| Fogged Windows - Han Jisung
(•˕ •マ.ᐟ || In the quiet intimacy of a parked car with fogged windows, Jisung's careful restraint crumbles into desperate, hungry kisses, hands in hair, on throats, beneath shirts. But when the heat becomes too much, he stops, pressing his forehead to hers and promising that she deserves better than rushed moments in a cramped front seat.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Han Jisung x Reader Category: Heavy Make-out Word Count: 7.5k
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
Taglist: @hanniesbubuwife @sugarcoathan
The car is quiet now, the kind of quiet that isn't empty but full, full of everything neither of you has said yet. The engine's been off for a while, and the windows have started to fog just slightly at the edges, blurring the streetlights outside into soft halos of gold.
Jisung is still talking, but his words have slowed, lost their usual frantic rhythm. He's been telling you something about practice, about a mistake he made in the choreography, but his eyes keep dipping. To your mouth. Away. Back again.
You stopped listening about thirty seconds ago. You're not sure he remembers what he was saying either.
His voice trails off mid-sentence, and the silence rushes in. He's looking at you now, fully, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, nervous, hopeful, like he's standing at the edge of something and waiting to see if you'll meet him there.
"I've been thinking about it," he admits quietly, and he doesn't have to specify what it is. The first kiss. The one that happened fast and soft and left you both blinking at each other afterwards like you'd accidentally touched a live wire.
"Me too," you say. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, a nervous habit you've noticed a thousand times, but this time it makes your stomach flip. He shifts in the driver's seat, angling his body toward you, and the leather creaks underneath him.
"Yeah?" The word is barely a whisper. Almost hopeful. Almost afraid.
You nod.
Jisung exhales, a shaky little breath, like he's steeling himself, and then he's leaning in.
The first kiss is barely there at all.
His lips meet yours so softly, so tentatively, that for a second you're not sure it's even happening. Just a whisper of contact. A question. His mouth is warm and a little dry, and he holds it for only a heartbeat, two, before pulling back just enough to look at you. Checking. Always checking.
Your eyes flutter open, and he's right there. So close. His pupils are blown wide, dark swallowing brown, and there's the faintest flush creeping up the sides of his neck. His bangs are falling into his eyes but he doesn't move them. Doesn't move anything.
He presses his forehead to yours instead.
His skin is warm. A little damp at the temple, nerves, maybe, or just the heat building in the enclosed space of the car. His eyes slip shut, and you can feel the way his breath comes unevenly, warm puffs of air ghosting over your lips. He stays like that, forehead resting against yours, not moving, not pushing, just... breathing you in.
Your hand has found its way to his chest without you realizing it. Under your palm, through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, his heart is hammering. Fast. Wild. Nothing like the casual, teasing persona he wears like armor.
"I don't want to mess this up," he murmurs, so quiet you almost miss it. His eyes are still closed, lashes dark crescents against his cheekbones.
He's so close you can count his moles if you want to. The tiny one on his cheek. Another near his temple. All the constellations of him.
And something about that, the softness of it, the care, the way he's holding himself back even though you can feel the slight tremble in his hand where it's come to rest on your knee, makes your heart clench.
So you lean back in.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
You don't give him time to overthink it.
Your hand slides up from his chest, fingers trailing along the column of his throat, just a brush, just enough to feel his pulse jump beneath your touch, before your palm curves around the nape of his neck. The hair at the back of his head is soft, slightly tangled from a long day, and you let your fingers thread through it as you tilt your head and close the distance.
This kiss isn't a question.
Your lips part against his, and for a breathless second Jisung freezes, like his brain has short-circuited, like he can't quite believe this is happening. Then something in him melts. His shoulders drop. The tension bleeds out of his spine. His mouth softens, opens, meets you with a kind of aching, desperate relief.
The kiss is slow but deep, the kind where lips slot together and pull apart and find each other again, over and over, like neither of you can stand to break contact for more than a heartbeat. Open-mouthed, warm, tender. No tongue yet, just the give and press of it, the quiet wet sound of lips catching and releasing. It's messy in the gentlest way. Intimate in a way that makes the rest of the world fall away.
His bottom lip catches between yours for a moment, and he exhales sharply through his nose. The hand on your knee tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans, anchoring himself. Like he needs something to hold onto.
