HAN JISUNG | ATTACK ON THE HEART
PAIRING: Han Jisung! x f!reader
CONTENT: Fluff, smut, romance, cosplay, Attack on Titan crossover (inspired), Explicit/Mature (18+). Contains detailed sexual scenes.
WARNING: NSFW/Smut content (including descriptions of consensual sex, touching, penetration, erotic language), light cosplay kink, Not suitable for minors.
Only for adults (18+). If any of this is offensive to you or if you're under 18, please don't view it! All based on fictional events, none of this is real.
NOTE: This fic is pure fluffy fun with a spicy twist. Inspired by Han's personality as an anime fan.
SUMMARY: After a tiring day at the studio, Han comes home to an epic surprise: his girlfriend dressed in a cosplay from his favorite anime, Attack on Titan. What starts as an innocent night of anime and snacks turns into a playful and passionate adventure. Fluff, laughs, and smut inspired by otaku vibes.
Han always lets you know when he's going to be late. That day was no exception.
''I'm leaving the studio. Give me about 25 min''
You read the message with a sly little smile, because those twenty-five minutes were exactly what you needed to finish the surprise.
The cosplay had been hidden in the back of your closet for days, wrapped in a bag so he wouldn't find it by accident. You'd ordered it on a whim, thinking about how silly he got every time he talked about Attack on Titan, how his eyes lit up when he said: —They just don't get it, it's a masterpiece, okay?—
Your plan wasn't to do anything explicit; it was to spark his imagination and enjoy his face, which you could already picture: a mix of shock, embarrassment, and pure enthusiasm.
You looked at yourself in the bedroom mirror one last time.
The outfit fit better than you expected. It wasn't a cheap imitation: the details were very well done. It was a cosplay of Mikasa Ackerman, the stoic and lethal warrior from Attack on Titan, with the Survey Corps uniform adapted to her feminine style. The tight brown jacket, with leather straps crossing the chest and waist, accentuated your curves without being vulgar; the fitted white pants ended in high boots that stylized your legs; and an iconic red scarf tied around your neck, falling gracefully over your shoulder. You wore subtle fishnet stockings under the pants for an extra touch of femininity, black leather gloves that reached your elbows, and accessories like metallic buckles simulating the 3D maneuver gear. You adjusted a strap slipping down your shoulder, fixed the black and straight wig —cut in an asymmetrical bob style like hers— and took a deep breath.
—Okay… —you murmured to yourself—. Either he faints or he makes me sign a friki marriage contract.
You went to the living room and turned off the main lights, leaving only a floor lamp on, with warm light. You put on a playlist of anime openings in the background, low, so it didn't sound forced, like an adorable coincidence.
The doorbell rang before you could regret it.
Your heart skipped a beat.
—Coming —you said, raising your voice a bit so he could hear on the other side.
You heard the familiar sound of his keys jingling on the keychain, his restless steps in the hallway. You could tell he was tired just by how he dragged his sneakers.
The knob turned. The door opened.
—I'm exhausted, today I almost died in the studio, did you know that…? —He came in talking, as always, without filter, closing with his foot. He left his backpack leaning by the entrance, took off his sneakers without looking at you yet—. That if you record the same line twenty times it makes you want to…?
You saw him lift his head toward the living room.
The rest of the sentence died before coming out.
His eyes opened so wide you almost laughed.
—Welcome home —you said, in a softer tone than usual, giving him time to process.
He blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes scanned your silhouette from top to bottom, clearly recognizing the character.
—No. —He let out an incredulous giggle, bringing his hand to his mouth—. No, no, no.
— "No" what? —you asked, giving a little spin so he could see the whole outfit, letting the fabric move a bit. From his perspective, the uniform fit your figure perfectly, highlighting the curve of your hips with the leather straps crossing your chest, making the red scarf wave slightly. You played with one of the metallic buckles at your waist, pretending to adjust it, while your hands slowly descended over the gloves, drawing his gaze to the skin peeking out in the subtle neckline.
