Thank You So Much! I’m So Happy You Enjoyed Reading My Work, And That You Found Some Comfort From It!
Thank you so much! I’m so happy you enjoyed reading my work, and that you found some comfort from it! *Pats my own back* My job has been accomplished! 🥹🫶
𑁍ࠬܓ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ( stray kids )
❛ In which the members of Stray Kids navigate the world of fatherhood without you.
𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 4.4k
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This request was absolutely devastating to write, thank you! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Y/N has passed away, each member is a single father still in love with you, mentions of grief, some of the kids fall under the LGBTQ+ community.
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )
꒰ 🫙 ꒱ ミ Tip Jar!
방찬 ── BANG CHAN.
Chan's office was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the desk lamps, casting a warm yet somber light across the room. The gentle hum of the night time silence was broken only by the rhythmic, soothing breaths of his three-year-old daughter, who lay peacefully on the worn leather couch. Her tiny face, so serene in slumber, was a haunting mirror of your beautiful features, stirring a profound ache in Chan's heart.
As he watched her, tears began to silently trace their way down his cheeks, each drop carrying the weight of his sorrow and longing. He could still hear your final, trembling words: "Love her twice as much in my absence." The memory was a dagger, twisting with the relentless guilt and grief that had become his constant companions. The sight of his daughter's innocent face, so reminiscent of you, only deepened his anguish.
Today had been especially trying. Chan had promised his little girl a joyous outing to the park, a precious respite from his hectic work schedule. But the day took an unexpected turn when Changbin called in a panic, frantically searching for the nearly completed recording of their latest song. What Chan had hoped would be a swift resolution morphed into hours of desperate searching, only to end in the devastating realization that they would have to begin the recording anew.
All the while, his daughter’s patience wore thin. She had no toys, no distractions, just the suffocating boredom of waiting. Her disappointment was palpable, a silent reproach that cut deeper than any words could. Chan felt like he was failing her, failing in the promise he had made to you. Driven by the need to make amends, he gently woke his daughter. Her initial crankiness gave way to curiosity as he apologized for breaking his promise and proposed a sleepover at home. Movies, games, a fort, and endless cuddles — her eyes sparkled at the thought, and her frown dissolved into giggles.
At home, they transformed the living room into a magical fortress of pillows and blankets, a sanctuary just for them. They watched animated tales, played games, and reveled in the simple joy of being together. Wrapped in the cozy embrace of their fort, she eventually succumbed to sleep once more, nestled against him. Her hair, a tousled mess, and a small trail of drool on his shirt were endearing reminders of her tender age and boundless trust in him.
Chan held her close, his heart swelling with love and a bittersweet yearning. She was the living embodiment of his heart, and as he gazed at her, he whispered a vow into the stillness of the night. He promised to love her with all his might, carrying the weight of both his love and the part of you that would forever reside in their lives. In that quiet moment, amidst the echoes of his promises, he felt a fragile sense of peace, knowing that as long as he held her, he was keeping your memory alive.
이민호 ── LEE MINHO.
Minho lay in the dim, soft glow of his bedroom, shadows whispering across the walls as the twins slept peacefully beside him. Their tiny forms had claimed your side of the bed, filling the void where your presence once brought warmth and comfort. The night he returned home with the babies, he had attempted to sleep alone, but the emptiness was unbearable. He tossed and turned, haunted by the silence, until one of the babies began to cry, inevitably waking the other. In his desperation to soothe them, he gathered every pillow he could find, crafting a makeshift crib in his bed. Their delicate features softened in the calm of his presence, and they finally drifted off to sleep.
As Minho gazed at their angelic faces, hands entwined even in slumber, his heart ached with the weight of your absence. How could he begin to process this loss? You had spent almost ten months nurturing these little miracles, only to be taken away before you could revel in the beauty of their existence. Ten months of creating life, and you would never witness the serene way they held hands in their sleep. Ten months of dreams and hopes, and you would miss their first birthdays, graduations, weddings. It was unbearably cruel, and Minho’s soul was tormented by the thought.
You wouldn’t even be here to laugh about the pregnancy mix-up that had both of you convinced it would be a boy and a girl, only to welcome two beautiful baby girls into the world. His friends had offered to stay and help, but he had declined, needing the solitude to grapple with his grief. Now, in the stillness of the night, he questioned if he had made the right choice.
Tears welled up and spilled down his cheeks as the full weight of his new reality settled over him. He was to raise these precious little princesses on his own, and the responsibility felt crushing. Yet, as he watched their peaceful slumber, he knew he had to summon every ounce of strength for them. They were his world now, the living, breathing remnants of your love. He vowed to cherish them, to love them fiercely, and to guide them through life with unwavering dedication, for they were all he had left of you, and he was all they had.
In the hushed silence, he whispered promises into the night, pledging to be the best father he could be. He would ensure they knew how deeply you loved them, even if you couldn’t be there to tell them yourself. And as he held them close, feeling the rise and fall of their tiny chests, a fragile peace washed over him. He knew that in every laugh, every tear, and every milestone, you would be there in spirit, guiding him, loving them, always.
서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN.
The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow over the park as Changbin and his 13-year-old son sat on a weathered wooden bench, savoring their ice cream. The park buzzed with the laughter of children, their joy mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves in the summer breeze. Parents lounged on the grass, basking in the last light of day, while Changbin watched his son’s face light up with a blush as he received a message.
Changbin couldn’t resist teasing him. "Who’s got you smiling like that?" he asked, his voice laced with playful curiosity.
His son’s cheeks reddened further, and he looked away, trying to hide his smile. "Just a girl from school," he mumbled, glancing at his phone. "She texted to congratulate me on today’s soccer game."
Changbin’s interest was piqued. "A girl, huh? Do you like her?" he inquired gently, but his son just rolled his eyes, keeping his thoughts to himself.