Your fingers flex in his hair, nails grazing lightly against his scalp, and the sound he makes, a small, broken thing from somewhere deep in his chest, sends a shiver cascading down your spine. His head tilts further into your hand, unconsciously, chasing the feeling, and it changes the angle of the kiss entirely. New. Better. Deeper.
You pull back just slightly and close the kiss with sealed lips. Soft. Deliberate. A period at the end of a sentence. Then another. Another. Small, lingering presses of your mouth against his, each one a little slower than the last, like you're memorizing the shape of him. Like you're savoring it.
Jisung follows your lead without hesitation. When you pull back, he doesn't chase, he lets you go, but only just. His forehead finds yours again, and this time his eyes are open, dark and glassy and fixed on you like you're something he's afraid might disappear.
"Okay," he breathes, the word barely audible. His voice is wrecked already, a little hoarse, and he hasn't even been kissed properly yet. "Okay, wait. Give me a second. I need a second."
His chest is rising and falling under your other hand. Fast. Uneven. His lips are pinker now, slightly swollen, and they curve into a dazed, helpless smile that he can't seem to control.
"I've thought about this," he says, and then immediately squeezes his eyes shut like he can't believe he admitted that. "I mean, not in a weird way. Just. You know. Since the first one. I've thought about it a lot. Too much. Minho told me I was being insufferable."
He's rambling now, nervous energy spilling out of him, but his hand hasn't moved from your knee and his forehead hasn't left yours. You're still tangled up in each other. Still breathing the same air.
Your fingers are still in his hair.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
"I know," you whisper, lips brushing his as you speak, "but I can't-"
You don't get to finish.
Because Jisung's hand is suddenly on your hip, fingers pressing into the soft dip of bone and flesh with an urgency that wasn't there before, and he's pulling. Dragging you closer across the center console, and the seatbelt digs into your side for half a second before you're shifting, twisting, letting him reel you in until there's no space left between your bodies.
His other hand finds the back of your head, fingers tangling into your hair, and he brings your mouth back to his like he's starving for it. Like the thirty seconds you spent talking were thirty seconds too long.
The kiss picks up right where it left off, open-mouthed and deep and devastatingly slow, but there's something different now. Something hungrier. The careful restraint he'd been clinging to is fraying at the edges, thread by thread, and you can feel it in the way his fingers tighten in your hair. The way his thumb presses into your hip, not hard enough to bruise, but enough to let you know he's not letting go. Not this time.
He kisses you like he's been waiting weeks for this. Months. Forever.
Your hand is still at the nape of his neck, and you feel the muscles shift as he tilts his head, changing the angle, finding a new way to fit his mouth against yours. Each kiss bleeds into the next without breaking. Open mouth, closed lips, open again, a rhythm that neither of you planned but both of you fall into like you've been doing this for years.
The windows are fully fogged now, the world outside reduced to nothing but smeared light and shadow. The car has become its own universe. Small. Warm. Breathing.
Jisung's nose presses into your cheek when he shifts, and he stays there for a moment, just breathing you in, lips parted against the corner of your mouth. Not kissing. Just... hovering. Trembling. His fingers massage slow circles into your scalp, and it's so gentle, such a stark contrast to the grip he still has on your hip, that your head goes a little fuzzy.
Then his mouth finds yours again.
This time he's the one to part his lips first. He catches your bottom lip between both of his, a soft, sucking pull, and releases it with a quiet sound that's almost a whimper. His forehead drops to yours for a fraction of a second, just long enough for him to catch his breath, and then he's tilting his head the other way and sealing his mouth over yours again. And again. And again.
The kiss deepens by degrees, not by leaps. He's still holding back, you can feel it, the slight tremor in his hand, the way his breathing stutters every time your fingers flex against his scalp. He's letting you set the pace, even now, even when his restraint is visibly crumbling.
But his hand is sliding from your hip to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide over the fabric of your shirt, and he's pulling you closer still. You're practically halfway over the console now, one hand braced against the passenger seat, the other still buried in his hair. The position is awkward. Uncomfortable, even. Neither of you cares.
Outside, a car passes somewhere in the distance. The sound barely registers. There's only this, his mouth, his hands, the soft ragged noises he makes every time the kiss shifts from open to closed and back again. There's only the way he whispers your name against your lips, not asking for anything, just... saying it. Like a prayer. Like he can't quite believe you're real.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡/ᐠ > ˕ <
It happens all at once.