—You're not doing this to me —he said, but it sounded like "please keep doing it"—. You…? —He pointed to his chest, almost stuttering—. Is it serious that you're dressed as Mikasa?
You said the character's name with all the calm in the world, even trying to imitate her stoic voice and characteristic pose a bit: arms crossed, fixed and determined gaze, like a warrior ready for battle.
His knees almost buckled.
—I hate you —he murmured, with no real trace of hate—. I hate you so much. —He brought his hands to his head, messing up his hair—. How am I supposed to live after this?
You leaned against the wall frame separating the hallway from the living room, crossing your legs with intention. You leaned slightly forward, lifting your chin a bit to expose your neck with the scarf, biting your lower lip with a playful smile.
—I thought after a long day at work you'd like… some extra motivation —you commented, tilting your head—. You know, something… thematic.
Han let out a nervous laugh, one of those that escape him when he's totally out of his comfort zone.
—You know what's the worst? —he said, pointing at you—. You wear it too well. Not even in my best mental fanarts did it look like this.
His cheeks were red. Literally red. He took off his hoodie in one go, as if just looking at you made him hot, and threw it over the back of the sofa without much aim.
—Stop right there —he ordered suddenly, raising a hand—. Don't move. I need… to see.
You obeyed, amused, staying still in the middle of the living room. He took a few steps toward you, slowly, as if approaching a collectible figure you can't touch without gloves.
—This is too accurate —he murmured, focusing on the outfit's details, almost reverent—. Look at this, it even has the Wings of Freedom emblem on the jacket. And this here? —He pointed to a specific part of the attire, the straps crossing your waist, but without touching—. How did you put it on by yourself?
You shrugged, playful.
—I have hidden talents.
His eyes rose back to yours. There was humor, but also something more. That familiar shine you knew well, the one that appeared when something truly excited him, mixed with a sweetness that warmed your chest.
—I prepared something else —you added, turning slightly to point to the living room table.
You had prepared simple snacks: a couple of bowls with popcorn, something to munch on, two cold cans of what you knew he liked. On the low table, ready to use, the TV remote and a silly note you'd written earlier: “Anime Night: Player 1 and Player 2.”
He saw it, picked it up, and read it aloud.
—“Player 2: Han Jisung. Secret reward if you survive level 1.” —He looked at you over the paper, with a raised eyebrow—. What is level 1?
—Behave while we watch a few episodes —you answered, innocent, sitting on the sofa in a way that was anything but innocent. You crossed your legs slowly, making the uniform hug your thighs even more, with the high boots brushing the floor and the jacket opening a bit at the chest.
He let out a breath, defeated.
—That's cheating. —He left the note on the table—. Am I supposed to watch anime with you dressed like this and… behave?
—I'm giving you the chance to show self-control —you said, shrugging, trying not to laugh at his face of happy suffering.
He flopped down next to you with a dramatic sigh, sinking into the sofa. For a few seconds, he just stared at you in profile, as if he still couldn't believe what was happening.
—I can't concentrate —he admitted, bringing his hand to his chest—. I'm hearing the opening music in my head, but really, my brain is just repeating “my girlfriend is cosplaying, my girlfriend is cosplaying.”
—If you want, we cancel —you proposed, to tease, bringing your hand to the jacket's clasp as if you were going to take it off.
—No! —He sat up suddenly, grabbing your wrist quickly—. I mean… —He coughed, trying to sound dignified—. I mean… since you made the effort, we have to… make the most of it.
His hand was still on your wrist. He didn't let go right away. His fingers made a small, slow path, descending a bit down your forearm, as if checking you were real.
—How long have you been planning this? —he asked, with a lower voice.
—A few days ago —you confessed—. I heard you talking about the anime and it occurred to me. I wanted to see your face.
—My face right now must be… meme material —he laughed—. Upload a photo online and your fandom bullies me for life.
—Relax, this is… just for you. —You winked at him.
