities. a ragged groan rips through him, and his hands find their way to your waist, holding you down firmly. begging for more.
“swear. i’m a devout cinephile,” you grin, grinding down on him again.
his breath hitches. somehow, you feel so good even through the layers of clothes. “how did you even have time for schoolwork?” he sputters. it’s honestly a little impressive that his mind is still on academics.
“some of us don’t spend all of our lives studying,” you joke. he clicks his tongue and you decide he deserves the real answer. you know he won’t judge you for it. “i went through a rough break up and spent like two weeks just watching movies in bed.”
he frowns, wondering what idiot would break your heart. then he pictures you, no longer laughing with your friends at a party, but crying in bed with a sad romance movie playing in the background. “fuck that guy,” he says sternly.
“yeah,” you whisper, “fuck him.”
that’s the end of that conversation. that’s the end of all conversation; your hands twist into the fabric of his hoodie and your lips come crashing down onto his. you pick up right where you left off on the couch — tongues entangling, teeth nipping, moans no longer hushed.
you work your way down to his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his jaw along the way. your hips grind steadily, clinging to the rhythm you’ve built. he’s learned his lesson, too; he grips your ass without you needing to direct him, helping you through your desperate movements.
“don’t worry. i won’t leave any marks,” you reassure as you kiss the skin of his neck carefully. “wouldn’t want the star student to look like trouble.”
“you can,” he says too quickly, unsure where the newfound confidence comes from. it disappears almost immediately after. “if you want.”
when you pull back in surprise, you find only confirmation. he nods and you grin wickedly, dropping back to his neck and sucking with more determination now. “y/n,” he sighs, his hands sliding up and lifting your shirt slightly as they rub along your side.
him saying your name like that is your undoing. you push off of him and stand from the bed entirely, and he’s too breathless to voice his disappointment. he doesn’t need to, anyway, because his eyes drop to where your fingers are making quick work of your zipper and button.
“fuck these pants,” you hiss, pulling them off hurriedly. there’s hardly a moment for him to take in the sight of your bare thighs and lacy panties. “yours too,” you return to his lap and begin working on his jeans now. he helps you yank them down, hearing the quiet thud as you toss them to the floor.
there’s one less layer between you, allowing you both to feel much more. you can feel how hard he is, straining against his boxers, a small damp patch from where he’s leaked precum onto them. he can feel how soaked your panties are, the wet fabric offering very little at this point. you’re soaked because of him. that thought alone could almost make him cum in his boxers.
with each roll of your hips, your pussy glides against his cock, and he knows he won’t last long like this. at least before there was the thick material of your jeans helping him maintain some composure, but now he can practically feel himself sliding through your folds.
“you’re really fucking wet,” he groans. such filthy words come out of him with an ease you didn’t expect, and it has you rutting against him harder now.
“yeah, that’s what happens,” you giggle through moans, “you know anatomy and physiology, don’t you, sungie?” you reinforce your question with a particularly slow, purposeful grind.
“shit,” he swallows harshly, feeling himself nearing the edge too quickly. “yeah. yeah, i do.”
there’s not much of a rhythm to your movements anymore. it’s all frenzied need, and his hands are digging into your thighs roughly, keeping you in place and guiding you. you almost can’t believe this is the same jisung you always saw in the library with his nose in a book.
“‘course you do. you’re so smart,” you purr, catching his lips in another sloppy kiss. you can tell he’s close, and it’s unbelievably sexy that he looks so fucked out just from making out and dry humping. “but i didn’t know the smartest guy on campus was so desperate. holding me down on your cock like this.”
the amused edge in your tone brings him even closer, and he bucks into you now, losing all care for how shameful he may seem.
“y/n,” he whines. “i’m seriously gonna cum in my boxers if you keep going.” which is a funny statement considering he’s the one doing half of it.
and if it’s meant to be a warning, you don’t take it as one. that’s exactly what you want him to do. you want him to fall apart for you without you even touching where he’s neediest. you have an inkling he wants to, too, considering the strength he’s using to keep you against him.
“good,” you coo, “cum for me just like this, ji.”
you shift your head towards the side of his face, grabbing his jaw and latching your lips onto his earlobe.
“fuck,” he moans, “you’re so perfect.” he can feel you smile against his ear, and for some reason that almost does it for him.
“have you always thought that, or is it just because i’m on top of you?” you ask teasingly, biting down softly.
he tries to turn into you — he wants to see your pretty face so badly — but your grip has his head held in place and you tsk at him for trying. so he’s forced to squeeze his eyes shut and surrender himself to pleasure.
“no! always have,” he grunts. “i thought you would’ve caught me looking at you all those times.”
maybe you have caught him a few times, but lots of people stare. you never thought too much of it. certainly never thought you’d have him unraveling for you like this.
“and did you ever think about me like this?” you lean back, pressing your hands against his chest while you grind down harder, faster.
now he can take in every inch of your face, from the strands of hair sticking to it to your blissed out expression. you are perfect, whether you’re sitting in the dining hall with your friends, laughing with guys at a party, or — especially — if you’re rubbing against his cock in someone else’s bedroom.
“yes,” he chokes out. “fuck, yes i did.” yes i do, he wants to say, but he can’t correct himself before he’s spilling into his boxers, thick white spurts coating the fabric as you milk it out of him.
after a minute, you lean down to kiss his cheek and pull off of him. you scoot up until you’re against the headboard, staring at the ceiling in wonderment. then you look further down the bed where jisung is still trying to catch his breath. han fucking jisung. jesus christ, what a night.
“wait,” he pants, struck with realization. “you didn’t cum, though.” he tilts his head back to look at you, the mattress dipping under him.
god, he’s cute. and considerate. which is more than you can say about most of the guys you’ve fucked.
“it’s fine, jisung. i had my fun regardless,” you smile sincerely. but that just won’t do. no way is he letting you think he’s okay with being the only one satisfied. no, jisung has never been selfish, and he won’t allow that to start with you of all people. in fact, he thinks it’d be cruel after how good you just made him feel.
“can i eat you out?” he blurts out, slightly regretting it when you furrow your eyebrows. his cheeks flush a light shade of red thinking you’re going to reject his offer. and to think he was really looking forward to tasting more of you.
“have you eaten a girl out before?”
he looks almost offended, flipping over dramatically to look at you rightside up. “yes i have, actually,” he scoffs. “i’m not a virgin, you know. i’m not that much of a loser.”
you laugh and pat the space next to you. though he’s still pouting from your question, he joins you by the headboard. “i wouldn’t think you were a loser if you were a virgin,” you whisper reassuringly.
“probably because you already do,” he sighs.
well, that’s not totally untrue, but it’s not like you looked down on him for it. not at all, not even before tonight. “no,” you shake your head, and he looks at you wordlessly, already sensing your dishonesty. “okay, kinda. but in an endearing way!” he groans, dropping his head to the pillow (how many other people have done things with these pillows? he doesn’t even want to know). “seriously. i think you’re really, really cute, sungie.”
there goes that nickname again making his heart thump erratically. you might actually be the death of him. he lifts his head back up and looks so pathetically hopeful you could melt right into the sheets.
“cute?”
“yeah. so cute that you don’t even realize that you’re hot.”
suddenly, you kiss him again, hard, and he whimpers into your mouth. the sound goes straight down to your soaked panties. perhaps he senses it, snaking his hand down and grabbing the inside of your thigh, right next to your heat. it tears a moan straight out of your chest, and when you pull back, his eyes are desperate.
“please?” he begs.
there’s no reason for you to deny what you both want. you nod quickly and that’s all it takes. he slips his glasses off, carefully placing them on the bedside dresser because yes, he’s still cautious even when he’s about to go down on a very pretty girl. and just as you’re about to make fun of him for it, he slinks his way down, stopping right above your cunt.
he presses his lips against you through the fabric, tongue darting out to flick your clit. your thighs clench from the new sensation and he holds them open, now leaving a trail of kisses along them.
“jisung,” you whine, “don’t fucking tease.”
he pauses, looking up at you sinfully. “but do you really want a loser like me to taste you? to know how sweet this pretty pussy is?” his fingers rub you in place of his mouth, slowly dragging up and down the wet material you really wish he would just rip off of you. but unfortunately, you’ve made him feel a bit too powerful.
“you think you’re in control now, baby?” you drawl with feigned sweetness. “you’re not. admit it — if i got up right now, you’d get on your knees and beg for me. right, jisungie?”
he huffs despite knowing your words are true. and he fears that you really might get up just to prove it. so he dips his thumbs into your waistband and pulls the pink lacy fabric down, the cool air hitting your pussy immediately.
but that’s not a good enough answer for you. you tangle your fingers into his hair and tug a little too harshly, forcing him to look up at you again. “i asked a question,” you taunt.
“right,” he mutters defeatedly, and though you would’ve liked a more enthusiastic agreement, that would have to do. you were already far too needy from all the night’s events.
“good,” you hum, “now make me cum.”
all traces of his previous teasing vanish when he licks a stripe through your folds, your slick coating his tongue. this time when you pull his hair, it’s not to punish, but to ground yourself.
because there’s no restraint in his actions. jisung — who you just heard complain about a “communal sex bedroom” and who you watched place his glasses down with so much care — devours you sloppily, hungrily. that careful, overthinking part of him was long gone, and his only thoughts now revolve around making you cum on his tongue no matter how messy it may be.
your back arches off the bed and he holds your thighs even tighter, wondering if he could leave his imprints on your skin for the next guy to see. hopefully there won’t be a next guy.
“fuck, jisung,” you moan.
