The Difference Good Writing Makes
A companion is only as good as the way she talks, and SweetDream clearly cares about that. The replies feel written by someone who gets nuance, playful when it should be, tender when it counts, never flat.
That writing quality is the soul of the experience. It's what makes an AI girlfriend charming instead of mechanical. If conversation matters most to you, sweetdream.ai is where it actually feels good.
EPISODE 1: HELP! MY HOT GIRLFRIEND CAUGHT ME CRYING AFTER GIVING HEAD! (NOT CLICKBAIT)
this is smut, do not interact if under 18
jisung thought tutoring the hottest girl on campus would ruin his GPA— not his pants. one month later, he’s somehow getting called ‘pretty’ mid-thrust and offering you pocky as a post-orgasm snack.
pairing: nerd!han jisung x popular!f!reader, established relationship genre/tags: college au, smut, fluff, jisung is a loser with a capital L, humor sprinkled in bc i’m unserious asf, lots of references to anime and other dumb stuff, lowkey perv!jisung, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), piv, protected s*x, kinda subby!jisung but he’s still a whore lol words: 5.4k (wasn’t expecting it to be this long… guess i yap too much)
[ note. ] — i had to make another nerd!ji fic bc i literally cannot stop thinking about him 😣 feel free to read my other fic for more context since it’s set in the same universe but i wanted to make a smut ver so here we areeee <33 also, i will be making more parts eventually, hence why it’s labeled as ‘episode 1’ so stay tuned for more !
cross posted to AO3
Jisung thought for sure that was going to die a virgin. Not in a sad, self-loathing kind of way, but more in a “yeah, that checks out,” kind of way. The type of peaceful resignation one might have while unplugging a broken router for the eighth time before crying into a bowl of instant ramen. Because guys like him— guys who quoted Dragon Ball Z unironically, who panicked when girls sat next to them in lecture halls, who built custom keyboards for fun and screamed at League. They didn’t date girls like you.
And they most definitely didn’t sleep with girls like you.
Still, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing. Constantly, shamelessly, unhingedly.
He’d never known what it felt like to have warm walls wrapped around his cock. Never heard those broken whines girls in hentai would make— unless he counted the ones he accidentally let out when he edged himself too long. His hand was simply never enough, no matter how many times he convinced himself he could “recreate the pressure.”
The bottle of lotion and box of tissues on his nightstand weren’t even hidden anymore— they sat like holy relics beside his gaming PC, ready for immediate access the second he closed League and opened incognito mode.
Porn never fully satisfied his craving though, he always wanted more. Even the best JAV compilation or doujinshi fan dub couldn’t compare to the real sickness consuming his brain: you.
You, with the glossy Instagram that he scrolled through like it was the damn Louvre. You, wearing micro bikinis in pool selfies with captions like ‘hot girl summer’ while he rots in bed, sweating and crying at the curvature of your ass.
You, biting your glittery, gel pen in class, leaning across the desk to ask for help, accidentally flashing a glimpse of cleavage so dangerous it made him pause mid-equation like he got hit with a stun grenade. Stalking your Instagram, seeing you in the tiniest baby tees and mini skirts. It was the perfect gooner material.
He’d stroke himself under the covers while biting a t-shirt to keep quiet, muttering your name between gasps like he was summoning a spirit. Fantasies playing out in his head that ranged from soft and romantic— like kissing you breathless during office hours— to completely feral, like bending you over his anime pillow while you called him “pretty boy” and ruined his life.
It didn’t help that you flirted with him now.
That you asked him to tutor you.
That you sat so close during study sessions he could sense your perfume from a mile away and taste the salt from the fries you always stole off his plate.
You laughed at his jokes, called him cute, even once said he had “nice hands,” and he nearly evaporated on the spot. Had to excuse himself to the bathroom with a boner and a prayer.
Every night ended the same. Him, fisting his cock in pathetic desperation at the thought of your pussy swallowing him whole, whispering ‘please’ like a man on the verge of religious enlightenment.
And every night, after he came all over his own stomach, out of breath and guilt-ridden, he’d sigh dramatically and say,
“I’m going to die alone. I know it. I’ll be the guy with the Zero Two body pillow and the unopened condom pack from 2017 that he keeps in case of a miracle.”
He did not, under any circumstances, expect you to be that miracle.
Never in a million years did he think he’d actually have a chance, let alone be dating you. You were just too perfect. The literal girl of his dreams.
Popular. Gorgeous. Cool in the kind of way that made any and everyone want to be around you without knowing why. You had that magnetic charm about you, an easily contagious laugh, a confident stride when you walk, and that dangerous habit of licking your lip gloss mid-sentence like you were in a CW drama.
And yet, somehow, here he was, currently horizontal on his bed, shirtless, breathless, with you on top of him wearing his oversized Bleach t-shirt and not much else, grinning like you’d just won first place in a science fair and a dance battle.
“Are you glitching?” You asked, poking his cheek. “Do I need to unplug you and plug you back in?”
“I- uh- w-what? No- yes? No.” He stuttered like every word had just magically left his vocabulary, he was definitely malfunctioning.
You laughed, head dropping onto his bare chest as he laid stiff as a board, arms hovering midair like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you even now. Even after dating you for a whole month.
“A month,” he whispered, still stunned by the timeline. “That’s like… thirty days of you voluntarily being seen with me.”
“Thirty one,” you corrected, lifting your head to smirk down at him. “Don’t forget the bonus day where you kissed me in front of the vending machine and the entire basketball team clapped.”
“I thought I was going to throw up.”
“You looked like you did throw up.”
Jisung covered his face with both hands and groaned.
God, he still didn’t know how this happened. When you had asked him to tutor you in stats, he assumed you were just kidding— or high. But you weren’t. You’d actually shown up. You’d flirted, sat on his lap one time when all the seats were taken at the library, and then acted like it was no big deal while his soul left his body.
And now here you were. Straddling him. Teasing him. Literally wearing his t-shirt with the anime print on it and calling him “baby” in the kind of voice that should be illegal.
“You’re so tense, Sungie,” you murmur, lightly dragging your fingers down his chest. “I know you like it when I touch you. You make these cute little gasps like a baby bird.”
“I-I don’t sound like a baby bird,” he mumbled, absolutely sounding like a baby bird.
You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“Chirp.”
Jisung squeaked.
You lost it, giggling into his neck while he covered his blushy face with a pillow. “Oh my god, stopp- why are you like this- why did you choose me,”
“Because you’re smart, and sweet, and you get all flustered when I call you hot. And because,” you sat up again, hips rolling ever so slightly and watching his pupils blow wide as you rocked against his clothed erect, “you say things like ‘This is just like my fanfic’ under your breath and then deny it.”
He groaned at the sudden friction, arms falling limp at his sides. “You heard that?”
“Babe, I hear everything. Like right now, I can hear how bad you want me to ride you.” You bit your lip, feeling your wetness growing at a rapid pace as you continuously grind on him.
Jisung whimpered. “Okay. I- this is really happening, right? This isn’t like, some kind of VR dream or like a… cursed hentai plotline where I wake up and you’re actually a sentient toaster?”
You blinked. “What the hell kind of anime are you watching?”
He slapped a hand over his eyes. “Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that..”
You kissed him then. Slowly. Tenderly. Like you had all the time in the world and like you couldn’t believe your luck either. Because yeah, you were the cool girl, but Jisung was the first guy who actually listened when you talked. Who remembered your favorite boba order. Who’d stayed up until 3 am tutoring you and still walked you to your dorm with sleepy, nerdy affection twinkling in his eyes.
So yeah, you were gonna roast him forever— but you were also gonna ruin him tonight.
“Hey, baby,” you whispered, reaching down to tug his sweatpants lower.
Jisung was in the midst of catching his breath like he’d just run a marathon. “Y-yeah?”
“After I make you cum, will you tell me all about the sentient toaster anime?”
“…Maybe.”
+
“Okay,” Jisung panted, curling into your side like a baby koala clinging to its mother, “that was better than every hentai I’ve ever seen.”
You snorted into his shoulder. “High praise coming from the man who owns a $300 body pillow.”
“She was limited edition!” He quickly defends himself.
You playfully roll your eyes, kissing his flushed cheek. “So are you, Sungie. So are you.”
And yeah, Jisung still thought he was going to die a virgin once upon a time.
But now, wrapped in your arms with kiss marks littering his neck and your laughter still echoing in his ears— he was just really, really glad that he’s been proven wrong.
+
The moment you straddled Jisung and kissed him again, something shifted in the room.
And not just him having an outer-body experience for the sixth time in an hour.
You pulled back from his lips to look around, and the first thing you said was, “Okay, I have to say it- your room is the most aggressively virgin-coded space I’ve ever been in.”
“I told you not to look too closely!” He whined, burying his face into your neck as you giggled and craned to inspect the chaos surrounding you.
“Let’s see…” you started ticking things off on your imaginary list. “Anime wall scrolls? Check. Neon RGB light strips that make your room look like a gaming dungeon? Check. Is that Hatsune Miku in a glass case next to middle school spelling bee trophies?”
He groaned. “They’re collector’s items—”
“You were runner-up in 8th grade and you framed it.”
“I peaked early, okay?!”
You laughed so hard you fell forward onto his chest. “I love you.”
He froze. “Wh-what?”
You blinked. “I said I love you.”
He looked like you’d just offered him a lifetime supply of ramen and also stabbed him in the heart.
“…I love you too,” he whispered, barely getting it out before he hid under the covers.
You tugged the blanket back down just enough to see his red face. “Hey. Don’t hide. I wanna see you. Look so pretty when you blush.”
“PRETTY?!” He yelped.
You nodded in confirmation, brushing hair off his forehead. “Mmhm. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. Especially like this- messy hair, pink cheeks, all breathless under me…”
He made the most broken noise you’d ever heard.
His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them, like he was trying not to crush you or himself with how desperate he felt. His eyes were dark now, glazed and locked onto your every move as you slowly ground against the bulge in his sweats.
“This is real, right?” He meant to ask that in his head but blurted it out instead, voice slightly cracking. “This is really happening?”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Feels pretty real to me, baby.”
At this point Jisung was spiraling.
Not just emotionally. No, that happened daily.
This was a full-system shutdown.
You’d tugged your shirt off without warning and smiled down at him like it was the most casual thing in the world, and now his hands were hovering awkwardly mid-air like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to touch you or if he was being Punk’d by the gods of horny delusion.
Your skin. Your smile. Your fucking tits.
And worse— worse— as your fingers brushed through his messy brown locks and your thighs shifted over his hips, his brain suddenly screamed,
‘I can’t believe I’m about to get pussy before Jeongin.’
Jeongin, his slightly cooler, slightly taller, still-a-virgin roommate who had three rotating Discord kittens and a suspicious amount of cologne but somehow still never scored.
Jeongin, who walked around shirtless after push-up sessions and said things like “it’s not rizz, it’s charisma” unironically. Jeongin, who once said “I want my first time to be passionate and respectful” but also accidentally downloaded a virus trying to pirate a hentai dating sim.
Jisung had always assumed if one of them was gonna make it out of virginhood first, it’d be the guy with the Uzumaki clan symbol tattooed on his ribs and a social life.
But no.
It was him. Han Jisung. The guy who owned a limited-edition anime titty mousepad and squeaked like a kettle when a girl touched his arm. And now? You were grinding up against him slowly, teasingly, and he was barely clinging to reality.
“Y/n,” he whimpered, clutching your waist like you’d float away. “Can I- can I eat you out? Pleasepleaseplease.”
You blinked rapidly.
“…You wanna—?”
“So bad,” he choked. “I think about it all the time. Like in class. And when I watch those ‘how to’ videos online. Like, the diagram ones, not the porn ones, though I watched those too- but like educationally! For science!”
You stared blankly.
He was sweating.
“Okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You’re really cute when you beg, y’know that?”
He nearly ascended.
You barely had time to giggle before he flipped you gently onto your back, hair falling into his eyes as he ducked down between your thighs like a man on a mission from God. His hands trembled as he slid your shorts down, breath hitching at the sight of your soaked panties.
“Oh my god,” he breathed out. “It’s real.”
You snorted. “What were you expecting? A hologram?”
“I don’t know!” He cried. “I was starting to believe you were some kind of high-level succubus sent to punish virgins.”
You cupped his flushed face. “Wouldn’t be the worst punishment.”
And then he locks in— eyes meeting yours as he sticks his tongue out, licking a long, fat stripe across your clothed slit. Soft. Slow. As if he was trying to memorize you with his tongue, the heat of it makes you jolt. He’s not just tasting you— he’s learning you, tracing intricate patterns with his tongue like he’s trying to decode you one flick at a time. Every motion is precise yet hungry, like he’s writing a love letter in Morse code directly to your pussy. His glasses slipping adorably down the bridge of his nose, solely focused on pleasing you.
You gasped at the feel of him against you, the pressure of his mouth sent heat curling low in your belly, it was torture. Too much and not enough. You needed to feel him without the barrier of soaked lace clinging to your folds, and he must’ve read your mind, because he groaned like he was the one being denied. He kissed your pussy like he was thanking it, mouthing over your clothed core before dragging open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, leaving your skin slick with spit and bites to your inner thighs. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, everything about him felt so warm.
His teeth grazed you— playful, hungry— and your hips twitched as he whispered something nasty under his breath, half to himself, half to your cunt. By the time he slid your panties down, your thighs were trembling, tossing the flimsy fabric aside carelessly, like he didn’t care where they landed, only that they were gone. Then he buried his face between your legs like you’d been starving him for his entire life.
His tongue slipped between your folds, hot and greedy, lapping up everything you gave him like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He flicked up and down with obscene precision, wet, messy, relentless— his nose bumping your clit as he moaned deep in his throat, like he needed this, like the taste of you could make or break him. You were soaked, legs shaking, lips parted in a silent cry, and all he did was keep eating like he was trying to crawl inside you with his tongue.
You were loving the way it feels, every bit of you being hit with electricity. Your fingers tangled in his hair the second his mouth met your pussy, gripping tight, yanking just enough to make him groan into you like he was grateful for the pain. He never slowed down. If anything, it made him hungrier, tongue flattening against your slit before flicking up again, sloppy and fast and fucking filthy.
“God- fuck, you’re so messy,” you gasped, thighs twitching around his head. “You like that? Being my dirty little mouth toy?”
He moaned. Moaned. Into your pussy.
Nodding obediently, even as you tugged harder, grinding him closer. His glasses were long gone, hair disheveled, chin dripping with spit and slick as he slurred out something unintelligible against your clit. His tongue working overtime like he was trying to spell your name in cursive with every flick.
“Holy shit,” he mumbled, words caught in his throat. “I could live here.”
You threw your head back with a laugh— and then a sharp gasp as he got bolder, messier, more desperate. His hands kept you spread, his tongue curling and licking and worshipping like this was the only chance he’d ever get. He was sure that he’d jizz his pants just from giving you head— sure it’s pathetic, maybe even tragic. But he couldn’t help it. You were just too hot, too perfect, too fucking unreal, and the taste of you on his tongue, the feel of your thighs squeezing around his head, it was better than anything his fist or filthy imagination had ever given him.
Your fingers remain tangled in his hair, holding onto him for anchorage. He looked up at you with glassy, pleading eyes, the lower half of his face glistening with your arousal and rosy cheeks. “Tell me I’m doing okay? Please? I read five articles about this. I practiced on a peach.”
You gasped. “You practiced on what?!”
“Nevermind. Just- keep calling me pretty. I swear I’ll die happy right here.”
You tugged his head back down, voice ragged and ruined.
“Then make me cum, pretty boy.”
And he did.
Like a man with something to prove.
Like a nerdy little virgin who had just found his true calling.
Your eyes closed shut at the feeling, falling apart at the seams. Every stroke of his tongue making your insides tighten. You suddenly couldn’t remember how breathing worked, all you saw were flashes of white invading your vision, cumming so hard that you almost saw stars. You cried out, high and broken, hands grasping at his head as you came hard against his mouth.
Jisung moaned through it— loud and messy— tongue never letting up, licking you through every twitch, every gasp, every last jolt of overstimulation until you were tugging at his hair for dear life and gasping for air. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes half-lidded, face absolutely drenched, and smiling like he just beat the final boss of his entire life.
Somewhere in the past twenty minutes between Jisung nuzzling your thighs like a man starved and moaning like he was the one cumming, you had apparently blacked out, transcended the mortal plane, and been reborn as a puddle of girl.
Now, you lay sprawled across his unmade bed, fully clothed from the waist up and violently ruined from the waist down, chest heaving, eyes wet and glassy, one sock half-off your foot like a casualty of war.
And Jisung?
Jisung was cuddled up beside you like the world’s horniest golden retriever, chin resting on your shoulder, looking so smug and soft it was almost offensive.
You could still feel the ghost of his tongue between your legs.
“You sure you’ve never done this before?” You croaked out, blinking up at the ceiling like it had answers.
Jisung tilted his head innocently. “What, that? Nah. I just… researched. A lot. And I… uh, practiced on a fruit.”
You turned your head slowly. “Was it the peach again?”
“…It might’ve also been a mango. For tongue agility. But I named it after you, so it was romantic!”
You tried to snort, but it came out as a wheeze. “I can’t feel my legs, Jisung.”
He beamed. “Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still taking it as one.”
He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then your nose, then your forehead like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire nervous system with his mouth.
“I feel like I just unlocked a secret side quest,” he victoriously cheered. “‘Satisfy hot girlfriend until she sees God.’ Bonus XP for oral stamina. Am I your favorite now?”
You blinked at him, still fighting for air. “I don’t even know my name right now. You’ve ruined me.”
Jisung squeaked and tucked his face into your neck, practically vibrating with joy. “You’re gonna make me cry.”
“You should. I saw the afterlife. It was just a video game buffering screen.”
He laughed, then rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re real. Your thighs are real. I had a girlfriend and head privileges all in the same night. I feel like I need to call my mom.”
“Please don’t.”
“Too late. She deserves to know her son peaked.”
You smacked him lightly with the nearest pillow, still grasping for air, still dazed.
And then he smiled at you— so big, so genuine, so sickeningly in love that your tired heart clenched.
“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, y’know,” he mumbled, brushing hair from your face. “Just say the word.”
You looked at him, the boy with anime figures on his shelf, lotion still on his desk, and love in his eyes, pulling him in for a kiss.
“Next time,” you whispered, “I’m returning the favor.”
Mindlessly reaching into his sweats, the second your hand wrapped around his length, you froze.
“…Jisung.”
“H-huh?”
You gave a blank expression. Looking down. Looking back up.
“This is- you’re.. how is this even—?”
“I DON’T KNOW,” he cried. “IT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE, I’M ONLY 5’7!”
You stared at him like he just told you he had a second life as a Marvel superhero.
“Oh my god, I just assumed you’d be, like—”
“Average?!” He gasped, scandalized.
“No! I just- I mean- look at you! You’re this cute little nerd with anime socks and a keyboard with cat ears.. how are you packing all this?!”
You were in utter disbelief, there’s no way your sweet, stammering little boyfriend had been walking around with a dick that big and had no idea what kind of weapon he was carrying. Just raw, untapped dick potential— XL stats on a man who still apologizes when his knees crack too loud. Poor baby had been lugging around a whole third leg, and didn’t even know the first thing to do with it ;(
He simply shook his head, fully tomato red now, flailing beneath you like he was about to spontaneously combust. He watched you like he was afraid to blink. You pumped him once, slowly, watching him shiver under your touch. His lips parted. His back arched. You hadn’t even gotten started and he already looked completely ruined.
“Can I ride you?” You asked sweetly.
He nodded so fast his head could nearly fell off. “Yes. Yes, oh my god, yes- please, I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” You cocked your eyebrow.
“I’ll uninstall League right now if you ask me to—”
You giggled as you rolled the condom down over him, letting his hands greedily grab at your thighs. He was panting, forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat, like his brain was overheating just from the anticipation.
Then you finally lowered yourself, sinking down onto him, gradually, feeling the way you take him so easily from being soaking wet. Jisung mumbles something illegible under his breath as your cunt swallows his cock whole. It didn’t take long for you to reach the end of him since you were already so ready for him, staying in the same position to feel all of him inside you. His cock was splitting you open so nicely, it felt like you were in utter paradise.
And he made the sound.
Like his soul physically left his body, floated into the air, and gave you a salute on the way out.
“F-fuck.. you’re tight, I can’t—” he clutched your waist, eyes fluttering. “I’m gonna die. This is it. This is how I go.” He desperately bucks into you, wanting to feel more movement from you.
You move your hips to match his rhythm as you gain your balance, pressing both hands on his shoulder blades. You bounce slightly up and down on his cock, feeling your walls being filled up by every inch of him. You shifted from grinding on him real slow to picking up your pace indefinitely. Jisung threw his head back against the pillow from the pleasure, the sound of his balls hitting against your ass with the combination of it jiggling as you rode him like a bunny was enough to make him want to burst on the spot.
You leaned down and give him a chaste kiss. “Best way to go, huh?”
He nods vehemently. “Please don’t stop. Ever. I’ll cancel my Crunchyroll subscription for you. I’ll stop buying figurines. I’ll even delete my Genshin account.”
“Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”
He groaned helplessly as you continuously rode him like your life depended on it, breath hitching with every drag of your hips. He was so sensitive, so overwhelmed with it all that he couldn’t stop moaning into your mouth, mumbling broken, incoherent things like, “You feel soso good,” and “I can’t believe I get to have this,” and “Am I still breathing? No? Cool.”
You kissed down his jaw, showing no signs of stopping. You knew this was going to be one of those moments you’d both play on loop in your heads for a long, long time. “Still pretty, baby.”
He pants out. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You simply keep moaning as you kept bouncing on his cock, he was thrusting back into you, going even deeper. Your eyes reaching the back of your skull from the way he was hitting all the right spots. It wouldn’t take long before you started screaming his name and showering him with endless compliments.
“You’re so fucking pretty, Ji.” You were a broken record at this point, nothing but your whines and his grunts filling the room. You felt tense, your clit was throbbing, the pressure build up making you dizzy. Jisung couldn’t keep his eyes off you for a second, the way your tits bounced through your shirt, the way your long acrylics dug into his skin, he wasn’t even sure how he was still alive.
This was better than any of those fake scenarios that he’d absentmindedly create in his head, better than finally beating a level that he’d get stuck on for hours. He was in pure heaven, and he felt his high approaching any minute.
