absoluteleeminho

[absoluteleeminho]

i could cry

hii ems!! i haven’t wrote in your ask box before this, so first i just want to say i really really love your page😔😔like seriously i don’t know if i would’ve started writing if you didn’t inspire me so much<33 i wanna ask your thoughts on something though, my head is so filled with desperate!jisung, and him trying to hide it to be a gentleman:( what are your thoughts on this?

aww hi, welcome!! 🥹 thank you so much for your kind words too, im so happy to be even an ounce of inspiration to u hahaha…. that means a lot!

and hmm… jisung is a sweet boy, he really is. he’s always pushing extra food onto your plate and opening doors for you because he wants to; he always listens to your stories with rapt attention and wide eyes. there’s no doubt he’s a gentleman! but he can’t help that he gets hard every time your tongue finds its way into his mouth when you’re kissing on the couch or when your shirt shows a hint of cleavage. jisung likes you so much and doesn’t want to give you the wrong idea because of how his body reacts to you just existing. i do think though that it’s easy to pull out of him. tell him that you want him, tell him that he’s been making you wet — the more honest the better! if him wearing a tank top gets you going, let him know. it gets him excited… horny-excited but also just excited-excited lol. your honesty has him a lot more willing to let loose and be honest himself. he’s begging for a taste of that wetness you mentioned in no time!

[absoluteleeminho]

thank you guys so much for 20 followers??? what the hell

[absoluteleeminho]

chapter two has been out btw😛😛😛😛lets get it to 40 notes and i’ll post chapter 3 my loves

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀”

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Jisung felt like he was going insane. Any second now.

The way their relationship worked, they never really got to the bottom of their arguments. If Minho said something Jisung didn’t like, Jisung got pissed. In his mind, Minho should already know why it bothered him, and he should apologize.

But Minho doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do that with anyone. And Jisung thinks.. well, maybe he’s not as special as he thought he was. So he lets it happen. He lets Minho sit with it, because he doesn’t have a better idea.

When they argue, Jisung is always the first to break the silence. He always is. Minho doesn’t know how to start conversations like that, and even if he tries, he’s sure he’ll just make it worse with every word. So he says nothing.

Not at practice.

Not while they’re filming.

Not even when they’re almost alone.

He doesn’t even text Jisung when he wants to watch something together.

Jisung tries. He really does.

But Minho won’t leave his mind. Not for a second. He keeps crying himself to sleep.

“Minho-hyung didn’t even look at me today,” he told Chan.

He tried talking to Minho. Asked if something was wrong. But Minho just said everything was fine, that it wasn’t Chan’s business.

So what the hell was the argument even about, you might ask?

Well… it’s kind of stupid. As I’m sure you could’ve guessed.

✦

TWO WEEKS AGO

It was just a joke at first.

Jisung said it with a grin, kind of half-laughing, head tilted:

“You should text first for once, hyung. I always do.”

Minho had rolled his eyes dramatically, like he didn’t care. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it before he answered.

“Then don’t.”

And Jisung had blinked. He smiled, nodded once, then-

“Okay.”

He was pissed. Minho left minutes after that, like he was the one angry, while Jisung was losing his mind. Did their friendship really not mean anything to Minho? Did he really feel that casual about saying stuff like that?

Or did he just mean Jisung should wait until Minho texts? Still, it was mean. And he definitely wasn’t dramatic

✦

So… that’s where they left off.

Jisung had thought a lot about Minho’s words since then, but the idea that maybe he meant he’d text first if Jisung didn’t. Well, that thought had fallen straight out the window. Minho didn’t text. Didn’t even talk.

Which made Jisung think something was genuinely wrong.

But then he’d see Minho laughing with the other members, like everything was fine, and it felt like a plot. A personal vendetta. Against him.

One day at practice, Felix struck up a conversation with Jisung. And no, they definitely weren’t gossiping. Not at all. Felix was just sharing how he felt around each of the guys, and Jisung mostly agreed.

Until Felix said something like-

“Minho-hyung’s been acting weird lately. Like… more distant than usual.”

Jisung nearly gasped. “So it’s not just me going crazy?” he whispered.

Felix chuckled. “No, Jisung. Something is really wrong with that man. But he won’t tell anyone. Have you asked him about it?”

Jisung blinked. “N-no, I mean… I didn’t think he’d want to talk to me.”

Felix looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean? You guys are closest, right?”

And Jisung had to stop and think. Are they still close?

No. But they were. Until Jisung had the audacity to ask Minho to text first sometimes. How dare he.

“Yeah, we were. But he doesn’t even look at me anymore,” Jisung finally admitted.

It was true. He didn’t look at him.

Not that Jisung would know, obviously. Because he wasn’t looking either.

But when Minho looks at you… you feel it. And he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Jisung. I hope you guys talk it out,” Felix said softly, pulling him into a hug.

Oh, the ever-loving sunshine he is. Jisung didn’t even hesitate to hug him back.

And that was when he felt it. The stare.

But he brushed it off.

Because there’s no way Minho cares. Not now. But when he turned to look, Minho snatched his eyes away like he forgot he was looking, but knew he shouldn’t be. Jisung swallowed thickly, absolutely stunned. He looked. He looked at Jisung. How low can someones standards be??? For God’s sake. He shook himself out of the thought.

That night, they were sitting together at the dorm, all eight of them. They were talking, it was fun. It was normal.

Until it had to be ruined, obviously.

Chan nudged Minho. “Everyone says you’ve been awfully quiet lately. Even quieter than usual, which is saying something.”

Jisung didn’t look up from his phone. He pretended to scroll. Totally not listening.

“Yeah, hyung,” Seungmin added. “Even Jeongin talks more than you now. And that’s a big shift.”

Laughter. Jisung smiled like he had to. Like he would die of the akwardness if he didn’t. He looked at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

Minho didn’t laugh. But he said, too casually:

“Maybe some people stopped talking to me”

The silence that followed? Absolutely horrid. Jisung’s head snapped up. Chan raised an eyebrow. Felix blinked.

“Whoa,” Hyunjin said quietly. “Drama?”

“No,” Minho said “Not drama”

It was beyond childish, what Minho said. They were children, yeah, but he had to know that wasn’t true, right? Jisung wasn’t the one who stopped talking to him. He had to know that.

And just like that, it was not normal anymore. Nor fun.

Jisung couldn’t enjoy the conversation, even if it moved on from Minho’s topic. It wasn’t possible for him to focus anymore, he couldn’t even hear what was going on.

Felix leaned over, and whispered- “Yo. You good?” and Jisung almost fell off his chair “Oh- yeah, I’m sorry, excuse me” he stood up, grabbing his bag and his phone, and he rushed out the door like his life depended on it.

Minho looked surprised, but pleased. That little shit thrived on the fact that he still had Jisung wrapped around his finger. But at the same time, he felt incredibly guilty that he said that.

He knew it wasn’t true, of course. But he just had to say something, otherwise he couldn’t get a reaction out of him. So, they both sat alone in their room, acting like they were in a terrible romance novel, until Jisung had enough.

He needed to tell Minho to fuck off and stop saying things that dont make sense. He also needed to smell him again. But that wasn’t as important.

✦

Jisung stood outside Minho’s door. He didn’t know what he was doing there. Didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t plan it. He doesn’t plan stuff. Ever.

He raised his fist to knock, then lowered it.

Raised it again.

Lowered it again.

The door opened.

Minho stood there, hoodie on, sweatpants hanging low. His expression wasn’t surprised.

Jisung blinked. “Oh. I was-uh-”

“Going to knock?” Minho asked.

“No.” Jisung lied. “Yes.” Pause. God. What was he even doing here?

Minho didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I didn’t stop talking to you,” Jisung mumbled. “You stopped looking at me.”

A beat passed. Two.

“Yeah,” Minho said quietly. “Because looking at you was making it worse.”

Jisung couldn’t keep it in anymore. “I thought- when you said i should just stop texting first- I thought you meant you were going to text first. You said you would hyung. I thought you did” He said, out of breath. Then Minho’s eyes softened. Only for a second.

But Jisung saw it. He felt bad. He definitely did. He was on the verge of begging him to say something when he spoke.

“I was going to,” Minho said, looking at the ground. “But you seemed like you didn’t need me anymore.”

Jisung almost slapped him.

“Hyung- what?” He stood there, jaw hanging low. “That’s not the case. Why would you say that?”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, and Jisung almost doesn’t hear it.

“I couldn’t text you,” Minho says. “Because I knew once I did, I’d want everything back the way it was. And I wasn’t sure if you did.”

Now Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

He stands there, teary-eyed, face flushed, mouth open, head shaking side to side slightly.

“Why?” is all that leaves his mouth, his voice shaky.

“I don’t know,” Minho sighs.

“I don’t know, Jisungie.” He shakes his head.

Jisung steps back from the doorway.

They look at each other a second longer before Jisung walks away.

For God knows how long, again.

——-

HIIIII guys thank you so much!! I got the 20 notes on the teaser overnight and im so happy about it!!!! lets get this one to 30 and i’ll post the next one:))) i hope you’re just as excited as i am<3

[absoluteleeminho]

lets get to 40 notes guys;))))

“you said you’d text first, hyung”

chapter 2

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Jisung is still awake. His eyes are closed, but he can’t rest.

Minho’s words keep replaying in his mind, over and over again.

The next few days at practice are hell.

They start talking again, only when it’s absolutely necessary, but somehow, they still fall back into the easy rhythm of friendship. But the feeling isn’t gone.

And the conversation ended before they got the answers they were looking for.

Jisung has no idea how to bring it up again. Would he just.. invite him to eat somewhere? Or should they go for a walk like they always did back then? He has to do something.

Minho said he felt like Jisung didn’t need him anymore.

And for a second, Jisung almost forgets the whole reason he was angry in the first place, because of the guilt.

The guilt that floods his days.

And his dreams.

If he could sleep, that is.

The dorm is always quiet at night. Too quiet. The faint sounds of whispering, and the TV playing on the lowest possible volume. Jisung thinks nobody is awake anymore.

So, he wanders into the kitchen, hoodie draped over his head, feet dragging. He’s not hungry. He just needs something to do with his hands. Something other than texting him or knocking on his door again.

He opens the fridge. Stares at it like it holds the answers to all of life’s problems.“It’s late” a voice says behind him. Jisung jumps a little. He turns. Minho. He looks tired, but not sleepy.

Jisung shrugs. “Didn’t feel like lying in bed doing nothing.”

Minho walks in and leans against the counter. “Yeah, me neither”

For a moment, there’s only the low hum of the fridge. Jisung doesn’t know what to say, and it feels too late to fake casual.

So he grabs a water bottle and sits at the table. Minho follows without needing to be asked. It’s stupid, how normal it feels. How easy it used to be. And Jisung forgets to freak out for a moment.

Minho breaks the silence first.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, eyes on the table.

Jisung doesn’t look at him. “I’m not sure.”

Minho lets out a soft laugh. “So you’re a little mad”

Another pause. Jisung fiddles with the cap of his bottle.

“You really thought I didn’t need you anymore?” he asks, quiet. “Even after everything?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Then: “I thought maybe you forgot about me. Got tired of me being mean.”

“That’s not mean” Jisung says without thinking “That’s you”

Minho finally looks up.

And there it is, the look Jisung’s been craving like air.

“I missed talking to you,” Minho says. Jisung just smiles. He knows he misses him too, he has to. But he cant say it without his voice cracking anymore.

Instead, he pushes a packet of ramen across the table. “Hungry?”

Minho takes it without a word, starts heating water.

They eat quietly. Halfway through the bowl, Minho speaks again. “You ever think maybe we just… suck at talking?” Jisung snorts. “We? I think you suck at talking.”

Minho hums, but he doesn’t deny it. There’s a beat of silence, then:

“I didn’t want to fight,” Minho says. “I just wanted you to know I notice stuff too.”

Jisung blinks. “Like what?”

Minho shrugs. “Like when you stop texting me first. Or when you laugh at everyone’s jokes but mine.”

Jisung looks down at his bowl. “That’s not on purpose. And you know why i stopped texting you first. You told me to.”

“Did I?” Minho asks, face serious. “Wait.. seriously?” Jisung chuckles akwardly “You don’t remember telling me that?”

Minho shakes his head, and for a second, Jisung thinks he’s lying. Are they really that bad at talking? Was he really worried about all those things he said just for him to not remember?

He sat at the table, stunned, ramen going cold in front of him. Minho didn’t understand what was wrong for a second, then he realized. “Is this about when we talked and you just said okay and I left?”

Jisung blinks once, twice, then swallows. Like it hurts. “Hyung.. you don’t know why I was mad?” Minho shakes his head. He isn’t lying. Or he’s lying really well

Minho opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He looks guilty and confused, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together without knowing what the picture is supposed to be.

“I thought you were just tired of me,” he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. Jisung blinks at him. “How could you think that?”

“You were pulling away,” Minho says, and he’s looking at his hands now. “And I didn’t know how to ask why without sounding needy.” Jisung exhales through his nose, shakily. “So you decided I didn’t care. Instead of just asking.”

Minho shrugs, like he knows it’s a weak excuse. “I didn’t want the answer to be yes.”

Jisung is quiet for a second. Then he whispers “You’re such an idiot.”

Minho looks up, and there’s something behind his eyes, like he doesn’t know if he should insult him back or laugh. Jisung keeps going.

“I was mad because I wanted you to care about how I was feeling. I wanted you to notice something was wrong before I had to say anything.”

Minho’s lips part like he might speak again, but Jisung keeps talking. The words are coming too fast now to stop.

“I know that’s not fair. I just.. I didn’t want to spell it out. Because you always used to know what was wrong.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Minho says, so softly Jisung almost doesn’t catch it:

“I still do. I just got scared.”

Jisung looks up at him. Minho’s eyes are tired and honest. And full of something that makes Jisung’s chest ache. They sit like that, just looking at each other, and their food. Finally, Minho breaks the silence, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“So… we both suck at talking, confirmed.”

Jisung laughs, his shoulders shaking. “Yeah. We suck ass.” Minho laughs too, quietly. They finish eating in silence after that. But it’s a different kind of quiet. Not heavy. Not angry. Just calm, for once.

This becomes a routine, one that calms Jisungs heart. He doesn’t know what Minho meant when he said it “would’ve been harder if he looked at Jisung”, but if he keeps thinking about it, he will go insane, so he just doesn’t.

The next morning, nothing is said.

They’re in the kitchen again, different time, different people around. Jisung sees Minho across the room, but neither of them says anything. There’s no need to. But something has shifted inside Jisung. He knows that he has nothing to worry about, it was just a misunderstanding.

Still, he doesn’t even think about telling Minho anything about what he feels when he’s around or why he feels weirdly warm all over when Minho compliments him at practice. Or when he yells at him.

When Chan and Changbin join Jisung one day, helping him write his lyrics, Chan talks. He shouldn’t and he knows the consequences, but he walks on the thin glass anyway. “How are things with Minho? You seem normal again”

Jisung swears he almost stands up and walks out. “It’s okay Channie-hyung you don’t have to worry about me. We’re fine” he smiles. Chan believes him. And Jisung believes himself too. Almost.

[absoluteleeminho]

“you said you’d text first, hyung”

chapter 2

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Jisung is still awake. His eyes are closed, but he can’t rest.

Minho’s words keep replaying in his mind, over and over again.

The next few days at practice are hell.

They start talking again, only when it’s absolutely necessary, but somehow, they still fall back into the easy rhythm of friendship. But the feeling isn’t gone.

And the conversation ended before they got the answers they were looking for.

Jisung has no idea how to bring it up again. Would he just.. invite him to eat somewhere? Or should they go for a walk like they always did back then? He has to do something.

Minho said he felt like Jisung didn’t need him anymore.

And for a second, Jisung almost forgets the whole reason he was angry in the first place, because of the guilt.

The guilt that floods his days.

And his dreams.

If he could sleep, that is.

The dorm is always quiet at night. Too quiet. The faint sounds of whispering, and the TV playing on the lowest possible volume. Jisung thinks nobody is awake anymore.

So, he wanders into the kitchen, hoodie draped over his head, feet dragging. He’s not hungry. He just needs something to do with his hands. Something other than texting him or knocking on his door again.