After a while, his son broke the comfortable silence with a question that took Changbin by surprise. "Dad, how did you know Mom was the one for you?"
Changbin's heart swelled with a bittersweet mix of love and nostalgia. He took a deep breath, the memory washing over him like a tender wave. "Well," he began softly, "it was before you were born. Your mom and I had only been dating for a few months. One evening, we decided to take a ride on my motorcycle to grab some food. On the way back, she spotted a bookstore and got all excited. She tapped my shoulder and pointed it out, her eyes sparkling like a child's. I couldn't say no to that."
He smiled, lost in the memory. "We stopped, and I handed her my card, telling her to get whatever she wanted. She promised she’d come out empty-handed, but I knew better." He chuckled, remembering your sheepish yet triumphant expression as you emerged with a bag hidden behind your back. "She ended up buying two books and couldn’t stop talking about them, her excitement contagious. When I told her I was glad she found something, she did this little dance of joy before climbing back onto the bike. She had to hold the bag since her backpack was already stuffed with our food, but she was too happy to care."
Changbin’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. "That’s when I knew she was the one. It wasn’t some grand gesture; it was her pure joy in the little things, her passion for life. I wish you could have known her. She loved you so much, even before you were born."
His son’s eyes mirrored his own longing and admiration. "I wish I’d known her too," he said softly. "My goal in life is to find my soulmate, like you found Mom. I want to love someone as much as you loved her."
Changbin’s heart ached with pride and sorrow. "You deserve to have someone by your side for a long time," he said, his voice thick with emotion. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he added, "Who knows, maybe this girl from school is your one."
His son groaned, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he nudged Changbin, causing his ice cream to topple onto the ground. Changbin laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoed through the park. His own ice cream slipped from his grasp, joining his son’s on the pavement, and they both burst into laughter, the joy of the moment a soothing balm to their hearts.
In that golden hour, surrounded by the simple pleasures of ice cream and shared memories, Changbin felt a profound sense of peace. Despite the heartache and loss, he and his son would continue to find love and joy in the little things, just as you had taught him. And in those moments of laughter and connection, he felt your presence with them, a silent guardian watching over their journey, smiling at their shared happiness.
황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN.
Hyunjin sat alone in the dimly lit room, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden hue over the familiar surroundings. The air was thick with memories, each piece of furniture and every stroke of paint a testament to the love and labor he had shared with you. His heart ached with a bittersweet nostalgia as he looked around, his mind filled with the echoes of laughter and the whispers of cherished moments.
He remembered the countless hours spent building the furniture, the frustration and triumph mingling as he struggled with stubborn screws, while you sat nearby, reading the instructions with a patience that never failed to calm him. The nursery walls, painted in a tapestry of happy themes, bore the marks of your combined artistic talents, creating a sanctuary for the new life you both awaited with eager anticipation.
The night he returned home with the baby, your absence a gaping void beside him, was etched into his soul. He had sat in the rocking chair, the one he had bought especially for you, cradling the fragile bundle in his arms, paralyzed by the fear of being alone. Many nights, he had dozed off in that chair, too afraid to leave its comforting embrace, haunted by the silence that your departure had left behind.
A wistful smile tugged at his lips as he recalled the day he found your child drawing on the walls, their tiny hands busy creating a colorful mural over your delicate paintings. It had pained him to see your work altered, but the sight of their concentrated little face, so much like yours, had softened his heart. He had chosen to let them be creative, to express themselves freely, even if it meant sacrificing a piece of you.
He thought of the time his six-year-old had cried in his arms, their tiny body trembling with confusion and hurt because they didn't fit in with the boys or the girls. Hyunjin had held them close, whispering reassurances, his heart breaking at the familiar pain. It had been a long journey, but he had worked tirelessly to make their home a sanctuary of love and acceptance.
The memories came in a flood, each one a cherished gem: the summer in middle school when they returned home with bags of new clothes and put on a fashion show, proudly displaying their androgynous style; the pride parade, where he meticulously placed sticky rainbow gems on their face, their giddy excitement lighting up the day; and finally, the day they graduated and moved out, leaving behind an empty room filled with the ghosts of the past.
Tears rolled down Hyunjin’s face as he sat in the rocking chair, now old and creaky, thinking of all the moments he had cherished yet wished he could have shared with you. The weight of the memories pressed down on him, a heavy, inescapable burden.
Suddenly, his phone rang, startling him from his reverie. He hastily wiped his tears and saw it was a FaceTime call from his child. He answered, and their beaming face filled the screen, the excitement in their eyes mirrored by the twinkling fairy lights in their new apartment's bedroom.
“Hey, Dad! Look at my new room!” they exclaimed, panning the camera around to show off their new space, their voice bubbling with pride and joy.
Hyunjin’s heart swelled with pride and love. “It looks amazing, sweetheart,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“I miss you,” they confessed, their eyes shining with unshed tears. “Can we spend the first night together, through the phone?”
Hyunjin chuckled softly, trying to mask his lingering sadness. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of moving out?”
They laughed, a sound that was pure and unfiltered joy. “Maybe, but I know you’re in my old room crying already.”
He laughed too, the heaviness lifting just a bit. “You got me there.”
They didn’t hang up, staying connected through the screen as the night deepened. Hyunjin lay back in the rocking chair, his child propped up in their new bed, both finding solace in the familiar presence of each other. As they talked and laughed, Hyunjin realized that though you weren’t physically there, your spirit lived on in these moments, in the love that continued to bind them together. And for now, that was enough.
한지성 ── HAN JISUNG.
Jisung found his seven-year-old child hidden within the treehouse that the three of you had built together. This small wooden sanctuary, once filled with laughter and joy, now bore the heavy weight of sorrow. They were still in their funeral attire, the black clothes contrasting sharply against the soft glow of the setting sun. The murmurs of the guests lingering in the backyard became a distant, indistinct hum as Jisung climbed into the treehouse, his heart burdened with grief and a simmering anger at the universe for taking you away so cruelly.