“I-I think ’m gonna cum,” he desperately choked out, rocking into you like a dog in heat.
Jisung was wrecked beneath you. Hands fisting into the sheets, mouth agape, his eyes rolling back every time you sank down fully and clenched around him.
“Fuck, please- please, I-I can’t,” he whimpered, voice shaky, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. His stomach tightening with every motion, trying so hard not to lose it.
You leaned forward and cupped his face, riding him a little harder, the slap of skin soft but steady. “You said you could take it, baby,” you whispered, voice syrup-sweet. “You begged for this.”
“I know, I- just- pleaseplease can I cum?” he panted, nearly on the verge of tears. His voice was raw, wrecked, like every second you didn’t let him was a cruel punishment. “’m so close, I’m- I’ll be good, I swear, just let me.. please—”
You seal his lips with yours, just to quiet the begging, grinning against his mouth as his hands fumbled for your hips again. He moaned into the kiss, his hips twitching helplessly under yours.
“You’re lucky you’re cute when you beg,” you airly chuckled, pulling back just enough to look down at him. His eyes were wild, glazed over, the pretty sounds he made were like music to your ears.
“Th-thank you,” he sobbed, the gratitude in his voice borderline ridiculous. “’m gonna- I’m- oh my god—”
And with that, he finally let go. Releasing every last drop of his seed into the condom, muscles tensing up, gripping you like you were his only tether to reality. He looked down to see your arousal creating a white, creamy ring around the base of his thick cock, almost about to cum again just from the mere sight alone. Your legs felt like jello, you were weightless, collapsing onto his sweaty, sticky chest as you try to catch your breath, brain all foggy in your post-coital daze.
You didn’t expect him to cry.
Okay— not, like, full sobbing. But a little misty-eyed? A little “what did I do to deserve this?” A sparkle in his gaze as you lay draped across his chest, both of you blissed out and glowing in the soft, RGB-lit afterglow?
Yeah.
He was trying so hard not to sniffle.
“You okay, baby?” You murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw.
Jisung nodded, eyes wide and glassy. “I just… I thought my first time would be like, awkward. Or disappointing. Or I’d accidentally sneeze into someone’s mouth and get banned from touching boobs forever.”
You laughed against his skin. “Definitely didn’t happen.”
“No,” he grins, wrapping his arms tighter around you, “this was better than anything I could’ve ever imagined in my head. Better than my first SSR pull in Genshin. Better than when I tried the seasonal spicy chicken ramen and lived.”
You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “That’s a pretty long list of victories to beat.”
“You’re the only victory that matters.”
“Oh my god,” you groaned playfully, “who is this smooth man and what has he done with my sweaty, anime-obsessed virgin boyfriend?”
He huffed, burying his face into your hair. “He’s still sweaty and obsessed with anime. He just… also happens to be madly in love with you.”
You smiled into his chest.
“Also,” he added, completely deadpan, “I think I saw the shadow realm.”
You snorted. “When?”
“When you said I was pretty and grabbed my—” His voice cracked. He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t say it. My ancestors are watching.”
You giggled, shifting to lay next to him and intertwining your fingers with his.
And for a while, it was just quiet. Safe. His hand slowly brushing over your side. Your heartbeat syncing with his. The faint whir of his PC fan still spinning in the corner because, of course, he never actually shut it down.
Then he jolted upright suddenly, as if he remembered something urgent.
“Wait.”
You blinked up at him, amused. “What?”
He slid off the bed, naked except for one, singular sock and scurried to his cluttered desk. You watched, dazed and curious, as he fumbled with drawers and cracked open a cabinet that definitely shouldn’t have had food in it.
Finally, he turned around triumphantly. Holding out a white, rectangular box.
“Pocky.”
You stared. “…Seriously?”
“I always imagined I’d give my girlfriend Pocky after her first time with me,” he said solemnly. “Like a weird little anime reward.”
You sat up and grinned. “You are a weird little anime reward.”
He climbed back into bed beside you and opened the box, pulling out one, white chocolate-dipped stick and offering it with both hands like it was a sacred gift.
You bit it gently from his fingers.
“Mmm. You’re such a good boy,” you purred with a playful smile, “giving me snacks after ruining me.”
He short-circuited. Almost choking on his own Pocky. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“I hope so.”
You kissed his cheek, then his nose, and then— just to mess with him— you whispered, “Still thinking about how big you are, by the way.”
Jisung made a noise so high-pitched it could only be heard by dogs. He flopped face down into the sheets, flailing helplessly while you laughed and straddled his back.
“You have to stop saying things like that,” he muffled into the pillow.
“Why?” You asked sweetly, brushing his hair back. “You’re my pretty boy. I’m just appreciating what’s mine.”
He peeked up at you, still pink, still glowing.
“…Promise you’re mine too?”
You leaned down and pressed your lips against his, soft and slow.
“Always.”
𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮
I had all and then most of you, some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, haunted by the ghost of you. Oh, take me back to the night we met. ~ "the night we met" by lord huron
in which kissing your best friend was never supposed to change anything. unfortunately, it changes everything.
˚♡˚‧⁺༄ cw: explicit sexual content, alcohol, marijuana, friends-with-benefits, jealousy, emotional conflict, fear of commitment, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, unprotected sex.
⋅ᯓᡣ𐭩𝜗𝜚 notes: i haven't written anything in a super long time so i hope you guys like it!! pls be kind to me haha...no actually cuz i will cry and then never write again
Jisung’s lips are a little chapped but the taste of him-–like cherry cola and the joint you both shared not even ten minutes ago—is too intoxicating to stop.
Your mom’s were best friends, you grew up in the same house practically, spent holidays together. He was less a boy and more a permanent fixture in your home. You had done most of the looking out for him when you were younger, fending off anyone who dared to look at him the wrong way. And when he went off to college, you following him, two years later, it was his turn to look after you. He introduced you to his friends, a group of boys from the frat he joined, skipped class to hang around your dorm when you weren’t feeling well. He was your best friend. He was your Han Jisung.
Your Han Jisung, who is currently trying to convince his friends that he has never kissed you and has never thought to.
It annoys you a little. You’ve run through your fair share of men, and some women, since you’ve started college last year. You know you're attractive, that certainly isn’t the problem. So why was Jisung so adamant in proving to his friends that he’s never thought of you in that way? You were starting to feel a bit wounded.
“I’m calling bullshit,” Felix says, leaning against the beer pong table. Smoke drifts upward from the shared joint hanging between his fingers, a fuzzy halo above his blonde head. “Never? Not even once? Come on.”
You don’t even know how this conversation started. One minute you're all lounging around at this house party on a random Friday night, and the next the discussion had shifted to this.
“No,” Jisung’s thigh bounces up and down, which isn’t unusual. He always gets jittery when he smokes. “No. I haven’t, she’s like a–”
“For the love of a fat ass, don’t say she’s like a sister to you,” Hyunjin says, wrinkling his nose.
“Why not?”
Hyunjin gestures wildly at the position you two are sitting in right now. You’re practically in his lap. Your legs are tangled with his on the beat-up couch, and your head is resting on his shoulder.
“That’s how we always sit,” Jisung says, eyebrows pinched in confusion.
“Okay, well, my sister doesn’t have a lap full of me right now, so there’s that,” Felix says, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
Jisung just grumbles something and snatches the joint from Felix. He leans his head back into the couch, breathing it in deeply, passing it to you without even lifting his head from the pillows. You catch it with your teeth, brows furrowing in disappointment when you're hit with nothing. It’s dead. You pluck it from your lips and lean forward to crush it in the ashtray on the coffee table. When you settle back against the cushions, you shift, just slightly.
Your knee brushes against the crotch of his jeans. The resulting twitch from him is immediate, a little jump of muscle that tells you everything you need to know. He has thought about it. He’s lying through his teeth and it’s hurting your fucking ego.
Hyunjin stretches out his leg to nudge your leg with his foot. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You ever thought about it?”
You and Hyunjin have a weird sort of relationship. You hooked up once at a party, back when you were a freshman. Jisung had found out and gotten upset, telling you that his friends were all assholes and man-whores and were therefore off-limits. You pointed out that Jisung had slept with some of your friends and you hadn’t said anything but he wouldn’t be swayed, refusing to talk to you until you promised to never do it again. You decided then that Hyunjin, though he was beautiful and a pretty decent fuck, was not worth it. The two of you never spoke of it again, but a certain level of playful flirtation has remained.
“Sure,” you say breezily, picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion.
Jisung sits up so fast you nearly topple over. “You have?” The look on his face is nothing short of comical.
“Yeah. Have you not?”
“No,” he says, and the lie is so obvious it hangs heavy in the air, “We’re best friends.”
“So?” Hyunjin’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, dark eyes dancing with mischief. “Best friends can have fun.”
You’re starting to think he might be right. And you’re starting to think you’d like to have some fun with Jisung, especially if it meant wiping that stupid look off his face. It was a dangerous thought, one that you’d entertained briefly before, always shoving it down because it felt wrong, like crossing some sort of sacred line.
But right now, watching him squirm, it feels more like a starting line.
You shift again, slower this time, and rest your hand on his thigh. His leg stops bouncing. He freezes, all motion ceasing except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s looking straight ahead, at the wall, but you can feel the heat of his gaze on your profile.
“What’s so wrong with me that you don’t want to kiss me?” You pout, looking at him through your lashes.
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and his eyes are wide and dark and full of something you can’t quite name. “Nothing,” he breathes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
You shrug one shoulder, making a show of sighing and rolling your eyes towards the ceiling. “Clearly there’s something wrong with you, then. I know for a fact almost all of your friends have thought about kissing me.” You’re bluffing, mostly. You only know for a fact about Hyunjin. And maybe Seungmin. But that was more of a vibe.
Thankfully, Felix gets the hint. He leans forward on the couch, balancing his elbows on his knees. “I have.”
Jisung turns sharply towards him, parting his lips but before he can speak, Hyunjin chimes in, raising his hand. “I did.” Then, when Jisung throws him a look so dirty, he recoils. “Once. And I never did it again.”
“I wouldn’t be so against it,” Changbin chimes in from where he's playing beer pong. He giggles and turns back to the game ignoring the death glare from Jisung.
You flash him a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then you turn back to Jisung. You can feel the beat of his heart through the denim of his jeans, a frantic little drum solo against your palm. “See? I’m very kissable.”
He doesn't move, doesn't back away. He just swallows, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet corner of the party. His gaze drops from your eyes to your lips and back again.
You sigh loudly, untangling your legs from his and getting up from the couch. "Whatever," You step past him. "I'm gonna go get more–"
A hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back so suddenly that you can’t help but yelp, landing in a heap onto Jisung’s lap. Before you can react—or even adjust yourself properly—his lips find yours.
It’s not a soft, tentative kiss. It's a crash. It’s messy and a little desperate, the way a teenager kisses for the first time. There’s an edge of frustration to it, of months, maybe years, of unspoken tension finally boiling over. His tongue slides against yours, and you can taste the cheap beer and the lingering smoke. His hand moves from your wrist to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place. He’s kissing you like he’s trying to prove a point. Someone wolf-whistles, Felix maybe, but it fades into a distant hum, and all that’s left is the frantic beat of his heart against your palm and the dizzying taste of Han Jisung.
When he finally pulls away, you’re both breathless. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a smug little smirk playing on your lips.
"Shit," Jisung breaths. "You're good at that."
"You were there too, you know," You tease bumping your forehead into his. Maybe you should feel a little weird about kissing this boy you've known since you were children when you've never crossed this line before. But, strangely, or maybe not so strangely, there's nothing weird about it. It feels as natural as breathing, kissing Jisung.
Instead of replying, he's tilting his head up to catch your lips again, palms sliding down from your neck over the expanse of your back and smoothing over your ass, pulling you into him. He deepens the kiss with a soft groan that vibrates in your chest. It's a better kiss this time, slower, more certain. He explores your mouth with a newfound confidence. This is fun. So much fun. You're not sure why you never tried this before.
His thumb finds that little strip of skin between your top and your jeans, stroking it gently. And a shiver goes through you that has nothing to do with the buzz of the party. It’s a jolt, a current that runs straight down to your core, and your hips roll against his of their own accord. A low moan escapes your lips and into his mouth.
“Booooo,” Hyunjin says from somewhere behind you. “Get a fucking room.”
Neither of you are fazed in the slightest. You feel a great chasm opening between the two of you. It’s only been about thirty seconds of kissing Jisung and you already know you’ll never be the same without it. You mourn all the years you’ve gone without his lips on yours and you mourn for all the years that will come after this phase of kissing Jisung, because it will someday end. All your life you’ve never known anyone to keep a relationship.
You pull back from him and he pouts, a pretty little thing that you want to bite. You hold back for now.
“Why haven’t we done this sooner?” He asks, dazed. He leans in to kiss you again, but you put a finger to his lips.
“Because you were too busy denying how much you wanted to,” you say, grinning. The power you feel is intoxicating, headier than the cheap beer, sweeter than the cherry cola on his tongue.
He just grumbles something unintelligible, nipping at the pad of your finger before leaning back into the couch, pulling you with him. His grip on your waist is firm in a way that sends another thrill through you. He’s not letting you go.
You end up making out for the rest of the party, tucked into your little corner of the couch. The weed and the alcohol fade into a distant hum, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of him. When the party eventually thins out and he walks you home, he kisses you some more at the door and you have to physically pull yourself away from him.
“Okay, okay,” you laugh as he tries to follow you inside. “Go home, Ji.”
“When can I see you again?” he asks, a desperate edge to his voice. His hair is a mess from where your hands have been tangled in it, and his lips are swollen and red.
“You see me practically every day.” You shrug, trying to play it cool, even as your heart hammers against your ribs. “And we have that paper to finish for psych.”
“Forget the paper,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to kiss you again.” He takes a step closer, his hands finding your hips. “I don't think I can stop.”
He’s looking at you with a raw, open honesty that makes your breath catch in your throat. This is not the Jisung you know. Your Jisung is goofy and sarcastic, prone to hiding behind jokes and deflecting with humor. This Jisung is… intense.
“Tomorrow,” you say, your voice a little too soft. “You can see me tomorrow.”
He seems to accept this, nodding slowly. He leans in and gives you one last, lingering kiss, a soft, gentle press of lips that feels more intimate than all the frantic kissing from before. “Okay,” he whispers against your mouth. “Tomorrow.”
He takes a few steps down the path, then he stops and turns back. The porch light casts him in a soft, golden glow, but you can see the uncertainty in the set of his shoulders. He’s a silhouette against the dark night, and for a second, he looks like the little boy you used to build pillow forts with.
“Hey,” he calls out, shoving his hands in his pockets. “This… this doesn’t change anything, right?”
You pause with your hand on the doorknob. Change anything? The idea is almost laughable. You and Jisung have been a constant in each other's lives since before you could even remember. What could a few kisses possibly change?
“Of course not,” you say, a genuine, easy smile spreading across your face. “We’re just having fun. Right?”
“Right,” he nods. “Fun. Right.”
He turns and jogs away, a spring in his step that wasn't there before. You watch him go, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest. It’s just fun. You’ve always been good at having fun.
And fun it is. Your relationship hasn't changed much, at least not on the surface. You still hang out nearly every day, still bicker over what to eat for dinner, still fall asleep watching movies in his bed. The only difference is that now, you kiss. You kiss in the morning, before you’ve even brushed your teeth, a sleepy, soft press of lips. You kiss in the afternoon, between classes, a quick, hard peck against the brick wall of the humanities building. You kiss at night, tangled in his sheets, long, deep, and searching, until you’re both breathless and aching for more.
The line between friendship and… whatever this is… has become a blurry, beautiful mess.
You’re in his room, a month into this new arrangement. You’re supposed to be studying for a midterm, but your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, its pages crumpled. Jisung is on top of you, his weight a pleasant, grounding pressure. He's kissing a trail down your neck, his lips hot and insistent against your skin.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear. His hand slips under your shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on the soft skin of your stomach.
You arch into him, a soft gasp escaping your lips. Your fingers tighten in his hair. This is the part that’s always been a little blurry. You've never crossed this line, never went beyond just making out and heavy petting. It feels like the next logical step in this "fun" you're having, but there’s a tiny, hesitant part of you that’s still a little afraid of what that step might mean.
“Jisung,” you breathe, your voice a little shaky.
He pulls back, his face hovering just above yours. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you say, shaking your head. “Nothing’s wrong.” You reach up and cup his face, your thumb stroking his cheek. “I just… I'm on my period."
It's a lie. You don't know why you're lying. Maybe you're scared. Maybe you know that having sex with your best friend is a line you can't uncross. But he doesn't need to know that.
He blinks, processing this, then a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. "So?"
"So?" you echo, a little thrown. "So, it's gross. Don't tell me you've done it before."
"I mean, yeah," he shrugs, "a couple of times. It's not a big deal." He leans down and kisses you, a quick, soft peck on the lips. "I don't care. Did you know it helps a lot with cramps?"
You roll your eyes, but you can't help but laugh. "Did you read that on a feminist blog or something?"
He scratches his eyebrow. "Actually, I was researching what helped with period cramps after you mentioned having really bad ones a few years ago." he says, his ears turning a shade of pink. He smiles sheepishly. "I ended up settling for some Advil."
The admission is so unexpected, so utterly Jisung, that it cuts through the haze of arousal. You let out a small, breathy laugh. "You're an idiot," you say, but there's no malice in it. You reach up and smooth the furrow in his brow. "A sweet, researched-my-cramps idiot."
He grins, relieved. "So... no on the period sex?"
You shake your head, a genuine smile on your face. "No. Nice try though."
"Damn," he says, though he doesn't sound too disappointed. He shifts, rolling off you to lie beside you. "Can I at least still touch you?"
You pretend to think about it, tapping a finger against your chin. "Hmm, I don't know. I'm a very fragile flower right now."
He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right. A fragile flower who was just trying to rip my shirt off five seconds ago."
"Was not."
"Were too."
"Was not."
"Were too."
"If I wanted your shirt off, I would have it off by now," You point out. And you would have. You’re an expert at undressing men quickly.
"I'm not that easy," Jisung protests, propping his head on his elbow to look at you comfortably. "I don't take my shirt off for just anybody."
You roll onto your side to face him, propping your own head up. The sunlight catches in his hair, turning it into a fluffy, brown halo. "Yeah, well, I'm not just anybody. And I've seen you shirtless a bijillion times anyway."
"Yeah but not during sexy sexy time." He wiggles his eyebrows at you.
"Take off your shirt, Jisung." You say, sitting up now, poking his chest with your finger. He yelps, smacking your hand away.
"I just said I'm not that easy!" He whines.
You just stare at him, raising a single eyebrow.
He holds out for approximately three seconds before he sighs dramatically and sits up, crossing his arms and grabbing the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor. "There. Are you happy?"
You gap at him. "You got a tattoo? Holy shit, it's big."
He grins, unable to help it. "That's not the only thing that's bi--"
You cut him off with a look. He clears his throat. "Uh, yeah. I had it done almost two months ago now."
You trace the elegant cursive script with your eyes. It starts just under his left armpit, a single, beautifully rendered word. Blessed. The letters flow down his side, over the sensitive skin of his ribs, disappearing tantalizingly beneath the waistband of his jeans. You have an overwhelming urge to see the rest of it.
"Blessed?" You trace the letters with your fingertip, from the top down as far as you can go. The skin under your touch is warm. He shivers. "Why 'Blessed'?"
He shrugs, looking away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "I don't know. Just felt right."
A memory suddenly rises to your mind. ""Blessed is he who has learned the causes of things""
He grins sheepishly. "Am I really that predictable?" He asks.
"Yes, you pretentious shit, quoting Virgil." You say but there is no heat in it. "You are such a dork."
He laughs, a soft, breathy sound that rumbles through his chest. You shift, laying your head on his stomach so you can get a better view of the tattoo, your fingers continuing their slow, meandering path over the ink. His skin is soft here. You can feel the muscles of his abdomen tighten slightly under your touch.
"It's about…," he beings thoughtfully, his voice vibrating through your ear. His fingers start to play with your hair, gently combing through the strands. "It's about... understanding, you know? Not just letting shit happen to you, but actually trying to figure out the why. The cause and effect."
You hum in response, your finger tracing the curve of the 's' in 'Blessed'. You can feel the slight raised texture of the healed ink against your skin.
"When I was getting it done," he continues, his voice a low, intimate murmur, "it hurt like a bitch. But it was this weird, focused pain. I could feel the needle, and I knew exactly where it was coming from and why it hurt. And for some reason, that made it... easier. Made me feel in control." He pauses. "Most of life isn't like that. Things just happen. People get sick, relationships end, you fail a test... you don't always get to know the cause."
Your finger stills. You can feel the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. He's not talking about Virgil anymore. He's talking about everything. About the anxiety that sometimes keeps him up all night, about the sheer, terrifying randomness of the world.
"I guess I just wanted a reminder," he says, and you can tell he's not really here with you, but somewhere deep inside of his head. "That even if I can't control the causes, I can at least try to learn them. To understand them. And maybe... maybe that's a kind of blessing in itself."
You press your lips against the skin of his ribs, right over the last visible letter of the word. It's a soft, gentle kiss, nothing like the frantic, demanding kisses from before.
He lets out a shaky breath, his hand stilling in your hair. You feel his fingers tighten just a little bit, a reflexive grasp. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner and the frantic, unsteady beating of your own heart.
You assume he must be getting sex from elsewhere, because it's been two months since you first kissed him, and you still haven't gone all the way. The make-out sessions have escalated, sure. Hands wander further, clothes come off more readily. There's a fine sheen of sweat on your skin almost every night after he leaves your dorm room. But you always pull back, and he always, always, lets you.
You're starting to feel like a fraud. You preach 'fun' and 'no feelings,' but you're the one who's scared. Scared that crossing that final line will shatter everything you've built with him.
The thought of him with someone else gnaws at you. You try to brush it off. He's a college guy. Of course he's hooking up with other people. You do too, or you would be, if you could muster up the energy to go on a date instead of spending all your free time with Jisung.
You don't like feeling this way. It's an icky, possessive feeling that has no place in a 'fun' arrangement.
The thought bubbles up out of your mouth one evening while you're sprawled on your floor, 'studying' for finals. "Are you sleeping with anyone else?"
Jisung, who is highlighting a paragraph in a textbook with an almost violent concentration, freezes. The bright yellow highlighter hovers over the page. He doesn't look up.