He opens the fridge. Stares at it like it holds the answers to all of life’s problems.“It’s late” a voice says behind him. Jisung jumps a little. He turns. Minho. He looks tired, but not sleepy.

Jisung shrugs. “Didn’t feel like lying in bed doing nothing.���

Minho walks in and leans against the counter. “Yeah, me neither”

For a moment, there’s only the low hum of the fridge. Jisung doesn’t know what to say, and it feels too late to fake casual.

So he grabs a water bottle and sits at the table. Minho follows without needing to be asked. It’s stupid, how normal it feels. How easy it used to be. And Jisung forgets to freak out for a moment.

Minho breaks the silence first.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, eyes on the table.

Jisung doesn’t look at him. “I’m not sure.”

Minho lets out a soft laugh. “So you’re a little mad”

Another pause. Jisung fiddles with the cap of his bottle.

“You really thought I didn’t need you anymore?” he asks, quiet. “Even after everything?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Then: “I thought maybe you forgot about me. Got tired of me being mean.”

“That’s not mean” Jisung says without thinking “That’s you”

Minho finally looks up.

And there it is, the look Jisung’s been craving like air.

“I missed talking to you,” Minho says. Jisung just smiles. He knows he misses him too, he has to. But he cant say it without his voice cracking anymore.

Instead, he pushes a packet of ramen across the table. “Hungry?”

Minho takes it without a word, starts heating water.

They eat quietly. Halfway through the bowl, Minho speaks again. “You ever think maybe we just… suck at talking?” Jisung snorts. “We? I think you suck at talking.”

Minho hums, but he doesn’t deny it. There’s a beat of silence, then:

“I didn’t want to fight,” Minho says. “I just wanted you to know I notice stuff too.”

Jisung blinks. “Like what?”

Minho shrugs. “Like when you stop texting me first. Or when you laugh at everyone’s jokes but mine.”

Jisung looks down at his bowl. “That’s not on purpose. And you know why i stopped texting you first. You told me to.”

“Did I?” Minho asks, face serious. “Wait.. seriously?” Jisung chuckles akwardly “You don’t remember telling me that?”

Minho shakes his head, and for a second, Jisung thinks he’s lying. Are they really that bad at talking? Was he really worried about all those things he said just for him to not remember?

He sat at the table, stunned, ramen going cold in front of him. Minho didn’t understand what was wrong for a second, then he realized. “Is this about when we talked and you just said okay and I left?”

Jisung blinks once, twice, then swallows. Like it hurts. “Hyung.. you don’t know why I was mad?” Minho shakes his head. He isn’t lying. Or he’s lying really well

Minho opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He looks guilty and confused, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together without knowing what the picture is supposed to be.

“I thought you were just tired of me,” he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. Jisung blinks at him. “How could you think that?”

“You were pulling away,” Minho says, and he’s looking at his hands now. “And I didn’t know how to ask why without sounding needy.” Jisung exhales through his nose, shakily. “So you decided I didn’t care. Instead of just asking.”

Minho shrugs, like he knows it’s a weak excuse. “I didn’t want the answer to be yes.”

Jisung is quiet for a second. Then he whispers “You’re such an idiot.”

Minho looks up, and there’s something behind his eyes, like he doesn’t know if he should insult him back or laugh. Jisung keeps going.

“I was mad because I wanted you to care about how I was feeling. I wanted you to notice something was wrong before I had to say anything.”

Minho’s lips part like he might speak again, but Jisung keeps talking. The words are coming too fast now to stop.

“I know that’s not fair. I just.. I didn’t want to spell it out. Because you always used to know what was wrong.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Minho says, so softly Jisung almost doesn’t catch it:

“I still do. I just got scared.”

Jisung looks up at him. Minho’s eyes are tired and honest. And full of something that makes Jisung’s chest ache. They sit like that, just looking at each other, and their food. Finally, Minho breaks the silence, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“So… we both suck at talking, confirmed.”

Jisung laughs, his shoulders shaking. “Yeah. We suck ass.” Minho laughs too, quietly. They finish eating in silence after that. But it’s a different kind of quiet. Not heavy. Not angry. Just calm, for once.

This becomes a routine, one that calms Jisungs heart. He doesn’t know what Minho meant when he said it “would’ve been harder if he looked at Jisung”, but if he keeps thinking about it, he will go insane, so he just doesn’t.

The next morning, nothing is said.

They’re in the kitchen again, different time, different people around. Jisung sees Minho across the room, but neither of them says anything. There’s no need to. But something has shifted inside Jisung. He knows that he has nothing to worry about, it was just a misunderstanding.

Still, he doesn’t even think about telling Minho anything about what he feels when he’s around or why he feels weirdly warm all over when Minho compliments him at practice. Or when he yells at him.

When Chan and Changbin join Jisung one day, helping him write his lyrics, Chan talks. He shouldn’t and he knows the consequences, but he walks on the thin glass anyway. “How are things with Minho? You seem normal again”

Jisung swears he almost stands up and walks out. “It’s okay Channie-hyung you don’t have to worry about me. We’re fine” he smiles. Chan believes him. And Jisung believes himself too. Almost.

[absoluteleeminho]

“you said you’d text first, hyung”

chapter 2

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Jisung is still awake. His eyes are closed, but he can’t rest.

Minho’s words keep replaying in his mind, over and over again.

The next few days at practice are hell.

They start talking again, only when it’s absolutely necessary, but somehow, they still fall back into the easy rhythm of friendship. But the feeling isn’t gone.

And the conversation ended before they got the answers they were looking for.

Jisung has no idea how to bring it up again. Would he just.. invite him to eat somewhere? Or should they go for a walk like they always did back then? He has to do something.

Minho said he felt like Jisung didn’t need him anymore.

And for a second, Jisung almost forgets the whole reason he was angry in the first place, because of the guilt.

The guilt that floods his days.

And his dreams.

If he could sleep, that is.

The dorm is always quiet at night. Too quiet. The faint sounds of whispering, and the TV playing on the lowest possible volume. Jisung thinks nobody is awake anymore.

So, he wanders into the kitchen, hoodie draped over his head, feet dragging. He’s not hungry. He just needs something to do with his hands. Something other than texting him or knocking on his door again.

He opens the fridge. Stares at it like it holds the answers to all of life’s problems.“It’s late” a voice says behind him. Jisung jumps a little. He turns. Minho. He looks tired, but not sleepy.

Jisung shrugs. “Didn’t feel like lying in bed doing nothing.”

Minho walks in and leans against the counter. “Yeah, me neither”

For a moment, there’s only the low hum of the fridge. Jisung doesn’t know what to say, and it feels too late to fake casual.

So he grabs a water bottle and sits at the table. Minho follows without needing to be asked. It’s stupid, how normal it feels. How easy it used to be. And Jisung forgets to freak out for a moment.

Minho breaks the silence first.

“You’re not mad at me anymore?” he asks, eyes on the table.

Jisung doesn’t look at him. “I’m not sure.”

Minho lets out a soft laugh. “So you’re a little mad”

Another pause. Jisung fiddles with the cap of his bottle.

“You really thought I didn’t need you anymore?” he asks, quiet. “Even after everything?”

Minho doesn’t answer right away. Then: “I thought maybe you forgot about me. Got tired of me being mean.”

“That’s not mean” Jisung says without thinking “That’s you”

Minho finally looks up.

And there it is, the look Jisung’s been craving like air.

“I missed talking to you,” Minho says. Jisung just smiles. He knows he misses him too, he has to. But he cant say it without his voice cracking anymore.

Instead, he pushes a packet of ramen across the table. “Hungry?”

Minho takes it without a word, starts heating water.

They eat quietly. Halfway through the bowl, Minho speaks again. “You ever think maybe we just… suck at talking?” Jisung snorts. “We? I think you suck at talking.”

Minho hums, but he doesn’t deny it. There’s a beat of silence, then:

“I didn’t want to fight,” Minho says. “I just wanted you to know I notice stuff too.”

Jisung blinks. “Like what?”

Minho shrugs. “Like when you stop texting me first. Or when you laugh at everyone’s jokes but mine.”

Jisung looks down at his bowl. “That’s not on purpose. And you know why i stopped texting you first. You told me to.”

“Did I?” Minho asks, face serious. “Wait.. seriously?” Jisung chuckles akwardly “You don’t remember telling me that?”

Minho shakes his head, and for a second, Jisung thinks he’s lying. Are they really that bad at talking? Was he really worried about all those things he said just for him to not remember?

He sat at the table, stunned, ramen going cold in front of him. Minho didn’t understand what was wrong for a second, then he realized. “Is this about when we talked and you just said okay and I left?”

Jisung blinks once, twice, then swallows. Like it hurts. “Hyung.. you don’t know why I was mad?” Minho shakes his head. He isn’t lying. Or he’s lying really well

Minho opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. He looks guilty and confused, like he’s trying to put a puzzle together without knowing what the picture is supposed to be.

“I thought you were just tired of me,” he says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. Jisung blinks at him. “How could you think that?”

“You were pulling away,” Minho says, and he’s looking at his hands now. “And I didn’t know how to ask why without sounding needy.” Jisung exhales through his nose, shakily. “So you decided I didn’t care. Instead of just asking.”

Minho shrugs, like he knows it’s a weak excuse. “I didn’t want the answer to be yes.”

Jisung is quiet for a second. Then he whispers “You’re such an idiot.”

Minho looks up, and there’s something behind his eyes, like he doesn’t know if he should insult him back or laugh. Jisung keeps going.

“I was mad because I wanted you to care about how I was feeling. I wanted you to notice something was wrong before I had to say anything.”

Minho’s lips part like he might speak again, but Jisung keeps talking. The words are coming too fast now to stop.

“I know that’s not fair. I just.. I didn’t want to spell it out. Because you always used to know what was wrong.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Minho says, so softly Jisung almost doesn’t catch it:

“I still do. I just got scared.”

Jisung looks up at him. Minho’s eyes are tired and honest. And full of something that makes Jisung’s chest ache. They sit like that, just looking at each other, and their food. Finally, Minho breaks the silence, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“So… we both suck at talking, confirmed.”

Jisung laughs, his shoulders shaking. “Yeah. We suck ass.” Minho laughs too, quietly. They finish eating in silence after that. But it’s a different kind of quiet. Not heavy. Not angry. Just calm, for once.

This becomes a routine, one that calms Jisungs heart. He doesn’t know what Minho meant when he said it “would’ve been harder if he looked at Jisung”, but if he keeps thinking about it, he will go insane, so he just doesn’t.

The next morning, nothing is said.

They’re in the kitchen again, different time, different people around. Jisung sees Minho across the room, but neither of them says anything. There’s no need to. But something has shifted inside Jisung. He knows that he has nothing to worry about, it was just a misunderstanding.

Still, he doesn’t even think about telling Minho anything about what he feels when he’s around or why he feels weirdly warm all over when Minho compliments him at practice. Or when he yells at him.

When Chan and Changbin join Jisung one day, helping him write his lyrics, Chan talks. He shouldn’t and he knows the consequences, but he walks on the thin glass anyway. “How are things with Minho? You seem normal again”

Jisung swears he almost stands up and walks out. “It’s okay Channie-hyung you don’t have to worry about me. We’re fine” he smiles. Chan believes him. And Jisung believes himself too. Almost.

[absoluteleeminho]

lets get to 30guyssss

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀”

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1

Jisung felt like he was going insane. Any second now.

The way their relationship worked, they never really got to the bottom of their arguments. If Minho said something Jisung didn’t like, Jisung got pissed. In his mind, Minho should already know why it bothered him, and he should apologize.

But Minho doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do that with anyone. And Jisung thinks.. well, maybe he’s not as special as he thought he was. So he lets it happen. He lets Minho sit with it, because he doesn’t have a better idea.

When they argue, Jisung is always the first to break the silence. He always is. Minho doesn’t know how to start conversations like that, and even if he tries, he’s sure he’ll just make it worse with every word. So he says nothing.

Not at practice.

Not while they’re filming.

Not even when they’re almost alone.

He doesn’t even text Jisung when he wants to watch something together.

Jisung tries. He really does.

But Minho won’t leave his mind. Not for a second. He keeps crying himself to sleep.

“Minho-hyung didn’t even look at me today,” he told Chan.

He tried talking to Minho. Asked if something was wrong. But Minho just said everything was fine, that it wasn’t Chan’s business.

So what the hell was the argument even about, you might ask?

Well… it’s kind of stupid. As I’m sure you could’ve guessed.

✦

TWO WEEKS AGO

It was just a joke at first.

Jisung said it with a grin, kind of half-laughing, head tilted:

“You should text first for once, hyung. I always do.”

Minho had rolled his eyes dramatically, like he didn’t care. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it before he answered.

“Then don’t.”

And Jisung had blinked. He smiled, nodded once, then-

“Okay.”

He was pissed. Minho left minutes after that, like he was the one angry, while Jisung was losing his mind. Did their friendship really not mean anything to Minho? Did he really feel that casual about saying stuff like that?

Or did he just mean Jisung should wait until Minho texts? Still, it was mean. And he definitely wasn’t dramatic

✦

So… that’s where they left off.

Jisung had thought a lot about Minho’s words since then, but the idea that maybe he meant he’d text first if Jisung didn’t. Well, that thought had fallen straight out the window. Minho didn’t text. Didn’t even talk.

Which made Jisung think something was genuinely wrong.

But then he’d see Minho laughing with the other members, like everything was fine, and it felt like a plot. A personal vendetta. Against him.

One day at practice, Felix struck up a conversation with Jisung. And no, they definitely weren’t gossiping. Not at all. Felix was just sharing how he felt around each of the guys, and Jisung mostly agreed.

Until Felix said something like-

“Minho-hyung’s been acting weird lately. Like… more distant than usual.”

Jisung nearly gasped. “So it’s not just me going crazy?” he whispered.

Felix chuckled. “No, Jisung. Something is really wrong with that man. But he won’t tell anyone. Have you asked him about it?”

Jisung blinked. “N-no, I mean… I didn’t think he’d want to talk to me.”

Felix looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean? You guys are closest, right?”

And Jisung had to stop and think. Are they still close?

No. But they were. Until Jisung had the audacity to ask Minho to text first sometimes. How dare he.

“Yeah, we were. But he doesn’t even look at me anymore,” Jisung finally admitted.

It was true. He didn’t look at him.

Not that Jisung would know, obviously. Because he wasn’t looking either.

But when Minho looks at you… you feel it. And he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Jisung. I hope you guys talk it out,” Felix said softly, pulling him into a hug.

Oh, the ever-loving sunshine he is. Jisung didn’t even hesitate to hug him back.

And that was when he felt it. The stare.

But he brushed it off.

Because there’s no way Minho cares. Not now. But when he turned to look, Minho snatched his eyes away like he forgot he was looking, but knew he shouldn’t be. Jisung swallowed thickly, absolutely stunned. He looked. He looked at Jisung. How low can someones standards be??? For God’s sake. He shook himself out of the thought.

That night, they were sitting together at the dorm, all eight of them. They were talking, it was fun. It was normal.

Until it had to be ruined, obviously.

Chan nudged Minho. “Everyone says you’ve been awfully quiet lately. Even quieter than usual, which is saying something.”

Jisung didn’t look up from his phone. He pretended to scroll. Totally not listening.

“Yeah, hyung,” Seungmin added. “Even Jeongin talks more than you now. And that’s a big shift.”

Laughter. Jisung smiled like he had to. Like he would die of the akwardness if he didn’t. He looked at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

Minho didn’t laugh. But he said, too casually:

“Maybe some people stopped talking to me”

The silence that followed? Absolutely horrid. Jisung’s head snapped up. Chan raised an eyebrow. Felix blinked.

“Whoa,” Hyunjin said quietly. “Drama?”

“No,” Minho said “Not drama”

It was beyond childish, what Minho said. They were children, yeah, but he had to know that wasn’t true, right? Jisung wasn’t the one who stopped talking to him. He had to know that.

And just like that, it was not normal anymore. Nor fun.

Jisung couldn’t enjoy the conversation, even if it moved on from Minho’s topic. It wasn’t possible for him to focus anymore, he couldn’t even hear what was going on.

Felix leaned over, and whispered- “Yo. You good?” and Jisung almost fell off his chair “Oh- yeah, I’m sorry, excuse me” he stood up, grabbing his bag and his phone, and he rushed out the door like his life depended on it.

