#intriwriteshj

[intrikatie]

Unofficial

Han x Reader

🔞Minors DNI

✰ Pairing: Secret Boyfriend Han Jisung x Fem Reader ✰ Genre: SMUT ✰ Info: MxF, Unprotected Sex, oral and fingering (f receiving) VERY body positive Jisung

Word count: 3000

You're not official.

That is the unspoken rule—the invisible contract sealed in silence the moment you let yourself fall for Han Jisung.

He is an idol. Your idol, technically. A title you hold in secret, worn like a second skin you aren’t allowed to show. Because idols don’t date. Not publicly. Not proudly. And definitely not an unknown fan like you. There could be no slip-ups. No couple selfies, no shared playlists that gave too much away, no glances held too long in rooms with too many eyes. The world had to believe he was single, free, and entirely unattached—like his heart didn’t already beat faster at the sound of your voice. Like it didn’t already belong to you.

You're backstage after the concert, your lanyard sticky against your skin and your nerves frayed thin. The pass says All Access. What does that even mean when you're still locked out of his spotlight? Friends and family of the other members fill the room—laughing, hugging, chatting like this is just another night. Just another show. Like the world hadn’t tilted on its axis just minutes ago when Jisung stood under those lights and poured his soul into lyrics you know were written with you in mind.

You smile at the other real friends. The real family members. Awkward. Too polite. Like an extra in someone else’s memory. You’re not technically either of those things—friend, family—but Jisung got you the pass anyway. He said it was fine. That no one would ask questions. But the pass feels heavy. A lie laminated in longing and looped around your neck.

What if someone asks? What are you meant to say? You’re not friends. You know your heart couldn’t handle telling that lie.

You're orbiting unfamiliar territory. Desperate not to be the mistake that ruins it all.

You’re trying not to fidget too much. But your hands idly drum an awkward little ditty on the thighs of your jeans as you scan a table filled with snacks and beverages, fruits and cakes. 

Cake. Cake. Cake. 

"Y/N?"

Jisung stands before you, still dressed in his last stage outfit—skin-tight and leaving very little to the imagination. The top is a black-and-red photo print, the collar sitting just below his Adam’s apple. And, because he apparently isn’t tempting enough, he’s wearing leather trousers.

"Oh," you say, your speech slowed by the saliva pooling under your tongue. "Hi."

"I thought you might be lurking awkwardly near the snack table."

You let out a breath of laughter, more surprise than amusement. “It’s your favourite spot, isn’t it? You like sweet things, and the chocolate cake looks nice.”

He hums, tongue dampening his bottom lip before he bites on it. “Come with me.”

You follow him before you can think to question it, steps quick to match his long strides as he weaves through a hallway lined with half-closed doors and leftover energy. He nods at people—staff, probably— with the confidence of someone who belongs.The backstage noise fades into a low hum behind you.

Then Jisung opens a door, holding it for you to enter. You duck beneath his arm.

The door clicks shut.

And the world falls still.

For a moment, Jisung doesn’t move.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He clears his throat. “Uh… hey.”

It’s so adorably awkward—like he hasn’t just sung his heart out in front of twenty thousand people. Like you’re the one stage he can’t quite perform on.

You glance around the room, looking for something to ground you. It’s surprisingly… bleak. No frills. Just magnolia-painted breeze block walls and a couple of Stray Kids posters—obviously put up to try and brighten the place. Muted voices and equipment hum beyond the thick walls.

A rack of clothing lines one side of the room, stage outfits hung in perfect rows, each one carefully labelled. It’s nothing like the stage had been. No lights. No magic. Just raw and unfiltered. A small fridge hums in one corner, low and steady. Jisung’s guitar leans in the other, propped beside a balled-up sleeping bag like it’s been there for days. A low sofa stretches along the back wall, cushions slightly misshapen from use. Opposite, a long counter holds a clutter of makeup wipes, water bottles, and backstage debris. A vanity mirror sits above it, rimmed with warm bulbs—some flickering faintly like they’re as tired as the rest of the room.

“Not very glamorous, is it?” Jisung follows your gaze, scratching the back of his neck. “We don’t always get a private space like this,” he says. “Usually, we’re in one giant room—over forty people. Makeup artists, stylists, staff, managers. Like a beehive with no sense of personal space.” He shrugs. “It’s nice to have this. Somewhere we can come to… just relax for a bit. This is about as private as it gets.”