Like a dam breaking. Like whatever thin thread of restraint Jisung had been clinging to finally snaps.
One second his lips are soft, searching, reverent. The next, he's kissing you so hard it almost hurts.
His mouth crashes against yours with a desperate, bruising intensity, no more hesitation, no more careful restraint. Just raw, aching hunger. His fingers tighten in your hair, fisting in the strands, and he uses the grip to angle your head exactly where he wants it. Where he needs it.
Your head falls back against the passenger seat headrest with a soft thud, and he follows you down.
He doesn't break the kiss. Doesn't even pause. His body leans across the center console, crowding into your space, filling it, consuming it. One hand stays tangled in your hair, holding you steady, while the other braces against the passenger seat beside your head. He's caging you in now, not trapping you, never that, but surrounding you completely, and the shift in power makes your stomach swoop.
The kisses are hard now. Desperate. His lips press and part and press again with a force that steals your breath, like he's trying to pour every unspoken word, every sleepless night, every frantic thought he's had since that first kiss directly into your mouth. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he stops.
Your hand slides from his neck to his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle there, and he groans against your lips. Actually groans, low and rough and so genuine it makes your toes curl inside your shoes.
"Been wanting-" he starts, but he doesn't finish, can't finish, because he's already kissing you again. Hard. Desperate. His teeth graze your bottom lip, just barely, a hint of something sharper underneath all the softness, and then he's pulling back just enough to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the hinge of your jaw.
But he always comes back. Always finds your lips again.
Your head is pressed firmly into the passenger seat now, neck arched, and he's leaning over you so completely that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. The console is digging into your hip. Your back is twisted at an awkward angle. None of it matters.
Your fingers find his hair again and you pull, not gently this time, and the sound he makes is wrecked. Absolutely wrecked. His hips shift in the driver's seat, his body straining toward you like a plant toward sunlight, and his forehead drops to yours for just a moment. Just a breath.
His eyes are squeezed shut. His lips are parted, slick, redder than before. His chest is heaving.
"Tell me if it's too much," he pants, and his voice is so broken, so vulnerable despite the iron grip he still has on your hair. "Promise me you'll tell me."
He doesn't wait for an answer. His mouth crashes back into yours, hard and desperate and searching, and the world outside the fogged-up windows ceases to exist entirely.
And then, without warning, he pulls back.
Not completely. Not enough to break contact. But the bruising pressure of his mouth softens, eases, becomes something featherlight and almost lazy. His lips barely graze yours now, a ghost of a kiss, a tease. The grip in your hair loosens until his fingers are just resting there, cradling instead of clutching.
It's such a sudden shift that it takes your brain a second to catch up.
You chase him instinctively, leaning forward, trying to recapture the heat of his mouth, but he moves with you, just a fraction of an inch, just enough to keep the distance. His lips brush yours once. Twice. Barely there. A whisper of contact that leaves you aching and frustrated and dizzy with want.
A small, involuntary sound escapes your throat. A whimper. High and needy and completely mortifying, but you can't help it. The absence of him is unbearable. The softness is unbearable. You need him back, need the weight and the heat and the desperation, need him to stop teasing and kiss you properly.
Your fingers fist in the front of his hoodie, yanking him toward you with a strength you didn't know you had.
"Don't," you breathe against his mouth, and it comes out wrecked and pleading. "Don't stop."
You don't give him the chance to respond.
You kiss him hard, harder than before, harder than you've kissed anyone in your life, pouring all that frustration and longing and desperation directly into his mouth. Your teeth catch his bottom lip and you tug, just shy of painful, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
That's when you feel it.
Against your lips, unmistakable and infuriating and devastatingly attractive: a smirk.
The absolute audacity of him. He's smirking. Even as you kiss him senseless, even as his hand tightens reflexively in your hair, even as his breathing goes ragged and uneven, Han Jisung is smirking against your mouth like he's just won something. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like the sound of you whimpering for him was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Knew it," he murmurs against your lips, voice low and rough and unbearably smug. "Knew you wanted this as bad as I do."
His thumb traces a slow circle at the nape of your neck, soothing and maddening all at once, and he lets you kiss him hard for another breathless moment before he kisses back just as fiercely, meeting you blow for blow, hunger for hunger, smirk still ghosting at the corner of his mouth.