Minho looked surprised, but pleased. That little shit thrived on the fact that he still had Jisung wrapped around his finger. But at the same time, he felt incredibly guilty that he said that.

He knew it wasn’t true, of course. But he just had to say something, otherwise he couldn’t get a reaction out of him. So, they both sat alone in their room, acting like they were in a terrible romance novel, until Jisung had enough.

He needed to tell Minho to fuck off and stop saying things that dont make sense. He also needed to smell him again. But that wasn’t as important.

✦

Jisung stood outside Minho’s door. He didn’t know what he was doing there. Didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t plan it. He doesn’t plan stuff. Ever.

He raised his fist to knock, then lowered it.

Raised it again.

Lowered it again.

The door opened.

Minho stood there, hoodie on, sweatpants hanging low. His expression wasn’t surprised.

Jisung blinked. “Oh. I was-uh-”

“Going to knock?” Minho asked.

“No.” Jisung lied. “Yes.” Pause. God. What was he even doing here?

Minho didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I didn’t stop talking to you,” Jisung mumbled. “You stopped looking at me.”

A beat passed. Two.

“Yeah,” Minho said quietly. “Because looking at you was making it worse.”

Jisung couldn’t keep it in anymore. “I thought- when you said i should just stop texting first- I thought you meant you were going to text first. You said you would hyung. I thought you did” He said, out of breath. Then Minho’s eyes softened. Only for a second.

But Jisung saw it. He felt bad. He definitely did. He was on the verge of begging him to say something when he spoke.

“I was going to,” Minho said, looking at the ground. “But you seemed like you didn’t need me anymore.”

Jisung almost slapped him.

“Hyung- what?” He stood there, jaw hanging low. “That’s not the case. Why would you say that?”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, and Jisung almost doesn’t hear it.

“I couldn’t text you,” Minho says. “Because I knew once I did, I’d want everything back the way it was. And I wasn’t sure if you did.”

Now Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

He stands there, teary-eyed, face flushed, mouth open, head shaking side to side slightly.

“Why?” is all that leaves his mouth, his voice shaky.

“I don’t know,” Minho sighs.

“I don’t know, Jisungie.” He shakes his head.

Jisung steps back from the doorway.

They look at each other a second longer before Jisung walks away.

For God knows how long, again.

——-

HIIIII guys thank you so much!! I got the 20 notes on the teaser overnight and im so happy about it!!!! lets get this one to 30 and i’ll post the next one:))) i hope you’re just as excited as i am<3

[absoluteleeminho]

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1

“You’re so… soft around him,” Chan says to Minho more than once during their first month of training together.

As the leader from day one, Chan took on everything. Managing tasks, keeping the group close, and making sure the environment they now live in stays healthy. He’d feel guilty if he didn’t.

So seeing Jisung and Minho click so easily (and without any effort on his part) made him more than just happy. He was curious. Minho was reserved. Not shy, just someone who kept to himself most of the time. Some of the members said he seemed cold, maybe even a little mean, but Chan always assured them that wasn’t the case.

Jisung wasn’t scared of Minho. No, he was bold with him. He teased him, poked at him, figured out how to get under his skin. Minho opened up to him accidentally one night, after they went out for dinner and had a bit too much soju.

The ice between Minho and the rest of the group melted slowly. But with Jisung, it felt like it had never even been there. He was always the closest to Minho- at least, that’s how it seemed.

And really, they wouldn’t have it any other way… would they? It was kind of incredible. How insanely easy it was for them to hang out, to text, to call. They acted like they’d known each other their entire lives.

Oh, but they argued. A lot. About little, stupid things. And when they did, the rest of the group feared for their lives.

Minho became unbearable and withdrawn.

Jisung threw a tantrum every hour.

Chan usually worked it out between them, if they couldn’t.

But one time, it was out of his hands.

They wouldn’t talk to each other. Not to him, not to anyone.

COMING SOOOOOOOON!!;)) so excited guys!! lets reach 20 notes on this and i’ll post the first chapter

[absoluteleeminho]

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀”

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1

Jisung felt like he was going insane. Any second now.

The way their relationship worked, they never really got to the bottom of their arguments. If Minho said something Jisung didn’t like, Jisung got pissed. In his mind, Minho should already know why it bothered him, and he should apologize.

But Minho doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do that with anyone. And Jisung thinks.. well, maybe he’s not as special as he thought he was. So he lets it happen. He lets Minho sit with it, because he doesn’t have a better idea.

When they argue, Jisung is always the first to break the silence. He always is. Minho doesn’t know how to start conversations like that, and even if he tries, he’s sure he’ll just make it worse with every word. So he says nothing.

Not at practice.

Not while they’re filming.

Not even when they’re almost alone.

He doesn’t even text Jisung when he wants to watch something together.

Jisung tries. He really does.

But Minho won’t leave his mind. Not for a second. He keeps crying himself to sleep.

“Minho-hyung didn’t even look at me today,” he told Chan.

He tried talking to Minho. Asked if something was wrong. But Minho just said everything was fine, that it wasn’t Chan’s business.

So what the hell was the argument even about, you might ask?

Well… it’s kind of stupid. As I’m sure you could’ve guessed.

✦

TWO WEEKS AGO

It was just a joke at first.

Jisung said it with a grin, kind of half-laughing, head tilted:

“You should text first for once, hyung. I always do.”

Minho had rolled his eyes dramatically, like he didn’t care. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it before he answered.

“Then don’t.”

And Jisung had blinked. He smiled, nodded once, then-

“Okay.”

He was pissed. Minho left minutes after that, like he was the one angry, while Jisung was losing his mind. Did their friendship really not mean anything to Minho? Did he really feel that casual about saying stuff like that?

Or did he just mean Jisung should wait until Minho texts? Still, it was mean. And he definitely wasn’t dramatic

✦

So… that’s where they left off.

Jisung had thought a lot about Minho’s words since then, but the idea that maybe he meant he’d text first if Jisung didn’t. Well, that thought had fallen straight out the window. Minho didn’t text. Didn’t even talk.

Which made Jisung think something was genuinely wrong.

But then he’d see Minho laughing with the other members, like everything was fine, and it felt like a plot. A personal vendetta. Against him.

One day at practice, Felix struck up a conversation with Jisung. And no, they definitely weren’t gossiping. Not at all. Felix was just sharing how he felt around each of the guys, and Jisung mostly agreed.

Until Felix said something like-

“Minho-hyung’s been acting weird lately. Like… more distant than usual.”

Jisung nearly gasped. “So it’s not just me going crazy?” he whispered.

Felix chuckled. “No, Jisung. Something is really wrong with that man. But he won’t tell anyone. Have you asked him about it?”

Jisung blinked. “N-no, I mean… I didn’t think he’d want to talk to me.”

Felix looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean? You guys are closest, right?”

And Jisung had to stop and think. Are they still close?

No. But they were. Until Jisung had the audacity to ask Minho to text first sometimes. How dare he.

“Yeah, we were. But he doesn’t even look at me anymore,” Jisung finally admitted.

It was true. He didn’t look at him.

Not that Jisung would know, obviously. Because he wasn’t looking either.

But when Minho looks at you… you feel it. And he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Jisung. I hope you guys talk it out,” Felix said softly, pulling him into a hug.

Oh, the ever-loving sunshine he is. Jisung didn’t even hesitate to hug him back.

And that was when he felt it. The stare.

But he brushed it off.

Because there’s no way Minho cares. Not now. But when he turned to look, Minho snatched his eyes away like he forgot he was looking, but knew he shouldn’t be. Jisung swallowed thickly, absolutely stunned. He looked. He looked at Jisung. How low can someones standards be??? For God’s sake. He shook himself out of the thought.

That night, they were sitting together at the dorm, all eight of them. They were talking, it was fun. It was normal.

Until it had to be ruined, obviously.

Chan nudged Minho. “Everyone says you’ve been awfully quiet lately. Even quieter than usual, which is saying something.”

Jisung didn’t look up from his phone. He pretended to scroll. Totally not listening.

“Yeah, hyung,” Seungmin added. “Even Jeongin talks more than you now. And that’s a big shift.”

Laughter. Jisung smiled like he had to. Like he would die of the akwardness if he didn’t. He looked at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

Minho didn’t laugh. But he said, too casually:

“Maybe some people stopped talking to me”

The silence that followed? Absolutely horrid. Jisung’s head snapped up. Chan raised an eyebrow. Felix blinked.

“Whoa,” Hyunjin said quietly. “Drama?”

“No,” Minho said “Not drama”

It was beyond childish, what Minho said. They were children, yeah, but he had to know that wasn’t true, right? Jisung wasn’t the one who stopped talking to him. He had to know that.

And just like that, it was not normal anymore. Nor fun.

Jisung couldn’t enjoy the conversation, even if it moved on from Minho’s topic. It wasn’t possible for him to focus anymore, he couldn’t even hear what was going on.

Felix leaned over, and whispered- “Yo. You good?” and Jisung almost fell off his chair “Oh- yeah, I’m sorry, excuse me” he stood up, grabbing his bag and his phone, and he rushed out the door like his life depended on it.

Minho looked surprised, but pleased. That little shit thrived on the fact that he still had Jisung wrapped around his finger. But at the same time, he felt incredibly guilty that he said that.

He knew it wasn’t true, of course. But he just had to say something, otherwise he couldn’t get a reaction out of him. So, they both sat alone in their room, acting like they were in a terrible romance novel, until Jisung had enough.

He needed to tell Minho to fuck off and stop saying things that dont make sense. He also needed to smell him again. But that wasn’t as important.

✦

Jisung stood outside Minho’s door. He didn’t know what he was doing there. Didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t plan it. He doesn’t plan stuff. Ever.

He raised his fist to knock, then lowered it.

Raised it again.

Lowered it again.

The door opened.

Minho stood there, hoodie on, sweatpants hanging low. His expression wasn’t surprised.

Jisung blinked. “Oh. I was-uh-”

“Going to knock?” Minho asked.

“No.” Jisung lied. “Yes.” Pause. God. What was he even doing here?

Minho didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I didn’t stop talking to you,” Jisung mumbled. “You stopped looking at me.”

A beat passed. Two.

“Yeah,” Minho said quietly. “Because looking at you was making it worse.”

Jisung couldn’t keep it in anymore. “I thought- when you said i should just stop texting first- I thought you meant you were going to text first. You said you would hyung. I thought you did” He said, out of breath. Then Minho’s eyes softened. Only for a second.

But Jisung saw it. He felt bad. He definitely did. He was on the verge of begging him to say something when he spoke.

“I was going to,” Minho said, looking at the ground. “But you seemed like you didn’t need me anymore.”

Jisung almost slapped him.

“Hyung- what?” He stood there, jaw hanging low. “That’s not the case. Why would you say that?”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, and Jisung almost doesn’t hear it.

“I couldn’t text you,” Minho says. “Because I knew once I did, I’d want everything back the way it was. And I wasn’t sure if you did.”

Now Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

He stands there, teary-eyed, face flushed, mouth open, head shaking side to side slightly.

“Why?” is all that leaves his mouth, his voice shaky.

“I don’t know,” Minho sighs.

“I don’t know, Jisungie.” He shakes his head.

Jisung steps back from the doorway.

They look at each other a second longer before Jisung walks away.

For God knows how long, again.

——-

HIIIII guys thank you so much!! I got the 20 notes on the teaser overnight and im so happy about it!!!! lets get this one to 30 and i’ll post the next one:))) i hope you’re just as excited as i am<3

[absoluteleeminho]

this HAS to be my favourite thing ever

⍣ ೋ cw: explicit sexual content. voyeurism, exhibitionism, public surveillance themes, dubcon undertones, masturbation mention, dirty talk, praise kink, overstimulation, filming/recording during sex, dom!reader, sub!Jisung, light power play, light humiliation, intense sexual tension.

⍣ ೋ notes: okay so i know u requested a drabble but it got a bit out of hand i'm sorry (not rlly). <3 also jisung is a wee bit of a creep here so if you don't like that, i suggest you don't read this one lol.

🧾 FORMAL INVESTIGATION REPORT

Filed by: Minho Lee Subject: Officer Voyeur Staff Member Under Review: Jisung Han Guest Involved: Guest at 704

“You ever think about what you’d be doing if you didn’t work here?”

Minho doesn’t even look up from the tray he’s balancing—some late-night room service no one claimed—but Jisung’s voice cuts through the silence like a mosquito in a dark room: annoying, high energy, impossible to ignore.

“I mean,” Jisung continues, spinning slightly in his chair, hoodie sleeves covering his hands up to the knuckles, “you? Probably some depressed barista who’d stab someone with a milk frother. Me? I’d probably be like… I dunno. A cam boy. But like a classy one. Real artsy lighting. Minimalist sets. Sad music.”

Minho finally glances up, deadpan. “You are a cam boy. Just without the lighting. Or consent.”

Jisung grins, unbothered. “Wow. That was almost a compliment. You think I’ve got the face for it?”

“I think you’ve got the delusion for it.”

He spins again in the chair, slow this time, letting the monitor light smear across his face. Black bangs hang in his eyes. Black painted nails—chipped and matte—tap against the armrest. “You ever think about what it’s like, though?” he muses, voice lower now, a little dreamy. “Being the one getting watched. Instead of always doing the watching.”

Minho snorts. “Jesus. How many nights have you been down here?”

“Too many.” He stretches, hoodie riding up a little at the waist. “Not enough.”

Minho slides the tray onto the desk, finally giving Jisung a look that says he’s both concerned and tired of his bullshit.

“Okay, Edgar Allan Perv. You seriously need to touch grass.”

Jisung laughs—sharp and wheezy, sleeves bunching as he curls up into the spin of his chair again.

“Grass doesn’t touch me back,” he pouts.

“Neither do women,” Minho mutters.

“I have women,” Jisung says, clutching his chest like he’s been stabbed, “just... from a respectful, tasteful distance. Through very discreetly placed cameras.”

Minho levels him with a look. “You know if Aeryn hears you say that out loud again, she’ll staple your dick to the control board, right?”

“Oh, Aeryn loves me,” Jisung says with faux innocence. “She keeps me around because I’m a visionary.”

“She keeps you around because no one else knows how to rewire this rat nest of a surveillance system without setting off the fire alarms.”

“Exactly.” He points at him. “Indispensable.”

Minho rolls his eyes and starts unpacking the tray, metal clinking as he peels back a corner of foil. “Indispensable, yet somehow the most likely to get the hotel sued for public indecency.”

“I prefer the term ‘unconventional asset,’” Jisung says, tapping a blunt black nail against his temple. “I bring innovation. Intrigue. Erotic suspense.”

Minho stares. “You bring violations,” he says. “I saw your 'private archive.' The one you named ‘private archive’ like a dumbass. Half those camera angles aren’t even legal in this country.”

“They’re experimental,” Jisung argues, slouched deep in his chair, hoodie swallowing him whole. “Like, avant-garde. Think of it as hotel noir. A study in loneliness. A peek into the human condition.”

“You mean tits.”

“Tits are the human condition.”

Minho groans, grabs a breadstick off the tray, and throws it at his head.

Jisung yelps, catching it midair. “Assault!”

“You’ll live.”

“I’ll press charges. I know how to access your payroll.”

“You are the payroll,” Minho says, flat. “And speaking of people who want to kill you—”

Jisung immediately straightens.

“No. Who?”

Minho looks like he’s been waiting for this moment. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the tray like it’s a podium, and locks eyes with Jisung.

“Concierge Aeryn.”

Jisung blinks. “...No.”

Minho nods, face pure grim satisfaction. “Yup.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Jisung recoils, hoodie cinching tighter around his face like a defense mechanism. “What’d I do? Wait—no. What’d she think I did?”

“Oh, she knows what you did. Everyone knows what you did. Suite 704. Hidden camera. Woman caught it. And instead of flipping out, she left you a little love note.” Minho makes air quotes with the hand not holding a breadstick. “And now Aeryn wants you to go clean up your mess before it turns into an HR nightmare.”

Jisung pales under the flicker of the monitor lights.

"Changbin?"

"Mhm. Or worse. The cops."

“The police?”

Minho shrugs. “I mean, best-case scenario, she’s into it and doesn’t report you. Worst-case?” He trails off.