“hm?” he hums into you, and the vibration sends a delicious jolt through your body. “am i doing good?”
you nod even though he can’t see. “so good,” you pant, “how the fuck are you so good?”
the praise only entices him, lapping at your pussy greedily. his lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive bud until you swear your vision blurs.
truthfully, he doesn’t have an answer to your question; sure, he’s eaten girls out before, but none of them have given him a particularly amazing reaction. but you have no reason to stroke his ego, so he assumes your words must hold truth. and god, does he feel too damn good about himself right now.
his name falls from your lips in strangled cries each time he dips his tongue into your hole or flicks it against your clit. the alternation between the two is so dizzying that you feel your release building rapidly.
that only furthers when he drags two fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness. with ease, he plunges those same fingers into you and focuses his mouth entirely on your swollen nub. the lewd noises fill the room along with your moans, and your sweet, wrecked voice calling out his name is enough to have his cock twitching to life yet again.
“ji, fuck,” you cry, “i’m so close, don’t stop. you’re doing so fucking good for me.”
for you. his life might just have a new purpose.
he pumps his fingers into you quicker now, curling them upwards against your g-spot in rhythm with the languid circles of his tongue around your clit.
“cum for me, please?” he begs, only parting from you for a moment. “right on my tongue. please, baby.”
his words are all you need to come undone, clenching around his fingers and gripping his hair as he works you through your orgasm. he slows his pumps but doesn’t stop, not until your back falls to the mattress and your grip loosens.
even then, he doesn’t pull away without one final slow, tantalizing lick up your center, just to savor it in case he never gets to have you like this again.
“oh my god,” you breathe out, watching his movements out of the corner of your eye while you try to bring yourself back down to earth.
he licks his lips and sucks his fingers clean before reaching for his glasses. when he puts them back on, he’s no longer jisung who made you cum on his fingers, but jisung who sits awkwardly at parties. you’ve discovered that you’re actually quite fond of both sides.
“please tell me you weren’t lying about all that,” he pleads.
“what? that you did good?” he nods, reverting back to his usual shy self. like the glasses have some kind of power to turn it off and on. “nope. han jisung is a really good pussy eater.”
his cheeks dust with embarrassment, as if he didn’t just devour you a few minutes ago. the jisung you recognize is back, and you can only laugh at his sudden 180.
the room fills with silence as you both mull over the past hour internally. there’s no regret, just…confusion? excitement? and exhaustion. lots of exhaustion. he’s sprawled out at the foot of the bed while your head is on the pillows, and if you weren’t nearly naked in changbin’s spare room, you could probably fall asleep like this.
then his voice cuts through the silence and you force your eyes open. “favorite christopher nolan movie?” he asks — a very important question. probably should have come before the orgasms, even. his head is turned to face you against the mattress, hoping you’ll say…
“the dark knight.”
he narrows his eyes at your answer, not totally pleased. it’s a solid one, but not the right one. this isn’t an opinion-based question to him. “interstellar,” he shoots back.
you pull your head back in shock. “really? you strike me as a superhero guy,” you muse.
“yeah, spiderman,” he scoffs. like you should just know he prefers spiderman over batman. common jisung knowledge of course. you’d save the debate about battinson for another day.
“right. cause you’re basically peter parker.”
“huh?”
he waits for you to elaborate, but you move on far too quickly. “and you’re probably into all that crazy space shit that went over my head in interstellar,” you groan. that causes him to sit up immediately, face contorting in horror.
“what? you didn’t understand the masterpiece that is interstellar?” you blink at him. “oh my god. we have to go watch it right now. but just be prepared, i will be on my knees banging on the tv right with matthew mcconaughey.”
somehow, you’re wide awake now, fully enticed by the prospect of watching a movie with him. such a simple domestic thing that has you grinning and laughing at his enthusiasm.
“okay, yeah, maybe you are a loser…”
you laugh and he deadpans at you before breaking into laughter himself. it’s comfortable and easy, and you both begin shoving limbs into clothes hurriedly so you can get out of here and indulge yourselves in three hours of “crazy space shit.”
pairing: jeongin x f!reader
contains: fluff, light angst, suggestive comments – really, two people as hopeless at communicating as you and jeongin probably shouldn’t date anyway, for the sake of everyone else’s sanity. or: five times skz pushes you to tell jeongin how you feel, and the one time you give up. 5k words.
☆ note: finished an old wip!! everyone cheer!! <3
my masterlist
“I’m gonna get jealous if you keep drooling over edits of Hyunjin.”
Shitfuckshit.
You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of Jeongin’s voice, entirely too close behind you to have just gotten there. Quickly, with shaking fingers, you close the godforsaken app and slam your phone face down on his mattress. Nailed it. Not suspicious at all.
In the following few seconds of pure silence, mortification festers and almost digs a hole straight through your stomach lining. Almost. There’s also a tiny glimmer of gratitude that he didn’t catch you watching one of his edits – or, worse yet, saving one to your Innie ❤️ collection.
It’s that glimmer of gratitude you resolve to cling to throughout his inevitable goading.
No wonder he came to check on you. It’s his room. You’ve been gone far too long to feasibly be “plugging your phone in.” In your defense, you did start charging your phone, but you also happened to get distracted.
He flops down on his stomach next to you with a force akin to a small earthquake. The mattress dips and jostles you closer until your arm is pressed against his, and you promptly disregard every thought you’ve ever had. Instead of scooting away, he drapes that arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I wasn’t drooling,” you mutter, then mentally kick yourself for it. You pray he can’t hear the blood rushing in your ears.
To anyone else, anyone who didn’t know the extent of your unrequited love, you two must look like a couple. Cuddled against each other, easy familiarity, so close it hurts in every way possible.
He’s mere inches away. If he wanted, he could lean in and easily close the gap between you.
Instead, he just laughs in your face, like the terrible friend he is. Trying to ignore your heart skipping a beat at the sound, you burrow closer into his embrace, reveling in as much of him as he’ll let you have.
His chest vibrates when he speaks again. “I had a good time last night.” He pairs his kind words with a rude poke to your side.
A good time is underestimating it, at least for you. Innie claimed that the rest of the guys were always hogging up your free time, and he missed his best friend. He booked a reservation at an Italian restaurant notoriously hard to get into – but he’s an idol, of course he has connections like that.
If this were a romance movie, one of you would have confessed. Preferably him, to spare you the embarrassment. But it’s not, and at the end of the night, he dropped you off at home with a beaming smile and the memory.
If this were a romance movie, now would also be a pretty good time for a confession.
You look up at him. He’s looking back at you.
The entire world shrinks to only him, and his eyes, staring into yours. “Yeah?” you ask, breathless.
He grins. “Yeah,” his voice is low. His eyes drop down to your lips, and suddenly his hand is cupping your chin, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.
Then, he clears his throat, the sound piercing. He shakes his head, as if to snap himself out of a thought, then whispers, “You had something.” He doesn’t remove his thumb.
As if on cue, Seungmin walks past his open doorway headed towards the kitchen. He peeks inside, and immediately freezes in his tracks while his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the scene before him.
Cuddled against each other. Easy familiarity. So close it hurts.
Before he says anything too incriminating – and thus ensuring his death by your hands – he’s interrupted by a wild-eyed Changbin barreling past him and into Jeongin’s room, yelling “Chan’s buying us food! Get up! Hurryhurryhurry!”
An outraged, “The fuck I am!” sounds from the living room.
At the restaurant, Jeongin steals a dumpling off Changbin’s plate rather unsuccessfully. The plop as it lands on the table alerts Changbin to the attempted thievery, and naturally, Jeongin winds up in a headlock as punishment. They go back and forth exclaiming, “Say you’re sorry!” and “I didn’t even do anything!” until Chan looks like he’s about to start sprouting grey hairs.
“He’s such an idiot,” Seungmin says beside you.
“I know,” you sigh. “I want his balls in my mouth.”
Seungmin freezes with a steamed bun inches away from his lips. “Please,” he deadpans. “Never speak to me again.”
Hyunjin proves himself nearly useless. However, he’s a lot better than your complete uselessness, so you find yourself taking his advice a few days later.
“What does painting my feelings even mean?” you ask. Hyunjin sits across from you, concentrating on his own canvas like he’s the one about to confess via acrylic paint. Maybe he is; he and Changbin have been acting particularly married lately. A variety of paint tubes sits on the table between you two. “What color are my feelings?”
Hyunjin snorts. “I don’t know, what color do you think pabo is?”
“Green?”
With a small grin, Hyunjin slides a pigment labelled Permanent Green closer to you, then subsequently dodges it when you hurl it back at him. Shame. He exclaims something about Changbin killing him if any more paint spills in their dorm, but you’re not listening, instead choosing to stare down at your canvas as if it will unveil its secrets if you simply look at it long enough.
Hyunjin had sworn on his life that painting your love and gifting it to Jeongin would work, and the boy would swoon in your arms upon receiving it. He claimed there was no possible way he could miss the hint of his obviously-in-love best friend creating art for him. It is romantic, if nothing else. The only problem is you have no idea where to start. Or end. Or anything in between. Both of you, apparently, drastically overestimated your love’s ability to be painted.
You stare longer, but the canvas unabashedly remains blank.
“What comes to mind when you first think about him? Any special memories between you, anything you like to do together?” he asks. “If you say something nasty I’m kicking you out.”
Jeongin brought you to a flower field a few weeks beforehand. He plucked a daisy, tucked it behind your ear, and smiled brighter than the sun. You want to keep being the reason he smiles like that. Back at home, you pressed the daisy as a keepsake.