"No," he says, a beat too late. "Are you?"
The question hangs in the air between you, charged with an unspoken electricity. You're not. You haven't even thought about it. The idea of going on a date with some random guy from your stats class feels exhausting, and deeply unappealing.
"No," you admit, picking at a loose thread on the rug. "I just... I figured you would be. We're not... exclusive."
"So?" He finally looks up, and his eyes are dark, serious. "I don't want to."
"Why not?" You press, needing to know. "I'm not putting out. A guy has needs."
A muscle in his jaw jumps. "I'm getting my needs met," he says, his voice low and a little rough. He puts down the highlighter and closes the book with a soft thud.
You sit up, genuinely intrigued. "With who?"
"With no one."
"That makes no sense, Ji, how--"
He just stares at you, a long, intense look that makes your stomach do a little flip. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.
"Oh," you breathe, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. He's getting off on you. With the thought of you. The thought is so hot, so surprisingly intimate, that it makes you dizzy.
"Yeah, 'oh'," he mimics, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He leans back on his hands, stretching his long legs out. "Is that a problem?"
"No," you say, a little too quickly. "No, it's not a problem."
"Good."
He goes back to his book, but the spell is broken. You can't focus. The image of him, alone in his room, thinking of you, is burned into the back of your eyelids.
"How come?"
He glances at you. "How come I jacked off to the thought of you riding my face in the library last week?" he asks, deadpan.
You choke on your own spit. "Jisung!"
"What? You asked," he shrugs, completely unfazed.
"That's not what I was asking, I–in the library?"
"Study room C," he clarifies, as if that's the detail you were stuck on. "The chairs are surprisingly sturdy–"
"Anyway," You interrupt. "I meant, how come you haven't been fucking anyone else?"
He sucks on his teeth. "Cuz I don't want to. Besides, it's not like there's any options anyway."
You snort. "That's a bold faced lie, Han Jisung, I know for a fact that that red head from lit has been trying to get in your pants for at least a month."
Jisung blinks. “I thought she was just interested in lizards.”
“No one is actually interested in lizards,” You point out.
“I am.”
“You’re a one in a million, Ji. Maybe even a billion. Are you really just going to keep her waiting?”
He shrugs. “I was never going to sleep with her.”
Now it’s your turn to blink in surprise. “Whoa. Okay, what up?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me, you’re the one with some sort of deadly illness. A girl’s throwing herself at you and you don’t want to have sex with her?”
“Is that so bad?”
“No…it’s just weird. And a little out of character for you.”
“Is it?” He finally looks up, looking deep into your eyes. “Would you really be okay with me sleeping with her?”
“She’s not really my type, to be honest, so you can have–”
“No,” He cuts off, sounding frustrated now. It surprises you. “I’m not asking specifically about her. Are you really okay with me sleeping with anyone?”
That takes you off guard. “Yes? Why would I not be?”
He looks at you for a long moment, before turning back, huffing a little irritated laugh. “Right. Never mind, forget it.”
He turns back to his book, highlighting aggressively and leaving you completely and utterly confused. You don't press it. The air is too thick with things you don't want to name.
The party is in full swing, a chaotic explosion of relief and cheap alcohol. The air in the frat house is thick with the smell of spilled beer and sweat, the bass from the speakers vibrating through the soles of your feet. Finals are over. Summer is a breath away. You should be celebrating.
Instead, you're leaning against a sticky wall in the kitchen, watching Jisung from across the room. He's holding court, of course, a circle of admirers hanging on his every word. Among them is the redhead from your lit class, the lizard enthusiast. She's laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his arm.
A hot, ugly feeling coils in your stomach. Possessiveness. Jealousy. You hate it. You hate it more as you watch her latch onto Jisung’s wrist and pull him away. He goes willingly.
You push off the wall and grab a solo cup of what smells like regret and fruit punch, downing half of it in one go. The alcohol burns a path down your throat.
You spot Hyunjin by the beer pong table, a triumphant grin on his face as he sinks the last cup. He catches your eye and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. You give him a tight-lipped smile and make your way over.
“Having fun?” he asks, handing you a fresh beer.
“Peachy,” you say, taking a long sip.
His gaze drifts over to where disappeared with the redhead. “Trouble in paradise?”
“There is no paradise,” you snap, a little too harshly. “There’s just… a sandbox. And someone’s trying to play in my sandbox.”
Hyunjin laughs, a low, knowing sound. “You’re so full of shit. You like him.”
“Of course I like him, he’s my best friend.”
“You know what I mean,” he says, leaning closer. “You’ve been different with him these last few months. Softer, but also… jumpier. Like a stray cat that’s finally decided to let someone pet it but is still ready to bolt at any second.” You open your mouth to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. Because he’s right. You are a stray cat, and you’re terrified.
Before you can formulate a response, a new voice joins the conversation. “Who’s a stray cat?”
It’s Felix, all sunshine and smiles, his arm slung around Changbin’s shoulders. He looks between you and Hyunjin, his curiosity piqued.
“Her,” Hyunjin says, jerking a thumb in your direction. “She’s finally realizing she’s in love with Jisung.”
The words land like a bomb. The kitchen seems to go silent, the thumping bass of the music fading into a dull roar. Your heart hammers against your ribs. In love. The phrase is so absolute, so terrifyingly final. It’s not ‘fun.’ It’s not ‘messing around.’ It’s love.
You’re about to laugh it off, to make some cutting remark that will shut Hyunjin down, but you don’t get the chance. Because you see it. Over Hyunjin’s shoulder, you see Jisung. He’s no longer with the redhead. He’s standing at the edge of the living room, and he’s looking right at you. And you know, with a sickening certainty, that he heard.
You shove past Hyunjin, ignoring his calls of your name. You need to get out of here. You need air. You push through the throng of bodies, the sticky floor gripping your shoes, the heat of the room pressing in on you. You burst through the front door into the cool night air, stumbling down the porch steps.
The front door opens and closes behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him.
“What was Hyunjin talking about?” His voice is tight, strained.
“Nothing,” you say, turning to face him. “He was just being an idiot.” You wrap your arms around yourself, a sudden chill making you shiver.
“He said you were in love with me,” he presses, taking a step closer. “Is that true?” His eyes are searching yours, desperate for an answer. And you can’t lie. Not to him. Not when he’s looking at you like that.
“No,” you say, the word coming out small and brittle. Because it’s not love. It can’t be. Love is messy and painful and ends with people crying on the bathroom floor. This is just… this is just a complication.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not about this.”
“I’m not lying!” you insist, your own voice rising with frustration. “Why do you even care? I saw you disappear with lizard girl."
He flinches as if you've slapped him. "Lizard girl? Her name is Sophie. And I didn't 'disappear' with her, I walked her to the door because she was too drunk to find it."
"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was," you scoff, the jealousy burning hot and irrational in your chest. "Poor, helpless Sophie."
"What the hell is your problem?" he says tightly, his usually calm demeanor shattering completely. "You say you don’t mind me sleeping with other people, but the second I so much as talk to another girl, you act like I've cheated on you!"
"Because you're supposed to be my friend!" you say harshly, your voice echoing in the quiet street. "You're not supposed to want them! You're supposed to want m—"
You cut yourself off, but it's too late. The words hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. You're supposed to want me.
Jisung stares at you, his expression a confusing mix of shock, hurt, and something that looks dangerously like hope. "Want you?" he repeats, his voice dangerously low. "Is that what this is about? Your ego? You need me to want you and only you, but you won't give me anything real in return?"
"That's not what I said!"
"It's what you meant!" he shoots back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, you are so selfish. You want all of my attention, all of my...want. But you won't even admit what this is. You won't give me a label. What am I supposed to do, just wait around forever until you deign to let me in?"
His words are like shards of glass, each one finding a vulnerable spot. He's right. You have been selfish. You've been taking all the comfort and affection he offers without giving anything of substance back.
"Maybe you should just go fuck Sophie then," you spit out, the words laced with a venom you didn't know you possessed. "Maybe she's not as selfish as I am."
"Maybe I will," he retorts, his jaw set. "At least with her, I know where I stand."
The silence that follows is deafening. It’s heavier and colder than the night air. You can feel the chasm between you widening, a crack in the foundation of your entire friendship that you’re not sure can ever be repaired.
He looks at you one last time, and all the anger in his eyes has been replaced by a deep, profound sadness. "You know," he says, his voice quiet and hollow. "For someone who claims to be so good at reading people, you're really fucking clueless."
And with that, he turns and walks away. He doesn't look back. He just disappears into the night, leaving you standing alone on the sidewalk, the thumping bass from the party a distant, mocking heartbeat. The warmth from the alcohol has evaporated, leaving you cold and hollow. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself, but it doesn't help. You're not sure anything will ever help again.
The next few days are a special kind of hell. Silence. That's the worst part. The constant, buzzing silence where Jisung's laughter used to be. Your phone feels heavy and useless. You stare at your text thread with him, the last message being a stupid meme he sent you two days before the party. You can't bring yourself to type anything. What would you even say? Sorry I called you selfish and told you to go fuck someone else? It sounds hollow, even in your head.
You avoid the dorm lounge, the library, the coffee shop. Anywhere you might run into him or one of the guys. You exist in a bubble of your own making, attending your final classes and then retreating to the suffocating safety of your room. The unpacked boxes in the corner of your room seem to mock you, a reminder that summer is here and you have no idea what that means anymore. Summer has always meant Jisung. It has meant lazy days by the pool and late-night drives and the two of you against the world. Now, it just means a gaping, empty void.
A week later, the sky decides to open up and weep all over the city. You’re on your way to the storage unit to finally drop off the last of your boxes when your car, an ancient and temperamental sedan Jisung affectionately named ‘The Beast,’ sputters, coughs, and dies.
Of course it does.
You’re in the middle of nowhere, on a stretch of road lined with industrial parks and warehouses. The rain is coming down in sheets, so heavy you can barely see the hood of your car. The wipers are squeaking a pathetic, rhythmic protest. You try turning the key. Nothing. Just a series of sad, clicking sounds.
Panic, cold and sharp, starts to prickle at the edges of your calm. You pull out your phone, your fingers slippery with rain. You call Hyunjin. It goes straight to voicemail. You try Felix. He picks up on the fifth ring.
“Hello?” His voice is tinny and distant.
“Lix! Thank god, my car died and I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere and it’s pouring—”
“Oh, shit, that sucks,” he says, and you can hear the muffled sounds of a crowd. “I’m at this really lame family thing, I can’t really get away. Have you tried Changbin?”
“He doesn’t have a car,” you say, your frustration mounting.
“Jisung then,” Felix says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious solution in the world.
Your stomach clenches. “I’m not calling Jisung.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end. “Oh. Right. The fight.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry. I really can’t leave. Maybe try a tow truck?”
“Great idea, Felix,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm you immediately regret. “Sorry. Thanks anyway.”
You hang up and let your head fall against the steering wheel. The metal is cold against your forehead. You call a roadside assistance number. The automated voice tells you the estimated wait time is two hours. Two hours. In this. You stare out at the grey, water-logged world, a proper, miserable self-pity party for one.
You feel small and helpless. Hated. You’ve made a complete mess of everything. All because you were scared of a word. Love. What a stupid, four-letter word to ruin a decade-long friendship.
You don't know how long you sit there, wallowing in a slurry of anger, guilt, and misery. Time loses its meaning, marked only by the drumming of the rain on the roof and the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car that leaves you feeling even more isolated. You’re so wrapped up in your own head, replaying the fight on a loop, that you don't even notice the pair of headlights that pull up behind you, their beams cutting through the downpour.
You jump violently when a loud rap sounds on your driver's side window. Your heart leaps into your throat. You turn, ready to scream at a serial killer or a creepy trucker, and freeze.
It’s Jisung.
He’s standing in the pouring rain, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. He’s wearing a thin hoodie that’s soaked through, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you, his expression unreadable through the glass and the streaks of rain.
For a second, you just stare at each other. He looks exhausted, there are dark circles under his eyes that match the ones you've seen in your own reflection all week. He gives a small, almost imperceptible nod towards the lock.
You fumble with the button, your fingers clumsy and cold. The door clicks open. He pulls it, the rush of cold, wet air immediately filling the car. He doesn't get in, just stands there, half-in, half-out, creating a small, temporary shelter from the storm.
“Felix called me,” he says by way of explanation. His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion. “Said you were being an idiot.”
You don't know what to say. Thank you feels too small. Go away feels too cruel. So you just sit there, clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline, unable to meet his gaze.
“The Beast’s dead?” he asks, nodding towards the sputtering engine.
You manage a weak nod.
“Figured.” He sighs, and it’s a weary, bone-deep sound. He shivers, a full-body tremor that he tries to suppress. “Pop the hood.”
You do as he says, fumbling for the latch. He leans out, expertly propping the hood open. He vanishes for a moment into the downpour, and you watch him through the windshield as he peers at the engine, his brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so out of place here, a boy of books and music and carefully chosen words, poking at the greasy guts of a dead machine. A wave of affection so strong it hurts.
He fiddles for a few minutes, yanking on a cable here, checking a connection there. He comes back to the window, shaking his head, water flying from his hair like a wet dog.
“Battery’s fried,” he says, his teeth chattering slightly. “And I think the alternator’s gone too. There’s nothing I can do out here.”
You just nod again, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak. The silence stretches, punctuated only by the drumming rain.
“Come on,” he says, breaking it. “Get your stuff. I’ll take you back.”
You should refuse. You should tell him you’ve already called a tow, that you’ll be fine, that you don’t need him. But the lie dies on your lips. Because you do. You need him.
You grab your backpack and the box from the passenger seat, your movements stiff and awkward. He opens the back door of his car for you, placing your things carefully on the seat before closing it again. You slide into the passenger side, the warmth of the car’s heater a shocking, welcome sensation. The interior smells like him—faintly of laundry detergent and that specific, clean scent you’ve never been able to place.
He gets in, not a word spoken between you. The engine hums to life, a smooth, steady purr that is the complete opposite of your dead car. He pulls back onto the road, the wipers working overtime to clear the glass. The drive is suffocatingly quiet. You keep your eyes fixed on the passenger-side window, watching the blurry city lights streak by. Every muscle in your body is tense. You can feel the heat radiating from him, just a few inches away. The space between you feels both too vast and dangerously small.
You finally pull up outside your dorm building. The rain has eased to a miserable drizzle. He puts the car in park but leaves the engine running. The silence is back, heavier than ever. This is it. The moment where you have to say something.
“I can pay you for the gas,” you blurt out, hating how formal and stupid it sounds.
He doesn’t even look at you. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Jisung, I—”
“What are your plans for the summer?” he asks, cutting you off. His tone is casual, but you can hear the tension coiled beneath it.
The question catches you off guard. “Um, I don’t know. Work at the cafe, I guess. Take a couple of summer classes.” The words feel hollow, a list of empty activities to fill the gaping hole where he used to be.
He nods slowly, finally turning to look at you. The streetlights cast shadows across his face, making his expression impossible to read. “I’m going back home for a while. Help my parents with some stuff.”
Home. He’s going home. To another city. A three-hour drive away. It’s what he does every summer, but this year it feels like a final judgment. A sentence.
“Oh,” is all you can manage. “Okay.”
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze dropping to his hands on the steering wheel. “So.”
“So.”
You should go. You should thank him, get your stuff, and just go. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, trapped by the weight of all the things you haven’t said. You look at him, really look at him. At the slope of his nose, the worried line of his lips, the way he’s rubbing at a spot on the steering well with his thumb—a nervous habit you’ve seen a thousand times. Your best friend. The boy you’ve known since you were both gangly, brace-faced seventh graders. The boy whose shoulder you cried on when your first dog died, the boy who helped you sneak out for your first high school party, the boy who knows all your secrets. Except the most important one. The one you were too scared to even admit to yourself.
"Ji," Water drips from your hair onto your lap. Without looking, you reach your hand across the vast space of the center console, palm up, fingers spread. "Will you hold my hand?"
He flinches, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. His eyes flick from your outstretched hand to your face and back again, a war of emotions playing out in their depths. Anger, hurt, exhaustion, longing. He hesitates for a beat that feels like an eternity.
Then, slowly, he lifts his hand from the steering wheel and places it in yours. His palm is warm and a little damp. He doesn't lace his fingers through yours, just lets them rest there, a tentative, fragile connection. The contact sends a jolt through you, a current of warmth that chases away the chill that’s been living in your bones for a week.
You stare at your joined hands. His hand is bigger than yours, the fingers long and calloused in places from playing guitar. There's a small scar on his knuckle from when he tripped and fell trying to climb a tree to rescue your frisbee in tenth grade. You trace it with your thumb.
You take a shaky breath, the words bubbling up from a place you didn't know existed. "Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit."
He sucks in a sharp breath. You feel it more than hear it. He knows. Of course, he knows. It's Virgil. He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the anger in his eyes has finally dissipated, replaced by a profound, aching sadness.
"Maybe it will be a pleasure one day to remember even this," he translates. "Who's a pretentious little shit now?
A weak, watery laugh escapes your lips, half-sob. "Still you."
He huffs a small, humorless laugh. You take the opening with both hands. "Please don't go home."
"I have to."
"Why?"
"Because I can't do this," he says, his voice cracking. "I can't be around you and pretend it doesn't hurt."
"What hurts?"
His gaze is piercing, direct. "You know what hurts." His fingers tighten around yours, a desperate, pleading gesture. "You stand there and you tell me it's all just fun, but you jealous of a girl I was just walking to the door. You quote our poet to try and fix things after you shatter me. You're so goddamn confusing."
"I'm not confused." You snap. "I know what will happen if we do this, Jisung, I'm surprised that you don't."
"What happens? We get a happy ending? God for-fucking-bid."
"This is not a fairytale, Ji." You press. "I haven't ever seen a monogamous relationship last longer than three months. My parents have been cheating on each other for 20 years, yours are divorced, none of our friends have ever had a stable partnership."
"So what? Our failure is pre-determined because everyone else sucks?" He scoffs. "You use your parents as an excuse to not let anyone in. To not try for anything real."
"I am not using them as an excuse!" You pull your hand away from his, crossing your arms over your chest. "Why are you pushing for this so hard? Do you want to get your heart broken? Do you want to lose your best friend? Because that's what's going to happen. We're going to be miserable and then we're never going to be able to look at each other again."
"So what's the alternative?" He yells, his frustration boiling over. "We go back to being 'just friends'? We pretend this never happened? We ignore the fact that I am completely, head over heels in love with you? That I have been for ten years?"
The words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ten years. Not months. Not since you started kissing. But ten years. Since you were awkward, brace-faced teenagers.
"I can't do that," he says, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "I can't go back to pretending. So either we try, or we don't. And if we don't... then I do have to go home. Because I can't be your friend anymore."
The finality of it hits you like a physical blow. He's not threatening you. He's stating a fact. This is the ultimatum you never saw coming. It's not about sex or labels or even love, not really. It's about survival. He can't survive being near you like this. And you're not sure you can either.
"That's bullshit, Jisung, you can't make me choose, it's not fair." You say, your eyes are welling up with tears. This is the opposite of fun. This is messy and painful and it hurts.
"It's not fair to me to be in love with someone who will never love me back but won’t let me go."
You look at him, at the raw pain etched on his face. You think about all the times he's been there for you. All the times he's picked you up when you've fallen. All the times he's held your hand and told you it would be okay. You think about the tattoo on his ribs, Blessed. A blessing to understand the causes of things.
"I do love you." You say, the words feeling foreign and strange on your tongue.
He just stares at you, his expression unreadable. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
"You don't even know what that word means."
"If you know that, then why do you want me to say it so bad?" You say, your voice raising again. "Why are you so determined to ruin this?"
"Ruin this?" He asks, incredulous. "This is already ruined! We've been ruining it for months! We've been tiptoeing around this thing, this massive, huge thing, and we've been slowly poisoning our friendship in the process. I'm not ruining it, I'm just the only one willing to admit that it's already on fucking fire!"
You can't take it anymore. The car feels too small, the air too thick. You fumble for the door handle, shoving it open and stumbling out into the drizzling rain. The water is cold on your skin, but it’s a welcome shock to your system.
You hear the click of his door opening and closing, and then his footsteps are splashing behind you. "Where are you going?" He calls out.
"Away from you!" You yell, not turning around.
You don't get far. He catches your arm, spinning you around to face him. You're both soaked now, your hair plastered to your faces, your clothes clinging to your skin. The rain is coming down harder again, but neither of you seems to notice.
"That's the problem!" He shouts, his face inches from yours. "You can't get away from me! And I can't get away from you! We're stuck!"
You're crying now, hot tears mingling with the cold rain on your cheeks. "Then what are we supposed to do?"
And then he's kissing you.
It's not like the other kisses. It's not fun or playful or tentative. It's desperate and angry and full of all the words you haven't been able to say. His lips are cold from the rain, but they're insistent, demanding. You kiss him back with just as much force, your hands tangling in his wet hair, pulling him closer. You're not thinking about the future or the past or the consequences. You're just thinking about him. About the feel of his body against yours, the taste of rain on his lips, the way he's holding you like he's afraid you're going to disappear.
Somehow, you make it back to your room. The keycard fumbles in your shaking hands, but you finally get the door open. You stumble inside, a trail of water and mud in your wake. The door slams shut behind you, cutting off the storm. You're a mess, dripping all over the floor, your clothes sopping.
He pushes you against the door, his body pinning yours, his lips finding yours again in the dim light of your room. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your wet shirt, his touch electric on your skin. You're both shaking, but it's not from the cold anymore.
"Jisung," you gasp against his mouth.
"Shut up," he murmurs, kissing you again. "Just shut up."
You don't argue. You let him silence you with his mouth, let the frantic energy of the argument transmute into a frantic, desperate need. This isn't about fun anymore. This is about claiming, about marking, about trying to bridge the chasm that has opened up between you with teeth and tongue and nails.
He rips your shirt over your head, the wet fabric catching briefly before it's discarded on the floor. His hands are on your skin, warm and firm, a stark contrast to the chill still clinging to you. He trails kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you arch into him, a gasp tearing from your throat. Your hands fumble with the hem of his own soaked hoodie, pushing it up over his stomach, your fingers tracing the familiar, now-slick lines of his tattoo.
Blessed. The word screams in your mind. What a cruel, cosmic joke. This feels like a curse.