His son's youthful face was etched with a grief that seemed too profound for such a young soul. Jisung felt a surge of helplessness as he reached out, pulling his child close, wrapping him in an embrace meant to shield him from the cruel world outside. “I miss Mom,” came the soft, heart-wrenching whisper, each word a dagger to Jisung’s already shattered heart.
“I miss Mom too,” Jisung murmured, his voice thick with unshed tears. They sat together in silence, the weight of your absence pressing down on them like an insurmountable force.
It had been nearly a year since you had fallen ill, the sickness so severe that the doctors had given you only a few months at most. Yet, you had defied their grim prognosis, your spirit burning brightly despite the frailty of your body. Jisung remembered the countless nights spent by your side, swallowing his fears and anger as you spoke of your impending death with a calm acceptance that had always made him furious. To him, it felt as though you had given up, but he knew deep down that wasn’t the case. You hadn’t wanted to waste what little time you had left fighting an unwinnable battle. Perhaps if he had truly listened, if he had embraced those fleeting moments instead of railing against them, he might have cherished your final days more deeply.
His son, too young to fully grasp the concept of death, struggled with the finality of it all. He understood that you would never return, yet accepting it was a different matter entirely. Jisung’s heart broke anew each time he saw the confusion and sorrow in his child’s eyes, a mirror of his own torment.
Holding his son tighter, Jisung wished he could find the right words to ease the pain, to make sense of a world that had suddenly lost its light. But words failed him, crumbled under the weight of their shared grief. Instead, he let the silence speak, hoping the strength of his embrace could convey the love and comfort his words could not.
The treehouse, once a symbol of their shared joy, now held their sorrow. The walls, which had echoed with laughter and dreams, now seemed to absorb their pain, standing as silent witnesses to their loss. But within this small, sacred space, surrounded by the memories of happier times, Jisung hoped they could begin to heal. He would be there for his son, a steadfast presence in the storm of their grief, guiding him through the darkness with a love that, while tested, remained unbroken.
As the last light of day faded, Jisung held his son close, both finding a semblance of solace in each other’s presence. In the quiet, grief-stricken aftermath, they began to forge a new bond, one tempered by loss but strengthened by their enduring love. And in that silent communion, Jisung found a glimmer of hope that they would eventually find their way through the darkness together.
이용복 ── LEE YONGBOK.
In a home where the relentless energy of three young girls and their single father painted every day with hues of joyous chaos, peace was a fleeting visitor. The air thrummed with the symphony of exuberant laughter, the vibrant discord of simultaneous chatter, and the relentless rhythm of youthful exuberance. Yongbok would never trade this tempestuous world for anything, yet a hollow ache lingered for the presence of the one who had been the steady heartbeat of their lives.
Your sudden departure had cast a profound shadow over their once lively abode, transforming it into a quieter realm where your laughter’s echoes were replaced by an oppressive silence. As time wove its delicate fabric over the jagged edges of grief, the house gradually adjusted to a new cadence, yet the weight of your absence hung heavy in every corner.
Despite this, Yongbok discovered fragments of you embedded within the fabric of their daily lives. He saw your essence in the selfless nurturing of his eldest daughter, who had seamlessly stepped into the role of co-caregiver. Her quiet acts of love and responsibility were a poignant echo of the devotion you had always shown, a continuation of your spirit in her every gesture.
In the middle child’s vibrant monologues about obscure topics, Yongbok glimpsed your enduring influence. Her unquenchable thirst for knowledge mirrored the intellectual curiosity you had nurtured, each passionate explanation a living testament to your legacy.
The youngest, with her mischievous gleam and boundless spirit, kept Yongbok perpetually on his toes. Her playful antics and joyful mischief were a vivid reminder of the vivacity you had infused into their home, a living echo of the light you had brought into their lives.
In the quiet moments, Yongbok could still feel your presence. The post-it notes left in his lunch bag by his eldest daughter, each inscribed with a simple message of love, were imbued with your warmth. The tender strokes of his middle daughter’s fingers through his hair during their movie nights were a silent connection to you. And in the gentle inquiries of his youngest, her head peeking around the door to ensure he was alright, he felt the deep compassion you had instilled in her.
Though you were absent from the milestones and daily rhythms, your essence lived on through them. In the small, tender acts of affection and love, you continued to be a cherished part of their lives, an enduring presence in their hearts.
김승민 ── KIM SEUNGMIN.
Seungmin had been absent through the vast expanse of your pregnancy, the relentless demands of touring keeping him away. He returned just in time to witness the birth, only to be swallowed by the crushing weight of your absence. The pain of missing those precious moments with you, of not being there to share in the miracle of your last days, was a wound that never healed. This haunting regret followed him, a constant reminder of a future lost.
The day you passed, Seungmin left Stray Kids, unable to bear the weight of the stage without you by his side. He couldn’t find solace in the bright lights or the rhythms of his music. Instead, he focused on his two sons—an older one, now sixteen, and a younger one, now twelve. The older boy, once a vibrant spirit, had retreated into the shadows of his room, his once lively demeanor replaced by a sullen silence. The baseball games that had once bound them together now lay abandoned, and Seungmin, despite the storm within, knew he had to reach out.
Determined to bridge the chasm that had grown between them, Seungmin planned a day just for the two of them. He left the youngest with his closest friend, Jeongin, and took his older son out. The car ride was a quiet procession of unspoken thoughts, the weight of their shared grief hanging heavily between them. When they finally arrived at their destination, Seungmin braced himself, ready to face the tender fracture of their relationship.
It took patience, but eventually, the silence broke. The older boy revealed his feelings for a boy at school, emotions that he struggled to understand. Seungmin was taken aback, but he remained calm, his heart aching with a blend of surprise and concern. As his son’s tears fell freely, Seungmin pulled him into a tender embrace, his own heart aching with a mixture of empathy and love. He whispered reassurances into his son’s hair, promising acceptance and protection, vowing to stand by him no matter what.