He's not teasing anymore.
But he knows now. He knows the power he holds, knows the effect he has on you, and there's something devastating in the way he kisses you after that revelation. Confident. Certain. Like he's finally, finally letting himself believe this is real.
His hand moves.
Slowly. Deliberately. Testing.
His fingers slip from your hair, trailing down the side of your face with a touch so light it's almost not there. He traces the shell of your ear, the hinge of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, feather-soft, exploratory, like he's mapping territory he's only dreamed about. Like he's memorizing every inch of you by touch alone.
Then his fingertips find your neck.
They don't grab. Don't squeeze. Don't do anything except rest there, so lightly you could almost convince yourself you're imagining it. Just the pads of his fingers, warm and calloused from guitar strings, pressed gentle as a secret against the side of your throat.
Your breath stutters. Actually stutters, catches in your chest like a hiccup, comes out shaky and uneven against his lips. He pauses. Just for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to notice.
Then his fingers trail downward.
They skate along the column of your throat, barely touching, tracing the line of your windpipe down to the hollow where your collarbones meet. Back up again. Softer than soft. The lightest pressure imaginable. And yet your pulse is hammering beneath his fingertips, betraying you completely, and you know he can feel it. Know he's cataloguing every flutter, every skip, every stuttered breath you take.
His lips are still moving against yours, but slower now. Distracted. His focus has split between kissing you and touching you, and the combination is devastating.
His fingers wander to the other side of your neck, tracing the tendon there, and your breath catches again. Hitches. Breaks.
He hums, a low, thoughtful sound against your mouth, and does it again. Drags his fingertips along the same path, watching your reaction with his eyes closed, feeling it in the way your lips falter against his. In the way your hand tightens on his shoulder.
Then his palm curves around your jaw.
Not your neck. Not yet. Just your jaw, fingers splayed along the bone, thumb resting in the divot beneath your bottom lip. He tilts your face slightly, just enough to change the angle of the kiss, and his grip is firm but still so careful. Still asking. Still checking.
His other hand hasn't moved from the back of your head. He's cradling you now, holding you like something precious and breakable, even as his kisses remain deep and desperate and consuming.
His thumb traces your jawline, back and forth, back and forth, and then his fingers drift again, down the side of your throat, featherlight, just a whisper of touch, and your breathing stutters so hard you have to break the kiss for half a second just to gasp.
He smiles against the corner of your mouth.
Not the smirk from before. Something softer. Something almost tender. Like he's discovered something about you that he's going to keep tucked away, a secret just for him.
"Noted," he whispers, and the word is a promise.
You don't plan it.
It just happens, a flicker of boldness, a surge of want, a need to give him something back after all his teasing. Your tongue darts out, soft and tentative, and traces the curve of his bottom lip. Just a lick. Barely there. A question.
Jisung freezes.
Every muscle in his body goes taut. His hand stills against your jaw. His breathing stops entirely for one suspended heartbeat. You feel the shudder that rolls through him, shoulders to spine to the fingers tangled in your hair, and for a terrifying second you wonder if you've broken him completely.
Then his hand moves.
It slides from your jaw to your throat in one fluid motion, palm settling warm and sure against the front of your neck. His fingers curl around the sides, not squeezing, not yet, just holding. Just there. His thumb rests on one side, his middle and ring fingers on the other, and the pressure is barely existent. Barely anything at all.
But it's there.
The weight of his hand. The heat of it. The way his palm fits against your throat like it was always meant to be there. He's still checking, still watching, still giving you every opportunity to pull back or shake your head or tell him no. His eyes are open now, dark and searching, scanning your face with an intensity that makes your chest ache.
You don't pull back.
Instead, a sound escapes you. Soft. Breathless. A moan so quiet you barely register it as your own, but Jisung registers it. You know he does, because his eyes flutter half-shut and his lips part and the sound he makes in response is nothing short of devastating.
It's low. Rough. Torn from somewhere deep in his chest. A moan that matches yours and amplifies it, vibrating against your lips, and the knowledge that you did that to him, that the sound of you, the feel of you beneath his hand, affected him that much, sends a bolt of heat straight through your core.
"You have no idea," he rasps, voice shredded, "what you do to me."
His fingers tighten.