It might not be the idyllic, romantic embodiment Hyunjin probably hoped for, but it’s a lovely memory regardless. A flower field is fairly easy to paint, right?
Hyunjin gives his stamp of approval to your idea, as well as a five-minute-straight monologue about how cute you and Jeongin are together, your nerves about your gift heightening with each “you’re made for each other!”
What if he doesn’t even like it? What if he doesn’t know the meaning behind it? What if he does know the meaning behind it?
As much as Hyunjin woes about his own love life, you feel justified wallowing in his presence a bit longer.
“Can we please not talk about this? I don’t really want to think about how he’ll probably reject it.”
Hyunjin drops it for all of two minutes – just enough time for you to barely dip your paintbrush into Radiant Blue and cover most of the canvas in broad, sweeping strokes.
“I think he loves you,” he says, without looking up from his own canvas.
The paintbrush slips out of your fingers. Blue paint splatters across your jeans, and stains the floor where the brush lands. Hyunjin sees it, purses his lips, but thankfully doesn’t say anything else about his own impending doom.
“He does not,” you assure him once you stop air from going down the wrong pipe.
Hyunjin rolls his eyes, somehow loudly. “Do you want a list of reasons why I know he is? For one, he wouldn’t shut up about those flowers you picked for him.” The same flowers you chose to paint. He tacks on, “It was gross.”
Your heart sinks at the implication you wish was true. “That was as friends,” you mutter, like a child who got told no. Hoping Hyunjin would take the hint, you pick up your paintbrush from the floor and continue swiping it across the canvas, trying to fix the parts that are streaky from the fall.
He either did not get the hint or is flat out ignoring it. “I don’t take just friends to pick flowers,” you bite back the urge to point out Jeongin only knew about it because Changbin took Hyunjin, “and spend the next three hours talking about how pretty she looked.”
“He did that?” Heat rises to your cheeks.
He nods. “He only stopped because Minho threatened to tape his mouth closed.”
The next hours are spent in relative silence as you two paint. As grateful as you are to avoid speaking about Jeongin, you’re unable to stop thinking about him – about if Hyunjin was exaggerating, about Jeongin’s reaction, about either possibility of him accepting or rejecting it.
A flower field is not fairly easy to paint, as evidenced by Hyunjin’s snorting laughter when you finally show him your canvas. It’s not winning any awards anytime soon, but you thought it was alright, at least.
“A child could have done a better job!” he exclaims. “An actual child!” He dodges yet another paint tube – when did he get so good at that? Through laughter, he says again, “It’s proof he loves you if he actually displays it anywhere.”
Unfortunately, Hyunjin made sure to be there while you gift it to Jeongin.
“I love it!” Jeongin looks like you awarded him the moon and stars, rather than – you’ll admit it now – a pretty terrible painting. “Thank you!”
And he walks away, admiring it.
Hyunjin will not let this go for a long time.
You’re staring at Jeongin making downright sinful noises doing pushups and debating when exactly in your life you lost your mind. You must have at some point, as only an insane person would agree to Chan asking you to accompany them to the gym.
Jeongin does another pushup, grunting, and all rational thoughts leave your brain.
Down. Up. Grunt.
Would he make the same sounds if–
“You know, they say those work better if you actually lift them,” Chan takes the bench next to you, carrying his own dumbbells orders of magnitude heavier than the ones laying abandoned by your feet.
“Hm?”
Jeongin finishes his set, and as if in slow motion, strips off his shirt. Sweat glistens on his chest, even in their gym’s terrible lighting. Good god. It would’ve been kinder if Chan punched you in the sternum and called it a day.
Chan’s laugh breaks through the Jeongin-brain fog clouding your mind. You wrench your eyes away from the, quite frankly, ludicrous display going on to glare at him.
“You’ve got a bit of drool on your chin there.” He seems more amused than he should.
“Why does everyone keep saying I drool? It’s gross and I don’t do it.”
“Yeah, it is gross, isn’t it?” Chan pauses to take in your expression, and lets out a deep sigh. “Look, you should just tell him, rip off the band-aid, you know? Have you tried anything like that?”
“I’ve tried, but I don’t know, something in me freezes up every time I try and I end up gaping at him like a fish.”
Even before this week, you’ve tried so often, but the words always die in your throat. It’s harder than it seems, confessing your undying love to your best friend.
Chan’s staring at you like you grew a second mouth, one that said something stupid.
“What?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing, just remembering similar conversations.” He glances across the room, where Jeongin’s in position to start doing pushups again. God save everyone. “I think you should tell him though. Now.”
“Are you cra–”
“Now. Re-rack your weights first.” He lifts his dumbbells off the floor and turns his attention towards the wall-to-wall mirror, shutting you out of the conversation and leaving no room for debate.
Your heartbeat thunders in rhythm with your footsteps.
Jeongin drops down with a dramatic sigh — seriously, an all-out punch would’ve been kinder, Chan — once he sees you approach. Then, he rolls on his back on the probably grimy, definitely sweaty floor and exclaims “There you are!” with a huge smile.
“Help me up?” he holds his hands out in the air for you to take.
Of course you do.
Of course he doesn’t let go once he’s standing.
Once again, his intense gaze burns straight through you. You’re all but positive your confession is written on your forehead, with how intently he’s looking at you, as if nobody else exists.
You can’t tell him. Not here. Not in a gym. Not with Chan watching.
“Are you finally going to join me? I could use the motivation,” Jeongin winks, still holding your hands in his. Your heart drops to your stomach and your stomach jumps up to your throat.
He could get you to agree to anything, internal organs all out of balance as they are.
“Y-yeah. Sure.” Hopefully you could claim the sweat forming is from exercise.
His resulting smile could blind the dead. “Awesome! I’ll get set up!”
With that, he drops your hands and turns his back to stride towards a machine. Finally, you can breathe normally again. You trail after him, glancing back at Chan on the way. He looks like he expected absolutely nothing less out of that whole situation.
“I think that’s a biohazard,” Seungmin informs, taking a seat next to where your head so elegantly landed when you flopped face-down on their couch. “I mean, I’ve seen Felix stay in that exact spot for, like, two days straight. And he’s gross, so just imagine what’s still in the cushions.”
“Can’t move,” your reply is muffled. You’re not even lying this time – your bones are pudding only hours after working through Jeongin’s push day routine with him.
“Your funeral, I guess.”
The couch is unfairly comfortable, honestly, and you have half a mind to succumb to the sleep threatening to pull you under. But, you can tell Seungmin is enjoying the silence, which just won’t do. Not on your watch.
“You ever see Innie working out?” you ask, not bothering to move your face away from the couch in any way to help him understand you.
“All the time. Hey, can I borrow your phone? Mine’s dead.”
“It’s on the coffee table.” Truly, if you could move your arms at all, you would hand it over. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? He’s like a statue.”
Seungmin releases a sound like he’s dying around the sound of him typing. “Did you come here just so I could suffer with you?”
“And he has abs!”
Seungmin leans forward, then he gently sets your phone back down. “I will smother you until you stop talking,” he deadpans.
“I’ll cook dinner for you if I can keep going.”
“You were saying something about his abs?”
Fifteen minutes and twenty instances of Seungmin asking what you’re making later, you have enough feeling in your arms to begin dinner preparation.
Your phone pings with a new text once the chicken is almost finished cooking on the stovetop.
Innie: I would hope so :)
Opening your messaging app reveals the answer. The horrible, terrible, no-good answer.
You: I like you.
Innie: I would hope so :)
Seungmin. You’re going to kill him. The fanbase will understand. He’s had it coming for a while, anyway.
Seungmin’s food burns while you’re contemplating revenge.
He eats it without complaint.
On screen, Princess Peach cuts in front of Wario inches away from the finish line, and Minho damn near throws his controller at you. Before you can start the typical I’m-the-Best-Bow-at-My-Feet speech, Han steps outside of his room with a guilty expression rarely seen outside courtrooms.
“I talked to Innie,” he admits.
Ice forms in your stomach.
“That’s my cue,” Minho says, gets up, and retreats into his own room. Bastard.
Han sits beside you, hanging his head so he does not have to look you in the eye.
“Why,” you croak.
“I thought I was being helpful! I asked if he was interested in anyone, you know, to get the ball rolling!” At that, he looks up at you, eyes almost comically wide. “But he acted like I was dumb for even asking.”
“Why.”
Han steamrolls on with his explanation. “I mean, no offense or anything, but you are pretty obvious about it! I thought he knew already, honestly.”
The ice transforms into a category 5 winter storm. You had been trying not to think about that, but he’s right. Anyone with eyes can clearly see how you act around Jeongin. He must know. He’s being nice by not outright rejecting you.
Han only coos “I’m so sorry,” tone as gentle as the hand he places on your knee, in response to your considerations.
Together, you and Han formulate A Plan. It goes like this: Forget about Your Feelings for Innie. Not that you want to, but even you have limits on how far your delusions go.
It’s a great plan. It will work flawlessly.
The plan goes to shit the next day.
Felix invites everyone over for a movie night at Chan and Jeongin’s dorm – artfully avoiding Changbin’s question of whether or not he actually had permission to do so. Han assures you Jeongin already has plans, so you won’t have to worry about seeing him or speaking to him or being around him at all, really.
For some reason, Jeongin had hung up your painting in their living room, and it practically stares you down as you settle into your blankets across from it. Heaviness weighs on your body, but a night with your friends might be the distraction you need to forget about it for a while.
Unless those friends make you talk about it.
Halfway through the first movie, Minho, never one to beat around the bush, pauses it and says, “You look sad.” He’s met with noises of agreement from nearly everyone else.