The boy, still tearful but comforted, then showed Seungmin a small journal. Inside was a song he had penned, a poignant melody woven with the threads of his conflicted feelings for the boy at school. The song was hauntingly beautiful, a reflection of his son’s delicate soul and burgeoning talent. Seungmin’s heart swelled with pride and love as he listened, recognizing the echoes of his own musical spirit in his child’s creation.
As the day drew to a close, Seungmin received a snapshot from Jeongin—his youngest child, covered in dirt and beaming with the joy of a day spent playing baseball. The image was a burst of pure happiness, a vivid reminder that even amidst the sorrow, moments of light and joy persisted.
As the sun set, Seungmin felt a renewed connection with his older son, a fragile yet precious bond rekindled through their shared experiences and heartfelt conversation. Though the regret of not being there for you lingered, he found solace in the fact that he was striving to be the father you would have been proud of. In the quiet moments of the evening, he hoped, with all his heart, that wherever you were, you watched over them and felt a deep pride in the man he was becoming—a father striving to honor your memory through the love and strength he gave to your family.
양정인 ── JANG JEONGIN.
Jeongin’s youngest daughter was a restless spirit, her stubborn yet carefree nature a constant reminder of the love she once shared with you. Each burst of laughter, every defiant flicker of joy, was a living echo of your vibrant presence. In contrast, his oldest son was a mirror of Jeongin’s own meticulous nature, his life meticulously ordered, each ambition carefully planned.
Lately, Jeongin’s heart had been heavy with worry. His daughter, brimming with reckless exuberance, frequently dashed off to meet a boy Jeongin knew was unworthy. The thought of her entangled with someone without a future gnawed at him, leaving him adrift in a sea of concern. As he lay awake at night, the silence seemed to taunt him, and he often found himself wondering how you would have navigated these troubled waters if you had still been there to guide them.
One night, as the moonlight spilled softly through the window, Jeongin was wrenched from sleep by the unmistakable sound of muffled sobs. His heart raced as he followed the cries to his daughter’s room. He paused at the door, the murmur of his son’s voice cutting through the silence. The room, once a sanctuary of dreams, was now a cocoon of whispered regrets and stifled tears. His daughter’s voice wavered with the weight of her shame, confessing her feelings of foolishness for having trusted the boy. His son, with a soothing calmness that mirrored your gentle strength, reassured her that she wasn’t foolish, merely swept up in the exhilarating tide of young love. He told her she deserved better than a boy with no future, his words a soft balm to her wounded spirit.
Jeongin’s heart ached with a mixture of pride and sorrow as he heard his son’s comforting tones, the echoes of your nurturing spirit resonating in his voice. After a few moments, he gathered the courage to step into the room. His eyes were tender with understanding as he took in the scene: his daughter’s tear-streaked face, her hands buried in her lap. Her cries grew louder as she saw him, her embarrassment palpable as she shielded her face with her hands.
Jeongin knelt before her, his expression a blend of love and compassion. Gently, he reached for her hands, drawing them away from her face to hold them in his own. His touch was a lifeline, a silent promise of unwavering support.
“You told me so, I know,” she choked out, her voice a trembling whisper.
“I would never say that, my love,” Jeongin murmured, his voice rich with tenderness. He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her close against his chest. His gaze met his son’s, a shared understanding passing between them.
“I know it hurts,” Jeongin whispered into her hair, his voice a soothing melody against her ear, “but this isn’t the end.” His embrace was a warm cocoon, a sanctuary of love amidst the storm of her emotions. The night unfolded in a delicate tapestry of comfort and hope, a testament to the enduring love that bound them together, even in the quiet absence of your guiding presence.
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Post taglist: @bowsnbang @nothinginterestingtoshowhere
🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!
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엑스디너리 히어로즈──OT6. ( xdinary heroes )
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김정수──KIM JUNGSU. ( jungsu )
nothing yet, come back later!
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이주연──LEE JOOYEON. ( jooyeon )
nothing yet, come back later!
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ain’t no fucking way i start dying of a cold the night before my 21st birthday what the hell
⨳ ❛𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
❛ In which two disabled idols find comfort in each other’s arms.
𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ) 3.1k
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Han deals with a lot of anxiety and depression, reader has fibromyalgia, constant mentions of being in pain, love-making, cussing, lots of angst, MDNI.
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )
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⌗ O3┆ 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞?
The following morning unfolded with an insistent chime of the doorbell that reverberated through the house, slicing through the tranquility of your sleep. Jolted awake, you wrestled with the disorienting shift from dreams to reality. Fragments of the previous day returned to you—the memory of your mother’s promise to fetch groceries and the knowledge that your father would be off to his shop in the morning. Reluctantly, you peeled yourself from the bed, draping a red, silky robe over your shoulders. The robe, soft and flowing, brushed against your ankles, offering a fleeting semblance of grace to your disheveled appearance. With a cursory glance at your reflection in the mirror, you did your best to present yourself with a semblance of poise before making your way down the old, creaking stairs.
Sleep had been elusive, marked by a restless night of shifting and turning as you sought comfort, each movement accompanied by sharp reminders of your physical discomfort. Now, each step down the stairs seemed to echo with the protest of your aching knees, their cries a testament to the night’s toll.
Peering through the peephole of the front door, you were met with an unexpected sight—Han Jisung, standing on your doorstep, his figure framed by the soft morning light. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if this was yet another of your mother’s elaborate schemes to meddle in your personal life. With a tentative hand, you unlatched the door.
Jisung’s face, flushed with a mix of embarrassment and nervousness, stood out against the serene morning backdrop. “I’m so sorry to intrude,” he stammered, his voice stumbling over his words in a cascade of apologies. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I—I just…”
“It’s alright,” you interjected gently, your voice carrying a trace of lingering sleep. “What brings you here?”