You nod slowly, letting that sink in. It’s not much, but it’s yours, for now. You turn your back to the room stepping closer to Jisung who inhales as you draw nearer. Your hand reaches past him, for the lock on the door. You both exhale when you hear the soft snick. 

As private as it gets, just got a tiny bit more private.

When you look up at him—he’s really looking at you this time. Eyes wide, searching. A little dazed.

“You look good,” he says, voice soft. “I’ve missed you.”

Something in you breaks open.

You close the distance before he can overthink it—before you can, too.

Fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, you lean in and kiss him. 

And Jisung—your sweet, startled Jisung—melts.

Your kiss deepens with every second—slow, then quicker, then breathless like you’ve both been waiting for this moment far too long.

He sighs into your mouth, and the sound is everything—sweet, soft, needy. You chase it, press closer, fingers curling tighter in the fabric of his shirt as he steps forward. Then again. His hand skims your waist, then clenches gently like he’s grounding himself as he continues stepping you backward until your shoulders hit the line of clothes behind you, soft fabric muffling the impact. You let out a startled sound, half-gasp, half-giggle, laughing against his lips.

The rack creaks softly behind you as he steals another kiss—then another—like the air between you isn’t enough. Like the clothes on your backs are a tragedy. Like if you don’t touch him more, now, you might actually explode.

He senses it, the same moment you do. The way the laughter quietens, replaced by soft gasps and cut off moans. Your fingers abandoning soft caresses for pressing, pulling. His hands are everywhere—palming your shoulders, your waist, your hips—until you’re flush against him. No space. No holding back. He tugs at the lanyard around your neck and it snaps, falling to the floor.

The weight of the lie falls with it. Out there, you're unofficial—here, you're his everything.

You find the zip at the back of his stage shirt, hovering a second, wondering if this is really going where you think it is, where you want it to go. Jisung doesn’t answer with words, instead, his hands slide under your own shirt, unhooking your bra. Okay, this is definitely going there.

You unzip his shirt, stepping back so he can free his arms. You let the back of your knuckles brush down the tattoo on his side as Jisung strips you of your shirt and bra. 

He pulls you closer, chest against chest. Softness against hardness. 

His hands are on you again—roaming, like he’s making up for all the hours, days, months he’s had to pretend he didn’t crave your skin. Fingers trace your sides, your spine, your ribs like they’re holy. His palms are gentle and desperate all at once—pressing, pulling, learning.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, lips ghosting over your collarbone as his hands smooth down your back, thumbs carving slow lines into your hips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You groan. Just sound. Just heat.

He leans in and kisses you again—not pretty now. It’s teeth and tongue and breath, his hands in your hair, gripping your thighs, guiding your body against him with a rhythm that says now. Now. Now.

You roll your hips forward pressing against his hard length and he groans, loud and guttural, his head falling forward to rest against your chest. As his fingers fumble with the button of your jeans. You help him push them down, shimmying out of them. Before helping Jisung remove his own trousers. It’s a stage outfit, designed to pull on and off easily. Thank goodness.

He reaches behind you, fingers kneading into the soft fat of your arse. 

“You feel—fuck, you feel so good.”

Then his hands slip under your thighs and lift, guiding you onto the vanity itself. You gasp at the cold press of it against your skin, but he’s already there, between your legs, kissing down your neck, across your chest, hands sliding up your back to pull you closer.

There’s nothing shy in him now. Just reverence.

He pulls back to look at you—really look at you—like he wants to burn this into memory. You, half-undone under the mirror lights. You, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising and falling like you’ve run a marathon. You, reaching for him with trembling fingers and fire in your eyes.

His voice is low. “You’re perfect.”

You sigh—God, you remember the first time he said that to you. The first morning you woke up beside him, blinking against the light, convinced it had all been a dream. You’d pinched him hard, rousing him with a startled yelp.

“What was that for?” he’d laughed, rubbing the spot.

“Are you real?” you asked. “Really real?”

He’d pinched you back—harder—making you squeal. Then he’d rolled on top of you and proved it, mouth and hands and breath making promises he still hasn’t broken. Whispering how perfect you were, over and over again.

You bite your lip against the memory, warmth blooming up your throat. Even now—months later—having Jisung standing here, looking at you like that, still doesn’t feel real.

You press the tips of your fingers into your palms. Reminding yourself. This is actually happening. Again. 