“I just - I don’t know what to do about Innie,” you say, unwilling to look at anyone’s face for fear of seeing your own patheticness validated. You pick a spot on the carpet and focus all your attention into picking at the fraying fibers. “I think I have to give up on him.”
Admitting it is a weight off your shoulders and a boulder on your chest. You’ve already had this conversation with Han, but here, speaking it into a room of your closest friends, makes the words real. Too real to take back, to brush off as anything else.
Nobody’s said anything. Usually, at this point, Hyunjin would be offering unrealistic advice, or Seungmin would be telling you nobody wants to hear it. Something’s wrong. You look up. Half the room is staring at you.
Half the room is staring behind you.
“Ouch,” sounds from the doorway into Jeongin’s room. “Don’t give up on me yet.” His tone is lighthearted on the surface, but everyone in the room knows him well enough to hear the strain underneath it.
Every muscle in your body freezes. Unable to move, you and Felix are now locked in a horrible staring contest. He looks as scared as you feel.
No.
There’s no possible way to get out of this.
No.
It’s far too late to try to play it off as anything other than a confession. He would see straight through you. He always does when you’re lying.
Nononono.
How do you even explain that you’ve been unashamedly pining to the point everyone else is sick of hearing it, all to no avail? That you know he knows and now you’ve broken the silent “don’t talk about it to let her down easy” strategy he had going on.
You cannot be here.
You cannot turn around to face the consequences of your careless speaking.
You cannot stay in this room, on this street, on this planet with Jeongin.
Mechanically, on legs you pray aren’t actually shaking even though your cells are vibrating, you get to your feet. Something akin to, “Ihavetogobye,” spills out of your mouth, before you rush out the door without turning around. Without once looking back at Jeongin, or his insisting that you stay.
Jeongin studies his members, all sitting (or – in Changbin’s case – laying across Hyunjin’s lap), all staring back at him with nearly identical pitiful expressions. After running a hand down his face, as if he could wipe away the memory of what you said, he asks the room, “Does anyone want to tell me what that was about?”
Instead of actually answering his question, Chan just responds, “Dude.” Like dominoes, most everyone echoes the sentiment, dread growing in Jeongin’s stomach after every one. Rarely is nobody willing to outright tell him what he did wrong. Usually they jump at the chance to embarrass him.
Jeongin flops to the floor, right where you were sitting. “Dude what?,” he groans and tries to ignore the pain sprouting in his butt from his theatrics. “What did I do? Why is my girlfriend giving up on me?”
Han’s jaw audibly pops as it falls open.
A silence unlike anything Jeongin has ever known descends upon the dorm.
Even Hyunjin has stopped poking Changbin in the side to get a rise out of him. Jeongin is fairly certain it’s not this quiet even when nobody’s home. Once, when Chan was fed up with them, he had snapped that the next person to make a single sound would be doing everyone’s dishes for a month. This is quieter.
Seven twenty-something men collectively deciding to embody statues cannot mean anything good. They could hear a pin drop outside.
Until Seungmin starts giggling into his palm. To his credit, he does attempt to stifle it, but his laugh practically echoes in the silence.
Changbin begins laughing too. He rolls over to muffle the sound by hiding his face in Hyunjin’s stomach. His attempts are useless. Less than useless, because Hyunjin is ticklish and smacks him with a shriek that might be, “Stop it!” Changbin rolls back over, now nothing blocking his increase in volume. His shoulders shake the louder he gets. The whole thing only eggs Seungmin on, and soon enough, Seungmin, Changbin, Han, and Minho are in various stages of laughing at Jeongin.
Jeongin, baffled, asks, “What is happening?”
“Girlfriend?” Felix clarifies.
“Yes?” Jeongin feels like he’s missing a crucial piece of information.
Seungmin’s face is lit up with pure joy. He would give kids on Christmas morning a serious run for their money. “How long,” he pauses to wipe an honest-to-God tear from his cheek. “How long has that been going on?”
“I don’t know, a week? Maybe two?”
“Two?” Chan chokes on the word. “Dude.”
Jeongin has to be on the world’s worst prank show. A camera crew must be incredibly well hidden. “What is happening?” he asks again.
Hyunjin finds his words first. “Did you ever… tell her you’re dating?”
“Of course,” comes Jeongin’s easy reply. He bites back, What kind of question is that?
Hyunjin’s cocked eyebrow causes him to reconsider. The dates, the gifts, the… everything. He can’t recall outright saying, “We are in an exclusive romantic relationship,” but you have to know. He asked you out! Didn’t he? Yes. He did. Weeks ago. You said yes.
Wait.
You said yes to him asking, “Do you want to be with me?” over pasta and, admittedly, maybe one too many glasses of wine. There’s room for misinterpretation there. Clearly.
“Oh.” Jeongin blinks slowly. “A lot of things are starting to make sense.”
Seungmin guffaws again. Minho mutters, “Yeah, I bet they are.” Chan looks like he’s regretting choosing Jeongin for the group.
It’s ironic, in a way, that you end up at a familiar walking trail you and Jeongin visit often when either one of you needs fresh air. You didn’t even mean to come here, but you shut their front door behind you, and next thing you knew you’re wiping away tears and settling against a tree a short distance from the path. Wind blows through the trees, its accompanying chill biting at the wetness near your eyes.
You can’t dodge Jeongin’s calls forever. His contact photo constantly lighting up your screen is making it incredibly hard to forget he – and by extension, your feelings currently lodging themselves squarely in your throat – exists.
You have no right to be upset, not when you were too much of a coward to actually confess anything to him at all. Not when you willingly let every opportunity to tell him pass you up. Not when you just left. Who gives someone a painting and expects them to read four layers deep into it? Who goes to Han for rational advice?
Hell, Seungmin was the most direct with him. That’s a new low.
Behind you, footsteps you could pick out of a lineup crunch over leaves.
“Hey,” his voice is soft, almost lost in the breeze. Your refusal to meet his eyes doesn’t deter him, instead he just sits on the dirt across from you, the tongue of his shoe nearly touching yours. “Look at me, please.”
He looks like he always does, and it’s a twist of the knife. Something should be different, there should be some sign advertising the loss he’s about to hand you. His oversized hoodie, his hair overdue for a trim, same softness in his eyes. So much like your Jeongin, the one you cannot reconcile with the Jeongin who knows and doesn’t love you how you want.
But he is still your Jeongin, sweet and caring for the hard moments, so his face drops when he sees your red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. He takes one of your hands in his, and you let him, because this might be the last time he does.
“I have been reliably informed that I misread what our relationship is,” he says.
A single choked laugh escapes your throat. “I know, it’s okay. You don’t have to sugarcoat, I can handle anything you tell me.”
“That’s not what I meant. I…” he starts, then stops again. His cheeks grow pinker by the second. He looks to the sky, then back at you. “I thought you were already my girlfriend.”
Well.
Almost anything.
What? “You – what?”
What?
If he seemed embarrassed ten seconds ago, he does doubly so now. He’s about to start shrinking in on himself. “Please don’t make me say it again,” he groans.
“Say it again.” You need to make sure you aren’t hearing things before getting your hopes up too much and shattering your emotions twice in a row.
“Remember that night we went out to dinner at that Italian place?”
Through your haze, you nod back at him.
“I asked you to be my girlfriend that night. At least, I thought I did. Now, I don’t think that actually happened.”
Blood roars in your ears. Your thoughts transform into TV static. “You want to date me even after everything that happened this week?” you ask through a tongue that suddenly feels too big for your mouth.
“Especially after everything that happened this week.” His answer is immediate.
Jeongin grins tentatively and takes a risk. He scoots closer towards you, and seeing you not make to move away from him, fully commits to sit next to you, wrap his arm around you, and pull you into his side. It’s a position you’ve been in so many times before, familiar and new, but now he’s yours and you’re his, like flowers blooming intertwined.
Warmth blossoms and spreads throughout you. The cold winds don’t seem so bad anymore. You’d stay out here forever, as long as your Innie keeps holding you. As long as he keeps knowing you and loving you because of your flaws, not despite them.
“Innie?”
He presses a kiss into the top of your head, and you have to fight not to derail your train of thought. “We’ve been dating for a while and you never tried to kiss me?”
He groans and lets his head drop onto the top of yours. “I thought you wanted to take it slow, I don’t know. I was trying to respect that.”
You’ve waited long enough.
“Will you kiss me now?”
The weight on your head disappears. You look up at him. He’s looking back at you.
This time he doesn’t pull away or snap himself out of it.
When he leans in and closes the gap between you, it’s absolutely nothing like you’ve dreamed about. No dream, no fantasy could compare to him, real and yours and kissing you like he won’t ever get another chance. Like he also cannot believe you’re letting him. He moves slowly, savoring your first kiss as long as possible.
Eventually, he has to pull away, keeping his eyes closed for several seconds after. He doesn’t go far, keeps his head inches away, enough to breathe without putting space between you. “D’you want to go back to the dorm?” he sighs against your lips.
“No,” you whisper back.
“Me neither.”
With a relieved grin, he brings you into him again.
everyone else stays up waiting for you two to stumble giggling back into the dorm, met with thunderous (ha) and noisy (ha ha) applause and several wolf whistles. seungmin leads them in a "jeongin! jeongin!" chant.
ily if you made it this far this was abandoned for a reason
dividers by @lariesographic & @uzmacchiato
taglist: @emilyywhyy @velvetmoonlght @opiumfidgetspinner @bahngarang @pixie-felix @certainstarfishmiracle @luvvvivi @strhwa @ayedomino008 @breakmeoff @foppishitudinality @ilovedallywinston @cookiewookie9t @astrayapple @teffyx @geni-627 @kpopgirliez @imnotsupposedtobedoingthis
lmk if you want to be added to/removed from the taglist
ɞ . abstract. a cozy series of moments where the members discover that the most precious merch isn't found in a store, but in the slightly wonky stitches and soft yarn of the gifts you’ve made just for them.