He stayed silent for a moment. That “just for you” showed on his expression, as if it was the most important thing of all.
—I feel really privileged, honestly —he said, with a smile mixing tenderness and contained desire—. The Han from a few years ago, watching anime alone in his room, would never have believed that one day his girlfriend would dress as Mikasa just because she knows he likes it.
You raised an eyebrow.
—Are you about to give me an otaku motivational speech? —you teased.
—Yes, because this is character development —he replied, serious—. From “hopeless nerd” to “guy who comes home and his girlfriend is waiting with cosplay.” That's a story arc. That's anime.
—Then sit properly, the episode is starting —you said, grabbing the remote.
You put on the first episode of Attack on Titan. He tried to look at the screen… he really tried. But his eyes kept drifting to you every few seconds. You caught him several times.
—The TV is over there, you know? —you commented, without taking your eyes off the opening.
—I know —he replied, without any shame—. But the best part of the anime right now is here.
You rolled your eyes, but a smile betrayed you.
A few minutes passed like that: him pretending to follow the plot, you letting yourself be looked at, feeling the weight of his attention like a soft warmth on your skin.
In a particularly intense scene of the episode, Mikasa struck a very specific pose: that ready-for-combat stance, with fists clenched and body leaning forward, as if about to activate her maneuver gear. You, without saying anything, paused the episode and repeated the pose on the sofa, exaggerating it a bit, with your boots planted firmly and the scarf waving.
—Like this? —you asked.
Han brought a hand to his heart, as if you'd shot him.
—Don't… do… that… —he said between laughs—. You're going to kill me.
—But you love this —you got a little closer, holding the pose just to see him suffer.
He looked at you so intently that the atmosphere, which until then had been mostly playful, changed a bit. His eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to yours.
—I love it too much —he admitted, more serious—. That's the problem.
His hand rose slowly, hesitating, until it found the fabric of your outfit at your waist. He didn't do anything else but rest it there, but the gesture was enough to ignite something in the air.
—So…? —you left the question open, loosening the pose, getting a little closer, enough to notice his breathing.
He swallowed, without taking his eyes off you.
—So it's starting to be really hard to behave to pass the level —he answered, between joke and truth.
You laughed softly, and that laugh mixed with the charged silence.
You tried to keep watching the episode, but it was a lost cause. Every time Mikasa appeared on screen, Han gave you a sidelong glance, comparing, and you responded with a wink or a subtle adjustment to the outfit—like pulling on the scarf or crossing the straps over your chest. At the end of the episode, he turned off the TV with a sigh.
—Level 1 completed —you said, victorious—. Ready for the secret reward?
His eyes shone with anticipation.
—Depends. What is level 2?
You leaned toward him, brushing his ear with your lips.
—Level 2 is... stop behaving.
No more needed to be said. Han completely lost his self-control, but in a way that made you laugh: it wasn't a wild outburst, but a torrent of nerdy enthusiasm mixed with pure desire. He looked at you as if you were the protagonist of his favorite anime come to life, and in one fluid motion, he pulled you toward him on the sofa, his hands wrapping around your waist carefully, as if afraid to wrinkle the cosplay.
—God, this is surreal —he murmured, his voice low and husky, while his fingers traced the leather straps crossing your chest—. I can't believe you're dressed like this... for me.
His eyes scanned every detail of the outfit with reverence: the metallic buckles gleaming under the warm light, the way the jacket hugged your curves, highlighting the skin peeking out in the neckline. He lowered his gaze to your legs, covered by the fishnet stockings and high boots, and let out a shaky sigh. His hands followed the path, slowly climbing your thighs, feeling the taut fabric under his palms. You could feel his arousal growing, pressing against his pants, and the brush of his fingers made you arch your back slightly.
—Don't touch if you're not going to remove —you joked, but your voice came out breathless, heat building in your belly as you felt a wet pulse between your legs.
He looked up, with a mischievous smile.