Jisung’s spinning chair comes to an abrupt halt. He stares at Minho, stricken. “You’re telling me I have to talk to her? Like in person?”

Minho slaps a foil-wrapped pat of butter onto the tray. “Yup. Aeryn said, quote: ‘Tell that creepy little fuck to do whatever needs to be done.’”

“Define whatever.”

Minho raises a brow. “You know exactly what it means.”

Jisung sits frozen for a second, then groans—loud and guttural—and drapes himself backwards over the chair like he’s just died. “Hyung, I don’t do guests. I’m a background character. I thrive in the shadows.”

“Then consider this your main character arc. You’re going upstairs. You’re knocking on her door. You’re making sure she doesn’t sue this hotel for emotional trauma or sell your name to Buzzfeed Unsolved.”

Jisung is already scrambling to sit up again, bangs in his eyes, black painted nails tapping against his phone screen as he checks the suite number one more time like it might have magically changed.

“Seven-oh-four. Fuck me. She’s still in the room.”

“And probably waiting.”

Jisung’s hoodie sleeve rides up just enough to show a little ink on his forearm—some half-faded lyric he probably regrets—and he tugs it back down, muttering like a man preparing for war.

“This is bad. This is so bad. I’m not made for human interaction. I don’t even blink right. I’m gonna knock and she’s gonna pepper spray me.”

Minho tosses him a room key with a flourish. “Then make it count.”

______________________________________________________________

Suite 704.

Jisung stands outside the door, hoodie up, sleeves down, heart racing like he just ran a five-minute mile in a panic attack.

He stares at the door. The peephole feels like an eye. Like she’s already watching him—knows he’s there.

He raises his hand.

Lowers it.

Raises it again.

Knocks.

Silence.

Then: a soft voice. “It’s open.”

His spine straightens. A jolt hits low in his gut.

He fidgets with his sleeves just to stall, then pushes the door open.

Dim lighting. The faint smell of wine. You’re in the robe again—one leg folded under you, the other stretched out along the couch. Hair loose. Lip gloss smudged.

And you’re looking right at him.

Like you expected this.

Like you invited it.

Jisung lingers awkwardly in the doorway. “Hi. Uh. Sorry to bother you. I’m from security. Han Jisung. Not the scary kind—well, I mean, maybe a little scary if you saw me in a dark alley but like, not murder scary, more like, spooky little raccoon scary—”

“Shut the door,” you say, slow. Measured.

He shuts the door.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking down to his hoodie, his hands, his chipped nails clenched into sleeves. “So you’re the one who’s been watching me.”

Jisung’s brain bluescreens. “Okay, no, but also yes—but also maybe no again if you press charges—”

You pat the space next to you.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t move.

You smile.

Jisung exhales, then shuffles toward you, sits on the very edge of the cushion, spine stiff, hands between his knees like a middle schooler at a parent-teacher conference. He’s hard already. Jesus, just looking at you up close like this has the memory of last night resurfacing; you in that little dress, slipping it off–

You lean closer, voice honey-thick. “You don’t usually come upstairs, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“I figured.”

You trail a single finger up his thigh.

He makes a sound—half gasp, half squeak—and looks like he’s about to pass out.

“You don’t usually come upstairs,” you murmur, watching him squirm. “But when you do… you turn off the cameras first?”

Jisung’s eyes snap to yours. Wide. Busted.

You smile, wicked. “You didn’t think I’d notice?”

“I—uh—security protocol,” he blurts. “Can’t record myself doing, like, illegal mea culpa visits. Liability and all. It’s—it’s for your protection. My protection. Our protection—”

“You’re cute when you panic,” you interrupt, tilting your head. “But it’s a shame, don’t you think?”

He blinks. “What is?”

“That no one gets to watch this.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. He’s short-circuiting, visibly.

You lean back a little, robe slipping further down your shoulder. “I mean, I assume you know how to turn it back on.”

Jisung swallows hard. “...I do.”

“Then do it.”

He hesitates, just for a second, clearly running mental simulations of how badly this could end. But your gaze is steady, coaxing, amused. Like you want him to. Like this whole thing is your idea, not just his fucked-up fantasy.

He fumbles for his phone—shaky hands, hoodie sleeves falling back just enough to expose the faded lyric tattoo on his forearm again—and taps open an app buried between half a dozen folders.

You watch, fascinated. “So that’s how you do it? Everything through there?”

“Yeah. I, uh… I built it,” he mumbles, eyes locked on the screen as he taps through camera feeds. “Modified the firmware. Added remote access. Wired in some motion triggers. It’s—kind of janky, honestly. But like, in a good way.”

“Smart,” you murmur. “You really are a little genius.”

His cheeks flush. He doesn’t know what to do with praise—real praise, not Minho’s backhanded insults or Aeryn’s thinly veiled threats. And definitely not like this. From someone half-curled into the couch, glossy-lipped and looking at him like he’s something fascinating. Dangerous.

Valuable.

“Can it record?” you ask.

He licks his lips. “Y-Yeah. But I don’t—”

“Turn it on.”

Jisung short circuits. The red light flickers back on.

You lean closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Show me what it’s like,” you whisper. “Being the one getting watched.”

Jisung’s head tips back against the couch, hoodie slipping down, pupils blown wide. “Holy shit.”

Your fingers brush his jaw. “C’mon, Officer Voyeur. Don’t get shy now.”

He doesn’t get shy. He malfunctions.

Because you’re straddling his lap before he can even blink, thighs warm through the paper-thin barrier of his joggers, robe slipping open just enough to make his brain leak out his ears. One second you’re teasing, breath against his neck, and the next you’re grinding slow, deliberate, like you know exactly what it does to him. Like you’ve memorized him.

He makes a sound. Choked. Half whine, half breathless moan. His hands flutter uselessly at your hips, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists, unsure if he’s even allowed to touch you.

You roll your hips again. Harder.

“F–fuck,” he gasps, bucking up just a little. “Wait—wait, I’m not—this isn’t—I’m not ready—”

“You’re already hard,” you purr, rocking against him. “Feels like you’re more than ready.”

He whimpers, hands finally gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the planet. His head tips back against the couch again, hoodie bunched at his throat, black bangs stuck to his forehead. Sweat beading already and you’ve barely touched him.

The red light blinks from the ceiling.

“You ever jerk off,” you murmur, sliding your hands up under his hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin, “thinking about someone finding the footage?”

His eyes snap open. He looks at you like you just kicked the air out of his lungs.

“I—n-no,” he stammers, flushing. “Maybe. Once. Shut up.”

You smile like a knife.

“Bet you’d look so pretty,” you whisper, leaning down until your lips brush his jaw. “Sprawled out in the security booth. Pants down, eyes on the screen. Mouth open. Begging.”

He moans. Real, raw, filthy.

“Jesus fuck, you can’t—” he gasps, hips jerking under you, cock straining against the thin cotton of his sweats. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You slide one hand between your bodies, palm flat against the heat of him. He jerks, bucks into your touch with a strangled noise, hands flying to your hips to hold you down as if that might stop him from unraveling.

It doesn’t.

“You wanna fuck me, Officer?” you whisper. “Or do you want me to keep putting on a show?”

He nods frantically. Then shakes his head. Then nods again. “I—both.”

You laugh, soft and wicked.

Then you lift just enough to tug his waistband down, cock springing free, flushed and leaking and so achingly hard he whines the second the air hits it. You sit back down slow, robe open now, pussy bare and already slick.

And Jisung’s brain just stops.

You’re wet—already wet—like you’d been waiting for this. Like you’d been thinking about it, touching yourself, fucking preparing before he even got here. His mouth parts, chest rising like he’s breathing too fast, too shallow, hoodie still clinging to him like a second skin. He can’t not picture it now—your fingers slipping between your thighs, sinking in, slow and lazy, while you watched the door and imagined him standing there like this. Squirming. Sweating. Begging.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice cracked and desperate. “Did you—shit—did you touch yourself for me?”

You don’t answer. Just shift your hips, tilt your pelvis forward—showing him the mess between your legs, the glisten that coats your folds, the way you glide your fingers along your inner thigh like you already know what it’s doing to him.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, hips twitching, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know whether to grip the couch or your waist or his own goddamn hair. His cock jerks where it rests, leaking against his hoodie hem, angry and untouched. “You did, didn’t you? Fuck, you got yourself wet for me, you—fuck.”

His pupils are pure black now, lips wet, jaw slack—completely undone. Like the moment that image lodged itself in his head, he ceased to exist as a functional human being.

You reach for him—slow and sultry—and he swears he could come untouched if you so much as look at him like that again

You sink down.

“Oh—fuck,” Jisung gasps, whole body seizing, fingers digging into your hips so tight it’s almost painful. His head snaps back again, jaw slack, breath stuttering out of him in a broken rush. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy fucking shit—”

You take your time—rocking slow, grinding deep, letting him feel every inch of you. He’s so sensitive, so overwhelmed, twitching and gasping under you with every movement. One of his hands slips under your robe, palm splayed across your lower back like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

The red light blinks.

You press your mouth to his ear.

“Smile for the camera.”

He whimpers.

You ride him slow and filthy, watching his expression crumble under every grind of your hips. His voice is wrecked—soft, shaky gasps, breathless little moans, whining your name like it’s the only word he remembers.

“Feels—feels so good—holy shit, I’m not gonna—fuck, I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, rolling your hips just right, “C’mon, baby. Let ‘em see what a mess you are.”

He spills with a choked-off sob, hips jerking, whole body trembling as you ride him through it, eyes glassy, jaw slack, thighs shaking under yours. He clutches you like he’s drowning, face buried in your shoulder, moaning your name into your skin.

The red light blinks.

Still recording.

You stroke his hair gently, smiling as he gasps against you.

“Officer Voyeur,” you murmur. “You gonna watch this later?”

Jisung can’t even answer.

______________________________________________________________

INT. SKZOTEL – CONFESSIONAL ROOM (A.K.A. MINHO’S JANITOR CLOSET)

[Camera clicks on.] Minho sits on an overturned mop bucket, legs crossed, eyes heavy-lidded. The room smells like lemon cleaner and apathy. There’s a security monitor propped on a rolling cart beside him, flickering softly with very NSFW footage.

He lifts a paper cup to his lips. Sips. Winces.

MINHO (flat):"Didn’t think I’d spend my Friday night watching our head of security get reverse-cowgirled into the next life, but..." shrugs "...here we are."

He sets the cup down. Rubs his temple like this is the third migraine today.

MINHO (cont’d):"Honestly? I’ve seen less raw emotion in Oscar-winning films. Man was crying. Mid-fuck."

A long pause. He turns to the camera.

MINHO (deadpan): "Camera three caught his soul leaving his body."

He clicks a remote. Screen behind him pauses on Jisung’s face: eyes rolled back, mouth open, pure chaos.

Minho gestures vaguely at it.

MINHO (cont’d): “Ten bucks says he’s gonna ask me to make a highlight reel.”

Another pause. He sips his coffee again. Nods.

MINHO (quietly): "...I'm gonna do it."

[END OF RECORDING]

series taglist: @nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix

[absoluteleeminho]

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀”

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot (later;)

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

Jisung felt like he was going insane. Any second now.

The way their relationship worked, they never really got to the bottom of their arguments. If Minho said something Jisung didn’t like, Jisung got pissed. In his mind, Minho should already know why it bothered him, and he should apologize.

But Minho doesn’t do that. He doesn’t do that with anyone. And Jisung thinks.. well, maybe he’s not as special as he thought he was. So he lets it happen. He lets Minho sit with it, because he doesn’t have a better idea.

When they argue, Jisung is always the first to break the silence. He always is. Minho doesn’t know how to start conversations like that, and even if he tries, he’s sure he’ll just make it worse with every word. So he says nothing.

Not at practice.

Not while they’re filming.

Not even when they’re almost alone.

He doesn’t even text Jisung when he wants to watch something together.

Jisung tries. He really does.

But Minho won’t leave his mind. Not for a second. He keeps crying himself to sleep.

“Minho-hyung didn’t even look at me today,” he told Chan.

He tried talking to Minho. Asked if something was wrong. But Minho just said everything was fine, that it wasn’t Chan’s business.

So what the hell was the argument even about, you might ask?

Well… it’s kind of stupid. As I’m sure you could’ve guessed.

✦

TWO WEEKS AGO

It was just a joke at first.

Jisung said it with a grin, kind of half-laughing, head tilted:

“You should text first for once, hyung. I always do.”

Minho had rolled his eyes dramatically, like he didn’t care. Like he wasn’t even thinking about it before he answered.

“Then don’t.”

And Jisung had blinked. He smiled, nodded once, then-

“Okay.”

He was pissed. Minho left minutes after that, like he was the one angry, while Jisung was losing his mind. Did their friendship really not mean anything to Minho? Did he really feel that casual about saying stuff like that?

Or did he just mean Jisung should wait until Minho texts? Still, it was mean. And he definitely wasn’t dramatic

✦

So… that’s where they left off.

Jisung had thought a lot about Minho’s words since then, but the idea that maybe he meant he’d text first if Jisung didn’t. Well, that thought had fallen straight out the window. Minho didn’t text. Didn’t even talk.

Which made Jisung think something was genuinely wrong.

But then he’d see Minho laughing with the other members, like everything was fine, and it felt like a plot. A personal vendetta. Against him.

One day at practice, Felix struck up a conversation with Jisung. And no, they definitely weren’t gossiping. Not at all. Felix was just sharing how he felt around each of the guys, and Jisung mostly agreed.

Until Felix said something like-

“Minho-hyung’s been acting weird lately. Like… more distant than usual.”

Jisung nearly gasped. “So it’s not just me going crazy?” he whispered.

Felix chuckled. “No, Jisung. Something is really wrong with that man. But he won’t tell anyone. Have you asked him about it?”

Jisung blinked. “N-no, I mean… I didn’t think he’d want to talk to me.”

Felix looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean? You guys are closest, right?”

And Jisung had to stop and think. Are they still close?

No. But they were. Until Jisung had the audacity to ask Minho to text first sometimes. How dare he.

“Yeah, we were. But he doesn’t even look at me anymore,” Jisung finally admitted.

It was true. He didn’t look at him.

Not that Jisung would know, obviously. Because he wasn’t looking either.

But when Minho looks at you… you feel it. And he hadn’t felt it in a long time.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Jisung. I hope you guys talk it out,” Felix said softly, pulling him into a hug.

Oh, the ever-loving sunshine he is. Jisung didn’t even hesitate to hug him back.

And that was when he felt it. The stare.

But he brushed it off.

Because there’s no way Minho cares. Not now. But when he turned to look, Minho snatched his eyes away like he forgot he was looking, but knew he shouldn’t be. Jisung swallowed thickly, absolutely stunned. He looked. He looked at Jisung. How low can someones standards be??? For God’s sake. He shook himself out of the thought.

That night, they were sitting together at the dorm, all eight of them. They were talking, it was fun. It was normal.

Until it had to be ruined, obviously.

Chan nudged Minho. “Everyone says you’ve been awfully quiet lately. Even quieter than usual, which is saying something.”

Jisung didn’t look up from his phone. He pretended to scroll. Totally not listening.

“Yeah, hyung,” Seungmin added. “Even Jeongin talks more than you now. And that’s a big shift.”

Laughter. Jisung smiled like he had to. Like he would die of the akwardness if he didn’t. He looked at the floor like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.

Minho didn’t laugh. But he said, too casually:

“Maybe some people stopped talking to me”

The silence that followed? Absolutely horrid. Jisung’s head snapped up. Chan raised an eyebrow. Felix blinked.

“Whoa,” Hyunjin said quietly. “Drama?”

“No,” Minho said “Not drama”

It was beyond childish, what Minho said. They were children, yeah, but he had to know that wasn’t true, right? Jisung wasn’t the one who stopped talking to him. He had to know that.

And just like that, it was not normal anymore. Nor fun.

Jisung couldn’t enjoy the conversation, even if it moved on from Minho’s topic. It wasn’t possible for him to focus anymore, he couldn’t even hear what was going on.

Felix leaned over, and whispered- “Yo. You good?” and Jisung almost fell off his chair “Oh- yeah, I’m sorry, excuse me” he stood up, grabbing his bag and his phone, and he rushed out the door like his life depended on it.