Jisung took a deep breath, visibly struggling to regain his composure. “I got your address from my mother. You left your cane at the café, and I wanted to return it.”
Your heart skipped a beat, a blend of mortification and unease swirling within you. The thought of Jisung possessing this personal detail about you was unsettling. Driven by a sudden impulse to manage the situation and avoid any potential awkwardness, you offered a hesitant invitation. “Would you like to come in for a moment?” you asked, your voice blending politeness with a hint of curiosity.
Jisung’s shoulders seemed to relax slightly as he stepped inside, though his nervousness was palpable. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, his movements reminiscent of a kitten exploring an unfamiliar room. “Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes darting around the space with evident unease.
As you guided him to the living room, you couldn’t help but notice his discomfort. “You seem a bit on edge,” you remarked with a gentle smile. “Is everything alright?”
Jisung forced a sheepish grin, his cheeks flushed with a delicate pink. “I didn’t anticipate that this morning visit would be so… nerve-wracking. I hope I didn’t disrupt anything important.”
“No, not at all,” you reassured him, striving to ease the tension. “I was just trying to catch up on some rest. You’re actually a welcome distraction.”
The two of you settled into the living room, Jisung clutching the cane with a mixture of relief and awkwardness. “I’m glad I could return this,” he said, his voice still tinged with nervousness. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be alright with me dropping by like this.”
Your gaze softened as you observed his discomfort, recognizing his sincere effort to make amends. “It’s very kind of you to come all this way,” you said warmly. “And don’t worry, I genuinely appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
In the quiet cocoon of the room, the earlier tension began to dissolve like mist in the morning sun. The weight of Jisung’s knowledge about your condition still fluttered anxiously in your chest, but the simple kindness he had extended offered a comforting balm. The unease that had colored the morning started to shift, giving way to a tentative warmth born from shared understanding.
“Would you like some tea?” you asked softly, your voice a gentle ripple in the stillness. You hoped the invitation would offer a welcome distraction, a brief escape from the lingering tension. “My mother’s garden is home to a rich variety of herbs,” you continued, your tone warm and inviting. “While I usually lean toward peppermint for its refreshing kick, today I’d recommend lavender. It’s incredibly soothing.” You met his gaze with a tender empathy, acknowledging the anxiety that seemed to cling to him without forcing the issue.
Jisung’s relief was almost palpable, his posture visibly relaxing as he gave a grateful nod. He watched as you moved with a graceful purpose into the kitchen, each step seeming fluid and deliberate.
The kitchen, bathed in the soft glow of morning light, embraced a serene quiet. Jisung’s eyes followed your every motion with a quiet reverence, taking in the delicate care you employed with each action. Despite your practiced ease, the teapot felt unusually heavy today, a subtle reminder of the burdens you carried.
Once the tea was steeped and ready, you both retreated to the dining room in contemplative silence. The soft breathing coming from the two of you were the only sounds until you broke the quiet with a hesitant question.
“So, um, you found my cane?” you asked, trying to sound casual while a trace of nervousness lingered in the air.
“Oh! Yes,” Jisung responded quickly, his voice laced with relief. “Don’t worry. I told my mother you’d left a hat. I won’t say a word about it.”
Your eyes widened in genuine surprise, a wave of gratitude washing over you. “Oh, that’s incredibly thoughtful of you. I really appreciate it.”
“Of course,” Jisung replied, his voice sincere yet tinged with lingering nervousness.
An awkward silence fell over you both, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. You cleared your throat, the words spilling out before you could fully gather your composure. “I, um, have this condition—”
Jisung’s gaze met yours with a depth of understanding, his voice gentle and reassuring. “You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to. I don’t want you to feel pressured. But if you do want to share, I’m here to listen.”
His sincerity cut through the tension, lifting a weight from your shoulders. The room, once heavy with discomfort, began to fill with a budding sense of connection. As you both patiently awaited your warm drinks, the silence transformed from awkwardness into a shared, comforting presence, bridging the gap between two souls navigating their way toward understanding.
The quiet between you was dense and contemplative. You hesitated, grappling with whether to reveal more of your story. Turning to face him, your eyes swept the room, which seemed to echo your solitude. The kettle’s gentle simmer served as a backdrop to the turmoil inside you.
“I have fibromyalgia,” you began slowly, your voice tinged with a quiet sadness. “It’s a rare condition, and many doctors are skeptical about its validity.”
Jisung’s eyes widened, curiosity and concern mingling in his gaze. “What is fibro… um…”
“Fibromyalgia,” you corrected softly, a faint chuckle escaping your lips. “It’s a chronic condition that causes widespread pain, fatigue, and tenderness in the muscles, ligaments, and tendons. It’s like a constant ache that shifts and varies.”
Jisung’s gaze was fixed on you, his round eyes absorbing each word with a mix of concern and fascination. “Is that why you use a cane?”
“Yes,” you confirmed with a nod. “I use it when the pain becomes too intense to manage. Since the pain levels fluctuate, I don’t always need it, but on those tough days, it helps me get by.”
A flicker of recognition crossed Jisung’s face. “I remember seeing you in one of your early music videos with a cane. I thought it was part of the styling.”
Your heart warmed at his recollection. “Yes, that’s right. The pain was quite severe that day, so I requested a cane for practical reasons. It ended up adding a touch of flair to the performance, though.”
Jisung’s expression grew thoughtful. “Why didn’t you ask to postpone the filming then?”
You sighed softly, a hint of frustration in your voice. “If I postponed every time I was in pain, I’d have been fired a long time ago. I’ve had to find a way to work through it, making subtle adjustments to manage the discomfort while still meeting my obligations.”
The kettle’s whistle interrupted the moment, and you moved to pour the steaming water into two mugs, infusing them with fragrant herbs. You then arrange a tray with the mugs and a box of cookies before gesturing to Jisung. “Would you be a dear and carry this? We’re going to my mother’s garden.”