He shudders under your touch, lifting his arms so you can pull the hoodie and the t-shirt underneath off in one go. They land with a wet slap on the floor. He's beautiful. You've seen him shirtless a hundred times, at the pool, in your dorm, but it's never been like this. His chest is heaving, his skin glistening with rain and exertion. In the low light, the muscles in his arms and shoulders are starkly defined, a testament to the tension that's been riding him for weeks.
You want to devour him. You want to crawl inside his skin and stay there. The thought is terrifying.
He walks you backward, your bodies still pressed together, until your knees hit the edge of your bed. You fall back onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. He lands on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He pauses, propping himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is dripping onto your face, but you don't care. You just look at him, at the raw, open expression on his face. All the anger is gone, replaced by a desperate, aching need that mirrors your own.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low, rough rasp. "I need you to be sure."
You reach up, threading your fingers through the wet hair at the nape of his neck, and pull him down for another kiss. He lets you kiss him for a moment, a deep, slow kiss that feels like a surrender. Then he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.
"Words," he whispers.
The fear comes back, a cold snake coiling in your gut. Words are what got you into this mess. Words are what will define whatever happens next. But looking into his eyes, seeing the vulnerability and the hope warring there, you know you can't deny him.
"Please," you breathe, the word barely a puff of air between you. "Please fuck me, Jisung"
It's not a declaration of love. It's not a promise of forever. It's raw, it's present, and it's the truest thing you can say in this moment.
A groan rips from his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He kisses you again, hard and deep, and this time there's no holding back. His hands make quick work of the button on your jeans, and you lift your hips to help him pull them off. The rest of your clothes follow in a frantic, desperate tangle of limbs, until you're both naked, skin to skin, the heat of your bodies chasing away the last of the chill.
He touches you with a reverence you didn't expect. His hands map every inch of your skin, his lips following in their wake. He pays attention to the places that make you gasp, the places that make you shiver. He's not in a hurry anymore. He's savoring. He's learning.
He kisses his way down your body, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire. He lingers at the hollow of your throat, the dip of your navel, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You're trembling, a fine, constant shudder running through you. You're so lost in the sensation that you almost cry out when he finally, finally puts his mouth on you.
His tongue is soft and wet and impossibly skilled. He licks and sucks and teases, building a tension in you that's almost unbearable. You bury your fingers in his hair, holding him to you, your hips arching off the bed. He's relentless, pushing you higher and higher, until you're a writhing, whimpering mess.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers. "My god, look at you."
You can't form words, can only make a desperate, pleading sound. He chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that sends a new wave of pleasure through you. He slips two fingers inside you, curling them just right, and that's it. The tension in you snaps, and you come with a cry, your body convulsing with the force of it.
He doesn't stop. He works you through your orgasm, his tongue and fingers never ceasing their movements, drawing out the pleasure until it's almost painful. Just when you think you can't take anymore, the building starts again, slower this time, deeper. It’s a different kind of tension, coiling low in your belly.
You feel a brief, sharp sting as he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. You gasp, not from pain, but from the primal, possessive thrill of it. He soothes the bite mark with his tongue, a soothing, apologetic gesture, before returning to his ministrations. He's everywhere now, his broad shoulders holding your thighs open, one hand splayed across your stomach to hold you down, the other pumping into you with a steady, insistent rhythm. He's completely focused, his entire being concentrated on this one task, on giving you this one thing. The sounds he makes are obscene, wet, hungry sounds that make your cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and intense arousal.
You're lost in a haze of sensation, your mind gone blank, your body no longer your own. You're just a collection of nerve endings, all firing at once, all screaming for him. It starts in your toes, a tingling warmth that spreads up your legs, through your torso, until it engulfs you completely. You're no longer in your room, in your bed. You're adrift in a sea of pleasure, and he is your only anchor. The world dissolves into a blinding, white-hot light, and you're dimly aware of your own voice crying out his name, a broken, desperate prayer.
When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body, his movements slow, deliberate. He licks the sweat from your skin, tasting the salt of your exertion. He hovers over you, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and intense. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving. You can feel the hard, hot length of him pressed against your thigh.
"You with me?" he asks, his voice a raw, husky whisper.
You can only manage a weak nod, your body still humming with the aftershocks.
He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your sweat-slicked forehead. "You look so good when you come."
The words, so blunt, so Jisung, send a fresh jolt of heat through you. He kisses you then, a slow, deep kiss that tastes of you and of him and of the desperate, unspoken things between you. You can feel the desperation in him, the barely contained need. He wants you. He's wanted you for ten years. The thought is staggering.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jisung," you breathe, a plea and a permission all in one.
"Do you know how crazy you make me?" he murmurs against your lips. "How hard it's been to keep my hands to myself?"
"Then don't," you say, your voice surprisingly steady. "Don't keep your hands to yourself."
He laughs breathlessly. "I haven't been. Did you miss the part where I've been eating you out for the last half hour?"
You wriggle your hips, brushing against his and he bucks, a choked gasp escaping him. "Must've missed the part where you actually fucked me."
"Impatient," He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you. He pauses, looking down at you, his expression a mixture of awe and terror. "Last chance to change your mind," he says, though you both know it's a lie. There's no going back now.
"Shut up, Jisung," you whisper, echoing his own words from earlier. And you pull him down for another kiss.
He enters you in one slow, steady thrust. You're so wet, so ready for him, that he slides in easily, but the stretch is still overwhelming. He fills you completely, a deep, satisfying ache that makes you feel whole in a way you haven't in a long, long time.
"Ohh, fuck," he moans, burying his face in your neck. "You feel… fuck."
You can't speak, can only hold on to him, your nails digging into the sweat-slick planes of his back. He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that's designed to unravel you. Each thrust is a question, a plea, a declaration.
You meet him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving in a perfect, primal rhythm. The room is filled with the sounds of your lovemaking—the slap of skin against skin, the wet sounds of your bodies joining, the broken moans and whispered words that are barely coherent but mean everything.
He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and he hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You cry out, your back arching off the bed. He takes it as encouragement, setting a harder, faster pace. One of his hands slides down your body, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing it in tight, insistent circles. The dual sensation is almost too much, a sensory overload that threatens to send you over the edge.
You'd wondered, idly, in the back of your mind, what this would be like. You knew he was experienced, had heard the whispers and seen the aftermath. A part of you, the petty, jealous part, had steeled itself for mediocrity. But this... this is something else entirely. He's attuned to your every response, every gasp and shudder, adjusting his movements to push you higher, to pull you apart. This isn't the clumsy fumbling of a college hookup. This is a masterclass, a symphony of sensation, and you're the unwilling, adoring audience. You understand now, with a clarity that's both thrilling and terrifying, why they always looked at him afterward like they'd just seen God. You're starting to feel it yourself.
He seems to know you're close, and he slows down, a torturous, deliberate withdrawal that leaves you empty and aching. He pulls out almost completely, leaving only the head of his cock inside you, then pushes back in, inch by agonizing inch. He does it again, and again, a slow, maddening tease that makes you want to scream. His thumb is still on your clit, a slow, maddening circle that keeps you balanced on the knife's edge of orgasm, never quite letting you fall.
"Look at me," he says, shuddering. "Look at me and I'll give you anything you want.”
You force your eyes open, meeting his intense, burning gaze. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of awe, possession, and a desperate, raw need that steals your breath. He's not just looking at your body, he's looking into your soul.
"Tell me what you need," he whispers. He slows to a stop, still inside you, his entire body a tense wire, waiting. He's giving you the reins.
You want to tell him to move, to fuck you hard and fast until you can't remember your own name. But the words get stuck in your throat. What you need is too big, too terrifying to say out loud. So you show him instead. You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and you surge up to kiss him, pouring everything you can't say into the kiss.
He understands. He always understands.
He starts to move again, a slow, deep grind that sends shockwaves through you. He's hitting that spot again and again, a relentless, steady pressure that's building the tension in you to an unbearable peak. His thumb on your clit speeds up, circling faster, harder. You can feel your body tightening, coiling like a spring.
"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "Let go for me. Come on."
The praise, the raw permission in his voice, is what finally breaks you. The spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, all-consuming wave that rips a scream from your lungs. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing around him, clenching and releasing in a rhythm that's beyond your control. You're distantly aware of him groaning your name, a long, broken sound.
He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he follows you over the edge. But at the last second, he pulls out. You have a brief, confused moment of emptiness before you see him kneeling between your legs, one hand braced on the mattress beside your head, the other working his cock in quick, tight strokes.
You watch, mesmerized, as he comes with a choked gasp, spilling over your stomach and chest. The sight is primal, shockingly intimate, and it sends a final, lingering tremor through you. He collapses beside you, both of you panting, your bodies slick with sweat and rain and him
You feel him shift, and then a warm, damp cloth is gently wiping the mess from your skin. Your t-shirt, you realize dimly, that you’ve been wearing not too long ago. You're too exhausted to even be embarrassed, you just hum your appreciation. He tosses the shirt aside, then pulls you into his arms, tucking you against his chest. His heartbeat is a steady, reassuring thump against your ear.
He kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kisses your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears. He kisses your lips, a soft, lingering kiss that's full of a terrifying, fragile hope.
"I love you," he whispers into the darkness of your room. The words are quiet, but they land in the silence with the force of a shout. "I have always loved you."
Sleep is pulling at you, a warm, heavy blanket. You can feel the edges of your consciousness starting to blur. His arms are around you and you can feel his lips on the tip of your nose, your lips, your jaw. He's warm. He smells like rain. He's not going to leave. It's all you've wanted for a week. It's all you've ever wanted, really.
"You won't leave, will you?" The words leave your lips in a mumble, your lashes fluttering. "You won't go back home?" You're too tired to be anything but honest.
There's a pause. "If you ask me to stay," he says, "I won't leave."
You open your eyes, heavy as they are, to look at him. You want to say it. The words are right there, a phantom weight on your tongue. Stay. Please stay. I'll love you. I'll love you the way you want me to. But your body betrays you. Your eyes drift shut, your breathing evens out. Sleep claims you, pulling you down into its warm, silent depths before you can give him the answer he's waiting for.
Jisung has watched you sleep for the last ten minutes. He has memorized the gentle slope of your nose, the way your eyelashes fan out against your cheeks, the soft, even puff of your breath against his chest. He has counted the faint freckles scattered across your shoulders. He has memorized all of it, and it feels like a goodbye.
He shouldn't have said it. Not like that. Not in the aftermath, when you were soft and pliant and half-asleep. He had promised himself he wouldn't. He had sworn he'd wait, that he'd be patient, that he wouldn't pressure you. But then you were underneath him, your eyes wide and trusting, your body opening for him, and the words had just… ripped out of him. An uncontrollable truth.
If you ask me to stay, I won't leave.
He waits.
He waits for you to stir, for your eyes to flutter open, for the words to come. Stay. He can almost hear it, your sleep-roughened voice. The thought is a physical ache in his chest. He imagines the relief, the pure, unadulterated joy that would flood him, the feeling of finally, finally coming home.
But you don't stir.
The minutes tick by, each one a small death. He can hear the sound of the rain outside your window, a soft, steady rhythm against the glass. He can hear the hum of the mini-fridge in the corner of your room. He can hear the frantic, desperate beating of his own heart. He thinks about the way your body shook around him, the way you whispered his name. He thinks about the taste of your skin, the feel of your hands in his hair. He thinks about all of it, and he knows he can't stay.
And that's an answer, too.
He has loved you like a dog his entire life, all he's ever wanted was to sit by your side, to eat your scraps, to just be near you. But being your dog, your constant companion is no longer enough. He can't sit at your feet and hope for a pat on the head while you look at someone else. Not anymore.
It was selfish of him to do this. To fuck you, to push you, to demand more than you were willing to give. He can see that now, in the quiet, grey light of the morning. He has just made everything a thousand times worse. He has taken your carefully constructed world, your "fun," and he has detonated it.
He can't stay and pretend that everything is okay. He can't stay and be your friend. He can't stay and watch you fall in love with someone else. He can't do any of it. He is a coward, he knows, but it's the truth. He has to leave.
Careful, so careful, he slides his arm out from under your head. You stir, a soft sigh, and your brow furrows, but you don't wake. He eases himself off the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, trying not to disturb the mattress, trying not to break the fragile spell of your sleep. His clothes are a damp, muddy pile on the floor. He gathers them up, pulling on his jeans with a wince. The denim is cold and stiff against his skin. He doesn't bother with the shirt, just balls it up in his hand.
He stands by the bed for a long moment, just looking at you. You look so peaceful, so unguarded. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen you. He wants to crawl back into bed with you, to pull you into his arms and never let go. He wants to wake you up and demand that you choose him, that you choose this.
Instead, he leans down and presses a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead. He turns and walks out of your room, closing the door behind him.
He doesn't look back.
dividers by: @honeyluvsw
drabble — jisung loves it when he learned something new about you, and uses it for his own advantage
Han Jisung had noticed it weeks ago.
Every time he buried himself deep inside you, your eyes would drift up from his face to the thin silver chain around his neck. The small pendant, a sleek, smooth obsidian teardrop would swing with every brutal thrust, catching the low light of your bedroom and drawing your gaze like a magnet. Your lips would part, breath hitching, pupils blown wide as you followed its rhythmic dance above you. It was almost like the pendant hypnotized you, pulling your focus even as pleasure wrecked your body.
Tonight, he decided to test just how much power it held.
He had you on your back, thighs spread wide around his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your soaked pussy with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made your walls flutter around him. Sweat glistened on his collarbones. His hips rolled steadily, cock dragging against your walls with every thrust. You moaned, nails digging into his back, but something felt… off.
Your forehead creased in confusion. Your eyes flicked up to his neck, searching. No chain. No pendant. Just smooth, sweat-slick skin and the rapid flutter of his pulse. There was nothing for your gaze to latch onto, nothing to follow, nothing to hypnotize you. Your mind started to wander even as pleasure pulsed through your body. You tried to focus on his face, his dark eyes, his parted lips—but your attention kept drifting back to that empty space where the necklace usually swayed.
Jisung smirked, noticing immediately.
“Something wrong, baby?” he asked, voice laced with teasing as he rolled his hips, grinding against that sweet spot inside you. “You look so distracted tonight.”
You bit your lip, trying to stay focused, but another deep thrust made your eyes flutter. Still, your forehead stayed creased. The pleasure was there, intense and building, but it felt… incomplete. Your mind wouldn’t settle.
He kept going, fucking you with steady, punishing strokes, never reaching for the necklace. Minutes passed. Your breathing grew more erratic, not just from the pleasure, but from the strange restlessness in your head. You couldn’t sink fully into it. Couldn’t let go.
Jisung leaned down, lips brushing your ear as he drove into you harder.
“You’re clenching around me so tight, but your eyes keep wandering. Can’t stop looking for it, huh?”
You whimpered, cheeks burning with embarrassment. He was enjoying this too much. Another particularly deep thrust made you moan loudly, but your mind was still fractured, searching for that missing anchor.
Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore.
“Ji…” you gasped out, voice shaky and needy between moans. “Where’s your necklace? Please… put it on.”
The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your voice sounded embarrassingly desperate, even to your own ears. Jisung’s hips stuttered for a second, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“There it is,” he chuckled darkly, sounding satisfied. “My greedy girl finally admitted it.”
He slowed his thrusts just enough to reach over to the nightstand, grabbing the silver chain. He slipped it around his neck, letting the smooth obsidian pendant settle against his chest. The moment it appeared, your eyes locked onto it like a magnet. The crease in your forehead instantly smoothed out, replaced by that glassy, hypnotized look he loved so much.
“Fuck… there you go,” he groaned, feeling your pussy flutter hard around his cock the second your gaze found the pendant. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”
He started moving again, building back up to a relentless rhythm. The pendant began to swing above you with every powerful thrust, back and forth, catching the light. Your eyes followed it obsessively, pupils blown wide, mind finally quieting as pleasure flooded every nerve.
Jisung gripped your thighs, spreading you wider as he pounded into you.
“Open,” he ordered.You parted your lips instantly. He leaned forward, letting the warm pendant rest on your tongue. Your mouth closed around it, sucking eagerly as he fucked you even harder. The chain tugged against his neck with every brutal snap of his hips, the pendant shifting between your lips in perfect sync with his cock driving deep inside you.
“That’s my good girl,” he growled, voice rough with arousal. “Sucking on it so desperately after pretending you didn’t need it. So fucking hypnotized now, aren’t you?”
Your moans came out muffled and wet around the pendant as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter. The relentless rhythm, the thick stretch of his cock, and the warm weight on your tongue completely overwhelmed you.
Jisung’s hand slid up to hold your jaw gently as he railed you. “Cum for me while you’re sucking on it, baby. Let me feel how much better it is when you have this.”
Your orgasm slammed into you hard, body shaking violently as your walls pulsed around him. Jisung groaned loudly, burying himself deep and spilling inside you as he rode out both your highs, the pendant still trapped between your eager lips.
When he finally pulled back, the glistening pendant slipped from your mouth with a wet pop. He looked down at your blissed-out face with a proud, predatory smile.
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all rights reserved © 2026 sitri. none of my works shall be produced or reproduced in any form without consent and proper asking.
dumb dumb!
or: you and jisung have been dating for a while now and he can't stop talking about you to, well, anyone who would listen. and so of course he has to introduce you to his best friend! only catch is..his best friend is actually your older brother.
warnings: none! 2k-ish crackfic, sibling Quarells, some second hand embarrassment maybe, pathetic attempt at humor and Korean honorifics (cuz it's funnier that way and cuz im back in my kdrama phase)
a/n: requested by my bby sitri I hope you like it 😼
upon your first meeting with jisung, he spilled his entire coffee down your shirt while trying to talk to you, that wasn't particularly the best first impression, but from then on you knew he was a disaster. It wasn’t even a flirtatious disaster—just pure clumsiness, the kind that made him groan and dramatically collapse onto the cafeteria table. "I swear I’m usually smoother than this," he’d muttered into his sleeves, and you’d laugh so hard your sides ached.
Three months later, he still hadn’t gotten any smoother.
Jisung was the kind of boyfriend who sent you memes at 3 AM with captions like "this is us," and it'd be two monkeys holding hands.
He’d show up to your apartment with his shirt inside out, or forget halfway through a sentence what he was even talking about, his hands flailing as he backtracked with, "Wait, no, scratch that—what was the point again?"
You adored it. Adored him, even when he accidentally used your toothbrush and spent the next hour apologizing.
What he lacked in coordination, though, he made up for in sheer, unshakable enthusiasm. Jisung loved loudly. He’d drag you to hole-in-the-wall noodle shops and insist you try his favorite dish, then watch your face with focus because he needed your validation.
He’d memorize the way you took your coffee and show up with it before your morning lectures. And when he talked about you to his friends—which was often, apparently—it was with the kind of reverence usually reserved for rare celestial events.
a text notification buzzed against your thigh at 9:37 PM, the screen glowing with Jisung’s name
Emergency meeting!!!
my friend thinks I’m lying about you!!!!
You snorted, rolling onto your stomach as your fingers tapped back,
What, like I’m some government conspiracy?
Three dots pulsed. Then,
WORSE. He thinks I made you up in a sleep-deprived delirium.
So that’s how you found yourself wedged into a booth at a 24-hour diner at 10pm on a Tuesday, with Jisung vibrating beside you.
“He’s gonna love you,” he assured you for the fourteenth time, “I mean, obviously. Who wouldn’t? But like — specifically him. Because he’s my best friend. And you’re my—” His sentence disintegrated into a flustered hand wave that nearly knocked over the salt shaker.
The bell above the door jingled. Jisung’s head whipped around so fast you heard his neck crack. “HYUNG!” he bellowed, launching halfway out of the booth. You turned — and froze.
Chan stood in the doorway, leather jacket shrugging off one shoulder, Your brother blinked. You blinked. Jisung, oblivious, was already pulling him towards the table “—and she’s real, see? Told you I wasn’t hallucinating!”
Chan’s eyes locked onto yours, his expression flickering between disbelief, amusement, and the faintest hint of protective warning — the same look he’d given you when you’d tried to sneak out of the house at sixteen, wearing eyeliner for the first time.
You pressed your lips together to stifle a laugh as chan made his way over. Jisung, still mid-sentence, hadn’t noticed the silent exchange.
“—so anyway, she’s basically perfect, hyung, like, objectively? And I know you think I have terrible taste—”
Chan cleared his throat, sliding into the booth opposite you both, “Oh, I know you have terrible taste,” he said, deadpan, and you kicked him under the table. but he didn’t flinch, “But let’s hear it. What’s so special about her?”
Jisung, bless him, took the bait like a goldfish going after a shiny hook.
“Everything,” he breathed, hands gesturing wildly. “She laughs at my dumb jokes—like, actually laughs, not the polite ‘oh god he’s embarrassing himself again’ laugh. And she remembers the weirdest stuff about me, like—”
You tuned out momentarily, watching Chan’s face twitch as he fought to keep his expression neutral. His fingers drummed against the tabletop in the same rhythm he’d used to tap out Morse code messages to you when you were kids and he was supposed to be grounded. 'Play along', it seemed to say. You tilted your head and reached for your water glass to hide your grin.
"—And she's smart," Jisung continued, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation happening across the table. "Like, scary smart. Last week she corrected my calculus homework in pen."
Chan scoffed, "Doesn't sound that smart to me," he said, "Correcting calculus is baseline human decency, berry (the family dog) could do that."
You kicked him again, harder this time, but he just grinned, eyes crinkling with mischief. Jisung gasped like Chan had insulted him — well he insulted you which was worse.
"Hyung!" he squawked, half-standing in the booth. "Take that back right now."
jisung looked genuinely distressed, you seized the moment to slide the conversation sideways.
"So!" you said brightly, plucking a fry from Jisung's plate before he could launch into another defense of your intellect. "Chan-ssi, what do you do when you're not doubting my academic credentials?"
The honorific tasted absurd on your tongue — you'd never called your brother anything but "idiot" in your life — but Jisung didn't notice, too busy glaring at Chan.
Chan leaned back, stretching his arms along the booth's vinyl backrest with practiced nonchalance. "Oh, you know," he said, looking like he was enjoying this too much. "Producing tracks, herding idiots like this one away from open flames—" Jisung squawked indignantly "—the usual."
The diner’s lights hummed overhead, casting a garish glow over the half-eaten plate of fries between you. Chan’s smirk widened as he watched Jisung’s face contort in outrage, his fingers now gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Anyway,” Chan drawled, leaning forward, “how long has this relationship been going on, exactly?”