Minho looked surprised, but pleased. That little shit thrived on the fact that he still had Jisung wrapped around his finger. But at the same time, he felt incredibly guilty that he said that.

He knew it wasn’t true, of course. But he just had to say something, otherwise he couldn’t get a reaction out of him. So, they both sat alone in their room, acting like they were in a terrible romance novel, until Jisung had enough.

He needed to tell Minho to fuck off and stop saying things that dont make sense. He also needed to smell him again. But that wasn’t as important.

✦

Jisung stood outside Minho’s door. He didn’t know what he was doing there. Didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t plan it. He doesn’t plan stuff. Ever.

He raised his fist to knock, then lowered it.

Raised it again.

Lowered it again.

The door opened.

Minho stood there, hoodie on, sweatpants hanging low. His expression wasn’t surprised.

Jisung blinked. “Oh. I was-uh-”

“Going to knock?” Minho asked.

“No.” Jisung lied. “Yes.” Pause. God. What was he even doing here?

Minho didn’t say anything. He just waited.

“I didn’t stop talking to you,” Jisung mumbled. “You stopped looking at me.”

A beat passed. Two.

“Yeah,” Minho said quietly. “Because looking at you was making it worse.”

Jisung couldn’t keep it in anymore. “I thought- when you said i should just stop texting first- I thought you meant you were going to text first. You said you would hyung. I thought you did” He said, out of breath. Then Minho’s eyes softened. Only for a second.

But Jisung saw it. He felt bad. He definitely did. He was on the verge of begging him to say something when he spoke.

“I was going to,” Minho said, looking at the ground. “But you seemed like you didn’t need me anymore.”

Jisung almost slapped him.

“Hyung- what?” He stood there, jaw hanging low. “That’s not the case. Why would you say that?”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, and Jisung almost doesn’t hear it.

“I couldn’t text you,” Minho says. “Because I knew once I did, I’d want everything back the way it was. And I wasn’t sure if you did.”

Now Jisung doesn’t know what to say.

He stands there, teary-eyed, face flushed, mouth open, head shaking side to side slightly.

“Why?” is all that leaves his mouth, his voice shaky.

“I don’t know,” Minho sighs.

“I don’t know, Jisungie.” He shakes his head.

Jisung steps back from the doorway.

They look at each other a second longer before Jisung walks away.

For God knows how long, again.

——-

HIIIII guys thank you so much!! I got the 20 notes on the teaser overnight and im so happy about it!!!! lets get this one to 30 and i’ll post the next one:))) i hope you’re just as excited as i am<3

[absoluteleeminho]

my masterlist<3

FANDOMS

Stray Kids

Bang Chan

Lee Minho

“you said you’d text first, hyung”

Chanbin

Hyunjin

Jisung

“you said you’d text first hyung”

Felix

Seungmin

I.N.

[absoluteleeminho]

Sneak Peek | Teaser | Chapter 1

“You’re so… soft around him,” Chan says to Minho more than once during their first month of training together.

As the leader from day one, Chan took on everything. Managing tasks, keeping the group close, and making sure the environment they now live in stays healthy. He’d feel guilty if he didn’t.

So seeing Jisung and Minho click so easily (and without any effort on his part) made him more than just happy. He was curious. Minho was reserved. Not shy, just someone who kept to himself most of the time. Some of the members said he seemed cold, maybe even a little mean, but Chan always assured them that wasn’t the case.

Jisung wasn’t scared of Minho. No, he was bold with him. He teased him, poked at him, figured out how to get under his skin. Minho opened up to him accidentally one night, after they went out for dinner and had a bit too much soju.

The ice between Minho and the rest of the group melted slowly. But with Jisung, it felt like it had never even been there. He was always the closest to Minho- at least, that’s how it seemed.

And really, they wouldn’t have it any other way… would they? It was kind of incredible. How insanely easy it was for them to hang out, to text, to call. They acted like they’d known each other their entire lives.

Oh, but they argued. A lot. About little, stupid things. And when they did, the rest of the group feared for their lives.

Minho became unbearable and withdrawn.

Jisung threw a tantrum every hour.

Chan usually worked it out between them, if they couldn’t.

But one time, it was out of his hands.

They wouldn’t talk to each other. Not to him, not to anyone.

COMING SOOOOOOOON!!;)) so excited guys!! lets reach 20 notes on this and i’ll post the first chapter

[absoluteleeminho]

“𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎’𝖽 𝗍𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗁𝗒𝗎𝗇𝗀”

pairing: han jisung x lee minho (predebut minsung)

cw: mature themes, emotional vulnerability, mutual pining, tension, unresolved feelings, slow burn (turned fast), impulsive behavior, porn with plot, oral sex, handjob, unprotected sex, anal sex

Minho and Han spent too many months pretending, they got good at ignoring the obvious tension between them, they were convinced it was friendship.

But after one stupid fight, they stopped talking, and realized that they can’t exist without one another. And when they meet again? Everything they’ve been holding back explodes.

No more pretending. No more silence.

Just Minho. And Jisung.

And the night that changes everything.

Coming so so soooon:))))

[absoluteleeminho]

✿༺ 𝒽𝒾!! 𝓂𝓎 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝑜𝓇𝓀𝒶, 𝒾 𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝑜𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓅𝒶𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝑜𝟥, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾’𝓋𝑒 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔:) ༻✿

masterlist:)

🌸ꗥ 𝐢’𝐦 𝟏𝟗, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢’𝐦 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲<𝟑 ꗥ🌸

[absoluteleeminho]

im speechless and wordless

Hands On My Throat

Bestfriend! Chan x Female reader

Tags: explicit sexual content, choking kink / neck play, brat taming, praise + possessiveness, slight dom/sub dynamic, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, multiple positions, couch sex, shower sex, best friends to lovers, sexual tension

Word count : 9.6k

Summary: He’s the golden boy of your friend group, also your best friend of ten years. Touchy without thinking. Protective without asking. And hot—criminally hot—without ever being yours. Until one night, in the middle of a crowded living room, his hand wraps around your neck without thinking. And you realize… he has no idea.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

There was no knock. There never was.

Chan walked into your apartment like he paid rent—hoodie half-zipped, keys jingling in his hand, the familiar scent of clean laundry and whatever cologne he swiped from his dresser that morning trailing in after him. He kicked off his shoes like a man with no shame and made a beeline for your fridge.

You didn’t even look up from your laptop. “You steal one more yogurt and I’m reporting you to the building board.”

He opened the fridge. “You don’t even like Greek yogurt.”

“You don’t know my life.”

“I know you used it once for a TikTok mask and gagged.”

You grinned. “Okay, fine. But still. Ask before you mooch.”

He shut the fridge and padded over, yogurt in one hand, water bottle in the other. “Never have. Never will.”

Chan dropped onto the couch beside you, close enough for his thigh to press solidly against yours. He stretched his arm behind you like he was at a movie theatre trying to flirt with a stranger. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then stayed there. Rested. Comfortable.

Normal.

You didn’t move. Just kept typing, one leg curled beneath you, the other pressed tight against his. You’d long since stopped noticing how often his body found yours. Chan was touchy—had been since high school. Always stretching across your lap, squeezing your arms, playing with your fingers absentmindedly during long talks. You didn’t even flinch when his palm dropped to your knee now, warm and casual.

This was just how it had always been.

People didn’t get it. Not back in school, not in college, not now when you lived a few floors apart and spent most nights either at his place or yours. The teasing from friends had been endless, and the side-eyes never stopped. But neither of you had ever crossed that line. Not even once.

Not even close.

You were hot. He was hot. That was an objective fact. But hot didn’t mean available. It didn’t mean interested. Not between you two.

Chan opened the yogurt with one hand and shoved the lid at you. “Lick this. Be useful.”

You turned your face slowly. “You want me to lick your foil lid?”

“I’m not dirtying a spoon just to eat this.”

“You’re so unserious.”

“I’m efficient.”

You took the lid, licked it once with a dramatic roll of your eyes, and handed it back. “Happy?”

He grinned. “Always.”

He popped the rest of the yogurt into his mouth and grabbed the TV remote, settling in like he didn’t plan on leaving for hours. You weren’t surprised. Most nights looked like this—Chan in your space, touching you somewhere, somehow, while the two of you talked about everything and nothing. He never asked. You never flinched. You barely noticed anymore.

And even when his hand slid just a little higher on your thigh—thumb brushing back and forth across the thin fabric of your shorts—you didn’t think twice. It didn’t register. Just Chan being Chan. Just another Tuesday.

⸻

Chan’s living room was loud. Like it always was when everyone crowded into his space.

Music buzzed from the Bluetooth speaker someone had connected half an hour ago. Your group of friends were splayed across every surface—couch cushions, beanbags, someone cross-legged on the floor—arguing over which movie to watch while the food delivery slowly made its way through Friday night traffic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath you, half-listening, half-scrolling on your phone. Comfortable. Cozy. Familiar.

You’d lost count of how many nights like this there’d been. Movie nights, lazy dinners, game nights that never ended with the actual game. And Chan—always at the center of it. Hosting, leaning against walls with his arms crossed, eyes creased from laughter.

Right now, he was behind you, one knee on the couch as he leaned over to grab the remote off the coffee table. The angle brought his chest close to your back, the edge of his hoodie brushing your cheek before he spoke over your head.

“Why are we even voting?” he asked. “We all know it’s gonna end up being some sad indie movie with subtitles.”

“Because you like chaos,” someone shot back. “We’re trying to have feelings tonight.”

Chan huffed a laugh, dropped the remote onto the cushion beside you, and stayed where he was—half-standing behind the couch, his weight shifting from one arm to the next.

Then you felt it.

One hand landed lightly on your shoulder. And before you could glance back or even think twice, it slid upward.

His palm curved gently around the side of your neck.

Not tight. Not firm. Just resting.

His thumb brushed the underside of your jaw once, then paused, like he was measuring something.

“Huh,” he murmured, half to himself. “Your neck’s tiny.”

He squeezed—not hard, just curious. Testing the width of it in his hand. Like he was checking the fit of something he already owned. His fingers spread easily around your throat, thick and relaxed, his thumb nearly meeting his fingertips on the other side.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

You kept your phone up, face calm, body casual. But inside?

You were choking.

Silently. Violently.

He had no idea.

He wasn’t even thinking about it. It was just Chan being Chan—touchy, absentminded, always touching you. Always. You’d never given it a second thought.

But this?

This was the one place you’d never imagined his hand.

The one part of your body that could short-circuit you with just a look, if the wrong person stared too long. And here he was—fingers wrapped casually around it, thumb brushing over your pulse, eyes probably still on the TV while your soul momentarily left your body.

You blinked. Swallowed. Scrolled aimlessly to mask the tension pooling hot in your stomach.

“Chan,” someone called out. “You good?”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, thumb still grazing your neck. “Just thinking how weird it is that this—” he gave the softest squeeze, “—could pop like a grape.”

You let out a short, strangled sound that you masked as a cough.

Chan chuckled and finally moved away, dropping onto the armrest beside you with a bounce. His arm still brushed your shoulder, but the pressure on your throat was gone. Like it never happened.

Like it meant nothing.

And to him, it probably didn’t.

But to you?

You weren’t even sure if your breath had come back yet.

⸻

The door shut with a final click.

Silence fell over Chan’s apartment, the kind that only came after hours of noise—empty cups scattered across his counter, the echo of laughter still clinging to the walls. You sank deeper into the couch with a sigh, one hand absently rubbing your shoulder where it ached from sitting in the same position too long.

Chan reappeared from the kitchen, hair pushed back by a band now, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbows. He tossed a bottle of water onto the coffee table and plopped down beside you, then paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you said, too quick. “Just… tired.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re stiff.”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “Yeah, well. You try staying upright for four hours while Minho screams at the TV like it insulted his mother.”

Chan smiled lazily. “You’re carrying tension. Scoot up.”

“What?”

He patted the space between his legs. “C’mon. Let me fix it.”

You hesitated, but only for a beat.

This wasn’t new. He’d given you shoulder rubs before—during finals in college, during hell weeks at your old job, after long car rides or moving days. It was Chan. Your Chan. The one person you trusted not to make anything feel weird.

So you shifted forward, sitting cross-legged between his thighs, and let him rest his hands on your shoulders.

At first, it was nothing.

Just firm pressure. The pads of his thumbs pushing slow, rhythmic circles into your traps, rolling out the knots like he had all the time in the world. You melted, just a little, head tipping forward under the strength of it.

“Jesus,” you muttered, “where did you even learn how to do that?”

“Years of stress,” he said. “You get good at fixing what you live with.”

You huffed something like a laugh, eyelids falling shut.

Then his thumbs pushed deeper, finding the ridge near the base of your neck, and you let out a low groan of relief.

It felt too good. Way too good.

But it was still safe.

Until his hands shifted.

Slid higher.

Thumbs brushing the edges of your neck now. Rubbing the muscles that fed into it. Soft. Slow. Intent.

Your body tensed before your brain caught up—and then it slipped.

A sound left you.

High-pitched. Sharp.

Needy.

You bit it back immediately, lips slamming shut, but the damage was done. It hung there in the air for a second too long—too feminine, too out of place for the room’s quiet.

Chan stilled.

You didn’t breathe.

Then—

“You good?” he asked lightly, voice above your head.

You could hear the confusion. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right. Or if you meant it the way it sounded.

“I—yeah.” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “Just sore.”

He hummed. Didn’t say anything else.

His hands moved again, this time slower, gentler—sweeping wide across your shoulders before sliding up again, thumbs circling your neck with almost tender pressure. Like he was feeling out the muscle tension—but also maybe trying to see if you’d make that sound again.

You were still. Too still.

“Didn’t think you were holding this much here,” he murmured. His thumbs pressed gently into the dip just behind your jaw. “You always carry it this high?”

You nodded too fast. “Y-Yeah. Must’ve slept weird.”

His touch softened, almost affectionate now, tracing down your neck with his thumbs before slipping away entirely. The absence of it made your breath hiccup.

You couldn’t look back at him.

Not yet.

Because now you weren’t sure if he didn’t notice…

Or if he definitely did.

You hadn’t mentioned it.

Neither had he.

Not when you stood to leave a few minutes later, not when he walked you to the door like he always did, not even when his hand lingered low on your back as you slipped on your slides.

If anything, he looked more normal than usual. Relaxed. Even smiled when you told him you’d come by tomorrow to help clean.

“Don’t forget I’m your friend, not your maid,” you said.

He gave your arm a little squeeze. “You’re both.”

And that was that.

Or so you thought.

—

The next day, his apartment looked exactly the same. A few stray cups gathered in the sink, a throw blanket half-draped off the couch, crumbs on the coffee table. You tossed your bag down and got to work wiping things down while he gathered trash from the bedroom.

“You could at least pretend to clean while I’m here,” you called out.

“I am cleaning,” he shouted back. “I just clean in peace. Unlike someone.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

It was easy again. Like nothing happened.

Until it wasn’t.

He emerged from the hallway, rubbing the back of his neck, then padded barefoot across the room to take the rag from your hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Can we talk about something?”

You glanced at him. “What?”

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead, he took the rag, folded it neatly, and set it on the table—slow and deliberate, like he was giving you time to brace.

Then he looked at you. Really looked.

“That sound you made,” he said, voice quiet. “Yesterday. When I was rubbing your neck.”

Your stomach dropped. Not in panic. Just in… sheer mortified awareness.

You played dumb. “What sound?”

Chan tilted his head, amused.

“Don’t do that.”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” you insisted, backing a step toward the kitchen, like that would save you.

He followed. One step. Two.

“You made a sound,” he said, not letting it go. “High. Like… I don’t know. Not pain. Definitely not pain.”

Your cheeks flamed. “Okay, and?”

“It just surprised me.” His voice stayed calm. Curious. “You don’t usually sound like that.”

You swallowed hard, crossing your arms in a weak attempt at a barrier. “It was nothing. You just hit a spot. I didn’t even realize I—”

“Sure,” he cut in gently. “But… I’m sure I’ve hit that spot before.”

You froze.

He smiled again, but it was slower now. Measured. A little too knowing.

Your voice came out small. “So?”

“So…” he scratched at his jaw, like he was still figuring out what he wanted to say. “I don’t know. It just sounded like… something else.”

Silence.

Heavy. Awkward. Charged.