Jisung sprang up with an eagerness that made you smile, carrying the tray outside as you led the way. You settled onto the swinging bench, your posture relaxed, and motioned for him to place the tray on a small table positioned in front of you both. He complied and took a seat beside you.
The garden, bathed in the gentle light of day, looked like a dreamscape. Wildflowers swayed gracefully with the breeze, their vibrant colors dancing under the sun’s tender caress. The sunlight bestowed its golden warmth, creating a serene glow that kissed Jisung’s tanned skin, enhancing his natural radiance. As he sipped his tea, a contented sigh escaped him, his entire being seeming to relax with the soothing warmth of the beverage. His curly hair was styled with effortless charm, a few strands framing his face, and his wire glasses added a touch of sophistication. Your gaze lingered on him, admiring the simple beauty of the moment, before you quickly turned away, your heart fluttering with a contented sigh.
The silence between you was soothing, a balm to your often tumultuous thoughts. Even in his moments of struggle, Jisung’s presence provided a tranquil comfort. His voice, when it emerged, was a soft murmur that didn’t disrupt the peace you shared.
“Your mother’s garden is one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen,” he said, his words blending seamlessly into the calm.
A genuine smile, rare and bright, curved your lips. “Thank you,” you replied warmly. “She always dreamed of having a garden where she could truly breathe. I’m glad she finally made it a reality.”
Jisung’s gaze softened, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he smiled at you with such sincerity that it made your heart skip a beat. “I’m happy she did too,” he said quietly.
The simplicity of his words, coupled with the tranquility of the garden, created a moment of pure connection. For a fleeting instant, the weight of your loneliness seemed to lift, replaced by the gentle warmth of shared understanding and companionship.
“What helps you breathe, Jisung?” The question emerged from your lips with a startling clarity, and you winced inwardly at your own audacity. Jisung’s reaction was immediate—his grip on the mug faltered, and a soft, surprised chuckle escaped him, his ears flushing a delicate shade of pink.
“The way this garden helps your mother breathe, you mean?” he ventured, his voice carrying a note of gentle curiosity.
“Yes,” you responded, your tone warm and inviting. “If you’re comfortable sharing.”
Jisung’s gaze drifted back to the garden, his expression thoughtful. “Would it be cliché if I said it’s writing?”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Not at all, but I’d love to hear more.”
He considered his words carefully, his eyes tracing the dance of sunlight on the garden's blossoms. “When I write my songs, it’s like every fleeting thought in my mind is an inhale. When I finally commit those thoughts to paper and understand them, it’s an exhale. So I breathe to write and write to breathe.”
His words wove through you like a soft, comforting breeze, filling your being with a profound sense of being understood. A gentle warmth crept across your cheeks, and you found yourself captivated by the profile of his face. You were torn between relief that he couldn’t see the impact of his words and a desire to fully decipher his expression.
“So you understand,” you murmured, your voice blending with the garden’s serene ambiance.
Jisung turned slowly toward you, his eyes wide with a blend of curiosity and empathy. “How so?”
“Many people underestimate the power of words,” you began, your voice heavy with emotion. “They torment minds like ours until they’re released into the world, our innermost thoughts inked onto paper. Words can be both a curse and a salvation, filled with wonder and horror alike, and they help me breathe as well.”
“Exactly,” Jisung agreed, his voice rich with understanding. “That’s precisely how it feels.”
A bittersweet smile touched your lips as you returned your gaze to the garden, where the flowers swayed gently in the breeze. The tranquility of the scene seemed to mirror the quiet connection forming between you.
“My mother never truly appreciated the written word,” you confessed, your tone tinged with melancholy. “She finds solace in visual beauty and scents—like this garden. She never understood why I’d retreat into my room for hours, enveloped in a world of words.”
You paused, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. “My father, on the other hand, loved music and, by extension, words. Though he never wrote or read, I grew up waking to his morning serenades, each one a unique tribute to my mother while she prepared his lunch before he went to work. He never sang the same song twice, at least not that I can remember. Yet, he always expressed his love for her with the most beautiful, spontaneous words that even I could never have imagined.”
“That’s what helps them breathe,” Jisung said softly, his gaze filled with a tender admiration that seemed to caress your skin. His understanding made you acutely aware of how deeply you had opened up. “Your parents’ love sounds truly beautiful.”
You nodded, a genuine smile gracing your lips. The love your parents shared was indeed a rare and precious thing—a once-in-a-lifetime bond that you could only dream of experiencing for yourself. Despite any imperfections in your relationship with them, it remained an enduring truth.
As you prepared to respond further, the sudden, sharp creak of the front door echoed through the stillness, shattering the fragile peace. Jisung jumped to his feet, the serene atmosphere you had cultivated now disrupted. You remained seated, a pang of disappointment settling within you as the moment you had cherished began to slip away.
“Y/N, do you not answer your phone? I’ve called you several times to help me bring in the groceries!” Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet as she struggled with several bags, their handles digging into her forearms before she dropped them with a huff by the kitchen entrance. You sighed, rising slowly from your seat and making your way into the house, Jisung trailing behind you nervously, the tray in his hands trembling slightly.
The moment your mother caught sight of him, her eyes widened in surprise, and her mouth fell open in a comical gasp. You remained stoically at the threshold, stepping aside to allow her a clearer view of Jisung. He bowed deeply, his cheeks flushed a vibrant shade of red.
“Hello, Mrs. L/N,” he began, his voice tinged with a polite nervousness. “I apologize for showing up unannounced.”
The transformation in your mother’s expression was instantaneous. Her face broke into a beaming smile, and you could feel the familiar sense of dread settle over you. You could already anticipate the endless barrage of questions and well-meaning commentary that was sure to follow once Jisung left.
“Nonsense,” she said, waving her hand dismissively as though to brush away any formalities. “You must be Jisung? Munhee’s son?”
Jisung nodded, his bow still in place. “Yes, that is my mother.”