Not hard. Not painful. Just... present. Just enough pressure that you feel it in your pulse, in your temples, in the pleasant fog settling over your brain. The perfect amount. Like he's done this before, or like he's just impossibly attuned to you, to your body, to every signal you're giving him.
And then he's kissing you again, hard. Desperate. Messy. The careful restraint from earlier has evaporated entirely, replaced by something raw and hungry and completely unrestrained. His mouth crashes against yours with bruising intensity, and his hand stays right where it is, wrapped around your throat, holding you steady as he kisses you senseless.
His tongue finally slides against yours, hot and seeking, and the combination, the hand on your throat, the tongue in your mouth, the way he moans every time you make a sound, is overwhelming. Consuming. The kind of kiss that erases every coherent thought from your head and leaves nothing behind but sensation.
Your hand on his chest flies up to grip his wrist on your throat, not to pull him away, never that, but to hold him there. To keep him exactly where he is. Your fingers wrap around the bones of his wrist, feeling the flex of tendon and muscle as he adjusts his grip just slightly, just enough to make your breath catch again.
He groans into your mouth.
"Like that?" he asks, barely pulling back enough to form the words. "Is that-"
He doesn't finish. Can't finish. Because you're already nodding, already pulling him back in, already kissing him so hard your lips will be swollen for hours and you don't care. You don't care about anything except his hand on your throat and his mouth on yours and the way he's looking at you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked.
Two can play this game.
Your fingers loosen around his wrist, and you let your hand drift. Up the inside of his forearm, light as a breath, feeling the fine hairs there rise beneath your touch. Over the crease of his elbow. Along his bicep, still curled tight with the effort of holding himself back.
Then your fingertips find his neck.
You don't grab. You don't squeeze. You just let your nails graze the skin, barely there, just the faintest whisper of contact along the side of his throat. Down. Up. Tracing the tendon that stands out beneath his jaw, the one that's pulled taut from the way he's leaning over you.
Jisung shudders.
It's a full-body thing. A tremor that starts somewhere in his shoulders and rolls down his spine like a wave, and you feel it everywhere, in the hand still wrapped around your throat, in the lips still pressed to yours, in the way his breath punches out of him in a shaky, broken exhale. His eyes flutter, lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, and for a moment he looks utterly undone.
You do it again.
Your nails drag lightly along the side of his neck, slower this time, and you watch him crumble. His jaw goes slack. His lips part against yours but he doesn't kiss you, can't kiss you, he's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. The sound he makes is barely audible, a quiet, wrecked little exhale that ghosts warm across your mouth.
"Fuck," he breathes. Just that. Just the one word, reverent and ruined.
Your hand curves around the front of his throat now, soft, barely any pressure, mirroring exactly what he did to you. Your palm rests against his Adam's apple, feeling it bob as he swallows hard. You hold it for a moment. Two. Three. Just long enough for his eyes to meet yours, glassy and desperate and full of something that looks a lot like worship.
Then you pull back.
Your hand drops away from his neck entirely, retreating to his shoulder, your nails dragging lightly along his collarbone on the way down. The loss of contact makes him whimper, actually whimper, a small broken sound that he'll probably be embarrassed about later, and his hips shift restlessly in the driver's seat.
But you're not done.
You bring your hand back. Nails grazing the other side of his neck now, tracing a path from behind his ear down to the hollow of his throat, featherlight and devastating. Back up again. You repeat the pattern, touch, retreat, touch, retreat, and every time you pull away he chases the feeling, head tilting, eyes fluttering, breath coming faster and more uneven with every pass.
"You're-" he starts, but whatever he was going to say dissolves into a shiver when your nails scrape gently against the nape of his neck. His whole body jolts. His hand tightens reflexively in your hair, fingers twisting into the strands, pulling just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.
"You're killing me," he manages finally. His voice is hoarse, wrecked, barely recognizable as the bright, teasing tone he uses with everyone else. This voice is just for you. "You know that, right? You're actually killing me."
He doesn't sound mad about it.
His hand flexes in your hair again, tugging your head back just slightly, just enough to expose more of your throat to him. But he doesn't kiss you yet. He just looks at you, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes so dark they're almost black, and shakes his head like he can't quite believe you're real.
"Do that again," he whispers. Not demanding. Begging. "Please. Do that again."
You do.
Your nails find the back of his neck again, dragging slow and deliberate from the base of his skull down to where his shoulder begins. You feel the goosebumps rise beneath your fingertips, feel the shudder that wracks through him, feel the way his breath stutters and breaks against your lips.