ɞ . warnings / tags. fluff. needle injuries (small mentions of blood, nothing crazy). allusions to overworking.
ɞ . note. requested!
CHAN
the hum of the studio was the only thing filling the room when you pushed the door open, your heart doing a nervous little dance against your ribs. chan was hunched over his desk, the blue light from his monitors washing over his face and making the dark circles under his eyes look a little deeper than they had this morning.
he didn't even look up at first, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he tweaked a synth lead that had been haunting him for three days. you didn't say anything, just quietly set a small, crumpled paper bag on the corner of his desk, right next to his third empty coffee cup of the night.
he blinked, the movement finally breaking his trance. his head tilted as he looked at the bag, then up at you, a slow, tired grin spreading across his lips. "hey, you. i didn't hear you come in."
"i can tell," you teased, leaning against the edge of the desk. "you were in the zone. i almost didn't want to ruin it."
"never a ruin," he murmured, his voice raspy from lack of use. he reached out, his fingers brushing against the bag. "what’s this? you bring me more caffeine to keep me alive?"
"not this time. it's... well, just open it."
you watched him, suddenly feeling a little shy. you’d spent the last three weekends hunched over a crochet hook, watching endless youtube tutorials and swearing at tangled yarn until your fingers cramped. it wasn't perfect—the stitches were a bit uneven in places, and one of the ears was slightly more lopsided than the other—but it was made with a lot of love and an embarrassing amount of patience.
chan pulled the item out of the bag, and for a second, he just went completely still.
it was a small, plush wolf—a homemade wolf chan. you’d even managed to find a tiny scrap of black fabric to give him a little hoodie that matched the one chan was currently wearing.
"you made this?" chan asked, his voice barely a whisper. he held the wolf like it was made of glass, turning it over in his large hands. he poked the lopsided ear, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. "wait, did you actually crochet this yourself? like, from scratch?"
"yeah," you mumble, looking down at your shoes. "i know it's a little wonky. the tutorial was in spanish and i don't actually speak spanish, so i just kind of guessed halfway through. and i think i stuffed the head too much, so he looks a bit... intense. but i wanted you to have something to keep you company when i'm not here."
chan didn't say anything for a long moment. he just kept staring at the little wolf, his thumb rubbing over the yarn. when he finally looked up, his eyes were shimmering with that specific, soft look that always made your knees feel a bit weak. it wasn't just a "thanks" look; it was the look he got when he was genuinely overwhelmed.
"it's not wonky," he said firmly, though his voice cracked just a tiny bit. he stood up, the chair rolling back with a loud click, and stepped into your space. "it's the best thing i've ever seen. look at his little face. he looks just like me when i'm stressed."
"he looks like he’s had six espressos, chan. just like you."
he laughed, a real, belly-deep sound that seemed to chase the exhaustion right out of the room. "okay, fair point."
he set the wolf down right in front of his main monitor, tucked between his interface and his speakers. "there. now he can judge my mixing decisions. 'chan, that kick is too loud,'" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, making you giggle.
then, his expression shifted. he reached out, taking your hand in his and running his thumb over the small red mark on your index finger where the needle had nipped you. "is this from making him?"
"maybe," you admitted.
chan sighed, pulling you into his chest. he smelled like expensive cologne and stale coffee, a scent that shouldn't work but somehow felt like the safest place on earth. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his arms wrapping around your waist and squeezing tight.
"you're too good to me," he mumbled into your skin. "i'm sitting here losing my mind over a bridge that won't work, and you're at home stabbing your fingers with needles just to make me a little mascot."
"i just wanted you to smile, channie. you’ve been looking so tired lately."
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your hips. the dim studio lighting made the moment feel heavy, intimate in a way that made your pulse jump. "i am tired," he confessed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "but honestly? seeing this... seeing you... it's better than sleep."
he looked back at the little wolf chan on the desk, then back at you, a mischievous little glint entering his eyes. "though, i have to say, he's much softer than i am. does this mean i have competition for your attention now?"
"don't be jealous of a ball of yarn," you laughed, swatting at his chest.
"i'm a very competitive person," he joked, but then his smile softened again, turning into that quiet, sincere expression that felt like a hug. "thank you. seriously. i’m never taking him off this desk. if the building catches fire, i’m grabbing the laptop and the wolf, in that order."
"glad to know i'm at least top two," you teased.
he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted like the lingering sweetness of his earlier coffee and something uniquely him. when he pulled away, he stayed close, his breath warm against your face.
"you're number one," he whispered. "the wolf is just a very close second because he was made by you."
he squeezed your hand one last time before sitting back down, but he didn't go straight back to the music. instead, he picked the wolf up again, adjusted its tiny hoodie, and gave it a little pat on the head.
"alright, wolf chan," he muttered to the plushie, "let's finish this track so i can go home with the person who made you."
you sat on the couch in the back, watching him work with a newfound energy, the little yarn wolf standing guard over the sliders and knobs. it wasn't a professional piece of merch, and it wouldn't pass a quality check in a store, but seeing the way chan kept glancing at it with that goofy, smitten grin made every cramped finger and tangled thread worth it.
LEE KNOW
minho’s apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft thud of a cat jumping off a counter. he was sitting on the floor, intensely focused on brushing dori, who was purring loud enough to vibrate the floorboards. he didn't even look up when you sat down beside him, though the corner of his mouth hitched up in a tiny, almost invisible greeting.
"you’re late," he remarked, his voice smooth and teasing. "soonie and dongie already gave up on you. they’re napping in the bedroom because you weren't here to entertain them."
"i had errands," you lied badly, feeling the weight of the small gift box in your bag. "and i brought something. for you. well—mostly for you."
minho finally paused, setting the brush down. he leaned back on his palms, eyeing you with that sharp, cat-like curiosity of his. "a peace offering? what did you do? did you accidentally delete my gym playlist or something?"
"just open it, lee know."
you pulled the box out and handed it to him. he took it, his long fingers nimble as he pried the lid off. inside, nestled on a bed of tissue paper, was a handmade leebit keychain.
you had spent hours on it. it wasn't the official plastic kind; it was sewn from soft, cream-colored felt with little hand-embroidered eyes and that signature grumpy-yet-cute expression. you’d even stitched a tiny heart on the back, hidden under the cotton tail.
minho went silent. his usual quick-witted wall of snark seemed to hit a snag. he picked it up by the metal ring, letting the little felt rabbit dangle in front of his face. he poked the bunny’s cheek, then looked at the slightly crooked stitching along the ears.
"it's... a rabbit," he said flatly, but his ears were starting to turn a tell-tale shade of pink.
"it's leebit," you corrected, feeling a flush of heat creep up your own neck. "i made it myself. i know it's not perfect—the ears are kind of different lengths and i think i used the wrong shade of thread for the nose, but—"
"it looks like it’s judging me," minho interrupted, his voice dropping an octave. he looked at you then, his dark eyes searching yours. "how long did this take you?"
"too long. i poked myself with the needle like ten times. sewing is way harder than it looks in those aesthetic hobby videos."
minho looked back at the keychain. he didn't laugh or make a joke about how "ugly" it was, which was what you had actually prepared yourself for. instead, he carefully hooked the ring onto his finger, watching the little bunny swing back and forth.
"you’re a dummy," he murmured, his voice lacking any real bite. "you should’ve just bought one if you wanted me to have a keychain."
"but that wouldn't be from me, would it?"
minho huffed, a soft sound that was more of a fond exhale than a sigh. he reached out and, instead of taking the gift away, he grabbed your hand, turning it over to look at your fingertips. he found a tiny, faded red dot from a needle prick and ran his thumb over it, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"you’re clumsy," he said, though he didn't let go of your hand. "don't do it again. i don't need felt rabbits that cost you your blood."
"you don't like it?" you teased, though you could see the way he was already trying to find a place for it.
"i didn't say that." he stood up, crossing the room to where his keys were sitting on the kitchen island. you watched as he methodically threaded the leebit onto his heavy ring of keys, right next to his car fob. it looked a little ridiculous—this soft, handmade, slightly wonky bunny hanging next to his sleek metal keys—but he didn't seem to care.
he walked back over, dropping back down onto the floor beside you. dori immediately crawled into his lap, and minho began absentmindedly stroking the cat’s ears while keeping his other hand close to yours.
"it’s going to get dirty," he noted, staring at the keychain. "felt is a magnet for cat hair. it’ll probably look like soonie in a week."
"i can make you a new one if it gets gross."
"no." he looked at you, his expression softening into something rare and vulnerable, the kind of look he usually reserved for his three cats when he thought no one was watching. "i want this one. it has character. it looks like it’s been through a war, just like its creator."
"hey!"
he chuckled, a low, private sound. he leaned in then, bumping his shoulder against yours. "thank you. really. it’s... it’s cute. even if the ears are lopsided."
"i think the lopsided ears give him personality."
"sure," minho smirks, finally letting a bit of his usual mischief back in. "it matches you perfectly then."
you went to swat him, but he caught your wrist, pulling you closer until your foreheads were almost touching. the teasing light in his eyes didn't fade, but it was joined by something much warmer, much more solid.