You pull him into another kiss, slow this time, filthy and deep, your hands buried in his hair, your thighs locking around his waist. You want him closer. Want to feel every inch of him.

Jisung’s eyes darken deliciously, and his hand slides between your bodies. When he touches you—finally, finally—you cry out, head thrown back, hands scrambling for anything to hold onto.

He works you with precision. With a patience that shouldn’t exist—not after how long he’s waited—but it’s laced with something deeper. Adoration. He wants to watch you fall apart for him. Like he wants to earn it.

He kisses the column of your throat, then lower, his mouth lingering—open, wet—at your breasts, your stomach. You involuntarily tense as his nose brushes the softness there. He glances up, one brow arched in a silent scold.

“You’re perfect,” he tells you, taking his time to kiss around your belly button. Then he shifts lower, tracing the silver-white stretch marks at your hips with his lips, then his tongue, his free hand kneading the flesh of your thigh. “My perfect—tiger-striped—perfect girl.”

You exhale, praise and reassurance flooding through you, dizzying and warm. It takes you a moment to realise—he’s sinking to his knees.

You brace yourself, breath stuttering as Jisung removes his fingers from inside you, to curl around the backs of your thighs and tug you forward—closer, open, right to the edge. His breath ghosts over bare skin as he looks up at you—eyes blown wide with hunger, lips parted, reverent.

“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy sweet, “since the second I saw you at that damn snack table.”

And then—

Oh.

His tongue drags slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’s starved—like he’s found salvation between your thighs. One hand spreads you wider while the other anchors on your hip, holding you in place when your knees twitch from the sheer intensity of it. He’s ravenous but methodical—tongue stroking through your folds, slow at first, savouring. Then deeper. Wetter. 

You gasp his name. A plea. A warning. A prayer.

Jisung groans against you, and it vibrates deep, rolling up your spine like a live wire.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can do is hold onto his shoulders while he ruins you—mouth and tongue working in sinful, practiced rhythm. He finds that perfect angle and stays there, relentless, moaning into you like your pleasure is his oxygen.

You arch with a choked moan, hips canting, and he grins against you.

Your thighs tremble, heels digging into his shoulders as he brings you to the brink—over and over, just to feel you shake around him.

The whole vanity trembles under the weight of it. You, breathless. Him, possessed. Your spine meets the mirror behind you as your hand tangles in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan—he likes it, fuck, he loves it, and he doubles down, sucking and licking with dizzying focus until your hips buck and your body shakes and all you can do is cry out his name your release so overpowering you think the mirror at your back might crack from the sheer force of it. 

He doesn't stop. Not until you're trembling, thighs quaking around his shoulders, chest heaving under the vanity lights like you’ve been set on fire.

And when he finally pulls back, chin slick, lips glistening, he looks wrecked.

You reach for him—pulling, needing—and he rises from his knees with a smirk, tongue flicking at the corner of his lips before he catches your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you. His hands are everywhere—gripping, stroking, grounding you as the world tilts.

You’re aching to feel him. To take all of him—finally, fully.

Your breath comes in quick bursts, but your eyes are steady on his. You want him to know.

This is it. This is the moment.

The head of his cock presses against your entrance, and his eyes meet yours, searching, asking if you're ready.

And you don’t hesitate.

“Jisung,” you breathe, the sound of his name a plea, a prayer, a promise.

His lips find yours again, hungry now—deep, slow, as if he’s savouring every moment before the plunge. Gripping your hips, with one fluid motion, he enters you.

You gasp at the sensation, every inch of him a perfect fit—full, deep, and impossibly real. He pauses, his forehead resting against yours, both of you still for a moment, feeling the weight of it. The weight of him.

You want to move, to take him in, to make this moment last forever—but you’re trembling, your body still adjusting to the feeling of him filling you completely.

“God,” Jisung breathes, his voice low, a tremor of something unspoken in it. His hands tighten around you, pulling you against him as his hips begin to move—slow, deliberate, as if he’s both giving you everything you need and taking what he needs from you.

You meet him with the same desperation, moving beneath him, grinding against him with every stroke, every shift, as if you can’t get close enough. You feel him inside you, feel every inch of him, and the world narrows to just the two of you. There’s no past, no future—just this moment, just this connection.

Each thrust is an exchange, a balance of what you want and what he craves. His pace picks up, but it’s never rushed, never frantic—it’s all-consuming, and every movement drives you to the edge. You feel yourself tightening, your body aching for its second release.