And then his hands move.
The one in your hair tightens, fingers twisting deep into the strands, fisting, pulling. Not gentle. Not tentative. He tugs your head back with a firm, steady pressure that arches your neck and bares your throat completely to him. The sting of it radiates across your scalp, sharp and sweet, and your mouth falls open on a gasp you couldn't have suppressed if you tried.
At the same time, his other hand is still on your throat.
He doesn't let go. Doesn't ease up. If anything, the pressure increases, just slightly, just enough, as his palm settles more firmly against the front of your neck. His fingers press into the sides, finding the perfect angle, the perfect amount, and the combination of it all is devastating. The pull in your hair. The weight on your throat. The way he's looking at you like he wants to consume you whole.
A moan tears out of you.
Loud. Unrestrained. Completely involuntary. It fills the small space of the car, bounces off the fogged-up windows, and you can't even be embarrassed because the sound he makes in response is just as wrecked. Just as desperate. His hips buck slightly in the driver's seat, an unconscious movement he probably doesn't even register, and his eyes roll back for half a second before snapping to your face again.
"Again," he breathes, and his voice is absolutely destroyed. Raw and gravelly and shaking at the edges. "Let me hear you. Please. I want, I need to hear you."
He tugs your hair again.
The moan that escapes you this time is even louder. Your back arches off the passenger seat, body moving without permission, chasing his touch, chasing the sting and the pressure and the heat of him. Your nails dig into his shoulder, leaving little crescent moons in his skin through the fabric of his hoodie, and he groans like it's the best thing he's ever felt.
"That's it," he murmurs, and his lips are against the corner of your mouth, not quite kissing, just breathing you in. "That's it, baby. God, you sound so-"
He doesn't finish. He kisses you instead, hard and messy and completely uncoordinated, like he's lost the ability to be smooth, lost the ability to be anything but desperate for you. His hand flexes on your throat while his other keeps its grip in your hair, and he's holding you in place now, completely in control, and you don't want him to stop. Not ever.
Every sound you make, he swallows. Every moan, every gasp, every stuttered breath, he drinks them all down like he's starving for them. And every time you get louder, every time the pressure or the pull drags another broken noise out of you, he responds in kind. A groan. A whimper. A whispered curse against your lips.
"Love that," he pants, pulling back just far enough to look at you. His eyes are wild, pupils blown so wide there's barely a ring of brown left. His lips are red and slick and curved into something that's not quite a smile, too wrecked for that, too overwhelmed, but close. So close. "Love the sounds you make. Could listen to you forever. Never gonna get tired of that. Never."
He loosens his grip on your hair just to run his fingers through it, soothing the sting he left behind, and the tenderness of it, in the middle of all this desperation, makes your heart clench.
Then he tightens his grip again.
His hand slips from your throat.
The absence is immediate, jarring, a sudden loss of heat and pressure that leaves you feeling almost untethered. But before you can mourn it, his palm is already moving. Gliding down the side of your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the line of your shoulder. His fingers trail down your arm first, featherlight, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Then they change direction.
He finds the curve of your waist.
His hand slides along your side, palm pressing flat against the fabric of your shirt, and the warmth of his touch seeps through the thin material like it's not even there. He moves slowly, deliberately, tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, the outer curve of your thigh. Mapping you. Learning you. His fingers flex against your side, not quite grabbing, just... holding. Just feeling.
And then you pull back.
You don't mean to go far. You just need air, just need a second, just need to clear your head before the fog consumes you completely. Your lips break from his, your spine straightens, and you lean back into the passenger seat, barely an inch, barely any distance at all.
But it's too much for him.
His hand shoots up from your side and finds your throat again in an instant, not squeezing, not hurting, just grabbing. Just holding. His palm curves around the front of your neck, fingers pressing into the sides with that same perfect pressure from before, and he pulls you back in.
Not gently.
His grip on your throat is firm and sure as he drags you across the center console, back into his space, back into him. Your breath catches, half surprise, half something else entirely, and then his mouth is on yours again, hot and insistent and desperate. Like the few seconds you were apart physically hurt him.