"it’s the first thing i’m going to see every time i leave the house," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "so you better be ready for me to text you every time i look at it."
"i think i can handle that."
"good," he murmured, before leaning in to close the distance, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that felt like a quiet "thank you" and a promise all at once.
when he pulled back, he glanced at the leebit keychain again and then at dori. "don't tell the cats, but this might be my new favorite thing in the apartment."
CHANGBIN
the gym bag was heavy on changbin’s shoulder when he walked through the front door, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead from a particularly brutal late-night session.
he looked like he’d been through the ringer, but the second he saw you sitting on his floor surrounded by bits of black and pink yarn, his entire face shifted. that tired, heavy-lidded look vanished, replaced by a curious, slightly lopsided grin.
"what’s all this?" he asked, dropping his bag by the door with a dull thud. he walked over, his socks sliding slightly on the hardwood, and peered down at the chaos of your workspace. "are you starting a textile factory in my living room?"
you laughed, quickly trying to scoop up the scrap pieces. "it's just a project. i was trying to finish it before you got back, but you're early for once."
"early?" he scoffed, checking his watch. "it's almost midnight. i think i'm right on time for whatever mischief you're up to."
he sat down on the floor across from you, his legs folded comfortably. he didn't care that he was sweaty or that the floor was covered in fuzz; he just wanted to be in your space. he watched you for a moment, his eyes darting between your hands and the slightly lumpy shape hidden behind your back.
"come on, show me," he nudged, his voice dropping into that playful, whiny tone he used when he wanted to get his way. "i've been lifting heavy things for three hours, i think i deserve a reward."
you sighed, though there was no real frustration behind it. "okay, fine. but you have to promise not to laugh. i'm still learning how to do the structure properly."
you slowly pulled the item from behind your back. it was a handmade, crocheted dwaekki—but it wasn't just a simple doll. you had turned it into a small, plush weights-lifting buddy. the dwaekki was wearing a tiny, crocheted black headband, and you had even managed to stitch two small gray dumbbells that were permanently attached to its little paws.
changbin’s reaction wasn't immediate. he just stared at it, his mouth falling open slightly. then, he reached out, his thick fingers surprisingly delicate as he took the doll from your hands.
"no way," he breathed, his voice thick with genuine shock. "you made a buff dwaekki?"
"he’s a gym rat," you explained, your voice a little shy as you pointed out the details. "see? i tried to give him slightly broader shoulders by adding extra stitches in the rows, and i used a metallic yarn for the dumbbells so they’d look like real iron. he’s supposed to be your workout partner for when you’re at home."
changbin was quiet, his thumb tracing the tiny headband you’d carefully sewn on. he looked at the stitching—which was tight and neat, evidence of the hours you’d spent hunched over a lamp—and then he looked at the weights.
"look at his little gains," changbin whispered, a huge, face-splitting grin finally breaking out. he looked like a kid on christmas morning. he held the dwaekki up at eye level, making it 'flex' its little stuffed arms. "he’s literally me. he’s perfect. look at the definition on his ears!"
"it’s just yarn, bin. there's no definition."
"to the untrained eye, maybe," he countered, holding the plushie to his chest. "but i can see the hard work. i know how much effort goes into making something like this."
he looked at you then, and the playful energy settled into something much deeper. changbin had always been the one to provide the 'strong' energy—the one who protected, the one who worked out to stay sturdy for the people he loved—but receiving something that acknowledged that part of him in such a soft, domestic way clearly hit him hard.
"you really sat here and did all this for me?" he asked, his voice softening. "how many times did you have to redo those arms? i know how perfectionist you get."
"four times," you admitted. "the first version looked more like a pig-rabbit with a giant marshmallow. i had to keep adjusting the tension."
changbin let out a soft, breathy chuckle and leaned forward, pulling you into a hug that smelled like salt and citrus. he was warm—radiating heat from the gym—but it felt like home. he kept the dwaekki tucked between you, the little yarn dumbbells pressing into your shoulder.
"thank you," he murmured against your hair. "seriously. i'm going to put him right on my bedside table. or maybe i'll take him to the studio so i can show chan and han that i have the coolest partner in the world."
"please don't take him to the studio, he’s probably going to fall apart if you handle him too much."
"he’s built different, just like his dad," changbin joked, pulling back to look at you. he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze lingering on your face. "i mean it, though. i love it. i love that you put so much of your time into something just to make me smile."
he leaned in and pressed a firm, sweet kiss to your forehead, then another to your nose. "i was actually having a really frustrating session. my reps felt heavy, my mind was all over the place... but i come home to this? it’s like all the stress just evaporated."
he picked up the dwaekki again, making it do a little dance on his knee. "we're going to be the strongest duo in the k-pop industry. just me and yarn-bin."
"is that what you're naming him?"
"obviously. he needs a strong name." changbin grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "and since he’s always holding those weights, he’ll never skip arm day. he’s an inspiration to us all."
you couldn't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. even though he was a world-class rapper and a literal powerhouse, he was currently losing his mind over a six-inch tall ball of pink yarn and stuffing.
"i'm glad you like him," you said, leaning your head on his shoulder.
"i don't like him," changbin corrected, pulling you closer until you were tucked under his arm. "i love him. but i love the person who made him way more. so, you win."
he spent the rest of the night showing 'yarn-bin' around the apartment, taking pictures of the doll 'lifting' his actual protein shaker and sending them to the group chat, ignoring the flurry of 'you're so whipped' messages that immediately came back.
and as you watched him, tired but beaming, you realized that no matter how big his muscles got, he’d always have the softest heart for anything you made for him.
HYUNJIN
the sun was just beginning to set, casting a warm, honey-colored glow across hyunjin’s living room. he was sitting on the floor in front of a blank canvas, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sketched out some loose, flowing lines.
the smell of linseed oil and turpentine always seemed to cling to him, a scent you had grown to associate entirely with his creative process.
you walked in quietly, trying not to disturb his flow, but he noticed you immediately. he always did. he set his charcoal pencil down, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he wiped his hands on a stray rag.
"you’re back," he said, his voice light and melodic. "i was starting to think the art supply store swallowed you whole. did you find the brushes you were looking for?"
"i did," you said, sitting down on the rug beside him. "but i also spent the last week working on something else. a little surprise."
hyunjin’s eyes sparked with instant interest. he was someone who lived for aesthetics, for beauty, and for the thought behind a gesture. he leaned in, his long hair falling over his shoulder as he tucked it back behind his ear. "a surprise? for me?"
you reached into your bag and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped bundle. inside was a handmade jiniret beret. it wasn't just a hat; you had spent hours knitting the soft, white wool, making sure the tension was just right so it would sit perfectly.
on the side, you had meticulously embroidered a tiny jiniret face, complete with the little beauty mark under the eye. you had even added two small, pointed ferret ears that stood up subtly from the top of the beret.
as you handed it to him, hyunjin’s breath hitched. he took it with both hands, his fingers brushing over the soft yarn. he didn't say anything at first, just stared at the embroidery, his eyes tracing every single stitch you had made.
"you made this?" he whispered, his voice full of wonder. "the embroidery... it’s so small. and you even got the mole right."
"i wanted you to have something you could actually wear," you said, feeling your heart flutter at the way he was looking at it. "i know you love berets, and i thought a jiniret one would be cute for when you’re painting or just hanging out. the wool is really soft, i made sure of it."
hyunjin didn't just look at it; he treated it like a piece of high art. he turned it over, looking at the inside, seeing the neatness of your work. he looked back at you, his expression softening into that deep, soulful look that always felt like it was searching your very heart.
"this is beautiful," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "the fact that you took the time to knit this... to do the embroidery... it’s more than just a hat. it’s like you gave me a piece of your time. and that’s the most precious thing."
"it’s just a beret, hyunjin," you teased softly, though your chest felt tight with affection.
"no, it's not 'just' anything," he countered, shaking his head. he immediately pulled his hair back into a low tie and placed the beret on his head, adjusting it in the mirror leaning against the wall.
he tilted his head, watching the little ferret ears perk up. "how do i look? do i look like a proper artist now?"
"you look like the cutest artist in the world."
hyunjin turned back to you, a bright, genuine laugh escaping him. he crawled over the short distance between you on the rug, framing your face with his hands. his palms were still a little stained with charcoal, but you didn't care.
"i’m never taking it off," he declared, his eyes shining. "i’m going to wear it to practice. i’m going to wear it when i go for walks. i want everyone to know that my favorite person made this for me."
"it might get hot in the dance studio," you pointed out, laughing.
"then i’ll just sweat for the sake of fashion and love," he joked, but then he grew serious again. he leaned his forehead against yours, his breath ghosting over your lips. "thank you. truly. it’s so me, but it’s even more you because i can feel how much you cared while you were making it. it’s my new favorite thing."
he leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that tasted like the quiet of the evening and the sweetness of the moment. when he pulled back, he was still smiling, the little jiniret ears on his head making the whole scene look like something out of a dream.
he spent the next hour trying to paint a portrait of the jiniret beret itself, insisting that such a masterpiece deserved its own canvas.
for hyunjin, it wasn't about the gift itself—it was about the fact that you had seen him, understood his style, and put your own heart into creating something just for him.
and to him, that was everything.
HAN
jisung was slumped on his bed, surrounded by a mountain of tangled headphones, half-finished lyric sheets, and empty snack wrappers. the room was dim, lit only by the soft, warm glow of a desk lamp, and he was staring at his laptop with a look of utter defeat.
he looked like a squirrel who had forgotten where he hid his nuts for the winter—vaguely panicked and very overwhelmed.