You opened your mouth, but Jisung barreled in like a golden retriever spotting an open car window. this was his favorite thing to talk about after all.
“Three months and seventeen days!” he announced.
“Not that I’m counting or anything, but like, hypothetically, if someone were counting, which I’m not, but if they were, they’d know it was exactly 1,584 hours since our first kiss, which was at 9:23 PM on a Tuesday, so exactly a month and a week ago—”
Chan’s eyebrows climbed so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Jisung, completely oblivious to the nuclear-level tension crackling across the table, was now counting off on his fingers. “—and we’ve spent approximately 237 hours together, not including texts, which total roughly—”
“Okay,” Chan cut in, uncharacteristically calm, “Let’s back up.” His gaze flicked to you—really? written all over his face, before settling back on Jisung “You’re telling me you’ve kissed my—” He barely caught himself before saying the word sister “—this perfect, smart, definitely real person—”
“Yes!” Jisung beamed, practically vibrating out of his seat. “And it was even better than I described, hyung, like—” He reached across the table, seizing Chan’s wrist with enthusiasm.
“— and she humors me. Voluntarily. Like yesterday, I texted her that pigeons are government drones, and she agreed and sent me a PowerPoint—”
Chan’s gaze flicked between you and Jisung like he was watching a particularly chaotic ping-pong match. or maybe it was that he couldn't quite imagine his 'baby sis' being with anyone.
“Okay,” he said slowly, each syllable deliberate, “let’s try this again.” He pointed at you with his finger. “You—” Then at Jisung, “—and him. Dating. How did that happen?”
“Oh my god, it was fate,” he gushed, “Like, statistically, what are the odds I’d spill coffee on the one person who’d laugh instead of cursing me? And then she gave me her hoodie like some rom-com heroine—which, by the way, I still have, and it smells like her laundry detergent, which is weirdly comforting—”
Chan’s eye twitched.
“—and then she texted me first after, which never happens, because I’m usually the one sending essay-length apologies for existing—”
You coughed into your napkin, face heating as Jisung’s rambling veered into territory even you hadn’t heard before.
~
The diner’s clock ticked past 12:17 AM when you finally nudged your chair back with an exaggerated stretch. “Alright, disaster duo,” you said, nodding toward Chan’s crumpled menu and Jisung’s fifth refill of soda, “I’ve gotta tap out before my brother files a missing person’s report on me.” You reached for your jacket, but Jisung’s hand shot out, clamping around your wrist with urgency.
“Wait—no,” he blurted, eyes wide and pleading like a kicked puppy. “It’s early. Like, criminally early. The sun’s not even thinking about rising yet.”
His grip tightened slightly, “And—” He hesitated, then brightened with the sudden brilliance of a lightbulb flicking on. “Invite your brother! Yeah! Bring him here! We can—I don’t know—bond over terrible diner soda and judge people’s life choices through the window.”
Chan choked on his own spit, coughing into his fist. “Oh, I’m judging plenty already,” he muttered, shooting you a look that made you bite your lip to keep from laughing, watching Jisung’s face twist in confusion as he glanced between you both.
“Seriously,” Jisung pressed, oblivious to Chan’s internal crisis, “call him!” His fingers were still wrapped around your wrist, warm and slightly sticky from soda condensation. You hesitated, then smirked, pulling your phone from your pocket while making direct eye contact with Chan " y'know what?" you lips curled up in a smirk "i will"
The dial tone pulsed once, twice—then Chan’s ringtone blared from his jacket pocket, the opening bars of some obnoxiously upbeat pop song Jisung had probably forced on him. Chan didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back, dug out his phone, and held it up. The screen flashed Baby Sis.
Chan swiped to answer, pressing the phone to his ear without breaking eye contact with you. "Well?" he said, voice dripping with mock concern through the speaker. "Is everything alright? You never call me this late."
You could see the exact moment Jisung's brain stalled like a computer buffering—his mouth half-open, gaze darting between Chan's face and the phone in his hand. "Uh," he said intelligently, fingers tightening around your wrist.
You raised your own phone to your ear, watching Chan's smirk deepen as you pitched your voice into exaggerated sweetness.
"Oh, just peachy," you chirped into your phone, watching Chan's smirk widen as he leaned forward on his elbows, the diner's garish lighting catching the mischief in his eyes. "Except I'm sitting here with my adorable disaster of a boyfriend—yes, Jisung, I'm talking about you—and I just realized I never introduced you two properly." You paused dramatically, tilting your head. " brother, meet my boyfriend. Boyfriend, meet my very overprotective older brother."
Jisung made a noise like a deflating balloon, his grip on your wrist slackening. His mouth worked soundlessly for a beat before he whispered, "What."
Chan, being an absolute menace, waved at Jisung with his free hand, fingers wiggling in a mock-cute gesture. "Surprise," he said through the phone, then louder in person "Been hearing a lot about you, boyfriend"
Jisung’s face went through approximately ten emotions in three seconds—shock, confusion, dawning horror that chan might genuinely punch him after this, then back to shock before his palms went up to his face as he slid down the chair dramatically.
maybe it'd take him some time to get over this embarrassment. probably more time than it took to get over the embarrassment of your initial meeting.
taglist: @yourqueenlady @kloversung @hycnsung @seagulljk @g0matchi @eyyyylucieeee @zosauce @minniebitesfr @jazz7gnab @stormynight-240 @ariaaleelynn @pedropacals0l0s @caalcyon @hyunjinswife4ever @11racha @starlostjisung @straykitten88 @mandmilovehim @hanjinology @breakmeonce @carrotcakeesblog @supernaturalsunny @gwinamlvr @parkairis18 @g0obz @tumvlrgirlsblog @atetheluck @ivyonsaturn @shortcake-whoops @mylovchris @diiv9ne @avchannie @emeraldgem22 @pinkyrec @yourtypicalnerd @skzhyunjinwifey @stryscribbles @jektaev @cb9711 @lostinmymind-daydreaming
The Fun We Had
pairing: idol!han x fan!reader
summary: fwb with your fav idol who swears he sees you just as a fan
warnings: SMUT!! soft dom!han (mention of switch!han once, pretty vague), toxic relationship, avoidant!han, jealousy, biting, lots of kissing, he lowk has feelings but is in denial..., fingering, emotional manipulation, oral (f!receiving), dry humping, desperate and needy han..., unprotected sex(wrap it up), creampie, exhibitionism, kinda angst
wc: ~5k
i need him is an understatement... super self indulgent fic. didnt proofread
What you have with Jisung wasn’t exactly planned, if anything, it surprised you as much as it surprised him. You began as a fan, of course you did — finally meeting face to face with your idol at a fan meet — but then, it developed. You visited once, twice. On the third time, he knew who you were, interest picked in. His caresses lingered, hands resting on yours; seeking the warmth a second longer than intended. Pouty, sulking when the staff would ask you to move on to the next member, pretending there wasn't a burn in his chest at the sight of them treating you merely as a fan when he could do so much more than that.
So — this little exchange started after he accidentally slipped his number under a water bottle he decided to gift you with, because you seemed too out of breath that evening. It must’ve been because he’s your idol, that’s right. He was just worried, human nature — but now that he’s got you like this — it might be the opposite. His obsession grew each time he brought you over to his dorm, not caring if you decided to leak his address overnight. As long as he got his hands on you before sunrise.
Longing is what he’d call it. Maybe you fed his ego excessively, that he can not bring himself to awake anymore without your praises living rent free on his mind.
You’re his biggest fan, he supposes. Not the other way around.
Never, he has decorum.
That's why he rejects your advances, denying the fact that your relationship could take a step further than this. His company wouldn't allow him either, perhaps he wouldn't allow it himself. He gets distracted enough for what it is, you'd just foil his schedule.
However, on each night he'd deny you, you'd find him knocking on your doorstep the very next hour. Mumbling soft apologies, soothing your cries with a promise of fucking the pain away.
You fuck. That's all.
He doesn't love you as much as he likes how you feel glued to his body.
How you calm his constantly running mind by dragging your fingertips on his scalp — lips finding his — shutting him and his toxic thoughts up for good. That's what he likes about you. The attention of a fan.
Feeding your delusions with the steps he takes closer, proximity getting louder when your back hits the couch; not bothering to take it to the bedroom; cause as long as it's him, it's enough.
That's how he assumes you perceive him.
—
You haven't seen him since forever. On tour, he couldn't care to text you anymore by the fifth stop. Never inquiring about your day. Never even hearing from him, except for the few times he'd wake up hard — jerking off to the sound of your voice scolding him for bothering you at whatever time of the day he would call you.
Assuming that he found another pitiful fan's emotion to toy with, you decided to move on. There were no chances with him, too busy to at least send a good morning text. The idea did bother you at first, but you've grown desensitized to his absence. Mentally. Physically — you craved him — much to your disapproval. Drowning in the attention of men that actually desire you in a romantic aspect. Though, the spark is absent. It's not the same.
Ironic, it's painfully one-sided.
Being the individual on the other side of the spectrum, guilty, you find yourself getting ready for another date. The end of tour date completely flies out of your mind, the notification getting lost in the sea of uncleared messages from people you wouldn't even dare to consider as acquaintances.
Ten in the evening, you're about to leave your house. Also ten in the evening, someone abruptly knocks on your door, the pattern of the thuds awfully familiar. Silly, an inside joke between the two of you, so that you wouldn't mistake each other for unwanted attention.
You gulp, hesitant in the way you approach the door. Hand hovering above the handle. He knocks harder, his forehead dropping on the surface, sighing a call of your name. Hearing it despite the heavy rainfall outside of your windows. Rain.
It's raining!
You rush to open the door, being met with a drenched Jisung. He's breathing heavily, as if he ran here when he could've called a taxi.
“My god– let me get you a towel,” you panic, knowing his aptitude to fall sick. However, he halts you, taking a sudden hold of your wrist. Your lips part, surprised with the roughness in which he's gripping you through the tremor in his freezing body.
He thinks… he's shaking for another reason.
“Don't go,” Jisung begs, pulling you closer towards him, “wait a bit.”
Your eyes meet in the dimly lit hallway, the weight of your breathing matching his with the building tension. He inches forward, gently clicking your door shut, and it feels louder than any barring assertiveness could be.
His gaze drops to your face, properly looking at you, checking if his memory did you justice during those torturous long months. “You're dolled up,” he comments in a low hum, staring at your lips when you press them together. Gulping in the same way you do when you're hesitant to give yourself away. Defensive. He doesn't like how you're setting your guard up. A wall constructing itself between you.
You bite on your tongue, “I'm going on a date.”
His mouth dries, brows knitting in abrupt rigidity. Though, he was expecting it. He's been nothing but an asshole. “You are?” he asks, tone rising a pitch. A pathetic pitch. “With who?”
Your gaze narrows, he's in no position to request those answers out of you. You still respond, shrugging. “A coworker. I've been seeing him for a while.”
The outfit you're wearing tells him enough to wonder what you were going out to do with that coworker. Exhaling, he uses that opportunity to breathe you in on his next inhale, subconsciously pinning you to the wall every time he decides that the distance is too much for to bear.
“Jisung–” you call when he presses you to the wall, caging you in order to keep your figure in place. Here, with him.
“Don't go,” this time — it's a demand. Palms sliding down your waists, taking their original positions before the tour began. You writhe, frown matching his.
“You can't tell me not to–”
Not after constantly rejecting you. Breaking your heart, just to glue it back together with the excuse he misunderstands for affection.
“I know…” his lips, flimsy and warm, make contact with the skin of your neck. You almost fold. “I'm sorry,” there he goes with the apologies. A kiss turns into two, till he's pampering light smothers to the swell of your cheek. Stopping right before your mouth, forehead softly colliding with yours.
Your next pant is shaky, because you're sure that the tears began to fall. All that's spilling something already said, but it somehow carries a sentiment of being bottled up. He knows what he did — what he is doing wrong — when his thumb finds the running tear, wiping it off with such fondness, that you could mistake it for love. If you knew better.
He hushes you, cradling your face through your quiet sniffing. Eyes refusing to lock with his no matter the consequences. “Don't cry, please.” It pains him to see you upset because of him. He's the root of your problems, well aware of that. Well aware that he shouldn't have encouraged this to begin with, that you should've stayed idol and fan. But now he can't bring himself to, not when his lips touch yours. Slow, engraving the sensation in his brain. Sighing contentedly when you don't shoo him away, chasing the feels of you by squeezing a tad harder.
He tilts his head, using his hand to guide you the way in which he wants the kiss to evolve. It's sweet, he tastes sweet. Probably because you like him too much for your own good, everything he does is sweet. Even when he hurts you like this, then comes back running to fix things up. His clothes stick to his skin, wetting you in the process when he shoves you deeper onto the hard surface, the coldness on both sides sending a shiver across your nerves. “I missed you,” he whispers against your mouth. You choose to swallow the sound, finally parting your lips to grant him access. He groans, no hint of hesitation. His tongue peeks out of his mouth, taking a tentative lick at your bottom lip. Testing the waters when he bites on the soft tissue, earning an irritated noise out of you. He could giggle, sucking on the pain he's caused.
Your palm slides to his nape, threading your fingers through his wet hair, tugging at his roots — this time, he moans. Higher pitched, more sensual when he releases your face. “Bedroom–” he pants, a growing desperation etching on his features. It's mutual, feet quickly leading you to the confinement of your room. It's got to be his favorite place on Earth. Everything here is so you, he could bury himself within your built fortress and never dream of seeing sunlight. Reminding himself that you're just a fan whenever the desire pops up. He still finds himself caving in, the temptation you provide more torturous than his packed schedule. Hence, why he decided to ignore you while he was away. He couldn't bring himself to close his eyes without being hit with the thought of you.
You, you, and you.
You plague his mind, a constant melody refusing to wear off his brain. He felt like he was going nuts, but trying to live without your presence proved to be more insane. He can't do it. He tried. He knows his excuses are merely excuses.
You're his problem, and yet, you're his solution.
You stumble on the carpet, legs fumbling when his fingers lock with yours, squeezing your palm. You fall onto the bed, he stays standing, blinking in sudden contemplation. “I'll get water everywhere–” he mentions, staring down at his drenched figure. Grinning, he finds the hem of his shirt, rucking it up to flash a sliver of his waist. “Guess, I'll have to take it off.”
You grunt, rolling your eyes at his teasing. Grabbing him by the cloth, you push him forward. He lands on top of your body, not caring if he does get the water anywhere. You need him. Clasping his lips to yours, nose bumping in the process. He makes a surprised noise, lips gaping for your tongue to dive inside; widened eyes relax, his eyelids dropping into a lazy stance. Needy, just as you are when your palms explore the curves and lines of his body. “Get rid of it,” you mutter into his mouth, drawing out a silent whine from him as you tug at his damp shirt.
“I can't if you grip onto me like that–” he replies, though deciding to make no attempt at separating. Kneeling on top of you, he jerks your body back so that you're flat on the mattress, dragging your legs around his waist. His hips roll into yours, bulge grinding against the warmth of your core. You both gasp, the sensation something you fantasized about during his absence. The perfect piece to your puzzle.
Sitting up, he struggles to get rid of the sticky fabric. Though — the wait is worth it — he's bigger. The muscles defined under your lampshade, months of hard work paying off. And his tattoos… you bite on your cheek, nails grazing the ink, exploring the lines as if it was the first time. He twitches under your gaze, grabbing your wrist above his chest, stopping you right before you discover his thrumming heartbeat. Using his grip to pin your wrist above your head, hungry eyes drifting to your attire. To the hint of cleavage, and the meat of your thighs spilling out of your dress. He sighs, trembling in self control, an endeavor at keeping the pace slow — real.
“You were planning on leaving the house…” he mumbles, zipper coming undone, the dress loosening around your chest, “like this.” He blinks, lashes fluttering rapidly in his daze, a flush creeping on his face; unable if to tell if it's from the simmering jealousy, or the intoxication you drug him with. “To meet him?” It's an accusation.
You scoff, head turning to face the ceiling instead of him. Disbelief washing over you.
He rolls his hips again, coaxing a successful reaction out of you when your brows twitch in concentration. His fingers spasm on your stomach, the urge to rip off that dress off you curling his joints. “Is it serious?” he questions, forcing you to look at him; fingers digging in your cheeks. “You and that coworker, I mean.”
“Jisung,” it's a beg, a reprimand, “why do you care?”
Slapping his hand away, your finger points at his chest, your accusatory tone louder than his. “You are the one who keeps denying our relationship. You are the one who said to strictly keep it as a fuck. And, you're the one who stopped answering to my texts— don't give me that jealous boyfriend bullshit–”
He chews on his lips, a period of silence passing through as he nods. Accepting, he pulls back, letting go of the warmth you provide. “You're right,” half expecting him to take his shirt and leave, but he flips you over instead. Heaving your body upward, you can hardly react before your dress slips off, gasping at the rush of cold air meeting the bare skin. “I'm in no position to.” he admits, arms enveloping your waist in an embrace. His hair tickles your shoulder, goosebumps rising on the area. “Let me at least do what I'm best at…” Jisung kisses your nape, a dot of contact, tracing the curve of your spine. “Am I allowed this much, after so long?”
You should push him away, curse him to fuck off and to leave you alone. That you actually hate his group, and wish to never hear from any of them, or see him ever again. But that'd be a lie, the truth unveiling with an arch of your back, heart fluttering when he kisses you so sweetly. The coil in your stomach deepening with an unclasp of your bra, the ease in which he does it familiar. Gentle hands drop the fabric to your knees, picking it up and discarding it somewhere around the room. There's a plea of your name, then a please. A prayer you find yourself granting; allowing the first noise to fly out of your mouth when he holds you closer — scared that you'll change your mind if he happens to let you go — he doesn't want to. He wouldn't dare to, not even in his craziest dreams.
He breathes in your scent, infatuated with the beads of sweat that cracks at your back, warm tongue lolling out to catch them. You giggle, the sensation ticklish, and he returns the smile. His lips curl against your neck, fingers scooting to the lace of your panties. Satisfaction settling in when Jisung takes in the colour of your underwear.
Not matching, you mustn't be that into him then.
Such a foolish conclusion, but it sends a ripple of relief to his heart, the tension in his stomach uncoiling just a bit. Mumbling a soft noise by your ear as you keen into his touch, palm resting on his; guiding him lower under the seam. He whines, finding you soaked.
“I've been dreaming of this,” his voice breaks with the first contact on your slit, spreading the wetness with his finger, driving up till he finds your clit. “The way I treat you…” a roll on your clit, the pressure providing you with a glimpse of heaven, but his words bring you back to the harsher reality. “Do hate me… I–”
He's scared, the question slipping out on impulse. Regretting the sentence as soon as it voiced out, stilling completely, awaiting your answer. However, you tug at his wrist, gifting him with silence. Somehow, it hurts more than any rejection would. So, he indulges, digits running past your lips — prodding at your hole.
Okay.
He slips inside, drawing out the prettiest gasp from you. Though, all of you are pretty to him. If he was asked what he found the most endearing, he wouldn't be able to choose. Maybe he finds you the prettiest when you're sprawled out, holes stuffed with himself, used and wrecked. Or maybe, he finds you the prettiest when you're on top, maneuvering him and toying with each part of his body to your whim. Maybe, he found you the prettiest when you cause his heart to skip a beat, the skin of his palms getting sweaty just from the sight of your laughter from one of his poor–unfunny jokes.
He can't tell, but he curls his fingers with the sole purpose of hearing that sound part from your lips again. It does. He whines, hot and breathy in your ear, covering the squishy lobe with his mouth — nipping at it. “Han…” he hardly hears it, lost in the squelches that come out with every pump of his fingers, juices flowing past the fabric of your panties.
His erection rubs on your rear, grasping the line of sanity left in him to bring himself to be patient. He's got to be, that's the one effort of consideration he shows you when all he does is take, take, and take. You suck him in, welcoming the hook of his digits with a hitch of your own, knuckles whitening on his wrist, controlling the pace until it's too much. Releasing your grip, allowing him to take care of you exactly how he desires.
This might be your worst and best decision yet.
“Fuck–” you curse when the heel of his palm caresses your clit, applying enough force to have you trembling in his hold. Teetering over the edge when he suddenly stops. Halting all movement. “What—”
The query is left unanswered, his actions speak louder. Jisung drops you down the mattress, lying flat on your back. He kneels up to your thighs, kicking them apart for him to nestle in. You gasp at the haste in which he gets down, dying to have a taste of what he's been missing.
His eyes stay on you, locked on your face along the first lick. Tongue flat on your leaking cunt, you arch, having forgotten just how good he is with his mouth as he wraps it around your clit. “Ahh…” it's a cry, the back of your palm landing flat on your lips with the purpose of muffling the inevitable sounds.
Jisung groans at the taste, catching the dripping liquids with a lack of shame, hips buckling onto the mattress. He missed this. Missed you. He already told you, but the words aren't enough to express the extent to which he was craving this. Craving you. In his brain, this is sexual. Logically. However, the tightness in his chest whispers otherwise, warning him to step away before it's too late.
He dives deeper.
Nose bumping on your clit, trailing his path to your clenching hole. Breathing you in, he spreads you apart on his fingers, providing him a much needed sight. He's hard, painfully so. Throbbing in his pants with every huff you steal, each time you'd jerk towards him, or the shakiness in which your thighs circle his head. Moaning. You or him? Both — the tip of his tongue explores the familiar walls. “She missed me too— missed this so much, didn't she–?” he blabbers, not even talking to you anymore, madness drowning in your pussy.
You curse, again. Fingers threading through his hair, disheveling him further with the harsh tug on his scalp. Jisung riles in it, nearly cumming on the spot as you jolt towards his face, grinding your adorable clit on his nose. Suffocating him, he should've seen white, however — he sees you — just you. God, it must've been the distance.
For that very reason, he shouldn't separate from you anymore. Never, then his brain will finally be able to function properly.
His fingers run to your nub, rubbing in small-quick circles, tongue fucking you with more depth. Aiming to reach your approaching orgasm. He knows you're close, your reactions something he learned by heart. Not willingly, at least, that's how he tries to pass it as. Hooking his arm under your thighs, hoping to get you impossibly closer, tongue pulling out to replace it with his pumping fingers; latching the wet muscle on your clit instead. You hiccup, heels thrashing for any sort of support, milking his fingers.