“Oh!” Your mother’s delight was palpable. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you in person. Munhee has told me so much about you, and she wasn’t exaggerating when she said you’ve become quite the handsome young man.”
Jisung’s blush deepened to an almost comical shade of crimson, and you had to suppress a smile. Stepping forward, you interrupted before the conversation could become even more uncomfortable.
“He just came to return my cane, which I left at the coffee shop yesterday. He was about to leave now.”
Your mother’s disappointment was evident as she took in the news. “Oh, but you must stay a little longer! I’ll prepare lunch for both of you.”
“No, Mom,” you insisted gently, though with firmness. “He’s got a busy day ahead, but perhaps another time.”
You began to make your way towards the front door, reaching for chairs and walls for support. Sitting on the swing for so long had left you a bit unsteady.
“I-I can help bring in the groceries before I leave, if there’s any left,” Jisung offered unexpectedly, his face still flushed but his eyes earnest.
Your mother hesitated, starting to protest that you would be helping her with that task. Jisung, however, persisted, insisting it was the least he could do since his visit had caused you to miss her calls. Her resistance melted away, and she relented with a grateful nod.
You watched, standing by the kitchen, as Jisung moved in and out of the house with bags full of groceries. His willingness to assist touched you deeply, and you felt a genuine warmth in your chest when he finally announced that he was done.
As you reached out for the front door once more, your hand brushed against Jisung’s elbow. He looked at you with a sheepish smile, his eyes conveying a silent encouragement. You realized he was making a deliberate effort to ease your burden, both by helping your mother and by offering his support now. The gesture made your heart swell, and a soft blush crept over your cheeks once again.
The two of you walked together in a comfortable silence, each step measured and unhurried. When you reached the front door, you withdrew your hand and turned to him with a grateful smile.
“Thank you for bringing my cane and for all your help today,” you said, your voice sincere.
“It was no trouble at all,” Jisung replied with a gentle smile. He clumsily turned to leave, his nerves palpable yet endearing.
As he stepped away, your mother’s voice called out from the kitchen, breaking the moment. “So, how do you like him?”
You looked back at Jisung, who was now at the edge of the driveway, his back turned as he walked away. You felt a flutter of something warm and hopeful in your chest as you deliberately refused to respond to your mother’s question.
posted: 07 • 30 • 2024
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Series taglist: @jisunglyricist @mitchii @skzstan12345 (Comment down below to be added!)
🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!
hi green !! i’ve been a quiet enjoyer of your works and i finally grew the courage to make a request i hope that’s okay !!
what would puppy love with lee know look like ? if it’s with a male reader, that would be great ! thank you !
PUPPY LOVE— lee minho
스트레이 키즈 ( 리노 ) x male reader genre. fluff warnings. it's gay, the gays get in trouble at school therefore minho gets in trouble at home, gay, more gay, they're in high school and in love and it's them against the world, also it’s mostly written from minho’s pov rating. everyone word count. 1.0k summary. in which high school lee minho is so madly in love with you that he's willing to follow you anywhere, anytime.
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Puppy-Love-Minho who would wake up before the sun was even up so he could be the first to see you when you arrived at school, falling asleep on his desk while he waited. He would always look away sheepishly when he would wake up to find you watching him with twinkling eyes, laughing lightly.
Puppy-Love-Minho who would follow you into the faculty break room with his heart beating in his throat while you rummaged around to see if you could find anything of interest. He would’ve never done something that could earn him a scolding, though because you suggested it, he agreed to be the lookout while simultaneously swooning at the goofy smirk you wore while you found love notes from teachers by the coffee machine.
Puppy-Love-Minho who, in the terrifying realization that the well-known strict math teacher was making her way into the faculty break room, grabbed you by the wrist without a word before bolting out of the room while you stumbled and tripped behind him. The shouting from your teacher being drowned out by the crazed giggles coming out of both of your mouths as you continued to run as fast as you possibly could while trying not to fixate too much on the fact that he was still holding your wrist.
Puppy-Love-Minho who would pull you into one of the stalls of the boys’ bathroom to finally rest from running, having you stand on the toilet together though still huddled — your legs becoming a tangled mess as you both panted and laughed breathlessly, trying to calm the loud drums of your hearts. It was a matter of seconds before you both really noticed how close together your faces were, your lips a hair’s width away from touching his.
Puppy-Love-Minho who would turn away shyly, hoping to whatever gods existed that you couldn’t hear the way his heart beat erratically at such a scene. His ears burned red as the blood crept up and pooled into his cheeks all the while his hands trembled.
Puppy-Love-Minho who almost passed out when the principal of your school suddenly opens the bathroom stall in which you’d both hidden in, his face contorted in anger as he pointed his finger towards the exit. Although Minho could only imagine the amount of trouble he’ll find himself in at home, he couldn’t help but be guilt-free at the sight of your amused grin that made you look as though you thought this whole ordeal was funny.
Puppy-Love-Minho who received the scolding of his life the second he stepped foot inside of his home, very much as he’d predicted, and got sent to his room without the privilege of leaving unless it was to use the bathroom. Even still, he replayed the morning’s events in his head with a lovesick smile on his face.
Puppy-Love-Minho who almost yells out when he hears a rock hit his bedroom window, finding you standing down in his backyard with a stupid grin on your face when he finally grows the courage to peer outside. His heart doing somersaults in his chest at the sight, at the thought of his parents finding you standing there as well — at the thrill of it all.
Puppy-Love-Minho who can almost envision his own funeral as he manages to sneak past his parents’ bedroom to meet you outside, body tensed as he prays once again that nothing goes wrong. He can only breathe once you both make it outside the property, walking down the neighborhood — only then did he finally ask you what the hell you thought you were doing.
Puppy-Love-Minho who huffs as you laugh at his anxiety, shoving you lightly though he had to look away to hide the smile that threatened to slip up. He listens intently as you apologize sincerely for getting him in trouble, and feels as though he might pass out as you pull out a kitty keychain out of your pocket and offer it to him.