"Don't," he rasps against your lips, and the word is wrecked, shaking, almost angry if it weren't so pleading. "Don't pull away from me. Not yet. Not-"
He kisses you again before he can finish. Hard. Deep. His tongue slides against yours and his hand stays wrapped around your throat and his other hand is still tangled in your hair, and he's holding you like you might disappear if he lets go for even a second.
"Stay," he breathes into your mouth, and it's not a command, it's a plea. Desperate and raw and so vulnerable it makes your chest ache. "Just stay right here. Please. Don't go anywhere."
His thumb strokes along the side of your neck, a tender counterpoint to the firmness of his grip, and his forehead presses to yours as he catches his breath. His eyes are squeezed shut, lashes damp, whether from exertion or emotion, you can't tell. Maybe both.
"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper.
His eyes open. Dark. Glassy. Full of something that looks a lot like relief and a lot like hunger and a lot like the beginning of something neither of you are ready to name yet.
"Good," he says. And then his grip tightens just slightly, and his mouth crashes back into yours, and the world outside the fogged-up windows disappears all over again.
His hand loosens from your throat, but this time it doesn't go far.
It slides down slowly, over your collarbone, tracing the neckline of your shirt, following the path his eyes have traveled a hundred times before but his hands never dared. His palm is warm, almost hot, and it leaves a trail of tingling skin in its wake.
Down. Down. Over your ribs, your waist, the dip where your hip meets your thigh.
Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt.
He pauses there. Just for a breath. Just long enough for his eyes to flick up to yours, checking, always checking, even now when he's trembling with want and barely holding himself together. His thumb traces the edge of the fabric, back and forth, back and forth, a question he doesn't speak out loud.
You don't stop him.
His hand slips beneath the hem.
Just barely. Just his fingertips. They skim along the strip of skin above your waistband, featherlight and searing hot, and the sensation of his bare touch against your bare skin makes your stomach clench. Your breath catches. Your hand tightens on his shoulder.
He watches your face the whole time.
Watches the way your eyes flutter. Watches the way your lips part. Watches the way your chest rises and falls faster as his fingers trace slow, lazy patterns along the sensitive skin just above the waist of your jeans. He's barely under your shirt at all, just the tips of his fingers, just a hint of what could come next, and yet it feels like the most intimate thing he's done all night.
"There," he murmurs, and there's wonder in his voice. Awe. Like he's discovered something sacred. "Right there. You feel that?"
His fingers splay wider, palm pressing flat against your side now, skin to skin. His hand is so warm. His touch is so gentle, despite everything, despite the hair-pulling and the throat-grabbing and the desperate, bruising kisses. This is something else. Something softer. Something reverent.
Then his hand retreats.
Slides out from under your shirt, back to safer territory, your hip, your waist, the curve of your thigh. But he doesn't go far. His fingers curl around your hip, thumb pressing into the bone, and he pulls you closer again. Closer. Like even the inch of space between your bodies is too much.
His other hand is still in your hair, still holding, still gentle now. He's cradling you again, cradling and clutching all at once, like he can't decide whether to treat you like something precious or something he wants to devour.
"Been wanting to do that," he admits, voice hoarse and quiet. His thumb traces small circles on your hip, right over the waistband of your jeans. "Been wanting to touch you. Really touch you. Since-" He laughs, a broken little exhale. "Since way longer than I should probably admit."
His fingers dip beneath the hem of your shirt again, just for a second, just a brief teasing brush of skin against skin, and then retreat once more. Back to your hip. Back to safe ground. But the promise is there now, hanging in the air between you, and you can feel it in the way his hand trembles slightly against you. In the way his breathing has gone shallow and uneven.
In the way he's looking at you like you're everything.
And then, slowly, the storm begins to calm.
His lips find yours again, but softer now. Lighter. A peck. Just the briefest press of mouth against mouth, chaste and sweet and almost shy, like he's rediscovering the beginning of this all over again. He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes still dark but softening at the edges, and then he does it again.
Another peck.
And another.
Each one gentler than the last. Each one lingering a little longer, like he's memorizing the feel of you without the urgency behind it. His thumb strokes your hip. His fingers in your hair have loosened completely now, just cradling the back of your head, just holding you close. The desperation has bled out of him, replaced by something quieter. Something tender.
He presses one last kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then your forehead.
And then he stops.
His eyes squeeze shut. His forehead drops to yours, and he stays there, breathing ragged, chest heaving, hands still trembling slightly where they rest against you. The silence stretches out, filled only by the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe normally again.