—Oh, I'm going to remove... but slowly. I want to enjoy every part of this. —His fingers found the first clasp of the jacket, undoing it with deliberate slowness, revealing the fitted blouse underneath. The red scarf fell to the side, and he brushed it away with a soft kiss on your neck, right where the knot had been. His lips lingered there, sucking lightly on the skin, leaving a subtle mark that made you moan softly.
The kisses started slow, tender: one on your collarbone, another on your shoulder, while his hands explored the gloves, sliding them down carefully, exposing your arms. He kissed your wrists, murmuring something about how "Mikasa would never look this sexy in the anime." You responded by tugging off his shirt in one pull, gently pushing him against the back of the sofa, straddling him. The cosplay wrinkled a bit, but that only made it more real, more yours. You felt his hard erection against your core, and you instinctively rolled your hips, grinding against him through the fabric, which drew a muffled groan from him.
—Level 2: cleared —you whispered, leaning in to kiss him. The kiss turned desperate quickly, his lips capturing yours with urgency, his tongue invading your mouth in a wet, hot dance. His hands climbed your back to unfasten more straps, fully freeing the jacket. He tossed it to the floor, and his fingers slipped under the blouse, finding your breasts. He massaged them gently at first, pinching the hardened nipples, sending a shiver through your body. He lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking and licking through the thin fabric, while his other hand went down to your pants, unbuttoning them impatiently.
—Fuck, you're so wet... —he murmured against your skin, sliding a hand inside your panties, his fingers brushing your clit with slow, precise circles. The pleasure made you gasp, and you rocked against his hand, seeking more friction. He inserted one finger, then two, curling them to press that sensitive spot inside you, pumping with a rhythm that left you trembling. —This... because of the cosplay... you're killing me.
—Don't stop —you begged, your voice hoarse, while you tugged off his pants and boxers in one motion, freeing his erect member. You took it in your hand, stroking it up and down, feeling it throb under your fingers. He moaned, his hips thrusting toward you, and he helped you slide your pants and panties down your legs, leaving the fishnet stockings and boots on—a detail that drove him wild, judging by how his eyes darkened.
You positioned yourself over him, guiding him to your entrance, and lowered slowly, feeling him fill you inch by inch. The stretch was delicious, a burning heat that made you bite your lip to keep from screaming. He grabbed your hips, with the cosplay straps still dangling as a reminder, and started moving, a slow rock at first that sped up into deep, rhythmic thrusts. Each thrust made you bounce on him, your breasts pressing against his bare chest, while you kissed his neck and nibbled his ear.
—You're perfect... like this, with this... —he moaned, his movements gaining intensity, hitting that sweet spot inside you over and over. His hands roamed your body, one on your ass to guide the rhythm, the other tangled in the wig, pulling lightly to expose your neck and kiss it fiercely. The sofa creaked under you, the playlist of openings in the background adding an epic and absurd touch that made you laugh between moans. You switched positions slightly—you on your back against the cushions, him kneeling between your legs—so he could thrust deeper, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, obscene sound.
In a moment of pause, with him still inside you, breathing raggedly against your chest, he lifted his head and looked at you with glassy eyes.
—I can't believe you're doing this for me… —he said, his voice broken with laughter and emotion—. You're too much, you know?
You, panting, smiled at him and replied:
—I do it because it's you. And because I know exactly how much you like it.
That completely undid him. He kissed you again, more tender this time, but the desire returned with force. He resumed the movement, faster, his fingers returning to your clit to rub it in frantic circles while he thrust into you. The pleasure built to the breaking point: you felt the orgasm crash like a wave, contracting around him, screaming his name as tremors shook you. He followed seconds later, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his hips trembling against yours.
Afterward, you stayed there, tangled on the sofa, with the cosplay scattered around like trophies from a won battle. He hugged you, laughing softly, kissing your forehead tenderly.
—Max level reached. Reward: I love you forever.
And you knew that surprise had been worth every second.