You looked down. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Chan stepped a little closer.

You could smell him again—clean and warm, the same scent you’d been surrounded by for years. But now? It clung to your skin differently. Sunk into your pulse.

He was watching you carefully. Not pressuring. Not pushing.

Just… observing.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I believe you.”

Relief hit you, fast and fleeting.

“But if you had meant something by it,” he added, voice lower now, “you’d tell me, right?”

Your breath hitched.

He wasn’t teasing anymore.

He wasn’t joking.

You met his gaze—eyes warm, calm, steady. There wasn’t a trace of judgment in them. No expectation either. Just the softest, slightest pull of curiosity.

And something else you couldn’t name yet.

You looked away.

“Clean your damn table, Christopher.”

He smirked. “So that’s a no?”

“That’s a goodnight.”

You grabbed your bag and made a beeline for the door, pulse thudding in your throat, your skin hot all over. You could still feel the ghost of his hand there, even now. Still circling. Still squeezing.

And the worst part? You knew you’d dream about it.

The second you turned toward the door, you knew he wasn’t going to let it slide.

You felt it.

That shift in the air. The narrowing of his patience. Chan wasn’t dumb, and he wasn’t oblivious. You’d slipped out of a hundred close calls with him over the years, danced around every whisper of tension—but now?

He had a thread.

And he was pulling it.

“Wait,” he said, quiet.

You kept walking.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you muttered. “I said it was nothing.”

The words barely left your mouth before you felt his hand curling around the waistband of your sweatpants and pulling you back into him with a snap.

Your breath hitched.

Back to his chest. Spine to his hoodie. You froze, lips parting in disbelief.

“Chan—”

He grabbed your face before you could finish. One hand cupping your jaw, the other squishing your cheeks together so your lips puckered slightly, tilting your head back against him.

Your breath caught.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low—so low it brushed against your ear like a hum. “That moan. Was it your neck?”

You squirmed, heat rushing to your face, but his grip was firm. Not rough. Just insistent. Gentle like the beginning of something you weren’t ready to name yet.

“I said it was nothing,” you mumbled through his hold.

“I heard you the first time.” His hand loosened just enough for your jaw to move, but his palm didn’t leave your skin. “But that’s not what I asked.”

You turned your head slightly, but he followed the motion, chest warm against your back, his breath fanning across your temple.

“I’m not judging you,” he said softer now, almost amused. “I’m just asking… do you have a thing for this?”

His hand dropped—slow, steady—fingertips trailing from your jaw down the curve of your throat.

You stopped breathing.

His palm hovered just under your chin, thumb resting at the side of your neck, fingers spread. Barely touching. Barely grazing.

Then— He wrapped.

Not tight. Not firm. Just enough to feel his fingers circle you.

Just enough to remind you how small you were in his hand.

Everything in you went still.

Your lips parted again—useless, breathless, caught. You didn’t moan this time, but the silence said enough.

Chan’s voice dipped, teasing now. “So you do.”

You turned your face away, jaw tensed. “It’s not like that.”

His hand didn’t move.

“Then what’s it like?”

You stayed quiet, hands fisting at your sides.

“I didn’t even squeeze,” he murmured, voice velvet-slick. “And you froze like I switched you off with a button.”

“Shut up.”

He grinned. “Ohhh. So it’s like that.”

You tried to step forward, but his grip on your waistband tightened just slightly—reminding you he still had you. That he could pull again. That he would.

He leaned in, lips almost brushing your ear now.

“I’m not mad,” he said, gentle. “I’m not freaked out. I just…” his thumb grazed under your chin again, slow, sweet, deadly. “I think it’s kinda cute.”

“Chan,” you warned, but it came out too soft. Too breathy.

He let go of your jaw, finally. Stepped back a little.

His hand dropped from your neck like nothing happened.

But nothing about your body felt normal anymore.

“I’m gonna order takeout,” he said casually, walking to the kitchen. “You want the usual?”

You blinked.

Stared at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

He glanced back with a smirk.

“Dead serious. But—if you wanna talk more about your kinks after dinner, I’m free.”

⸻

Dinner was a blur.

You barely tasted anything.

Chan ordered your usual like it was a normal night, like he hadn’t manhandled your face and wrapped his hand around your neck barely twenty minutes ago. He sat across from you at his counter, hoodie sleeves shoved to the elbows, digging into pizza while casually talking about Genshin.

You blinked at your own bowl, lips still tingling, mind running marathons.

He’d touched you a thousand times before—your waist, your thigh, your cheek, your lower back—but not like that.

Not with intent.

Not while calling you out about your kinks like he was just checking the weather.

You poked at your own noodles.

“So we’re not gonna talk about it?” you asked.

Chan looked up, chewing, one brow lifted.

“Talk about what?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

A beat of silence.

Then the softest smirk curled on his lips. “Thought you didn’t wanna talk about it.”

You stared at him.

Something low and hot coiled in your stomach. That smug little tone he always used on you when he knew he’d won—when he baited you into spilling, or laughing, or saying something you didn’t mean to say.

And suddenly?

You’d had enough. You dropped your fork. Sat back in your chair.

“Fine,” you said, eyes locked on his. “You wanna talk kinks? Let’s talk.”

The smile slipped from his face, slow and sharp—like something in him clicked.

“…Now?”

You crossed your arms, chin high. “You started it.”

Chan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter. “Alright,” he said slowly. “Let’s go.”

His voice was low again. Not teasing this time. Steady. Intrigued. Like you’d just pulled a loaded weapon on the table and told him to pick a side.

You swallowed. “We’ve never talked about this before.”

“I know.”

“We said we wouldn’t.”

“I remember.”

“So why now?”

Chan shrugged. “Because you moaned like someone touched your soul when I only grazed your neck and then tried to lie about it. And now I’m curious.”

You flushed.

“Curious about what?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You.”

A silence stretched between you—hot, tight, heavy.

You laughed once, hollow. “God. This is so fucking weird.”

Chan tilted his head. “Is it?”

“Yes!” you threw your hands up. “You’re my best friend.”

“I’m still your best friend.”

“And we don’t talk about sex.”

“We do now.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes were too dark. Too steady. There was no out here.

You inhaled slowly. “Fine. What do you wanna know?”

Chan sat back again, folding his arms. “What else does it for you?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “Dead serious.”

You hesitated.

Then—like the words tasted like sin—you said quietly, “Hands.”

A pause.

Chan’s lips twitched. “Yeah. I figured.”

“Big ones,” you added without thinking. “Veiny. Rough. Confident.”

His eyes gleamed. “That why you always let me manhandle you like a ragdoll?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m just observing,” he said. “What else?”

You gave him a flat look. “What, you taking notes now?”

He leaned in again, elbows on the table, voice dark velvet. “I will if you keep talking like that.”

Your thighs pressed together under the table.

You looked away. “You go. Say something.”

He was quiet for a second.

Then—casually—“I like brats.”

You choked.

“Excuse me?”

Chan grinned. “Smart mouths. Girls who push back. Who pretend they don’t wanna listen but fold the second I—”

“Okay!” you raised a hand. “That’s enough, Freud.”

He laughed, head tipping back.

But the tension didn’t ease.

If anything—it twisted tighter.

You bit your lip. “So like… choking. Is that weird?”

He blinked. “Is what weird? Wanting it done to you? Or doing it to someone?”

You paused. “…Both?”

Chan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Not weird. But it’s intense.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Another silence.

He watched you. “You like intense?”

You looked up.

His eyes were too sharp again. Too serious.

You whispered, “Yeah.”

He stood.

You froze as he walked around the counter, bare feet soundless against the tile. He stopped in front of you, hand sliding onto your jaw—soft, slow—and tilted your face up again.

Your breath caught.

“You could’ve told me,” he said, voice low. “Any of this.”

“I thought you didn’t wanna hear it.”

His grip firmed just slightly—thumb brushing your cheek, the edge of your lip.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Until you moaned like that.”

His hand dipped.

Neck again.

Only this time, his fingers wrapped tight—not choking, but claiming. Measuring. Knowing.

And this time?

You didn’t pretend.

You looked him dead in the eye as your lips parted on a breathy, involuntary gasp.

“Yeah,” Chan whispered, smiling now. “That one.”

You should’ve walked away.

Should’ve laughed it off, said something dumb and deflective, gone home and buried yourself in blankets until the heat left your skin.

But you didn’t.

You sat there—his hand on your neck, your thighs clenched under the counter, breath caught somewhere in your throat—and you let him.

Chan was quiet. His eyes searched yours, slow and steady, like he was reading pages of you you didn’t even know were open.

His fingers flexed slightly around your neck. A light squeeze.

Not rough.

Just enough to say, I’m still here. You feel me, right?

And God… you did.

“You’re really into this,” he murmured.

You looked away, cheeks warm. “It’s not like I think about it all the time.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

He hummed.

Then leaned closer.

“But you’ve imagined it.”

You stiffened.

He chuckled lowly, and you felt it through his palm, the softest vibration echoing down your spine. “That’s not a no.”

You turned your head, just slightly, and muttered, “You’re annoying.”

He pulled back.

Only to hook his fingers under your jaw again, tilting your chin up like you weighed nothing in his grip. “There she is,” he said, smiling like you’d done something delicious.

“What?”

“That mouth,” he said, tapping your lip once with his thumb. “That bratty tone.”

“I wasn’t being bratty.”

“Mhm,” he smirked, stepping back. “Sure you weren’t.”

He let go.

The loss of contact was immediate—jarring.

Your neck felt cold without his hand on it.

Chan crossed to the couch and collapsed into it, legs spread, arms stretched along the backrest. Like nothing had just happened. Like your whole reality hadn’t just tipped sideways.

You turned slowly. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

You gestured vaguely at the space between you. “That.”

Chan shrugged. “Just testing a theory.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What theory?”

“That I’ve been missing out.”

You blinked. “Missing out on what?”

He grinned, head resting lazily against the cushion. “This side of you.”

Your heart thumped.

“There’s no side,” you lied quickly. “That was— That’s just how I talk to you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m serious.”

He cocked his head. “So you’d moan like that if Seungmin gave you a massage?”

You glared. “Seungmin gives serial killer energy.”

“Then what about Hyunjin?”

“Hyunjin cries at perfume ads. I’d never let him near my neck.”

Chan laughed.

You didn’t.

“I’m not teasing you,” he said after a moment. “I just… I don’t know. Feels like we’re finally being real.”

You chewed your bottom lip. “It’s not like I was hiding anything on purpose.”

“I know.”

“I just thought it’d be… weird.”

Chan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “It’s not weird.”

“You’re not freaked out?”

“Nope.”

You hesitated. “So what now?”

He smiled, that slow, cocky, dangerous smile. “Now I get to learn things.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re making it sound creepy,” you muttered.

He stood up again. Walked toward you, deliberate this time.

And when he stopped in front of you again, it felt different.

He wasn’t teasing now. He was… curious. Focused. Like you were a puzzle he’d just realized had more pieces.

His hand came up again—back to your neck—but this time, he didn’t wrap it.

He traced.

Knuckles down your throat. Fingertips skimming your collarbone.

You held perfectly still.

“So sensitive here,” he murmured. “And you never said a word.”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters now.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

He leaned in. Close. His breath brushed your lips.

“Because now I’m gonna find out what else does it for you.”

Your legs weakened.

Chan reached behind you and gently pushed you back into the nearest couch, standing over you now, looking down like you were a question he wanted to spend the night answering.

He tilted his head. “You like being told what to do?”

You blinked, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just wondering how deep the brat thing goes.”

“It’s not a brat thing,” you snapped.

That smile again. Sharp. Addictive.

“There she is.”

“Ugh,” you scoffed, sinking back.

“C’mon,” he said softly. “Give me something else. I’ll tell you one of mine.”

You looked at him, wary. “Promise?”

“Swear.”

You exhaled slowly. “I like being touched… slowly. Like… teased. Not rushed.”

Chan’s eyes darkened.

“Oh,” he said. “We’re gonna have fun.”

You blinked. “Your turn.”

He dropped to his knees in front of you. Rested his hands on your knees, just above them.

Then leaned forward and said—

“I like control. But only when someone wants to give it up.”

You froze.

“Like… the second you say stop, I’m out,” he added. “But if you give me the green light…” His thumbs stroked slow, slow circles over your legs. “I’ll ruin you sweet.”

Your breath hitched.

“Too much?” he asked, smiling.

You didn’t answer.

Because truthfully?

You didn’t know if it was.

You weren’t sure what had shifted.

The air, maybe.

Or the weight of his eyes when he looked at you like that—like you were becoming something right in front of him.

But Chan didn’t back down.

He stayed where he was, hands resting on your knees, thumbs rubbing slow, distracted strokes into your skin like his mind was already a step ahead.

“I’ve never really talked to anyone about this stuff,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Not like this.”

You swallowed. “Me neither.”

“I didn’t think I needed to. Thought I had it figured out.”

“And now?”

His eyes met yours again, and there was something deeper in them now. Darker.

“Now I think I’ve been fucking around in the shallow end.”

You stiffened, legs tensing under his grip.

He felt it.

His thumbs stilled.

“That bother you?” he asked softly.

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he’d found a loose thread in you. “Then why are your thighs clenched?”

“I don’t know,” you breathed.

“Hmm.”

He moved his hands slightly up your legs, just a few inches, nothing dramatic. But his gaze stayed pinned to yours the whole time.

“Do you like when I talk like that?”

You hesitated.

Chan leaned in, whispering, “Tell the truth.”

Your lips parted, no sound coming out.

He grinned, barely. “Thought so.”

You flushed.

He sat back on his heels, exhaling a little laugh like this whole thing was amusing—and fascinating—and fucking exhilarating.

“I think I like this side of you,” he murmured.

“What side?”

He brought his hand up again, knuckles brushing your neck, then trailing down your collarbone. “The one that can’t sit still when I do this.”

You shivered.

He smiled. “You get quiet when you want something.”

“I’m not quiet.”

“Mm. You’re quieter than usual.”

He leaned in again.

Not touching this time—just watching you breathe.

“You always give this much control without realizing it?”

Your mouth went dry.

“I’m not—” you started.

But he shook his head.

“No, don’t answer. I like watching you try.”

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

You were wet.

God, you were already so fucking wet, and he hadn’t even touched you where it mattered. Not once.

He moved one knee forward, bracing his arm on the cushion beside your hips. The shift brought him closer. Too close.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard. Heavy.

Brushing your inner thigh.

Your breath stilled.

Chan didn’t move.

His lips quirked—just barely.

And that’s when you knew.

He felt it too.

Still, he played innocent.

“Something wrong?”

Your eyes flicked to his, wide. “Are you—?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “You surprised?”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Because you’re hot?”

You exhaled slowly. “Because you’re different.”

That made him pause.

“How?”

“You’ve never… acted like this.”

He hummed, low in his chest. “You’ve never let me.”

You stuttered. “I— I didn’t stop you—”

“No,” he agreed, nodding once. “But you didn’t give me an invitation either.”

You looked down, eyes on the space between your bodies, his arousal pressed right up against you like a secret you weren’t supposed to notice.

And still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t say a word.

His voice softened. “So now that we’re here… wanna know another thing I’ve never told anyone?”

You nodded without thinking.

Chan’s fingers skimmed your hip, slow and deliberate. “I like watching people fall apart.”

Your lips parted, breath catching.

“But not in a mean way,” he added. “I like the process. The way your body learns to trust me before your brain catches up. I like how shaky your breath gets when I press on the right spot. How your legs tense when you’re trying not to give in.”

He smirked, voice dipping lower.

“I like hearing that little gasp you just made. And I really like how your thighs are squeezing together again.”

You gasped again, this time audible.

He was rock hard now. You could feel him throb slightly against you. A steady pulse through his sweatpants.

And then—God help you—he moved just a little.

A subtle, deliberate shift of his hips.

Just enough to feel how warm you were.

How ready.

Your jaw clenched.

Chan’s eyes flicked down to your mouth.

And that was his breaking point.

Because suddenly his hand was back—on your neck.

Not squeezing. Not dominating.

Feeling.

Like he was trying to understand how something so small could make him so desperate.

“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, half-lost in it.

You swallowed. “Then show me.”

His eyes snapped back to yours.

Dark.

Ravenous.

But he didn’t kiss you.