"han?" you called out softly, stepping over a stray hoodie on the floor.
he jumped about six inches into the air, his eyes wide as he scrambled to pull his headphones down around his neck. "oh! hey! i didn't... i was just... you know, music stuff. big brain moves. very productive."
"you were staring at a blank document for ten minutes, weren't you?"
he deflated instantly, his shoulders slumping. "fifteen. the lyrics just aren't lyric-ing today. i feel like my brain is made of mashed potatoes."
"well, maybe a change of pace will help," you said, sitting on the edge of the mattress and reaching into your bag. "i finished that thing i was telling you about. the project i was keeping secret."
jisung’s ears perked up. he was always a sucker for surprises, his curiosity being one of his most endearing (and sometimes chaotic) traits. "the top-secret mission? the one that made you ignore my memes for three hours straight last tuesday?"
"exactly that one."
you pulled out a small, handmade quokka pouch. it was made of a fuzzy, caramel-colored sherpa fabric that felt like a cloud. you’d sewn it by hand, adding a little zipper across the top of the head.
the face was the best part—you’d used black beads for the eyes and pink felt for the cheeks, giving it that classic, wide-eyed han quokka expression. inside, you’d tucked a few of his favorite honey candies just for good measure.
as you handed it to him, jisung didn't move for a second. he just stared at the little fuzzy face in his palms, his mouth slightly agape.
"is this... me?" he asked, his voice cracking a little. he squeezed the pouch, his eyes lighting up as he felt how soft it was. "wait, it’s a pouch? i can actually put stuff in here?"
"yeah. i thought you could use it for your in-ears, or your guitar picks, or just... snacks. it’s not perfect, the zipper was a nightmare to sew in and i think one of the cheeks is a little higher than the other, but—"
"it's literally the greatest thing i've ever owned," jisung interrupted, his voice hushed with genuine awe. he started petting the fuzzy fabric, a huge, gummy smile spreading across his face. "you made this? with your actual hands? like, with a needle and thread and everything?"
"i did. i have the battle scars to prove it."
jisung looked at the pouch, then at you, then back at the pouch. he looked like he was about to burst into tears or start dancing, and with han, it was usually a 50/50 shot.
instead, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms around you in a messy, enthusiastic hug that sent you both toppling back onto his pillows.
"you're the best," he muffled into your shoulder, squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe. "seriously. i was feeling so stuck and gross and uninspired, and then you just... you walk in with a fuzzy version of my face. how am i supposed to be sad now?"
"i'm glad you like it, hanji."
he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes shimmering with that soft, vulnerable affection he usually tried to hide behind jokes and loud noises. he reached out and poked your nose, your smile turning a little shy.
"i'm never letting anything happen to him," he promised, clutching the pouch to his chest like a treasure. "i'm going to take him everywhere. he's going to be my emotional support quokka. if i'm in the booth and i can't hit a note, i'm just going to look at his little bead eyes for strength."
"just don't get him dirty. sherpa is hard to wash."
"i will protect him with my life," jisung declared, his dramatic flair returning. he sat back up and immediately started emptying his pockets, carefully tucking his favorite picks and a crumpled-up lyric scrap into the pouch. "see? he’s already helping me organize my life. he’s a miracle worker."
he looked at you then, the playful energy settling into something quieter. he reached out, taking your hand and lacing his fingers with yours.
"thank you," he said, his voice low and sincere. "i know how much work goes into stuff like this. the fact that you spent your time making a tiny, fuzzy me... it makes me feel really, really loved."
"you are really, really loved, you idiot."
he laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the cramped room. he leaned in and pressed a quick, messy kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead, his nose cold against your skin.
"well, the mashed potatoes in my brain are starting to feel like actual ideas again," he joked, picking up his pen and pointing it at the pouch. "me and the quokka are going to write a masterpiece now. stay and watch?"
"wouldn't want to be anywhere else."
he spent the next two hours working, occasionally stopping to pet the pouch or show it a line he’d written to see if it 'approved.' and as you sat there in the quiet hum of his room, watching him finally find his flow again, it seemed that sometimes the best way to fix a creative block was just a little bit of handmade love—
and a lot of fuzzy fabric.
FELIX
the kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, buttery scent of baking that always seemed to linger in felix’s apartment like a permanent hug. he was bent over the counter, his tongue poking out just a little as he carefully piped tiny white flowers onto a batch of chocolate brownies.
he looked soft—wrapped in an oversized cream sweater, his hair a bit messy from a long day of rehearsals, and a smudge of flour decorating the tip of his nose.
"you’re just in time," he chirped, not looking up but recognizable by the bright, honeyed tone of his voice. "i’m just finishing the last few. i made these especially for you because i know you had a stressful week."
you leaned against the kitchen island, watching him. felix was always the one giving—the one baking, the one checking in, the one pouring his entire heart into making sure everyone else felt seen and loved. it made your heart ache in the best way, and it made you even more nervous about the lumpy, soft shape currently hidden in the deep pocket of your cardigan.
"actually, 'lix, i have something for you too," you said, your voice a little quiet.
he stopped mid-piping, his head snapping up. his eyes, wide and sparkling with that genuine, childlike curiosity he never seemed to lose, locked onto yours. "a gift? for me? but it’s not my birthday. or a holiday. or even a friday—wait, it is friday. but still!"
"it’s just a little thing. i’ve been working on it for a while."
you reached into your pocket and pulled out a handmade, crocheted bbokari sun-hat. it was tiny—not meant for a human, but sized perfectly for the little bbokari plush he kept on his bed.
you had used a vibrant, sunshine-yellow yarn for the base, and you’d even managed to crochet a tiny white daisy to stick on the brim. the stitching was a little tight in some places and a bit loose in others, and the daisy was definitely more of a... suggestive flower shape than a perfect one, but it was bright and cheerful, just like him.
felix’s reaction was immediate and visceral. he didn't just smile; he beamed, his entire face lighting up like a switch had been flipped. he dropped the piping bag—thankfully on the parchment paper—and wiped his hands frantically on his apron before reaching out.
"oh my gosh," he breathed, his voice dropping into that deep, rumbling register that usually meant he was feeling something very strongly. he took the hat from your palm as if it were made of spun gold. "you made this? look at the little flower! look at the yellow! it’s so... it’s so bright!"
"it's for your bbokari plush," you explained, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. "i thought he looked a little lonely on your bed, and i know how much you love the sun. it's not the best quality, i'm still a beginner, and the daisy is kind of a mess, but—"
"it is perfect," felix interrupted, his voice firm but incredibly soft. he walked around the counter, clutching the tiny hat to his chest. "it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me. do you have any idea how much i love it? i can feel the sunshine in the yarn."
"really?"
"really." he grabbed your hand, his fingers warm and slightly sticky from the frosting. "come on, we have to go put it on him right now. he’s been waiting for this his whole life."
he practically dragged you to his bedroom, his excitement so infectious you couldn't help but laugh. he grabbed the yellow chick plush from his pillows and sat on the edge of the bed, his movements careful and focused as he settled the handmade hat onto the plushie's head. he adjusted it, tilting it slightly to the side so the wonky daisy was front and center.
"look at him," felix whispered, his eyes crinkling into half-moons. "he looks so stylish. he looks like he’s ready for a picnic in the park. he looks like... he looks like he's loved."
felix turned to you then, his expression shifting from playful excitement to something much more tender. he reached out and took both of your hands in his, his thumbs rubbing over your knuckles.
the room was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the oven timer, but the air between you felt thick with everything he wasn't saying.
"thank you," he said, his voice a low, melodic rumble. "i know you’ve been busy. i know you’ve been tired. the fact that you sat down and moved your fingers like this, row after row, just to make something that would make me smile... it means everything to me. it really does."
"i just wanted you to feel as special as you make everyone else feel, felix."
his lower lip trembled just a tiny bit, and before you could say anything else, he lunged forward, wrapping you in a hug that felt like being enveloped in a warm cloud. he buried his face in your shoulder, his arms squeezing tight. he smelled like vanilla and cocoa and that clean, floral scent that was just felix.
"you're so sweet," he mumbled into your neck. "i don't deserve you. i'm going to keep this hat forever. i'm going to tell everyone who comes over that my favorite person made this for my favorite chick."
"you're going to make people think i'm a professional crocheter, 'lix. please don't let them look too closely at the stitches."
he pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders, his gaze intense and sincere. "the stitches are my favorite part. they show where you were thinking, and where you were working hard. every little mistake is just a part of the story. i think it's art."
he leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as sweet and warm as the brownies cooling in the kitchen. it was a slow, lingering moment, full of the kind of quiet comfort that only comes from knowing someone truly cares about the little things. when he pulled away, he was still smiling, his eyes locked onto yours.
"now," he said, standing up and pulling you with him, "as a thank you, you have to be the first one to taste the brownies. and then we have to take a million photos of bbokari in his new hat to send to the members so they can be jealous."
"i think hyunjin might actually cry if he sees it," you joked.
"good," felix laughed, leadng you back toward the kitchen. "let him be jealous. he doesn't have a handmade hat made with love."
he spent the rest of the evening alternating between feeding you bits of warm brownie and posing the plushie in different spots around the apartment, insisting that the 'lighting' was better in the living room for a photoshoot. he looked bright, happy, and utterly smitten with a tiny piece of yellow yarn.
with felix, it didn't matter if you gave him something expensive or something made of scraps. as long as it came from the heart, he would treat it like the most important thing in the world.