He sighs, content. Gaze heavy on the tiny pout that creeps at your lips, fingers leaving the warmth of your core. Cleaning you up with his mouth, earning a headshake from you, which he dutifully ignores. Because he's sure of what you like, submitting to your nonverbal wishes. A weak hand taps on his shoulder, encouraging him to come forward. He does, palms laying flat on your hips, mouth level to yours.
Wet lips collide with yours, lacking the softness of earlier. More confident, hotter. Cocking his head to the side, he allows his tongue to slide inside, having you taste yourself on him. You hum, saliva pooling at the seam of your mouth, but none seem to care. If anything, he licks at it, slurping the drool that threatens to spill from your mouth with disgusting vigor.
Unbuckling his belt, he might actually die if he isn't fucking you by the next minute, the wet patch on his pants revealing just enough. The pants fall alongside his boxers, kicking them somewhere off the bed. Your hand reaches for him between your tangled bodies, but he catches you, aware of what you have in mind. “Another day,” he mumbles through the kiss, lapping at your tongue. “Need to be inside, now.”
He's desperate, the slide of his cock on you is desperate. Coating himself in your wetness, he slaps the tip on your clit. You involuntarily bite on his lip, he moans, chasing the ache with a clash of teeth. He can't afford to tease any longer, tip prodding in. You both let out a relieved breath on the first few inches. Palms finding themselves on his shoulders, holding on for support to ease the dull burn.
“Shit, shit—” he gasps, bottoming out. “Fits perfectly, she remembers me so well,” he's talking nonsense, nonsensical comments filling your hearing. Whining like a virgin boy at the feels of your pussy enveloping him. His forehead rests against yours, holding eye contact with his slow pace, needing it to prevent himself from cumming on the spot. You can't look at him when he stares at you with such affection, your heart may mistake it for something else. Something that he denies you on each try. Though, it's hard not to stare when he looks so delicious.
His bangs stick to his forehead, sweat dripping down his skin. Lips parted, swollen and red, marked with the traces of your teeth. You blink away, but he follows the narrow of your eyes. Arms caging you in his prison, refusing your detachment. Dragging you back from the growing distance with a particularly harsh thrust, snapping you back to reality with a smack on your cunt.
It's intimate, he makes the act intimate with the heat in which he presses his lips to your temple. Pouty against your cheek when you try to give yourself space. The lack of it is what he desires. To not have a centimeter left between the two of you. Selfish, because he's the one who insists on maintaining your relationship as it is.
Fine.
Jisung sits up, withdrawing from your cunt. You make a confused sound, uncertainty settling in. He grabs onto your hips, rolling your body so that you're on your stomach instead, a surprised, “Oh–” gaping out of your throat. One second you're empty, and the next he fills you to the brink. The position applies a force on your lower belly, punching against the bulge he creates with every thrust. “Fuuuckk… Ji–” sobbing into the sheets. He leans forward, chest glued to your back.
“Feels good?” he asks, brows furrowed in concentration. Plowing your back, his lips curve upwards with your feverish nodding. Picking his pace, he gives up on self control. Praying to wash off the feelings in his heart with the drags of his heavy cock. Pulsating inside, your cunt grips him, reminding him that this is in fact — just a fuck.
But then, your phone rings, flashing the name of a guy he doesn't recognise. Too fucked out to realize, the wet slaps of his hips on your ass dominates your ringtone, Jisung the only one who noticed. Just a fuck. His frown deepens, thrusts growing hesitant for a second; grabbing your phone; he picks up the call. Setting the device next to a discarded pillow, he fucks harder. Drawing out the tiniest sobs from you, his pants getting heavier.
He's jealous. Jealous that you were going on that date, when all he did on tour was think about you. He knows that he's an asshole for not reaching out, for keeping you in the dark for months without updates. The distance brought out unwanted emotions, ones that he hoped to bury the second he lands back home. Except that you're the first place he visited as soon as he left that airport. Perhaps, you're home.
His feet urged him here, to you, with the excuse of sex. Hence why he chooses to nestle his face on your shoulder, vulnerability stabbing him in the heart. For the first time in a while, he actually feels like he's not lying, “I like you.”
Three simple words. Three words in excess.
“Jisung–” he punches his cock to your guts, cutting you off mid-sentence, “–mhm!”
“Not yet,” he grunts, “not here. Not with my dick inside.” Ironic, since he's brought up the confession. His arms wrap around your waist, fucking you like a rabid animal despite the soothe of his voice. “Let me take you on a date, a better one than he ever could,” he inhales, whole body trembling. “Then, I'll ask you out. Properly ask you out.”
“Please, let me.” His arm draws from your waist, bicep meeting your chin, lifting you up with him. “Will you– shit, stop clenching down like this… can't muster a word— too good,” his voice is pitched higher, cock throbbing dangerously. He has to count his breathing, stomach twisting in uncontrolled pleasure.
“Yes–” you fold, arching onto him. Hard not to tighten up, pleasure scooting up your entire being. You could cry, you probably are. He bites on your shoulder, doing absolutely nothing at masking his pitiful sounds. Slipping out with the wetness drooling on his cock, just to slide back in with practiced ease. “Hannie, please, cum inside–”
He halts briefly, unsure, the nickname causing his heart to flutter. You take his wrist, bringing his fingers to your aching clit. “I'm on pills, just— do it inside, need to feel you fill me,” you plea, your needy tone tilts him over the edge.
He whimpers, surely with the aim of waking up your neighbors. Deft fingers work on your clit, awakening your orgasm. Still thrusting in, dragging it out for the both of you, refusing to let go yet. You cry, matching his sobs on your skin, a hot-wet mess behind you.
You fall forward, nearly hitting your head against the headboard if it wasn't for him supporting you up. Gently laying you on the pillows, dropping next to you, the heave of his chest is erratic, trying to calm down. His gaze meets the lit screen of your phone, grinning. The call was hung upon. Satisfied, he rolls to your side, hugging you closer. You grunt lightly, sore and tired. Jisung's eyes travel downwards to notice his cum oozing out of your cunt, tempted to push it back in with his fingers, but he holds it in. Your expression is too peaceful to bother.
“Are we… going to mention the confession?” you question, turning to face him.
His eyes widen, a glimpse of flush enrobing his cheeks. “Nopes,” shaking his head. Finger clasping on your lips before you can continue, hushing you. “Date first, confession second. Forget I said it, it was during the heat of the moment and I—”
“And you decided to take the call from my coworker?” you lift a brow, almost laughing at the expression that washes on his face.
“You knew?”
“I'm not deaf… or blind?”
“Oh. Are you mad–”
Your fingers brush aside the stray strands near his temple, raking through the damp locks. Shifting an inch towards him, your breathings mingling. Ignoring his question, your eyes flutter shut, serenity threading in.
He stares, staring hard enough to punch holes at your head. Fear of rejection kicking in.
Please.
“I like you too.” The confession is hardly a whisper, but he hears it — loud and proud in his ears.
You can hear his excitement, even if it's wordless. You point at him, tsking. “Don't get too excited, it means nothing before that date.”
He smiles, lowering his head till he's resting on your chest, mushing his cheek within the plush comfort. Sighing happily, “Fair enough.”
—
permanent taglist: @lilyxii @princesskrystix
i will update my other fics later. i been so busy lately, i cant find the time to
quiet hurts loudest.
han jisung x f!reader
synopsis/request: when jisung forgets your birthday and pushes you away during a moment of vulnerability, silent tension fills the days that follow. as he scrambles to make amends, he realizes the real damage wasn't forgetting the date, but making you feel like a burden.
warnings: angst, silent treatment, emotional neglect, hurt/comfort, miscommunication.
wc: 8,162
The rain had been falling all day. A slow, steady rhythm tapping against the windows, so soft it could almost be soothing, if not for the storm quietly brewing inside you.
The week had been uneventful in most ways. Jisung had been more or less locked in his little creative bubble, something you'd always admired about him. He could get consumed by music, swallowed whole by a single lyric he couldn't quite get right, or a melody that refused to sit still. You loved that about him. Loved the way his eyes got glassy and far away when his brain started spinning faster than he could talk.
But lately, it wasn’t just that.
He’d been distant. Not unkind. Just… elsewhere. Every conversation felt like you were knocking on a door he no longer heard you through.
You chalked it up to work, because it was work. He’d been spending long hours writing, recording, tweaking things late into the night, and barely looking up from his laptop when you came in. You were used to it, in a way. This was Jisung. He went hard when inspiration struck. He burned hot, fast, and completely.
Still, it stung in a way you didn’t want to admit.
Especially with your birthday just a few days away.
You hadn’t said anything about it. You’d made a quiet decision not to bring it up. Part of you thought it would be sweet if he remembered on his own, if he had something planned, something thoughtful, even small. Jisung wasn’t extravagant. He didn’t do grand gestures. But he knew you. He always knew you.
So you waited.
And waited.
Each day passed without a mention. No little comments. No suspicious texts. No asking if you were free. Just his head down, pen scratching across paper, headphones on, a world away.
But today, Tuesday, you couldn’t take the silence anymore. You weren’t going to outright ask him if he remembered. That would be pathetic, you thought. That would make it worse if he didn’t. But you could be subtle. Casual. Just ask if he had Friday off. Plant the seed. Give him a chance.
It was late afternoon when you walked into his studio. You could hear the low hum of a beat looping in the background, his fingers moving fast over his keyboard, pausing every so often to scribble something into his notebook. His back was to you, hunched slightly, hoodie pulled up over his head.
He didn’t hear you come in.
You walked over quietly, wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek lightly against his shoulder blade. He stiffened slightly at the sudden contact, but didn’t pull away.
Yet.
"Hey, baby," you said softly, your voice almost lost in the music. "Do you have Friday off?"
You didn’t mention why. You didn’t want it to sound like a trap.
He didn’t turn around. Just shrugged, his fingers still moving.
"I don’t know. Maybe. I’ve got a lot going on right now."
You blinked. Pulled back a little. That was it? No follow-up? No “why do you ask?” Not even curiosity?
You bit your lip and tried again, stepping around him this time so you were facing him. He looked tired, eyes slightly puffy from staring at the screen too long. You leaned down, gently trying to kiss his cheek, but he shifted just as you did, and your lips landed awkwardly at the corner of his jaw.
You let it slide. Forced a smile.
"Really no plans this weekend? Not even a day off?"
He finally looked up. Annoyed. The kind of look you’d only seen when he was dealing with customer service or slow Wi-Fi.
"Can you not right now?" he snapped, rubbing his temple. "I’m in the middle of something."
You blinked. Stunned for a second.
"I was just asking—"
"Yeah, and I said I don’t know." He exhaled hard, clearly irritated. "Why are you pressing me about this? I’m busy."
That one landed like a slap. You took a step back, arms folding tightly over your chest. You felt like you were shrinking.
"Sorry for bothering you," you said coldly, the tightness in your throat giving you away. "God forbid I ask my boyfriend a simple question."
You turned before he could say anything else, before the anger on your face melted into something worse. You didn’t want him to see. You didn’t want him to know.
The door slammed behind you harder than you intended. The echo rang down the hallway like a warning bell.
You stood there, frozen, in the hallway. Alone.
And that's when it hit you.
He’d forgotten.
He really, truly had forgotten.
Your birthday was in three days.
And Jisung, the boy who once remembered the exact day you first cried in front of him, the boy who had surprised you with ramen at 1AM because you offhandedly said you missed home, had forgotten.
Your chest burned.
You didn’t cry right away. You refused to. Crying meant giving it weight. It meant making it real. And maybe, maybe this was still salvageable. Maybe he’d realize. Maybe this was just a bad moment, a bad hour.
But the more you thought about it, the more the silence over the past week screamed in your ears.
Not one hint. Not one look. Nothing.
-
The house was quieter than usual, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of silence that felt like tension stretched too thin. The kind of silence that made the air feel heavier.
You’d noticed it growing for a while now, the slow fade of warmth, like a candle burning down to its last inch of wick. Jisung had been lost in his work lately, immersed in melodies and metaphors, his mind trapped in the small studio tucked at the end of the hall.
He’d always done this. You knew his process. He dove headfirst into his music, sometimes forgetting meals, forgetting sleep. You’d loved him for that. For how deeply he loved creating. For how earnestly he got caught up in the things that mattered to him.
But this time… something was different.
This time, you felt like a stranger to him while he buried himself in lyrics.
And it hurt more than you wanted to admit.
Your birthday was in just a few days.
That tiny fact sat in the back of your mind like a needle under the skin. Small. Sharp. Unshakable.
You didn’t need much. You weren’t the type to demand gifts or parties or posts with long, poetic captions. What you wanted, what you hoped for was that he’d remember. That he’d do something meaningful, something that showed he still saw you.
You had convinced yourself that he did.
Even after the way he snapped earlier that day, the way he brushed you off when you asked if he had Friday free, you still gave him the benefit of the doubt.
You had to. Because if he had forgotten, if he truly wasn’t planning anything… then what did that say about the two of you? About how far you’d drifted without realizing it?
That evening, the house remained mostly silent.
You moved around the bedroom without saying much, folding laundry you didn’t have the energy to care about, rechecking a calendar you’d already memorized. You hadn’t seen him much since the argument. He stayed locked away in his studio, headphones on, music leaking faintly through the door like a barrier between you.
You had hoped stupidly, maybe that he’d come out and say something. Apologize, even a little. Ask what was wrong. Notice that you’d been quiet too. That you didn’t eat dinner. That you didn’t sit on the couch like usual waiting for him to finish work.
But none of that happened.
It was nearly midnight when he finally came into the room. You were already in bed, the blanket pulled up to your chest, your body curled to one side, eyes closed. You weren’t asleep, not even close.
He moved quietly, but you heard every step. The rustle of his hoodie dropping to the floor. The faint creak of the mattress as he slipped in beside you.
You waited.
Your heart thudded.
Then, slowly, you inched toward him.
You didn’t say anything. You didn’t push your luck with words this time. You just slid closer and gently wrapped your arm around his waist, your face nestling near his shoulder. A quiet attempt at truce. A silent please let’s forget the fight.
But before you could even settle into the comfort you craved, he flinched.
And then he sighed. Loudly.
“Seriously?”
The word hit you like a slap.
Your body stilled. “...What?”
“When I’m working, I really need you to not be all over me,” he said, voice flat, frustrated. “It throws me off. I was just about to write something important earlier and you came in, touching me, kissing me and I completely lost the line I had in my head.”
You pulled back slowly, staring at him in the dim lighting. His profile was hard. Tired. Detached.
You blinked once. Twice. Trying to process what he’d just said.
“I distracted you…?” Your voice came out smaller than you wanted.
He didn’t answer right away. Just let out another sigh and turned his back to you.
“I just… I’d appreciate it if you could give me space when I’m in work mode. That’s all.”
You didn’t speak.
You couldn’t.
You lay there, staring at the back of his head, the curve of his shoulder rising and falling slowly with each breath.
There was something hollow in your chest. A yawning emptiness where warmth used to live.
All day, you had been convincing yourself that this was just stress. That he was just overwhelmed. That he didn’t mean to be cold or distant. That it wasn’t personal.
But this, this wasn’t just stress.
This was dismissal.
And that, somehow, hurt more than him forgetting your birthday.
Because this wasn’t about one day.
This was about being made to feel like you were in the way. Like your affection was an inconvenience. Like loving him gently, quietly, earnestly was a problem.
You blinked away the heat in your eyes and rolled onto your other side, facing the wall.
You didn’t say goodnight. You didn’t touch him again. You didn’t cry.
Not yet.
Lying there in the dark, you played the moment over and over in your head.
You weren’t sure what stung more: That he hadn’t tried to fix the argument. That he’d called your love distracting. Or that he didn’t even realize he’d hurt you.
You thought about how he used to pull you into bed and kiss you like he couldn’t wait to tell you everything he’d written. You thought about the nights when he would bring his lyric notebook to the couch just to be next to you. You thought about the quiet way he used to hold your hand while working, like even in silence, he wanted to be tethered to you.
Now… you were a distraction. And worse, someone who made you feel too much for wanting to be close.
You clutched the edge of the blanket and closed your eyes.
You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to give it that power.
But the tears came anyway silent and slow, soaking into your pillow like an open secret.
In that moment, you realized something heartbreaking:
It wasn’t that he forgot your birthday.
It was that, lately, he’d forgotten you.
-
You woke up the next morning feeling like you hadn't slept at all.
Your eyes were sore, your body heavy from the weight of unshed words and smothered cries. There was a dull ache behind your ribs that hadn’t gone away since last night, since he turned away from you after telling you that your love was distracting. Since you’d reached out for comfort and got a complaint instead.
You lay still in bed, watching the gray morning light bleed into the room. You could hear him moving around in the kitchen, opening cabinets, the quiet shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood floor. The clink of a mug. A spoon against a bowl.
Your heart didn’t race. It slowed. Because nothing felt worse than knowing he was acting like everything was fine.
And it was then that the decision made itself: You wouldn’t say a word. Not out of pettiness. Not out of spite. But because you had said enough. And he had heard nothing.
Let him feel the silence he gave you. Let him hear it this time.
You walked into the kitchen wrapped in a hoodie, your face blank, your mouth a hard line. He was standing by the stove, eating cereal straight out of the bowl, scrolling through something on his phone. He looked up briefly.
"Morning," he said, like nothing had happened.
You nodded once, tight, and opened the fridge. You could feel his eyes linger on you for a second too long like he was waiting for you to say more. But when you didn’t, he just turned back to his screen.
You didn’t speak. Didn’t ask about his schedule. Didn’t try to sit close.
You took your yogurt and left the kitchen, eating alone in the living room with the TV off and your thoughts screaming.
The silence grew louder as the hours passed.
He didn’t notice it at first. You were usually quiet in the mornings anyway. He probably assumed you'd snap out of it, give him a kiss on the cheek, ask how the lyrics were going, sit beside him with your head on his shoulder.
But you didn’t.
And by mid-afternoon, it had become clear that this wasn’t just a quiet morning.
You walked past him in the hallway when he emerged for coffee. He smiled faintly and said, “I think I figured out that chorus.” You gave a nod that didn’t reach your eyes. No follow-up. You didn’t even glance at him.
He paused. Just for a second. And then kept walking.
By evening, you heard the subtle tone in his voice shift. A flicker of unease.
He called from the kitchen, “Hey… you want me to make pasta or something?”
You didn’t respond.
“...Y/N?” he tried again.
You were in the bedroom, folding the same shirt over and over just to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted.
He peeked into the room, holding the bag of pasta in his hand. You didn’t look at him.
“I’m making something to eat,” he said slowly, carefully. “Do you want any?”
Still, you said nothing. You didn’t even shrug.
He exhaled sharply, clearly irritated now. “Okay. I’ll just leave you alone then.”
And he did.
The rest of the day passed the same way. Cold. Wordless. Wide.
You were in the same rooms but worlds apart. He started watching you more carefully. Furtively. He asked small things throughout the day "Did you do the laundry already?" or "Hey, have you seen my hoodie?" Each question met with nothing but the silence you were buried in.
You saw confusion start to shift in his face. His brows furrowed. His shoulders pulled taut. He’d ask something, and when you didn’t answer, his eyes would narrow slightly like he was starting to notice that something was wrong but still couldn’t connect the dots.
And that hurt more than anything.
Because to you, the answer was obvious. You were bleeding right in front of him, and he was asking why the floor looked red.
You were brushing your teeth late that night when he leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed.
"Are you gonna stay mad forever?"
You blinked once and spat the toothpaste into the sink, wiped your mouth without answering.
He waited.
"I seriously don’t know what I did," he said, his voice cracking a little with frustration. "If you’re not gonna tell me, how am I supposed to fix it?"
You turned off the bathroom light and walked past him.
The door didn’t slam this time. It clicked shut, soft and final.
By the time Thursday night arrived, he looked exhausted. You couldn’t tell if it was from the studio or from trying to figure out what had changed. Probably both.
You sat on the couch with your arms crossed, the TV playing something you weren’t even watching.
He stood in the doorway for a while, watching you with an unreadable expression.
Then finally, he said it. “I’m gonna go to the practice room for a bit.”
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t react.
“Maybe you just need space or something,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep bothering you.”
You bit your lip so hard it nearly bled.
Space?
That’s what he thought this was about?
He thought you were ignoring him because you needed air? Not because he’d forgotten the one day you were silently hoping he’d remember? Not because he’d made you feel like loving him was a chore? Like your affection was an obstacle?
You blinked at the screen, your eyes glassy. The show kept playing. You didn’t even know what episode you were on.
He waited a moment longer.
Then the door shut.
And suddenly you were alone. Again.
The tears finally came, thick and hot, as soon as his footsteps faded. They weren’t quiet this time. You choked on them, the kind that made your chest heave and your throat close. Your hands shook.
Because you were tired.
Tired of giving the benefit of the doubt. Tired of excuses. Tired of being too scared to say it’s my birthday tomorrow and you’ve done nothing. Tired of hoping he would see you, without you having to beg for it.
How could he not know?
How could he be so oblivious?
And still… you couldn't bring yourself to tell him.
Because wasn’t that the whole point?
You wanted to be chosen. Not reminded.
You wanted him to remember, not be told.
And tomorrow…
Tomorrow, when you woke up…
It would be your birthday.
And you had no idea if he would know it.
The practice room lights were dim, buzzing faintly overhead like the last nerve in Jisung’s mind, frayed and twitching. He stepped inside without much thought, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, and let out a breath that seemed to deflate his whole body. His legs gave out near the far wall, slumping down onto the cold wooden floor beside Hyunjin, who looked like he’d just finished drowning in sweat and choreography.
Jeongin was sitting criss-cross at the center of the room, stretching lazily with one earbud still dangling from his hoodie. Felix lay flat on his back beside him, chest heaving with tired breaths, while Minho scrolled through his phone like he hadn’t just danced for two hours straight.
The energy in the room was comfortable. Familiar. But the second Jisung sat down, it shifted.
Hyunjin glanced at him sideways. “What are you doing here?”
Felix sat up halfway, his brow scrunched. “Don’t you usually spend your days off with Y/N?”
“Wait—yeah,” Jeongin chimed in, tossing his head back. “Isn’t this, like, a once-in-a-blue-moon thing for you to be here on a day off?”
Jisung didn’t respond at first.
He exhaled hard and let his head fall back against the mirror. “She’s not talking to me.”
That caught their attention.
“What?” Hyunjin blinked.