"We have to stop," he whispers.
The words sound like they physically pain him.
"If I keep going..." He swallows hard, and you feel the movement of his throat against your fingers. "If I keep going right now, I'm not going to be able to stop. At all. And I-" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is so open, so raw, so painfully sincere that it makes your heart squeeze. "I don't want that. Not like this."
His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone with devastating gentleness.
"You deserve better than a car," he says quietly. "You deserve better than rushed and desperate and-" He huffs out a shaky laugh. "You deserve a bed, at the very least. And candles. Or something. I don't know. Something that isn't my cramped front seat with the parking brake digging into my thigh."
He's rambling now, nervous energy creeping back in, but underneath the rambling is something solid. Something sure. His eyes meet yours, and they're still dark, still wanting, but there's resolve there now too.
"We just started this," he says, softer. More serious. "Whatever this is. Us. I don't want to rush it. I don't want to mess it up by moving too fast. I want..." He pauses. Searches for the words. "I want to do this right. I want to take my time with you. I want to remember every second of it."
His thumb traces your bottom lip, featherlight.
"Okay?" he asks. "Is that okay? Tell me that's okay."
His voice wavers on the question, just slightly, a flicker of insecurity beneath all that certainty. Like he's still, even now, a little bit afraid you'll disappear. A little bit afraid this isn't real.
"Okay," you whisper. "That's more than okay."
The relief that washes over his face is immediate. His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them, and the smile that spreads across his swollen lips is so soft, so genuine, so purely Jisung that it makes your heart ache in the best way.
"Yeah?" He lets out a breathy laugh, half-disbelief, half-joy. "Okay. Good. Great. I was, I was really hoping you'd say that."
He presses one last kiss to your forehead, lingering, deliberate, like he's sealing a promise, and then he's pulling back, shifting in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't involve the gear shift digging into his hip. The center console is still an obstacle, still an awkward barrier between your bodies, and he frowns at it like it's personally offended him.
"This thing," he mutters, slapping it lightly with his palm. "Who designed this. Why is it here. I'm filing a complaint."
You laugh, and the sound feels good, feels normal, feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. He grins at you, that familiar mischievous spark finally flickering back to life in his eyes, and something settles in your chest. Something warm and steady.
You shift in your seat, turning to face him properly, and your hand finds his arm. Your fingers wrap around his bicep, not suggestive, just... grounding. Just wanting to keep touching him, even now, even after everything. He glances down at where you're holding him, and his expression goes soft all over again.
"C'mere," he murmurs, and he doesn't have to ask twice.
You lean across the console, and he meets you halfway. You end up tangled together in a way that's more comfort than heat, your arms wrapped around one of his, your head resting against his shoulder, his cheek pressed to the top of your head. It's a little awkward. A little cramped. Neither of you cares.
His free hand finds your legs, settling warm and heavy on your thigh. Not grabbing. Not teasing. Just... there. Just touching. His thumb draws lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans, and the rhythm of it is soothing, hypnotic, the kind of absentminded touch that speaks to how comfortable he already is with you.
Your nails start to move before you even realize you're doing it.
Up and down his forearm. Light. Slow. Tracing the lines of his veins, the faint ridges of old scars and new calluses. Back and forth, back and forth, nails grazing just barely against his skin. You remember him telling you once, months ago, when you were just friends, when none of this had happened yet, that he loved this feeling. That it calmed him down. That it made his brain go quiet.
His eyes flutter shut.
"That," he breathes. "That's, yeah. Don't stop. Please don't ever stop."
His hand on your thigh squeezes gently, an unconscious reaction, and he sinks deeper into the driver's seat with a contented sigh. The tension that had been coiling in his shoulders for the past forty-five minutes is melting away beneath your fingertips, and you watch it happen in real time, the way his jaw unclenches, the way his brow smooths out, the way his lips curve into a small, peaceful smile.
"Could fall asleep like this," he mumbles, voice already going drowsy at the edges. "Right here. With you doing that. Best feeling in the world."
He turns his head just enough to press a kiss to your hair.
"What were we even talking about before?" he asks suddenly, and there's genuine confusion in his voice. "Before all the, you know." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "The thing. The kissing thing. I genuinely can't remember a single thing I said before that."
You laugh, and the vibration of it travels through his arm, and his smile widens.