SEUNGMIN
the library at the company building was deserted, the long rows of bookshelves casting deep shadows across the carpet. seungmin was tucked away in his favorite corner, a stack of vocal sheet music and a lukewarm americano on the table in front of him.
he looked incredibly focused, his glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of his nose as he marked up a bridge with a red pen. it was one of those rare moments where he looked peaceful—no cameras, no teasing members, just him and his music.
you stepped into the light of his desk lamp, holding a small paper bag like it contained a live bird. "still at it?"
seungmin didn't jump; he was too composed for that. he just looked up, his eyes softening as he took in your presence. he leaned back, the wooden chair creaking under his weight, and tapped his pen against his chin. "i could say the same to you. shouldn't you be heading home? the last shuttle left twenty minutes ago."
"i stayed late to finish something," you said, pulling out the chair across from him. "actually, i finished it for you."
seungmin’s brow arched. he had that classic, skeptical look on his face—the one he wore when he was trying to figure out if you were about to prank him or say something incredibly sincere. "for me? is it a list of all the times i've been right this week? because that would be a very long document."
"keep dreaming, seungmin."
you reached into the bag and pulled out a handmade puppym scarf. you had spent the last two weeks knitting it, opting for a high-quality, cream-colored wool that was thick and incredibly soft. at each end of the scarf, you had needle-felted a small, round puppym face. you’d worked painstakingly on the eyes to make sure they had that specific, slightly judgmental but adorable puppy stare that everyone associated with him.
as you laid it across the table, seungmin’s red pen rolled away, forgotten. he didn't say anything for a long moment. he just reached out, his long fingers brushing against the wool. he picked up one of the ends, staring at the needle-felted face you’d spent three nights perfecting.
"you made this," he said. it wasn't a question; it was a quiet realization. he looked at the stitching, then at the little felt ears. his expression was unreadable at first—the typical seungmin poker face—but then his ears started to turn that vibrant shade of pink that always gave him away.
"i know you're picky about fabrics," you said, feeling a sudden rush of self-consciousness. "i made sure it wasn't scratchy. and i know it's a bit... cute. maybe too cute for you to wear out, but i thought since the weather's getting colder, and you're always complaining about the draft in the vocal rooms..."
"it's not too cute," seungmin interrupted, his voice a bit lower than usual. he picked up the scarf and began to wind it around his neck, his movements slow and deliberate. he tucked his chin into the soft wool, looking at you over the top of the cream-colored fabric. "it's perfect. the tension in the knitting is actually very consistent. did you block the wool after you finished?"
you blinked, taken aback. "i—yeah, i did. how do you even know what that is?"
he gave a small, smug shrug, though his eyes were shining with something much warmer than his usual sarcasm. "i pay attention. besides, if you're going to give me something handmade, i have to appreciate the technical skill involved."
he adjusted the ends so the puppym faces were visible on his chest. he looked ridiculous and incredibly endearing all at once—the serious, stoic vocalist wrapped in a fluffy, handmade puppy scarf.
"it smells like you," he noted, his voice muffled by the wool.
"is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"it's a 'stop talking so i can enjoy it' thing," he countered, though a small, genuine smile finally broke through his defenses. he reached across the table, his hand finding yours and squeezing gently. "thank you. seriously. i know how much time this takes. it’s much better than the store-bought ones."
"you're just saying that because you don't want to hurt my feelings."
seungmin let out a short, dry laugh. "have i ever hesitated to hurt your feelings when your singing is flat? no. i'm saying it because it's true. this is... it's special."
he stood up, gathering his sheet music and his empty coffee cup. he didn't take the scarf off. in fact, he tucked the ends into his coat as he put it on, making sure the little puppym faces were still peeking out just enough.
"come on," he said, nodding toward the door. "since you missed your shuttle making me a masterpiece, i guess i have to walk you home. it's only fair."
as you walked through the quiet halls of the building, the air was crisp and cold, but seungmin seemed perfectly content. he kept his hands in his pockets, his chin tucked deep into the scarf. every time he caught his reflection in the glass doors or the elevator mirrors, he’d linger for a second, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
"you're going to wear it to the dorm, aren't you?" you asked as you stepped out into the night air. "the members are going to lose their minds."
"let them," seungmin said, his voice steady. "they’ll be jealous. jeongin will probably try to steal it, but i’ll just tell him it’s a restricted item. only for people who are always right."
you snorted, nudging his shoulder. "oh, shut up. you are not always right."
"okay. just most of the time."
he stopped walking for a second, turning to face you under a flickering streetlight. the wind caught his hair, but the scarf stayed firmly in place, keeping him warm. he looked down at you, his gaze quiet and intense.
for all his teasing and his sharp tongue, seungmin was someone who felt things very deeply, and you could see the weight of his gratitude in the way he looked at you now.
"really, though," he whispered, stepping a little closer until your coats brushed. "thank you for seeing me. and for... this. i’ll take care of it. i promise."
he leaned down, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was slow and sure. he tasted like black coffee and felt like the soft wool of the scarf—warm, comforting, and solid. when he pulled back, he didn't move away, staying close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.
"now let's go," he moped, though his eyes were bright. "if i stay out here any longer, the wool might get damp, and then i'll have to make you knit me a backup."
"don't push your luck, seungmin."
"too late," he teased, lacing his fingers with yours and pulling you along the sidewalk. "i've already decided you're making me matching mittens next."
you complained the whole way back, but the way he kept glancing down at the little puppym faces on his chest told you that he wasn't going to be taking that scarf off for a long, long time.
I.N.
the company dorm was uncharacteristically quiet when you arrived, the rest of the members either still at the studio or out grabbing food. jeongin was sprawled on the living room sofa, his legs hanging over the armrest as he scrolled through his phone.
he looked like he’d been through a long day of choreography—sweatpants on, hair a bit flat from a beanie, and a tired sort of peacefulness in his expression.
when he saw you walk in, his entire face transformed. his eyes crinkled into those sharp, fox-like crescents, and his dimples made a sudden, prominent appearance. "you’re finally here! i was about to start eating the couch cushions out of boredom."
"i brought a distraction," you laughed, tossing your bag onto the coffee table. "and no, it’s not snacks, so stop looking at the bag like that."
jeongin sat up, his interest piqued. he was the maknae, but he often carried himself with a lot of maturity; however, when it came to you and anything you did for him, he turned back into a curious kid in an instant. "if it’s not food, it better be good. did you get me that game i wanted?"
"better," you said, pulling out a small, soft bundle.
it was a handmade foxy.ny plushie—but it was different from the ones you could buy. you had used a soft, peach-colored minky fabric that was almost velvety to the touch. you’d spent hours hand-stitching the white patches on the face and the belly, making sure the proportions were just right.
your personal favorite part, though, was the outfit. you’d dressed the little fox in a tiny, hand-sewn version of jeongin’s favorite blue denim jacket, complete with a little white hoodie underneath.
jeongin’s jaw dropped. he took the plushie from your hands, his fingers sinking into the soft fabric. he held it up, turning it around to look at the tiny jacket. "no way... you made the jacket? even the little hood?"
"yeah," you admitted, feeling a bit of heat rise to your face. "the denim was a nightmare to sew because it's so thick at that scale, and i think the sleeves are a tiny bit too long, but i wanted him to look like you. i even gave him your eyes."
jeongin didn't say anything for a second. he just stared at the fox, his thumb rubbing over the tiny denim collar. he looked up at you, his expression soft and a little dazed. "this is... insane. i can't believe you actually sat down and sewed a tiny jacket for a fox just because of me."
"i know it's a bit childish, but—"
"it's not," jeongin interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. he stood up and pulled you into a tight, exuberant hug, his chin resting on your shoulder. he smelled like laundry detergent and the faint scent of the skin cream he used. "it’s the coolest thing ever. seriously. i’m going to put him on the top shelf of my desk so he can watch me sleep."
"he might get dusty up there."
"then i'll buy him a tiny umbrella," he joked, pulling back to look at you. he was beaming, his dimples deeper than ever. "thank you. i know you've been working on this for weeks. every time i asked what you were doing, you'd get all suspicious and hide your hands."
"well, i didn't want you to see the messy prototype. it looked like a potato with ears."
jeongin laughed, a bright, clear sound that always made your heart skip. he sat back down on the couch, pulling you down beside him. he kept the foxy.ny plushie in his lap, his hand resting protectively over its head. "i'm going to take a picture of this and send it to my mom. she's going to be so jealous."
"don't you dare," you groaned, hiding your face in his shoulder.
"too late," he teased, already pulling out his phone. "she needs to know that i'm being well taken care of."
he spent the next twenty minutes posing the plushie in different spots, making it 'wave' at the camera and pretending it was judging his choice of tv show.
he was so genuinely happy, so proud of this little lumpy thing you’d made him, that you couldn't help but feel a deep sense of relief.
after a while, the playful energy settled. jeongin leaned back against the cushions, pulling you into his side. he tucked the plushie under his arm and rested his head on yours, his fingers tracing patterns on the back of your hand.
"really, though," he whispered, his voice sounding a little tired but incredibly sincere. "thank you. i know being an idol means i'm always busy and away... and sometimes i feel bad that you do so much for me. but things like this? they make me feel like i'm always home, even when i'm not."
"that was the goal, innie."
he leaned down and pressed a sweet, lingering kiss to your temple. "mission accomplished."
as the door finally clicked open and the sounds of the other members returning filled the hallway, jeongin didn't move. he just held you closer, clutching his tiny fox companion, looking entirely content to stay right where he was.
and when hyunjin eventually burst into the room and immediately shrieked, "is that a tiny denim jacket?!", jeongin just smirked, held the plushie higher, and said, "yeah. and you're not allowed to touch it."
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