“Like... ignoring you ignoring you?” Felix asked, scooting closer.
“Yeah. Since yesterday. Full-on silent treatment. Not even a shrug. Just—blank face. No words.” Jisung pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. “And I swear to God it’s driving me insane.”
“Damn,” Jeongin muttered under his breath.
Minho looked up from his phone. “Did you do something?”
Jisung shook his head instantly. “No! I mean—I don’t think so? I don’t know.”
Jeongin snorted. “That’s not convincing.”
“I didn’t, though!” he snapped. “Like—okay, yeah, maybe I was kind of short with her the other night, but I was working. She came into the studio while I was trying to get this chorus down and I got frustrated, that’s all. I didn’t say anything bad.”
Minho raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”
“She tried talking to me a couple times that day and I just—I asked for space. I was in the zone.” Jisung rubbed his temples, groaning. “She knows how I get when I’m writing. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“And then she just stopped talking to you?” Hyunjin asked, skeptical.
“Yeah. Didn’t even respond when I asked what she wanted for dinner. Hasn’t said a single word in two days. Like, is that normal?”
Felix frowned. “Sounds like she’s hurt.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t get why,” Jisung said, his voice raising without him meaning to. “I didn’t yell at her, I didn’t say anything cruel, I just... I was working! I asked for space!”
Jeongin gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Okay, but did you look at her?”
Jisung paused. “What?”
“I mean... when she came to see you, when she tried talking to you—did you actually look at her? Like—her face? Her energy? The way she was holding herself?”
Jisung frowned, caught off guard. “I mean... not really? I was focused.”
Felix leaned forward, soft but serious. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Silence fell for a moment. The kind that starts to crawl into your chest when people say things you aren’t ready to hear.
“You probably said something you didn’t even notice,” Hyunjin said, wiping his forehead with a towel. “You do that when you’re in work mode. You push people away without meaning to.”
“I was just trying to finish my song,” Jisung muttered. But even he could hear the defensiveness in his voice.
Minho finally chimed in. “Then maybe ask yourself what’s more important—your music, or the way you treat the person who’s always there supporting it.”
The words hit harder than Jisung expected. They weren’t said harshly. Just plainly. Truthfully.
And they made his stomach twist.
He hated the idea that he had done something careless. That while he was focused on not forgetting a lyric, he might’ve forgotten her. Forgotten how hard she tried to love him even when he was too preoccupied to notice.
Jisung leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together tightly.
“She looked so blank,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize how... quiet she really was. I thought she just needed space.”
Jeongin raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe she was waiting for you to realize something.”
The silence that followed was sharp.
Jisung blinked down at the floor, the thought nagging at him like a weight on his back. He hated the way it made his chest feel tight. The way guilt started to form like smoke in his lungs.
And then..
Hyunjin, ever the emotional antenna in the room, turned to him with an almost casual question.
“So, anyway—what do you have planned for her birthday tomorrow?”
Jisung looked up, confused. “Huh?”
“Her birthday,” Hyunjin repeated. “Tomorrow, right?”
Jisung laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s not tomorrow. It’s next week or something. The—uh—the 11th, right?”
“Tomorrow is the 11th,” Jeongin deadpanned.
Jisung froze.
His hands went numb.
He instinctively pulled out his phone, thumbing the lock screen, eyes scanning the date like it had betrayed him.
Thursday, July 10th.
Tomorrow: Friday, July 11th.
His world tilted.
“No…” he breathed. “No way.”
Felix’s face fell as realization hit him too. “You didn’t…?”
Hyunjin stared at him in disbelief. “You forgot her birthday.”
“I—” Jisung's voice caught in his throat. “No—I didn’t—I just—I thought—shit—”
The words splintered into chaos. He dropped his phone. His mind was spinning.
It wasn’t just the date. It was everything. The way she came to him asking if he was free Friday. The way she tried to kiss him, twice. The way she’d softened into his side that night in bed, begging silently for him to hold her. The way she hadn’t said a word since.
The way she hadn’t cried. Not where he could see. But oh god, she had cried, hadn’t she?
He missed all of it.
He missed her.
“Oh my god,” he whispered.
Minho stared at him, arms folded. “Now do you get it?”
“She was trying to see if I remembered,” Jisung muttered, like he was trying to convince himself the sky was blue. “She didn’t even say it out loud. She just… asked if I had Friday off.”
“That’s the worst part,” Felix said gently. “She didn’t want to remind you. She wanted you to care enough to remember.”
A punch to the gut wouldn’t have hurt as much.
Jisung buried his face in his hands.
“I fucked up.”
“Yeah,” Jeongin muttered. “Kinda bad.”
He didn't even argue.
Because he could see it now, all of it. Her silence wasn’t punishment. It was heartbreak. It was the sound of someone giving up.
And tomorrow, her birthday, she’d wake up in a house full of silence, thinking the person she loved most in the world didn’t remember or care enough to say a single word.
The second the realization hit, Jisung couldn’t sit still.
He shot to his feet like the floor had burned him, nearly tripping over Felix’s outstretched legs. The others barely had time to register his panic before he was already moving, storming out of the practice room, heart pounding in his chest, the door slamming shut behind him with a crack that echoed down the hall.
He barely heard Jeongin’s “Hey—where are you going?” Didn’t stop to explain. Didn’t even breathe.
He’d forgotten.
Your birthday.
Tomorrow.
No, today. It was past midnight now.
He had forgotten your birthday.
The one day he was supposed to remember. The one day you never reminded him of because you always wanted to be seen without having to ask.
And instead of showing you love, he’d brushed you off. Pushed you away. Told you that your affection, your literal presence was a distraction.
It made him sick to think of your face in that moment now. The softness of your voice when you asked him if he was free. The way you leaned in, tried to kiss him. How your touch lingered on his shoulder like you were silently begging him not to let go.
And he had.
Without a second thought.
He hurt you.
The company doors banged shut behind him as he ran into the cool night air.
The streets were mostly empty, the last few buses rumbling past. He tugged his hood up and darted toward the only place that made sense, the only place he could think of at a time like this:
Your favorite bakery.
Even though he knew it was close to closing. Even though the odds were against him.
He didn’t care. He had to try.
He arrived, chest heaving, legs burning, and nearly slammed into the glass door.
Inside, the lights were still on. But barely.
The workers were already cleaning up, putting chairs on tables, wiping down the counters. Their eyes shifted to him the second he pushed the door open.
He could see it on their faces. That “please don’t walk in” expression masked with tired politeness.
“Can I get a cake?” he blurted, breathless.
One of the girls forced a smile. “We’re just closing up, I’m sorry—”
“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry, I wouldn’t be here this late unless it was an emergency. I forgot something really important. Someone’s birthday. Someone I love.”
Something in his voice must’ve hit them.
Because after a beat, the girl sighed, glanced at the display case, and muttered, “I think we have one left. Lucky night, I guess.”
Jisung’s heart flipped.
She returned a second later with a small cake box in hand.
Your favorite flavor.
He could’ve cried.
He ran the whole way home. The cake safely in his arms. Careful. Intentional.
When he got back, the apartment was dark. Quiet. You were already asleep.
He peeked into the bedroom, you were curled up, turned away from the door, your shoulders tense even in rest. You looked… small. Worn out.
The guilt twisted inside him like a knife.
He closed the door gently. Didn’t make a sound.
Then he stared at the living room and kitchen like they were a blank canvas.
And he got to work.
He didn’t sleep.
He blew up balloons some crooked, some lopsided. He taped pictures of the two of you on the walls, printed ones he’d taken in secret during your late-night snack runs, your beach trip, even that one where you were brushing your teeth with a scowl.
He strung up a makeshift “Happy Birthday” banner, cut by hand with scraps of colored paper. He’d messed up the “R” three times. It still looked wrong.
He pulled out the small gifts he’d forgotten he had been meaning to give you, the lyrics he’d scribbled in the back of a notebook weeks ago, inspired by something you said while laughing. A hair clip you pointed at in a store once. He wrapped them in old sheet music.
He wrote a letter. Messy. Panicked. Honest. Full of crossed-out words and a giant smudge where he wiped his eyes.
He arranged it all by the time the clock hit 1:00 a.m.
And then he collapsed on the couch mid-balloon. One still half-inflated in his hands.
He didn’t hear the bedroom door creak open.
Didn’t feel the light of the hallway hit his face.
But the moment you moved, He did.
His body shot up like he was jolted back to life.
There you were.
Standing in the hallway, arms crossed over your chest, the expression on your face carefully blank, but your eyes spoke volumes.
You were still upset.
Rightfully.
You hadn’t forgotten. You hadn’t forgiven.
But he didn’t care if you hated him for another hour, another day, a week he had to show you something real now.
“Wait—don’t look yet!” he rushed, nearly tripping over a balloon.
You blinked slowly, unimpressed.
He walked up to you, gently reaching his hands to cover your eyes. You didn’t resist, but you didn’t soften, either.
He felt the chill in your posture. The hurt still lingering in your shoulders.
“Please,” he whispered. “Just... let me try.”
He guided you, quietly. Carefully.
His hands shook.
He stopped you in front of the living room, heart pounding against his ribs.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Now.”
He removed his hands from your eyes.
The lights were low. The table was covered in flickering tea candles. The little cake, topped with your favorite frosting. Photos taped to balloons hovered above.
Your name was scrawled across the banner in bright colors. The gifts sat nearby. His letter peeking out from under them.
He stepped in front of you.
“Happy birthday,” he said, breathless. “I’m sorry I forgot. I’m sorry I hurt you. I know this doesn’t fix it, but I needed you to know, I know now. And I’m not going to forget again.”
You stared.
Expression unreadable. Chest tight.
He could see your jaw twitch like you were trying not to smile. But your eyes were glassy. The corners of your mouth shifted ever so slightly. You nearly cracked.
Nearly.
But the silence remained.
Because what he hurt wasn’t something decorations could patch up.
And still, you stood there.
Looking at him.
Looking at the effort.
The mess.
The truth.
And for the first time in days,
You didn’t look away.
The soft flicker of candlelight painted the room in warm hues, casting shadows over the clumsy decorations, the carefully placed gifts, the melting frosting on your cake.
It should have felt special. Thoughtful. Sweet.
But it didn’t.
Not yet.
Jisung stood just in front of you, his breathing uneven. His hands hung awkwardly by his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. He looked nervous. Not in the cute, shy way he usually did when he surprised you, but the kind that made his whole frame feel like it was waiting to collapse.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t move.
Your arms remained crossed, your expression unreadable, carefully neutral, but your eyes were fixed on him. Not the decorations. Not the cake. Not the pictures or the presents.
Just him.
And that silence, heavier than any door slam or raised voice, pierced deeper than either of you were ready to admit.
He finally swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t sleep. I stayed up all night working on this.”
You blinked slowly. Once.
“I ran all the way to the bakery before they closed,” he added, as if that explained anything. “They only had one cake left. I—I begged them.”
Still nothing.
He shifted on his feet, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something, anything to tell him he was getting through. That he hadn’t completely shattered the fragile thread between you.
But your face remained calm. Distant.
“I didn’t mean to forget,” he said softly, almost pleading. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”
You finally moved. Not toward him.
Just your head, tilting slightly.
Your eyes flicked over the decorations. The half-deflated balloon on the couch. The misspelled banner. The crumpled wrapping paper around a small box. The cake. The candles, now half-melted.
And then back to him.
A beat passed.
And then your voice quiet, hoarse, deliberate cut through the air.
“You didn’t mean to forget,” you echoed, almost to yourself. “But you did.”
Jisung flinched.
Because hearing it said out loud like that made it feel real all over again.
You didn’t yell. You didn’t accuse. You didn’t cry.
You just told the truth.
And somehow, that hurt more.
“I know,” he whispered, guilt tightening in his chest like a fist.
You finally stepped forward, walking past him, not bothering to ask if you could. You stood before the table, staring down at the small cake in the center. Your favorite flavor.
It looked perfect.
But it felt... wrong.
Uncomfortable.
Artificial.
You were quiet for a long time before you spoke again.
“You know what hurt the most?” you asked, eyes still on the table.
Jisung slowly turned to face you, but didn’t interrupt.
“It wasn’t that you forgot the date,” you said, voice trembling just enough to betray your restraint. “It’s that I came to you, twice, and you didn’t even look at me.”
He said nothing.
“I asked if you were free,” you continued, quieter. “And you brushed me off. I tried to kiss you, and you called me a distraction. You said you almost forgot your lyrics like I was in the way.”
The words cut like glass.
“And then you came to bed,” you said bitterly, shaking your head, “and instead of pulling me close, you scolded me again. You didn’t notice that I didn’t say anything back. You didn’t ask why I turned away.”
Jisung’s voice caught. “I didn’t know—”
“I know you didn’t,” you snapped suddenly, turning to face him now, arms still crossed but your chest rising fast, “because you didn’t care to know. You were too wrapped up in your music to notice that I was hurting. That I was right there in front of you, trying everything I could to be seen.”
His mouth opened. Closed.
“I didn’t want cake,” you said, softer now. “I didn’t want decorations or balloons or even a gift.”
Your voice cracked just slightly.
“I wanted you to remember me.”
A silence fell over the room that made even the candles seem to quiet.
Jisung’s heart felt like it had dropped out of his body.
Because now he saw it.
All of it.
This wasn’t about a forgotten birthday.
It was about what that forgetfulness meant to you.
That in the middle of his chaotic, music-fueled mind, you had fallen out of focus. And not just the date, you. Your presence. Your love. Your place beside him.
And the worst part?
You hadn’t yelled. You hadn’t begged.
You’d just gotten quiet.
And he hadn’t noticed until it was too late.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, but it sounded so small now. So empty in the shadow of everything you’d just said.
You looked at him for a long, long moment.
There was something raw in your expression now. Not anger. Not even sadness.
Just tiredness.
And then you gave a faint shrug.
“I know you are,” you said. “But I’m still hurt.”
You turned back toward the hallway slowly.
And before you walked away, you added one final thing,
“I don’t need grand gestures, Jisung.”
You paused.
“I just need to know I matter without having to remind you.”
And then you left him standing there.
Alone in a room full of balloons.
-
Morning came heavy.
The early light filtered in through the curtains in faded strips, casting muted patterns across the floor and walls. You were already awake, had been for hours. Lying still in bed, eyes on the ceiling, a dull ache stretching across your chest.
You hadn’t slept much.
Even after he decorated the night before. Even after the surprise. The effort.
The reminder that he cared, but only after he realized he’d forgotten.
There was something deeply hollow in the pit of your stomach. Something disappointment couldn’t fully name.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love you.
It was that he didn’t see you when you needed him to.
And you weren’t sure a cake at 1:00 a.m. was going to fix that.
When you finally got up, you didn’t say a word.
You padded into the living room, careful to avoid looking at the decorations still up. They felt… false. Like remnants of something built on guilt rather than intention.
Jisung was already awake, curled up on the couch, eyes half-lidded and red from lack of sleep.
He sat up immediately when he heard you.
"Morning," he said, softly cautiously.
You didn’t respond. Not even a glance in his direction.
He frowned but didn’t push.
You passed him, quiet as ever, and walked to the kitchen. The clatter of a mug on the counter was the loudest sound in the apartment. You poured yourself water. That was it. No breakfast.
He stood a minute later, stretching awkwardly. He hovered, just a few steps behind. Like he wanted to be close but didn’t know if he had permission anymore.
The silence between you was crushing.
He trailed you throughout the day, always within sight. Always trying to stay near you like he could fix the damage just by being close.
He didn’t go to practice. Didn’t write. Didn’t open his laptop or touch his notebook.
Instead, he lingered.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hovering.
When you sat on the floor to organize a drawer you didn’t really need to organize, he sat a few feet away, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking over to you. Quietly hopeful. Painfully anxious.
You didn’t speak.
When you changed rooms, he followed.
Not in an overbearing way just enough to make it known he was still there. That he was trying, even if he didn’t know how.
By the time afternoon crept in, you were still silent.
You didn’t eat.
Not out of pettiness, but because your emotions were so knotted, so close to the surface, that even chewing felt like a chore. Food would make this real. Food would be you accepting the day.
And right now, you weren’t ready.
Jisung noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t say anything.
He just... watched you.
With a kind of quiet panic in his eyes that made it clear he was spiraling inside.
By late evening, the tension had become a third person in the room breathing heavily, sitting between you on the couch, pressing against your sides.
You were scrolling absently on your phone. You hadn’t spoken in hours.
He was next to you, knees pulled to his chest, a small cushion hugged against his stomach. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled. He looked miserable, but kept pretending to be calm.
Then, in the quiet, your stomach growled.
Loudly.
Painfully loud in the dead silence.
You immediately stilled, eyes widening.
Jisung’s head whipped toward you.
There was a pause.
A long, too-long beat where his mouth twitched, like he was fighting it.
And then he laughed.
Not obnoxiously. Not teasingly.
But a soft, breathless, startled kind of laugh. Like the kind that slips out when the universe plays a joke on you.
He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide like he knew he wasn’t supposed to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.
And for just one second, you cracked.
Your face twisted as you tried to stay stern. Tried to keep the front up. But the ridiculousness of it all, the dead silence, your growling stomach, the haunted look on his face, broke something loose.
You choked on your own breath, and suddenly a small laugh escaped you.
Not a big one. Not even a full sound. But enough.
His eyes softened instantly.
The tension snapped not fully, but just enough for the room to breathe again.
He stood, carefully, like approaching a wild animal that might still bite. Then walked toward you, slow and sure, eyes never leaving your face.
"Hey," he said, voice rough with exhaustion and emotion. "Look, I know you’re still pissed. And you should be."
You didn’t answer, but you didn’t look away either.
“I’ll apologize as many times as you want. I’ll keep groveling for the rest of the year if I have to,” he said, gently, kneeling in front of you now. His hands rested on the couch cushion beside your legs, not touching you. Just near.
“But right now… I need to celebrate you. Just a little. Just today. You haven’t eaten. You haven’t let yourself breathe. And I know I ruined the start of your day, but I’m begging you, please let me try to salvage the end of it.”
You blinked at him. Slow. Guarded.
“I know I messed up,” he said again, voice shaking. “But you don’t deserve to be hungry on your birthday. You don’t deserve to sit here feeling invisible. You deserve cake and your favorite food and someone telling you that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to them.”
His throat bobbed.
“I’m that someone. I swear I am.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t smile. But your lip quivered.
And he saw it.
He saw that flicker. That tiny unraveling.
So he slowly reached out his fingers brushing yours, tentative, waiting for rejection.
But you didn’t pull away.
Not this time.
He let out a shaky breath, and his grip tightened slightly around your hand.
“I’m ordering your favorite,” he said softly. “And I’m not letting you lift a finger tonight. You’re going to eat, and if you want, we’ll sit in silence. Or we’ll watch that show you love. Or I’ll leave after. Whatever you want. Just… let me be here for you. Like I should have been from the start.”
Another pause.
Then, barely audible
“Please.”
The air between you had shifted, slightly, like clouds parting just enough for a patch of sun to warm the skin. Still cloudy. Still heavy. But there was warmth now. And that was a start.
You watched him as he pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over the food delivery app. “Your usual?” he asked gently, cautious but hopeful.
You nodded.
But just before he tapped the screen, you spoke, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
“…Add a brown sugar bubble tea.”
He looked up at you, surprised.
Your eyes met his briefly.
A small corner of his mouth lifted, hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if a smile was allowed, but when you didn’t pull away, it widened with quiet relief. That moment, tiny as it was, cracked something in both of you.
He tapped a few buttons and said, “Large brown sugar milk tea with extra pearls, 50% sugar, less ice. Right?”
You nodded again.
“…Thank you,” you added softly.
His eyes softened, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. “It’ll be here soon,” he said, setting his phone down on the coffee table.
Then he moved slowly like approaching a fragile edge of ice.
He sat beside you, close enough to feel his warmth again, but not crowding you. Not forcing anything.
And then, gently, he leaned his head on your shoulder. Slowly tilted further down until he was lying across the couch, his legs curled and head tucked carefully against your side. One arm draped loosely across your lap, his grip feather-light. His face pressed into the hem of your hoodie.
“I'm so sorry,” he whispered against you. “God, I’m so sorry.”
The words were hoarse. Choked.
Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just real.
Repeated again, like a mantra. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You ran your fingers through the sleeve hem of your hoodie for a moment, eyes staring past him, before you finally said, “I know.”
He turned his face a little, just enough to glance up at you.
“I forgive you,” you murmured, after a beat. “But I need you to know that you really, really hurt me.”
His breath hitched, but he nodded slowly.
You kept your voice steady. Firm but not harsh.
“I wasn’t even upset about the birthday anymore,” you said quietly. “You know I’ve never cared about birthdays that much.”
You paused.
“But when I asked if you had Friday off, you barely looked at me. And then I tried again, and you told me I was distracting you. Like I was bothering you. Like I was some kind of obstacle in your way.”
Jisung’s eyes dropped. His fingers curled tighter against your lap. He stayed completely still.
“That’s what hurt,” you said, voice finally cracking slightly. “Not the forgetting. But the pushing away. Like I was too much. Like I was getting in the way of your real priorities.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he whispered, desperate. “I wasn’t thinking. I was overwhelmed, I should’ve stopped and seen you.”
“You didn’t even notice when I stopped talking to you,” you added, looking down at him. “I was right there. And you didn’t even ask.”
His chest rose sharply, his lips pressing into a thin, broken line.
“I’ve been kicking myself for that for two days,” he said quietly. “I kept thinking, ‘Why is she being so cold?’ And I didn’t even consider that it was because I had gone cold first. I made you feel like a burden when you were just trying to love me.”
You didn’t say anything, but your eyes softened at that.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“You’re not a burden. You’re my peace. My home. And I treated you like you were noise.”
That hit something in you. Hard.
Because that was the truth you had no words for until now. You hadn’t wanted flowers or presents, you’d wanted to be met. To be held in mind and heart like you always did for him. You were asking to be cherished, just for a moment. And he hadn’t shown up.
But now, here he was.
Curled around you like an apology with a heartbeat.
You let your hand fall gently to his hair, fingers brushing through the soft strands.
And you finally said, “Just… don’t let me feel like that again.”
“I won’t,” he said immediately, his voice thick. “I swear, I won’t.”
You tilted down slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were red. Teary. He looked so small, so ashamed, but so present.
“I love you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Even when I’m stupid. Especially then.”
You gave him a small, tired smile.