“Fuck,” Jisung groans, his hands gripping your hips, his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot against your ear. “You feel so fucking good. I can’t—” His words falter, replaced by a low growl as he shifts deeper, pushing you further into the moment.

Your body tightens in response, every nerve set alight. His rhythm, his power, his presence—it's overwhelming. You’re falling apart beneath him, shattering in the best way.

He shifts, ever so slightly, and the change of angle drives you crazy. Hitting that perfect spot that has you gasping, moaning his name like a mantra.

Jisung’s eyes find yours, dark and wild with need, with something more. Something you don’t have words for.

“Close,” you whisper, your hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you can hold him, pull him in deeper. It’s not just his movements undoing you—it’s the effort of holding back. Of not clawing, not marking, not claiming. But God, you want to. 

His pace quickens, relentless now, and with every movement, he’s giving you more of him. Everything of him. You’re right there.

Right on the edge.

So fucking close.

And then his teeth scrape against your neck.

The world goes white.

You shatter.

The rush of your orgasm hits—uncontained, all-consuming. You cry out, the sound too loud, too raw. Jisung’s lips crash against yours, swallowing your moans as your hands grip his skin, your body trembling, every muscle clenching. Your pulse thunders in your ears, and nothing exists beyond the stretch of him inside you—the world blurred into heat and light and Jisung’s voice, “Perfect. So fucking perfect.”

Jisung doesn’t stop. He keeps moving through your release, his own breath ragged, his body tensing. And then, just as you feel your body begin to ease into the aftershocks of your pleasure, he groans your name, thrusting deep one last time before he follows you over the edge.

He collapses boneless against you. Both of you breathless. Your bodies entangled—exhausted, spent, but full.

You hold him close, your chest still rising and falling with the weight of the moment, and you press your lips to his, soft and slow.

Then he pinches you, hard. 

“OW!”

He grins against your mouth. “Just checking.”

♡ If you made it this far, thank you so much for your support!

♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog. I love hearing your thoughts!!

♡ ©2025Intrikatie

[intrikatie]

Love you more... Jisung

banner by the endlessly talented @skzdreamer13 [my chopstick]

♡ Pairing: Established relationship! Jisung x GN Reader ♡ Genre: Fluff, Headcanon ♡ Warnings: none ♡ Wordcount: <500 ♡ a/n: trying to get the hang of short form.

A cozy café, a slice of cheesecake, and Jisung sitting across from you with a mischievous glint in his eyes—it’s the perfect combination for a night full of laughter. He watches as you take a bite, eyes locked onto the plate like a predator stalking its prey.

“I love you,” Jisung announces suddenly, his voice light but sincere.

You pause mid-bite, grinning as you swallow. “I love you more.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Oh? Bold claim. You better back that up.”

You rest your elbow on the table, leaning forward. “I’m the one who always knows when you need comfort, even when you try to hide it. I can read you like a book.”

Jisung gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Exposed. But counterpoint—I’m the one who makes sure you never feel like a burden. You’re always there for me, so I’ll always be there for you.”

You giggle, pointing your fork at him. “I’m the one who can make you laugh in any situation. Even when you’re sulking, I know exactly how to crack you up.”

He snorts. “Okay, okay, fair. But I’m the one who hypes you up when you’re feeling insecure. No one’s allowed to doubt you—not even you.” He leans over to tap the end of your nose.

You take another bite of cheesecake, savouring it before smirking. “And I’m the one who shares my dessert with you, even though I know you always steal half of it anyway.”

Jisung pauses, eyes flickering guiltily to the fork in his hand, which is already hovering near your plate. “Okay, first of all, rude. Second of all, that’s just love language.”

Just as he moves in, you swipe the plate away at the last second.

Jisung freezes mid-motion, mouth falling open in shock. “HEY—”

You laugh, nudging his foot under the table. You twirl a bit of cheesecake onto your fork and hold it out to him instead. “Who loves who the most?”

Jisung narrows his eyes. “You love me the most.”

His pout disappears instantly as you lean closer, and he takes the offered bite with a grin. “See? This is why I love you more.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart melts anyway. “You can pay then.”

He bounces to his feet and you smile, knowing that this is an argument you won’t tire of.

♡ If you made it this far, thank you for your support! ♡ please consider leaving a comment, like or reblog ♡ ©2025Intrikatie ♡