Didn’t push further.

Instead, he leaned in—nose brushing yours—and whispered, “Not yet.”

That’s what he said—low, husky, brushing your lips like a secret.

But then his head dipped lower.

And you felt it—his mouth at your cheek first, warm and lingering, then sliding lower still until his lips brushed your jawline… his teeth barely grazing your skin.

You jolted.

He smiled against you.

“Still holding it together?” he murmured, voice thick with amusement.

And then he bit you.

Soft. Right on your cheekbone. Just enough pressure to make you gasp—nothing overwhelming, but so intimate, so damn suggestive, it felt like your body cracked open around it.

A moan slipped past your lips before you could stop it.

High. Desperate.

Sinful.

“Fuck…” you breathed, under your breath.

But he heard it.

God, he heard everything.

His mouth dragged to your ear—barely brushing it—before his tongue flicked once at the shell of it and he whispered, “Say that again.”

Your head tipped back into the couch, fingers digging into the cushion beside you.

He watched you fall apart, kneeling between your knees like you were some holy thing unraveling at his mercy.

And then, without even thinking, it slipped out.

“…Chan.”

His name, like a prayer.

Choked. Shaken.

Raw.

He stilled.

Completely.

You opened your eyes slowly, vision slightly hazy, only to find him staring back at you—eyes wide, chest rising visibly beneath his hoodie.

“Shit,” he muttered, like it hit him all at once.

Like he just realized the weight of what was actually happening.

You blinked, cheeks burning. “What?”

He shook his head once. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“My name.”

You bit your lip, too overwhelmed to even fake control.

And that was it.

That broke him.

Chan’s hands flew to your hips, dragging you down the couch cushion just enough for him to lean over you completely. His mouth caught yours in a kiss so devastatingly hot you forgot your own name.

Teeth clashing. Breath mixing.

Tongues tangling like they’d been waiting years for this.

Your fingers curled into his hoodie, desperate for something to hold onto as he kissed you like a man starving—like he was angry you’d kept this from him, angry you made him wait.

And the way you moaned into his mouth? The soft gasp you let out when his hand slipped beneath your shirt and splayed wide over your waist?

It shattered him.

Chan groaned against your lips, grinding into you once—slow but solid—and the friction was unbearable.

You whimpered, breath hitching, thighs tensing around his hips.

“Jesus, babe,” he growled into your neck, voice cracking with restraint. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

But you did.

You knew now.

And worse? You loved it.

You tilted your head without thinking, exposing your throat like instinct, and the second his lips found the base of it, the moan you let out was filthy.

Loud. Guttural.

You felt him throb against your core through both your clothes.

And he didn’t even try to hide it.

His hand found your neck again—cradling, not choking. Not yet.

Just holding.

Possessive. Protective. Like it belonged to him.

“You were gonna hide this from me?” he whispered roughly against your skin. “This part of you?”

You whimpered, nails dragging down his back.

Chan laughed. Dark. Breathless.

“Not anymore.”

That was the last thing he said before everything blurred.

Your best friend had kissed you before—on your forehead, your cheek, once at midnight on New Year’s when he was tipsy and too sentimental—but this was different.

This wasn’t affection.

This was possession.

He kissed like he’d earned it—like every time he let you sleep in his bed, every time he pulled you into his chest when you were crying, every time he called you baby under his breath without thinking… was just a slow burn countdown to this moment.

His lips moved against yours like he already knew your rhythm. Like he’d been dreaming of it and now he was tasting it for real.

And when you moaned again? He growled into your mouth.

His hands were wild now, frantic. Pulling at the hem of your shirt, tugging you closer by the hips until you were slotted right against him, heat to heat.

You could feel how hard he was.

And when he shifted his weight and pressed into you deliberately, you gasped—high-pitched and startled.

He tore his lips from yours just long enough to pant, “Fuck. You’re driving me insane.”

“Then do something about it,” you whispered, already breathless.

His eyes flashed.

“Say less.”

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sweatpants so fast it made your breath catch—and when his fingers reached your panties, he froze.

Because you were soaked.

Dripping.

His fingers brushed along the fabric—slick and clinging—and then he dragged them lower, curling them against the wet heat right between your legs.

You gasped. Shuddered.

Chan’s head dropped to your shoulder, lips at your ear, groaning deep in his throat. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You whimpered.

His fingers stroked once—just enough to tease—before he yanked your sweatpants down in one go, panties and all.

You squeaked, legs instinctively clamping together, but he was already on his knees again, big hands sliding under your thighs and pulling them apart with a groan.

“Let me see,” he rasped. “Come on, babe, show me how bad you need me.”

You swallowed, chest heaving.

You had never seen him like this—never even imagined him like this.

Hair messy, lips red, hoodie halfway off his shoulder as he pushed himself between your legs like a man starving.

And it wasn’t until he looked up—until those dark, wrecked eyes dragged slowly up your body and met yours—that you realized:

You were gone.

Undone. Open.

And he loved it.

His fingers returned, sliding into your folds with maddening slowness.

You cried out, knees trembling.

He sucked in a breath, watching his hand work between your legs like he couldn’t believe what he was feeling.

“Dripping,” he whispered, almost reverent. “All this for me?”

You bit your lip. “Don’t be cocky.”

He smirked.

And then he curled two fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

You screamed.

Your hand shot out, grabbing at his wrist, your thighs threatening to close—but he was too strong.

He pressed one hand firmly on your stomach, keeping you grounded while his fingers moved—slow, then fast, then deeper.

“Not cocky,” he panted. “Just maybe obsessed.”

You cried out again, body arching, trying to grind into his palm. Every nerve ending in your body was on fire—and he was eating it up.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Melting for me. You gonna come already?”

You shook your head, biting your fist.

He chuckled darkly. “Don’t hold back now, baby. We’ve got years to make up for.”

You moaned louder—desperate.

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

Fingers sliding out, breath ragged.

You blinked at him in shock, your whole body pulsing.

“What—?”

He wiped his fingers on the hem of his hoodie like it was nothing, then leaned forward and whispered against your mouth, “I’m not letting you come with my hand. Not the first time.”

You whimpered, a broken, trembling sound.

He kissed you again, rougher this time.

And then his hands were on his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion, chest glistening with sweat, body hard and flexed as he stood to kick off his sweatpants.

You stared.

You’d seen him shirtless. You’d seen him in boxers during sleepovers. But this?

This was feral.

Ripped, flushed, bulging under tension—and fully hard now, cock bobbing as he leaned back over you, eyes wild with want.

“You ready?” he asked, voice wrecked.

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded.

Because the fire had already started, and now?

You wanted to burn.

You were breathless beneath him—bare, dizzy, skin hot and tingling in all the right places. And when he hovered over you now, sweat-slick and wild-eyed, your best friend didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

He looked like a man unraveling. One second away from ruin. Yours.

His hand slid behind your knee, lifting your leg over his hip. “You good?”

You nodded again, swallowing hard.

He smirked, gaze dropping to your lips.

“You sure?” he asked, dragging the blunt head of his cock through your slick folds—slow, teasing, maddening. “You look like you’re in trouble already.”

And something in you—something playful and wicked—snapped.

“Guess we’ll see if you can handle it.”

Chan paused.

Your voice—usually warm, teasing, light—was lower now. Challenging.

Bratty.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

You shrugged, purposefully lazy beneath him, your leg tightening around his waist. “I mean… you talk a big game, but—” you made a little face, “—you’ve never even kissing me before today.”

Chan blinked slowly.

Then laughed once—dangerous and deep in his chest—before grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one swift movement.

“You’re cute when you’re mouthy.”

You gasped, startled, but didn’t stop.

“I’m just saying,” you said sweetly, shifting under him, deliberately dragging your slick heat along his length. “You’ve waited ten years for this. Hope you’re not rusty.”

He stared down at you like you were made of sin and gasoline.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, lowering his face to yours, lips brushing your cheek. “You want me to wreck you, don’t you?”

You smirked. “I’d like to see you try.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

He snapped.

His hand came down, wrapping tight around your throat and the next thing you felt was the blunt push of his cock stretching you open in one slow, greedy slide.

You cried out, head falling back, legs trembling from the stretch.

“Fuck—”

“That shut you up quick,” he growled, watching your face as he bottomed out.

You whimpered, fully filled now, completely caged beneath him, and for a moment all you could do was breathe.

You weren’t used to this—this intensity. This power shift.

You weren’t used to being his.

Chan didn’t move right away. He stayed there—deep inside you, hand on your throat, his other still pinning your wrists—just watching.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Say my name.”

You bit your lip, eyes fluttering. “…Chan.”

He pulled out halfway.

“Say it right.”

“Chan—ah, fuck—Chan,” you gasped, back arching.

He snapped his hips forward—hard—and your moan broke into a scream.

“You’re soaked,” he panted. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“I didn’t know—” you whimpered, completely undone, “—you’d be like this.”

He smiled against your throat, kissed it once, then bit down lightly on your jaw. “This is what you do to me.”

And when you clenched around him at those words?

He lost it.

His grip tightened—your wrists, your throat, your hips—and he started moving, every thrust thick and deep, sharp enough to send your thoughts scattering into stars.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growled, pulling out only to slam back in harder.

You whimpered, breath catching. “Yes.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wrong answer.”

He dragged your hands down, pinning them to your chest now as he fucked into you, his entire body a weapon. Every thrust hit somewhere new—some place that made you cry out, curse, beg without knowing you were doing it.

“Look at you,” he said, voice wrecked. “You gonna be good now?”

Your pride screamed no.

But your body—your soaked, trembling, wrecked body—sobbed yes.

You swallowed hard, hips twitching, and whispered up at him with all the strength you had left:

“Make me.”

Chan’s eyes blazed.

“Oh, baby,” he growled, snapping his hips forward again. “I’m gonna make you beg.”

And from the way your legs shook?

You knew he already was.

You didn’t remember when your moans got louder than the thoughts in your head.

Didn’t remember when you stopped trying to talk back and started crying his name like a plea.

But your body remembered. Every inch of it was tuned to his touch now—sweaty, sticky, soaked, and strung out beneath the weight of your best friend losing his damn mind inside you.

He hadn’t stopped moving.

And he hadn’t stopped talking.

“Fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned against your skin, hips snapping forward. “Been dreaming about this—about you—for years. You were right in front of me—walking around like that, giving me attitude, pushing my buttons.”

You gasped, fingers dragging down his back. “I wasn’t trying—”

“Bullshit,” he growled, pulling out just enough to thrust back in hard, rocking your entire body against the couch. “You knew what you were doing. You knew I’d snap.”

You choked on a scream, grabbing at his shoulder for balance.

And then, with a glint in his eye, he lifted one of your legs onto the couch arm and pressed forward—deep and low.

You damn near sobbed.

“Fuck, this angle—” he hissed through clenched teeth, “—you’re squeezing me so fucking tight.”

You shivered, mouth open, unable to answer—until a familiar bratty smirk broke onto your lips.

“Still think you’re in control?” you managed, breathless.

Chan stopped moving.

Dead still.

And grinned.

“Oh, baby girl.”

And just like that, he yanked out of you, flipped your body, and shoved your front down into the couch cushions.

His hand was already on your back, pressing you down as he lined up again—and when he slid back in with one long, filthy thrust, your scream was muffled in the fabric.

“Who’s in control now?” he grunted, pounding into you from behind, one hand on your hip, the other wrapped around your neck again—pulling you back, making your spine curve deliciously.

You tried to fight it—tried to sass, to squirm—but every stroke hit your g-spot like he’d mapped your body in his dreams.

And when he growled “look at that arch,” you whimpered.

“I can feel you clenching, baby. You gonna come already?”

You hissed, bratty again through your cries. “You wish—”

So he pulled out, flipped you again.

“Keep testing me,” he breathed, dragging you into his lap, guiding you down onto him so slowly it made your eyes roll back.

He didn’t move.

Just held your hips steady, eyes locked on your face.

“You think you’re the one riding me?” he whispered, almost tender—until his fingers dug into your skin and he thrust up hard.

You screamed, forehead dropping onto his shoulder.

“Oh no, baby. You just get to watch this time.”

He started bouncing you on his cock, fucking up into you, his grip rough, his rhythm feral.

“You gonna be good yet?” he panted, breath hot on your cheek. “Or should I fuck the brat out of you?”

You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe.

But you nodded.

You were gone.

Gone for him.

He kissed your shoulder, then bit it.

And then?

He moved you again.

He was everywhere—his weight, his mouth, his cock so deep you felt like you’d split in half.

Your cries were high and broken now, your hands slipping against his sweat-slick back as he pounded you into the cushions with intent.

And then his hand went right back to your neck—holding, lifting, claiming you while he fucked the soul out of your body.

“You’re mine,” he panted, hips relentless. “Say it.”

You moaned, arching up into him. “Yours—yours, fuck—Chan—”

He dropped his forehead to yours, eyes wrecked, heart thundering.

“Come for me.”

And this time?

You did.

With a scream that could’ve broken glass.

Your body snapped, back bowing, thighs clenching around him, tears streaking your cheeks as the pleasure tore through you.

Chan didn’t stop.

He groaned, deep and desperate, as your walls clenched and fluttered around him—and then he stilled, cock buried to the hilt, trembling against you.

“Fucking—shit—”

You felt him pulse deep inside you, hot and thick.

And when he finally collapsed on top of you—panting, wrecked, his face buried in your neck—you couldn’t stop the soft, breathless laugh that left you.

“…That’s one way to discuss kinks.”

Chan huffed against your cheek.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, kissing your jaw sweetly. “You’ve got no idea how bad it’s about to get.”

—-

Your body was buzzing—tender, used, and so completely ruined that you barely noticed when Chan lifted you off the couch like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered at the movement, tucking your face into his neck as he carried you down the hall, both of you still catching your breath.

Neither of you spoke. There was only the soft pat of his feet against the tile, your fluttering heartbeat in your ears, and the low, satisfied hum he made when you clung tighter to his shoulders.

The bathroom light flickered on. Warm. Clean. Familiar.

He didn’t hesitate. Just toed off the last piece of fabric on his body and stepped under the stream with you still in his arms.

The hot water hit your back and you gasped at the contrast—already sensitive, skin electric under every drop.

Chan’s big hands slid over you, soothing, slow. He lathered up a washcloth and began running it gently over your shoulders, your thighs, between your legs with such focus you had to fight the urge to melt all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, quiet against your ear, lips brushing your temple.

You nodded. “…Think you broke me.”

He chuckled, chest rumbling against yours. “Not even close.”

But still, his touch was careful now. Reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And maybe that’s why you did it.

Why you let your hands roam a little more than they needed to.

Why you leaned in and started trailing soft kisses down his collarbone.

Why your lips didn’t stop there.

Because you couldn’t believe he was real either.

Not like this. Not yours.

He stilled when your mouth reached his chest.

You kissed it slowly, tenderly, running your fingers down his abs, over the ridges of muscle that flexed beneath your touch.

“…Babe,” he whispered, voice low, warning, already unraveling. “Don’t start.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes, lips parted, innocent and knowing all at once.

“Why not?” you murmured, kissing just below his ribs. “You let me fall apart for you. Let me return the favor.”

His breath hitched. He was already hardening again—and he knew it.

You kissed lower.

And lower.

And then you were kneeling—naked, dripping, your knees cushioned by the shower mat, hands already stroking his length back to full, pulsing attention.

He groaned.

“Fuck. Fuck, you look so good down there—”

You wrapped your fingers around his cock, squeezing gently, lips brushing against the flushed head of his cock. He jerked in your hand, and you hummed.

“I never told you my last kink,” you said sweetly, licking a slow stripe along the underside.

His hand hit the wall above your head, unsteady. “Yeah? What is it, baby?”

You smiled up at him—dark, sinful, soft.

“I don’t have a gag reflex.”

Chan let out a noise—guttural, choked, wrecked.

“Jesus Christ.”

And then you took him in.

All of him.

Slow. Deep. Deliberate.

His mouth fell open, eyes rolling back as you swallowed around him, your throat relaxing on instinct.

“Oh my fucking God—” he rasped, hips jerking forward before he caught himself, panting hard, water cascading down his back.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking the tip before dragging your tongue along the base and sucking him back in just as deep.

He moaned—loud, shameless, one hand grabbing the back of your head while the other gripped the shower wall like a lifeline.