“You are stupid,” you whispered.
He exhaled a breath of a laugh. And then looked at you again, this time with a question in his eyes.
You didn’t answer with words.
You leaned down, cupped his cheek gently, and kissed him.
Not soft.
Not dramatic.
But real. Lingering. Quietly desperate.
His arms wrapped around your waist instantly, pulling you closer, holding you like something he thought he’d lost. He kissed you back like he was still apologizing through every movement like he didn’t deserve you, but would spend the rest of his life making it up.
When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing shallow.
“Happy birthday,” he whispered, barely audible.
You closed your eyes.
And for the first time all day, you smiled.
“I still want that bubble tea,” you whispered.
He laughed into your shoulder, voice warm now, full of the relief he hadn’t dared hope for hours ago.
“You’re getting it,” he said, kissing your temple. “I’ll buy you ten. I’ll buy the whole damn shop.”
“You better,” you muttered, resting your hand over his.
And for the first time in days, the silence between you didn’t ache.
It simply held.
//
a/n: for 🌺 anon.
masterlist.
[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna @tricky-ritz @tsunderelino @wickedbutlovely @delulumel @shinygubbins @hhwangsmoon lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]
Package deal
Lee know x f!reader (feat jisung)
Synopsis: han jisung as the third wheel who is not really a third wheel at all
A/n: ahh this had made me want to write for these two even more if anyone has any requests i would love to write them!
Wc: 3,267
Dating Minho came with rules.
Not official ones, of course. Minho wasn’t the type to sit you down with a serious face and a bullet-pointed list of relationship terms. He was more the type to silently place the last piece of meat in your bowl, glare at you until you ate it, and then call you dramatic when you got emotional about it.
Still, the rules existed.
One: Soonie, Doongie, and Dori were to be spoken to with respect at all times.
Two: if Minho cooked, you were expected to praise him properly. Not too much, because then he’d accuse you of being fake. Not too little, because then he’d sulk in silence for exactly twelve minutes.
Three: if you were dating Minho, you were also dating the fact that Han Jisung came attached.
That third rule was the one no one warned you about.
You had discovered it slowly.
At first, Jisung appeared on casual outings. A café trip here, a convenience store run there. Minho would text you, I’m outside, and when you opened the car door, Jisung would already be sitting in the back seat with a packet of crisps, waving at you like he had been invited.
“Hi,” he’d say cheerfully. “Don’t mind me.”
You would glance at Minho.
Minho would stare straight ahead, one hand on the wheel. “He was hungry.”
That was always the excuse.
He was hungry. He was bored. He looked lonely. He said he wanted coffee. He was whining. He followed me out. He has separation anxiety.
Jisung never denied any of it. In fact, he seemed rather proud.
Over time, he stopped sitting in the back seat.
Now, he sat in the passenger seat when Minho drove, because he claimed he got carsick in the back, even though everyone knew that was a lie. You sat behind Minho, reaching forward occasionally to poke his cheek or fix the collar of his jacket. Jisung would watch in the mirror, lips pursed.
“You never fix my collar,” he complained one afternoon.
“You’re wearing a hoodie,” Minho said.
“So?”
“So there’s no collar.”
Jisung turned around to look at you with wounded eyes. “Do you see how he speaks to me?”
You leaned forward and gently adjusted the drawstrings of his hoodie instead. “There. Better?”
Jisung immediately melted back into his seat, smiling smugly. “Much better.”
Minho clicked his tongue, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
That was how it always went.
Jisung complained. You fussed. Minho pretended to be annoyed. Then, when Jisung wasn’t looking, Minho would do something stupidly tender, like pass him the first bite of food or tug his hood up because the wind was cold.
It was impossible not to love them together.
It was also impossible to go on a normal date.
You had tried.
Not because Jisung was rude about it or anything. He wasn’t. That was the thing people didn’t always get about him.
For all his dramatic whining and his tragic little sighs whenever Minho said he was busy, Jisung knew when to step back. He knew when a date was a date. A proper one. The kind where you dressed up, Minho booked a table somewhere nice, and Jisung sent exactly one text saying, Have fun, bring me dessert if you love me.
Which, obviously, Minho pretended to ignore.
And then brought him dessert anyway.
That was how it usually went.
Tonight had been one of those proper dates.
You had spent too long getting ready, changing your outfit twice before settling on something you knew Minho liked. Not because he was hard to impress — he really wasn’t, no matter how much he acted like he was — but because the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention still made your stomach do stupid little flips.
When he knocked on your door, you opened it before he could text you something annoying like hurry up, I’m ageing outside.
Minho stood there in a black coat, hair soft over his forehead, one hand tucked into his pocket.
For once, he didn’t immediately say something sarcastic.
His eyes moved over you, slow and obvious, and his mouth parted just slightly before he caught himself.
You leaned against the doorframe. “What?”
He blinked, then looked you right in the eye.
“You look gorgeous.”
There it was.
No mumbling. No pretending. No weird
dodge.
Just Minho, looking at you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and deciding, apparently, that you deserved to hear it.
Your face warmed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His gaze dipped again, softer this time. “Really pretty.”
You tried to play it cool. You failed immediately.
“Careful,” you said, stepping out and locking the door behind you. “Compliment me too much and I might start thinking you like me.”
Minho took your hand before you could overthink it, lacing his fingers through yours. “Shit. That would be embarrassing.”
The date itself was perfect in that quiet, sort of way.
He complained about the lighting in the restaurant and then still took a picture of you because he said you looked too good not to. He told you not to order something spicy because you’d regret it, then swapped plates with you halfway through when you did, in fact, regret it. He reached across the table to wipe sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, called you messy, and smiled when you kicked him lightly under the table.
It was romantic.
It was just yours.
No interruptions. No Jisung dramatically appearing.
Because Jisung wasn’t a dick.
He might be clingy. He might text Minho twenty-seven times in a row because he saw a cat that “looked similar” to him. He might act like being left alone for three hours was the same as being abandoned in the wilderness.
But he respected you.
He respected Minho.
He respected the relationship.
And maybe that was why you liked letting him into it so much.
By the time dinner was over, you and Minho were walking back to the car hand in hand, your shoulder tucked against his arm, the night air cold enough to make you shiver.
Minho noticed immediately.
Without a word, he unwound his scarf and looped it around your neck.
You smiled. “You’ll be cold.”
“I’m strong.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You’re gorgeous. Be quiet.”
You laughed, tugging the scarf closer around yourself. “You can’t just say that whenever you want me to stop arguing.”
“It worked.”
“It did, actually.”
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, and for a moment, everything was calm and warm and easy.
Then his phone buzzed.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Minho didn’t even check it at first.
You did.
Not the messages, just the name lighting up on his screen.
Han Jisung.
You snorted. “Your son is calling.”
“He’s older than a son.”
You snorted again. “Your other half is calling.”
The phone buzzed again.
Minho sighed like the weight of the world had personally chosen him. Then he answered, putting it on speaker before you could stop grinning.
“What?”
Jisung’s voice came through instantly. “Wow. Hello to you too, sunshine.”
“What do you want?”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, nothing. I’m just checking you’re alive.”
“You texted me nine times.”
“Because you didn’t answer.”
“I was on a date.”
“I know! That’s why I only texted nine times. I was being respectful.”
You covered your mouth, laughing silently.
Minho glanced at you, his expression flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “What happened?”
There was a pause.
Then Jisung said, quieter, “Nothing happened.”
Minho stopped walking.
You stopped too.
His voice changed, not by much, but enough that you heard it. Softer. More focused.
“Han.”
Jisung made a small noise. “Don’t do the scary voice.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing bad. I just…” Another pause. “I finished my schedule and everyone’s doing their own thing and I’m bored as fuck.”
You looked at Minho.
Minho looked at you.
You leaned closer to the phone. “Did you eat?”
Jisung gasped. “Oh my God, hi.”
“Hi, Sungie. Did you eat?”
“Define eat.”
Minho closed his eyes. “Han Jisung.”
“I had crisps.”
“That’s not dinner,” you said.
“It was a big bag.”
Minho was already pulling his keys from his pocket. “We’re picking you up.”
Jisung went silent.
Then, suspiciously soft, “You are?”
You glanced at Minho, raising your eyebrows.
He shrugged like this hadn’t been his decision before you even said anything.
“Our date’s finished,” you said. “And Minho owes you dessert.”
“I do not,” Minho said.
“You bought it already.”
Jisung made a delighted sound. “You bought me dessert?”
“No,” Minho said.
“He did,” you said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You asked the waiter to pack an extra slice of cheesecake.”
“That could be for me.”
“You don’t even like cheesecake that much.”
Jisung’s voice wobbled with pure, ridiculous emotion. “You got me cheesecake?”
Minho unlocked the car. “I’m hanging up.”
“Hyung.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
Minho froze for half a second.
You watched him carefully.
His face didn’t change much, but his ears went pink again.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Stay where you are.”
He hung up before Jisung could make it worse.
You slipped into the passenger seat this time, still wrapped in Minho’s scarf, still warm from dinner and his compliments and the easy weight of his hand in yours.
As soon as he started the car, you looked over at him.
He didn’t look back. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
“I’m driving. Don’t annoy me.”
“You got him cheesecake.”
“He’s annoying when he wants something sweet.”
“You love him.”
Minho’s fingers tightened slightly around the steering wheel.
For a second, you wondered if you’d pushed too far.
Then he said, very quietly, “So do you.”
You smiled.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.”
He glanced at you then, quick and careful.
Not jealous. Not uncomfortable.
Just checking.
You reached over and rested your hand on his thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“I love you too, you know.”
Minho’s face softened immediately.
“I know,” he said.
Then, after a beat, “I love you.”
You grinned. “See? Was that so hard?”
“Awful. Nearly died.”
“You’re so brave.”
He smiled then, small but real, and took one hand off the wheel just long enough to lift your hand to his mouth and kiss your knuckles.
By the time you pulled up outside the studio, Jisung was already waiting near the entrance in an oversized hoodie, bouncing slightly on his heels from the cold.
The second he saw the car, his whole face lit up.
“Oh, he is so pleased with himself,” you said.
Minho sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”
“You say that like we aren’t literally here to pick him up and give him cake.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“He’s pathetic.”
Jisung opened the back door before you could answer and immediately leaned between the front seats. “I heard that.”
“Good,” Minho said.
Jisung ignored him completely and looked at you. “Hi, pretty.”
“Hi, princess.”
His smile turned smug instantly.
Minho groaned. “Don’t call him that. He gets worse.”
“I deserve nice things,” Jisung said, climbing into the back seat and shutting the door. “I have suffered.”
“You were alone for two hours,” Minho said.
“Exactly.”
You turned around in your seat and reached back to fix the hood slipping off Jisung’s head. His hair was messy underneath, fluffy and sticking up at the sides.
“You’re freezing,” you said.
“I know, I’ve been suffering out here.”
Minho reached for the heater without being asked.
Jisung noticed.
You noticed him noticing.
Minho noticed both of you noticing and immediately looked pissed off about being perceived.
“Don’t,” he warned.
Jisung pressed his lips together.
You did the same.
The silence lasted three seconds.
Then Jisung said, “You love me so bad.”
Minho put the car into drive. “I’m taking you back.”
“No, you’re not. You have cheesecake.”
“Had cheesecake.”
Jisung gasped. “You wouldn’t.”
You reached into the bag at your feet and pulled out the takeaway box. “He wouldn’t. He was very serious about making sure they packed it properly.”
Minho muttered something under his breath.
Jisung leaned forward, eyes shining. “Can I have it now?”
“No,” Minho said.
“Yes,” you said at the same time.
Jisung looked between you both. “Mum said yes.”
Minho’s head turned slowly.
You burst out laughing.
“Do not call her that,” he said.
Jisung looked between you both. “Your gorgeous date said yes.”
Minho’s head turned slowly. “Don’t flirt with my date.”
“I’m complimenting her.”
“That’s flirting.”
Jisung smiled around his fork. “You’re jealous.”
You reached back and gently pinched Jisung’s cheek. “Eat your cheesecake before he takes it back.”
Jisung immediately clutched the box closer. “He wouldn’t. He loves me too much.”
He took one bite and immediately slumped back against the seat, eyes closing. “Fuck, that’s good.”
Minho glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “Seatbelt.”
Jisung, still chewing, blindly reached for it.
You watched Minho watching him.
That was the thing about dating Minho. People who didn’t know him properly always acted like he was hard to read, like his love had to be dug out from underneath layers of sarcasm and blank stares.
But you had never really seen it that way.
Minho loved in a way that was almost impossible to miss if you paid attention. He held your hand without thinking. He fixed Jisung’s hood when it slipped off his head. He kept his palm warm against the small of your back when you walked through busy places, guiding you gently without making a big deal out of it. He bought the cheesecake. He turned the heating up. He told you that you looked gorgeous and said it like he meant every single letter.
He could tease, obviously. He could be dry and blunt and annoying as hell when he wanted to be.
But cold?
Never.
Not with you.
Not with Jisung.
Not when he looked at the two of you like you were something soft he had been trusted to take care of.
By the time you got back to the dorm, Jisung had already eaten three bites of the cheesecake in the car despite Minho telling him to wait until you were all inside.
He had agreed, very seriously, and then opened the box the second Minho looked back at the road.
“You have no self-control,” Minho said, unlocking the door.
Jisung walked in first, cheesecake tucked protectively against his chest. “I have joy. You should try it sometime.”
“I bought you the cheesecake.”
“And that was very sexy of you.”
Minho paused in the doorway.
You nearly walked into his back.
Jisung turned around, blinking innocently. “What?”
“Don’t say that while holding a plastic fork,” Minho said.
“Why?”
“It ruins the effect.”
You laughed, slipping past Minho into the dorm. “So there was an effect?”
Minho looked at you, then down at your outfit again, the same way he’d been doing all night when he thought he was being subtle.
“There is when you do it,” he said.
Your face warmed immediately.
You took your coat off, still smiling, and before you could reach for the hook, Minho stepped behind you and lifted it gently from your shoulders.
His hands lingered for half a second.
“You really did look gorgeous tonight,” he said, quieter now.
You turned your head slightly, smiling at him over your shoulder. “You’ve told me that already.”
“I know.”
“And you’re telling me again?”
His mouth curved. “Problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He kissed your cheek before hanging your coat up, quick and casual enough to make your heart feel stupid.
When you glanced towards the living room, Jisung was already on the sofa, cheesecake balanced on his lap, fork held loosely in his hand.
He wasn’t saying anything.
Which was, honestly, how you knew something was up.
Usually, Jisung filled every room he was in. A little hum here, a comment there, some dramatic noise just to remind everyone he existed and deserved to be looked at. But now he was just sitting there, lips pushed into the smallest pout, poking at the corner of his cheesecake without actually eating it.
You softened immediately.
Minho noticed too.
His eyes flicked over Jisung’s face, and all the teasing left him at once.
You sat down beside Jisung, still smiling, and reached over to fix the hood of his jumper where it had bunched awkwardly behind his neck. “Poor Sungie.”
Jisung’s pout deepened, but he leaned into you almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for permission.
“I’m fine,” he mumbled.
“No, you’re not.” You reached up and pushed his hair back from his forehead, gentle with it. “You’re sulking.”
“I’m not sulking.”
“You’re holding your fork sadly.”
His eyes dropped to the fork in his hand.
Then, very quietly, he said, “Maybe a little.”
Your chest went all warm and soft.
You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing lightly over his skin. “Did you want some attention too?”
Jisung didn’t answer straight away.
He just leaned heavier into your hand, cheeks going pink.
That was answer enough.
Before you could say anything else, the sofa dipped on Jisung’s other side.
Minho sat beside him, close enough that their knees touched, and reached over to take the cheesecake box from his lap before it could slide off.
Jisung looked at him.
Minho looked back, expression gentle in a way that always made your heart ache a little.
“You went quiet,” he said softly.
Jisung shrugged, suddenly very interested in the sleeve of his hoodie. “Didn’t wanna interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting.”
“You were being cute.”
Minho’s face softened even more.
Then he reached up and tucked a messy piece of hair behind Jisung’s ear, his fingers lingering there.
“You’re allowed to want attention,” he said.
Jisung blinked.
The room went quiet for a second.
Not awkward. Just soft.
Then Jisung mumbled, “That’s embarrassing.”
Minho smiled a little. “You’re embarrassing.”
“Hyung.”
“Cute, though.”
Jisung’s head snapped up.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
Minho didn’t look away from him. He didn’t roll his eyes or pretend he hadn’t said it. He just looked at Jisung like he adored him because he did. Like Jisung being needy and pouty was something precious, not annoying.
Then Minho leaned in and kissed his forehead.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered shut immediately.
The pout disappeared from his face so quickly it was almost funny.
You leaned in too, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Jisung made a tiny sound, pleased and shy all at once, before hiding half his face behind his sleeve.
“You’re both so mean,” he mumbled.
You laughed softly. “We kissed you.”
“Exactly.”
Minho’s hand slid to the back of Jisung’s neck, thumb rubbing there gently. “Spoiled.”
Jisung peeked over his sleeve. “Loved.”
Minho’s smile was small, but so warm.
“Yeah,” he said. “Loved.”
Jisung went quiet again, but this time it wasn’t sulking.
You settled closer against his side, and Minho stayed right there on the other, sandwiching Jisung between you both until his shoulders finally relaxed.
After a moment, Jisung picked up his fork again and took a tiny bite of cheesecake.
“There he is,” Minho murmured.
Jisung leaned into him, still chewing. “Don’t talk about me like I’m a cat.”
Minho brushed his thumb once more against the nape of his neck. “Then stop acting like one.”
You reached over and wiped a bit of cheesecake from the corner of Jisung’s mouth with your thumb.
He smiled, completely shameless now.
“Can’t help it,” he said. “I like being taken care of.”
Minho looked at him, soft as anything.
“We know.”
Skill Issue ⋅ Han Jisung
Han's kisses are a health hazard… yet you’re addicted.
This was his fault. He was the desperate one.
Was.
Always stealing kisses whenever he passed you, always leaning in just because he could, always pressing his mouth to yours like it was a reflex. Like affection was something he couldn’t help but give away, smiling into it like it was a habit.
Somewhere along the way, it stuck.
Now the absence of it itched. The memory lingered on your lips long after the last one ended, like your body had learned something your brain hadn’t agreed to yet. Like he’d trained you without meaning to – soft lips, familiar pressure, over and over – until wanting it felt automatic.
Addiction, disguised as affection.
And there he was, sitting on his chair, headphones on, pen tapping against his notebook while a beat looped softly from his phone. Completely in his zone. Concentrated. Focused.
Not kissing you.
Unacceptable.
You reached over and paused his track.
Han looked up immediately, blinking. “Hey Bab—”
“Kiss.”
No preamble. No negotiation.
He smiled, soft and easy, like you’d asked for something obvious. “Okay.”
He leaned up and pressed a quick, polite peck to your lips. Sweet. Respectful. Over before your brain had even caught up. He leaned back again, already satisfied, already halfway returning to his notebook.
You stared at him.
“That’s it?” you said.
Han turned back to his desk, grinning like he was proud of himself. “What? It was cute.”
“That was a notification kiss. I want a real one.”
He laughed under his breath, pushed his headphones down around his neck and rolled his chair closer. This time, he leaned in properly. His hand came up automatically, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he needed the contact to stay grounded. He paused just long enough for you to feel his breath against your lips before he closed the last inch of space.
The kiss started gentle. Normal. Sweet. Safe.
His mouth met yours slowly, deliberately, lips fitting against yours like it was something he already knew by heart. Not rushed. Not hesitant either.
You smiled into it.
Big mistake.
Because it always went like this: soft and sweet… until some invisible switch flipped. His focus tunneled. The kiss deepened without him seeming to even realize. His breathing stayed perfectly steady – unfairly steady – while yours started to disappear entirely.
Han kissed like he performed: fully committed, zero brakes and just slightly competitive. What started soft deepened fast, his focus narrowing until the rest of the world clearly stopped existing. The notebook, the lyrics, the studio. Gone.
Just you, him and the way his lips moved against yours.
The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing yours softly – enough to make your fingers curl in his hoodie and draw a quiet, approving sound from him against your mouth, like you’d just hit the correct note.
You tried to keep up. Tried to match him. But the same breath control he used for rapid rap verses was now apparently repurposed for maximum kissing efficiency.
Halfway through, your lungs submitted their first formal complaint about oxygen.
You ignored it.
Then they filed another one.
You squeezed his sleeve once.
He didn’t notice. Didn’t pull back. Didn’t seem to need air at all
You nudged his shoulder.
Nothing.
You nudged his shoulder again.
Still nothing.
You tried to pull back a little.
But he only followed like some kind of a magnetic pull forced him to. Still kissing you. Still not breathing like a normal human being. The man had the lungs of a marathon runner and the determination of someone trying to win Olympic gold in kissing.
You finally thumped his shoulder twice and pushed away, sucking in air like you’d just resurfaced from deep water.
Han blinked at you, stunned and dazed. Then immediately pouted.
“…why’d you stop?” he asks, genuinely confused, lips still a little swollen and hair a mess.
You stared at him, still catching your breath. “Why did I stop? Bro—do you even breathe??”
His pout dropped into scandalized betrayal. “Bro?! I was being romantic and you call me bro?! YOU demanded a real kiss!”
“I wanted a kiss,” you shot back, “not a near-death experience.”
Han laughed, full volume, absolutely thriving. “I was holding back, by the way.”
“Holding back? I just saw my ancestors!"
“Skill issue.” He sat up straighter, offended but also pleased with himself. “That just means I’m a great kisser.”
“You are,” you admitted immediately. “And you’re also a health hazard.”
His grin turned shameless. “That sounds like a compliment.”
“It is not.”
“It is,” he said lightly. “You’re just mad I literally took your breath away.”
“Show-off.”
You stepped back into his space, grabbed his hoodie strings and tugged him forward until his knees bumped yours. “Do it again.”
Han paused, searching your face. “You sure?” he asked, amused. “You just accused me of attempted murder.”
You shrugged, already smiling. “There are worse ways to go.”
His grin widened, slow and dangerous. “That’s a wild thing to say.”
“But not incorrect.”
His smile softened – not smug now, just warm – and his lips met yours again, slow and deliberate. The familiar softness pressed against your mouth, fitting like it always did.
You already knew how this would end.
masterlist
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seen from Türkiye
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