“Fuck, fuck, baby— you’re gonna kill me—”

You moaned around him in response, eyes half-lidded, hands stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

Every sound he made went straight to your core—deep and breathy and so needy, it felt like a reward just to listen.

“You’re unreal,” he groaned. “Fucking unreal—how is this even real—”

You let your eyes flutter closed, increasing the rhythm, hollowing your cheeks, spit and water dripping from your chin as you let him fall apart above you.

And when his stomach clenched—when his thighs started to tremble—you just held him tighter, took him deeper, and moaned his name from the back of your throat.

“Fuck— I’m gonna come—baby, I’m gonna—shit—don’t stop—”

You didn’t.

Not until his hips jerked one final time and you tasted all of him—thick and hot and desperate on your tongue.

He roared your name, damn near sliding down the wall as his whole body seized, then shook.

When he finally opened his eyes again, you were smiling, swallowing, licking your lips like you’d just won.

Chan stared.

Then laughed—ragged, disbelieving, utterly in awe.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he panted, hauling you up into his arms again. “Mark my words.”

You kissed his jaw, cheeky. “Then what a way to go.”

He groaned, forehead against yours.

“We’re not sleeping tonight.”

And you knew he meant it.

—

The water was still warm when Chan reached for a towel and wrapped it around your body, gathering you into him like you were something precious. Like you might disappear if he blinked.

You were trembling a little—not from cold, but from the comedown. The wild pace of everything. The stretch, the heat, the orgasm that had left your legs like jelly. The way he’d held your gaze while wrecking you on the couch like you weren’t his best friend—like you were already his everything.

Now? Now he was silent. Gentle.

A hand on the back of your head, stroking slowly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice raw and deep, brushing his lips to your temple.

You nodded into his chest. “Mhm. Just… processing.”

He smiled faintly, lifting you into his arms again—still naked, still wet—and carried you to his room without another word. The towel stayed wrapped around you, his hands never letting go, like it physically pained him to stop touching you.

He laid you on his bed with careful hands, kissed your forehead, then disappeared for a moment—returning with your hoodie, a fresh pair of his boxers, a warm water bottle, and a glass of juice.

You stared at him, body curling toward his naturally as you laid there—wrapped in soft cotton, legs still aching in the best way. “So… this really happened.”

Chan tilted his head, gaze steady. “Are you regretting it?”

“No,” you whispered, too fast. Then, “Are you?”

His brow furrowed like you’d offended him. “Baby. I’d do it all over again right now if you weren’t already shaky.”

You flushed, heat blooming up your neck. He noticed it. Of course he did. His thumb brushed the side of your throat, reverent.

“Still can’t believe that’s your kink,” he murmured, soft and possessive and wrecked. “You have any idea what that did to me?”

You licked your lips, looking away. “…There’s more.”

Chan’s eyes darkened. “Oh, you’re gonna tell me.”

You tried to hide your smile. “We never talked about sex in ten years and now you wanna hear all my kinks?”

“Now I need to,” he replied, curling his hand behind your neck and pulling you closer again. “You let me touch you like that. Let me own you. You think I can go back to pretending you’re just my best friend after that?”

His mouth was so close. His fingers were back to stroking your skin, down your back, over the dip of your waist.

Your voice came out quieter now. “I’ve never given up control that easily.”

“I know.” He cupped your jaw, kissed the corner of your mouth. “And I’ll never take that for granted.”

You met his eyes. “But I’d do it again.”

His breath stuttered. And then he kissed you—soft this time, lingering.

“You have no idea how hard I’m holding back right now.”

“I can tell,” you whispered, glancing down at the way his towel was starting to shift.

He growled against your skin, pressing his forehead to yours. “This changes everything.”

You nodded slowly. “But it doesn’t ruin anything.”

“No,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek. “It just means we’ve got… ten years to make up for. And I plan to.”

You smiled. “So… you’re mine now?”

Chan pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you.

“No, baby,” he said with a dangerous smirk. “You’re mine. And I don’t share.”

Your stomach fluttered. You pushed at his chest, bratty. “Mm. You weren’t this cocky when we were just friends.”

He climbed over you again, straddling you on the bed with that wolfish glint in his eye.

“You never let me touch you like this before. Now I know what you sound like when you moan my name?”

He leaned down, voice dark, hungry.

“You have no idea how cocky I’m about to get.”

And just like that, you knew.

You’d opened Pandora’s box.

And Chan had no plans to close it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: AAAAAHHHHHHH!!! God this was sooo juicy to write!!!! I am so sorry for my absence guys, theres been so much on my plate… I’ve actually started an original book that i plan to publish some time in the future. 🤭 But I’m here now and ill post more frequently. As for all the requests? I SEE EVERYTHING, I WILL WORK ON THEM!! Just hold on for me babes!

Anyway, if you enjoyed this one, leave me a comment, like and reblog guys!! My taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added or removed!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness

[absoluteleeminho]

i have no words

what's a little ink?

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 7.3k

summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just can’t resist wanting

tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy

requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey

It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each other’s quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.

"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."

You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"

"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and it’s yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I win…" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. “You have to let me tattoo you.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tattoo me? Really? That’s your big gamble?”

Han’s smile grew wider. “I’m a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think you’re too scared to let me do it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. “Scared? Please. I’m not scared of a tattoo.”

His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. “Oh, so now you’re saying you can handle it? Alright then. You’re on. But we both know I’m going to win.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “Big talk for someone who has no idea what they’re up against.”

The game you were playing—a mix of cards, trivia, and guessing games—was silly, and it didn’t take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.

Han’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin. “You won. So what do you want?”

You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask for—something extravagant, maybe—but you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.

So, you decided to go for it.

“I want a tattoo,” you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.

He blinked at you. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Totally,” you answered, your grin impossible to hide. “You’re going to ink me, Han. And you can’t back out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you weren’t joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.

“Well, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,” he said, his tone slightly mischievous. “No complaints, okay?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Fine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, I’ll leave the location to you.”

Han smirked and held out his hand. “Deal.”

The text from Han came just before noon.

“Hope you’re not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)”

You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttons—just enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.

Still, you showed up. Of course you did.

His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here before—countless times, really—but never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.

The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And just like that, the air shifted.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “You came. I’m impressed.”

“You told me to. I don’t exactly think that counts as bravery,” you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.

Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. “I sketched some ideas. Wanna see?”

You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicate—subtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.

“I like this one,” you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.

“I thought you might.” His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. “It’s gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve decided where to put it,” he added after a beat, stepping closer.

“Oh?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get a hint?”

Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveled—unapologetically—over your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. “Upper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.” He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. “It’s a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.”

You froze. It was a good idea—too good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I trust you,” you whispered, hoping it would ground you.

Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. “Then lie down for me.”

The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Han’s presence—his warmth—that you felt most acutely.

He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You chose not to tell him that it already did—but not because of the needle.

As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.

He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leaned—it lit something warm and aching inside you.

His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. “You’re really still. Most people twitch like hell when it’s here.”

You exhaled, barely moving. “I think I just… don’t want to mess you up.”

“You couldn’t,” he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsed—thick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.

He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skin—slower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.

Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.

"You’re warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.

You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. “Is that your way of saying I’m sweating too much?”

A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. “Just saying... your skin feels alive.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.

He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against you—thumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, “It’s kind of driving me crazy.”

The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.

“What?”

Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. “Nothing. Just... hard to stay focused when you’re under my hands like this.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re the one who insisted on choosing the placement.”

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazy”

The air between you crackled. He was close now—too close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.

The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.

Your voice came soft, but steady. “Are you always this... handsy when you’re working?”

He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. “Only when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved again—not toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.”

“Is it working?” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I think you already know the answer.”

Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in it—like restraint stretched thin. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.

“I should finish,” he said, almost hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Finish.”

But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at him—all of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.

By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning fork—tight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.

“That’s it, you're done,” Han said quietly, voice thick.

He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skin—slow, deliberate, reverent—was what left you breathless.

He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. “You did good. Barely moved.”

You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. “Is that praise, or are you just surprised I didn’t faint?”

His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a lot tougher than you let on.”

You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.

You looked away first.

“Let me pay you,” you said, reaching for your bag.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “This wasn’t about that.”

Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beat—something bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:

“I wanted something of mine on you.”

The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in water—sinking, blooming.

You didn’t respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.

Finally, you smiled, small but real. “Well... now you’ve got it.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.

You caught Han watching your reflection—eyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.

And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.

Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.

“I should go,” you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.

Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. “Right. It’s late.”

You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smoke—slow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.

But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.

“…I’m not usually like this.”

The words escaped before you could catch them.

Han’s voice came from behind you, lower now. “Like what?”

You didn’t turn to face him. “This affected.”

A beat.

Then: “Me neither.”

You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than he’d been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.

But close.

The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his face—his expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.

“I should walk you out,” he offered.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.” A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, “Let me anyway.”

You nodded.

He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shock—like stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.

You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.

“Hey,” Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. “Wait.”

You turned, heart stuttering.

He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.

He didn’t.

Instead, his voice dropped. “If I kiss you right now… would that mess things up?”

Your breath hitched.

The world held its breath with you.

You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you said—quietly, honestly:

“I think not kissing me might mess things up more.”

And still—still—he did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.

He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. “Then maybe I’ll wait until it really ruins me.”

Your throat went dry.

“Night,” he murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, the door closed between you.

But your heart stayed in his hands.

It was past midnight when your phone lit up.

"You still awake?"

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.

"i never really went to sleep"

Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.

"Me neither"

A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:

"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''

Your breath caught.

"the tattoo?"

"Not exactly.."

You didn't respond right away. You didn’t have to. The air in your room had changed—thicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.

And then the screen lit up again—this time, a call, to which you answered—not after panicking for a few seconds, of course.

“…Hey.” You whispered into the microphone.

His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. “You saw a lot of skin.”

“Not the part I meant.”

A silence stretched. Not awkward—intimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.

“Come by tomorrow,” he said finally. “I need to check your tattoo.”

“You just want to touch me again.”

“I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?”

Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.

You whispered, “Okay.”

The next day, you were back at his studio.

You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at you—eyes dark and steady—you knew you were both done pretending.

“Shirt,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat.

You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.

He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. “Looks good,” he murmured. “You’ll heal fast.”

“So I can go?” you teased, voice thinner than usual.

He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your back—palm flat, warm. Possessive.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s what I wanted.”

You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. “I did as I was told, Han. So what now?”

Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.

“Now I kiss you.”

And this time, he did.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.

He pulled back, just an inch.

“Still messing things up?” he asked, breath brushing your lips.

You smiled. “Only in the best way.”

The kiss tasted like every moment that came before it—charged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neck—soft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes. “Then show me.”

The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed you again—deeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.

Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “More than.”

His lips returned to the bare side of your throat—soft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.

“Han,” you breathed.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But not just this.”

You stilled, heart thudding.

“I want every version of you,” he continued. “The fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like you’re terrified.”

You exhaled, chest caving. “You noticed everything?"

“I tried not to.”

He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentle—still you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.

And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded bench—carefully, gracefully—like you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.

Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.

When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotter—teeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.

Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and then—traced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.

“I want you,” he said. “But I also want you.”

You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. “You have me.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on him—tracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.

Han groaned when he felt it—your thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth. “You feel too good.”

“You haven’t even felt me yet,” you whispered back.

His eyes darkened.

He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.

He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gasped—head tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.

His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.

“These need to come off,” he growled, voice thick with want. “Right fucking now.”

You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at you—all of you—bare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, like he was angry about it. “So fucking pretty and wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

And he did.

One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.

“You gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?” he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—please, Han—”

He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Grind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.”

You did—hips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said against your throat. “You gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink people’s skin?”

“Fuck—Han—yes—”

You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through it—murmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.

And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.

“Think you’re ready for my cock now?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himself—slow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitch—

And then he pushed in.

You both groaned—deep, guttural—like relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.

But he did not stop.

He fucked you—hard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.

Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hot—blinding—your release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes—it all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“God—look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. “So good for me. So perfect when you come.”

But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his body—every muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right there—

But holding back. Just for you.

You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. “You didn’t come.”

He shook his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanted to feel you first. Wanted to see—fuck—how tight you get when you come around me.”

Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.

You kissed him—slow and deep—and then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.

He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.

“Baby—don’t—”

“You always so in control?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. “Or are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?”

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Please—fuck—”

You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re still so hard,” you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Still deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?”

“God—yes.”

“Then allow me.”

You pushed him gently, and he let you—collapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around him—tight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.

His hips bucked and he cursed—head thrown back, abs tensing.

“Sensitive already, aren’t you?” you purred.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentence—deep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.

He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.

And when he came—god—

It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.

You smiled. “Still in control?”

He laughed—wrecked, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.

He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:

“…Round two’s gonna ruin us both.”

You grinned against his neck. “Good.”

The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.

Only your breathing filled the space—shallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and ink—hot, heavy, and honest.

Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.

You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. “Speechless?”

He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he rasped. “Just… trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.”

You laughed softly—until his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.

You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.

“I let you ruin me once,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Your turn now.”

You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wall—your bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.

“What—Han—”

“You think you can just look at me like that,” he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. “Touch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.”

You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.

“Han—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name—but still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.”

Then he was inside you again—deep—in one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped—high and breathless—arms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“Han—fuck—”

He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.

Your walls fluttered around him already—sensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.

“I felt this pussy clench around my fingers,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.”

You moaned—helpless—every part of your body trembling as he started to move.

Hard. Fast. Focused.

Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.

“You want control?” he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. “Then take it.”

He pulled out.

You nearly cried from the loss.

Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.

You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.

“Louder!” he commanded. “Let the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.”

And louder you were when he found that spot inside you—over and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.

He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckle—nerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.

“F-fuck—Han—I can’t—too much—”

“You can. You’re taking it like a fucking dream,” he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.

Your whole body tightened—shaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and again—

He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:

“Come on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.”

And you did.

You shattered—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.

He came with a shout—loud, raw, high—hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.

Then his hands softened—smoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.

He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“…Still remember your name?”

You laughed, wrecked and breathless.

“Remind me?" you whispered.

You did not remember collapsing—just that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.

And Han?

Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “I think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.”

You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. “You short-circuited me. I’m literally leaking.”

He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. “Good. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.”

You blinked. “Next time?”

Han grinned, wicked and lazy. “Oh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. I’m gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.”

You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. “You’re gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?”

He laughed—loudly. Like you caught him off guard. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?” you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: “‘Forget your own name but still remember mine?’ Who writes you?”

He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. “No one writes me. I just improvise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?”

He winked. “What can I say? I’ve got bars and stamina.”

You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

Then—softer, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:

“…I really like you.”

You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man—but he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.

Even when he was a little bit of a menace.

The silence after pulling away was heavy—not the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.

He had not moved far.

Still close. Still inside your gravity.

Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth did—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Hey.”

He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.

“You don’t have to go home tonight.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His voice stayed soft, careful, “I mean… you could stay. With me.”

You stared.

He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.

“Not just for more of this—though God, don’t get me wrong, I want more of this—but like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what I’m like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But you’re good with chaos, right?”

You laughed—but something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.

Because he meant it—this wasn’t just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.

It was a choice.

He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.

You leaned up, kissed him once—slow and certain.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

And the way he looked at you then—hopeful and smug and so unmistakably fond—made you feel warmer than anything else that night.

Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.

You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warm—eggs?—cooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.

And Han—God, Han—was nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.

You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.

Han stood with his back to you—shirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.

You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.

He sensed you, because of course he did.

“You’re up,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldn’t help himself: “Fuck, you look good in my hoodie.”

You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.

“You’re feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?”

He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. “That was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.”

You laughed against his skin. “Tactical.”

He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it then—not just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.

“You staying the whole day?” he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.

You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.

“Only if you kiss me like that again,” you teased.

He grinned.

And did just that—slow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.

Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couch—Han’s head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.

Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.

“This is dangerous,” you murmured.

Han cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“This. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.”

He smirked without moving. “You did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. “You should let me tattoo you again,” he said after a long beat.

You looked down at him. “Now?”

“No,” he smiled, “not now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. “That’s a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.”

His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.

“You already let me ruin you once,” he said with a grin. “What’s a little ink?”

You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.

“And I'm here to stay.”

drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset

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