Puppy-Love-Minho who forgets to breathe when you step forward as you hand him his gift, keeping your eyes on his as you do so. Although he panicked at the thought of anyone in his neighborhood seeing him kiss another boy, he couldn’t pull away for the small hope that you would press your lips against his.
Puppy-Love-Minho whose breath absolutely leaves him when he notices you slowly leaning in, your eyes on his trembling lips.
Puppy-Love-Minho who sees your short hesitation as you look up into his eyes, trying to read him, and closes the small gap between your lips in a small burst of adrenaline.
Puppy-Love-Minho who could almost hear imaginary fireworks exploding in the background as his blood pumped through his veins at record speed. His hands find your waist so that he could pull himself closer to you in order to deepen the kiss, feeling himself becoming bolder by the second.
Puppy-Love-Minho who feels your teeth against his lips as you laugh softly, somehow triggering shame to creep up as the weight of both of your actions finally settles.
Puppy-Love-Minho who immediately softens when you grab ahold of both of his hands and tell him that it was okay, that you didn’t mean to laugh — you just couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that he felt the same way about you. He laughs at you, and tells you he’s the one who should be thanking his lucky stars for reciprocating his feelings.
Puppy-Love-Minho who doesn’t want to let you go when you try to say goodbye; though he eventually does with a sigh when you promise you’d see him tomorrow at school.
Puppy-Love-Minho who doesn’t move from his spot until you were completely out of sight, waving at you every single time you turned to see if he’d gone back inside. Even after you were long gone he remained there, barely able to process the amount of thrill the last twenty four hours had brought to him.
Puppy-Love-Minho who almost throws up when he realizes he needs to sneak back inside without his parents noticing, and he prays to his lucky stars that he can avoid getting caught.
posted: 06 • 29 • 2024
💬 a note from green;
Thank you so much for this request! It was so much fun to write honestly but that might be because i accidentally got stoned out of my mind, and I really hope you enjoy this! Also, thank you for enjoying my other works, it really makes my day when I hear people tell me that. Hope to hear from you again!
( 🏷️ ) permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx
🥹🥹 thank you so much! it makes me so happy to know you like it ilysm 🩷
⨳ ❛𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓
스트레이 키즈 ( 한 ) + idol female reader ⇅ genre angst hurt + comfort semi-slowburn chapter warning mentions of reader being in pain slight mommy issues reader being stressed with work and having some imposter's syndrome symptoms rating 18+ word count 1.5k summary in which two disabled idols find comfort in each other’s arms status on going q&a open
# other works by green # kofi # free palestine # palestine stayblr fundraiser # series masterlist
⌗ O1┆shrined
ten months earlier
It’s a shrine. Photographs and posters of your own face decorate the walls of your former bedroom, framed and hung neatly into rows according to the dates released. The wobbly old bookshelves that used to hold your most cherished books had been replaced by plain white ones that now hold nothing more than your albums and merchandise. The desk you’d spent hours upon hours sitting at while studying or writing songs until your body physically could not hold you up any longer is gone, and in place there are a few life-sized cardboards that you’re certain were not bought, but taken. The only familiarity in this shrine is your bed, dressed in the same crimson color you’d always adored. There sat you, a shell of someone whose face was never on the walls in such a way, along with your suitcase that lay untouched since you’ve arrived.
A plethora of conflicting emotions overwhelmed your entire being as memories upon memories you often avoided flooded your already busy mind, causing a migraine to creep in through your temples. Although you’d already taken some medicine for it, you doubt it would be something that might be relieved without a proper night’s sleep. However, as your mother poked her head through the half-closed door of your old bedroom, you knew that might not be the case. Regardless, you pulled the corners of your lips into a smile you hoped would be convincing enough for her as she made her way inside to take a seat beside you.
She looked around at the redecorating she did, blushing slightly. “I couldn’t help it, I wanted to support you in your success.”
You didn’t say anything, instead opting to take another look around at all of the eerie posters you’d barely remember posing for. The dark tones of horror present in every single thing that contained your stage name, Noctara, that created an odd feeling of looking at someone else instead of your own face.
“I wanted to have it all in the living room, so that our friends could see how hard you’re working, but your father thought it might scare some of them away,” she laughed softly at this, rolling her eyes as though she thought it was the most ridiculous thing, and although you’d side with your father, you smiled at her anyway. It was odd to watch her find something to say, considering the last time you’d seen her in person had been so hurtful. It could only mean that she wished to forget about it — or maybe she already did.
It wasn’t surprising in the least that she would choose to display your success now that you couldn’t walk the streets without covering up half of your face so you wouldn’t be recognized. Although you’d always had an affinity for performing, there were too many times in which you considered quitting with your mother’s obsession with having a talented child. Too many times had you been pushed right up to the edge, struggling to grab onto something to hold and keep you from falling. The irony of you being a successful idol does not escape you, though, as deadlines and busy schedules creep up behind you every time you attempt to catch a breath; only this time, you couldn’t run behind your doting father to save you from the heavy weight of the expectations of others — not when your career found itself at its peak.
Because of your career, you were able to have your father retire from his construction job and help him pursue his lifelong dream of owning a record store right around the corner of your street. If you quit and hide now, your family that now depends on your income would be left with nothing despite your father’s store blooming thanks to this generation buying vinyls again, and it wouldn’t be fair no matter how you felt about them at the end of the day.
“Have you seen my garden?” Your mother asked after what felt like an eternity of silence. You shake your head, surprised to hear she’d finally done what she had always said she would: to tend the gardens that had spent so many years of your childhood neglected. “Come with me.”
She motioned with her hand for you to follow her, quickly standing up and rushing out of your room as though she’d have preferred being anywhere else. With a soft groan, you stand on your feet as you ignore the ache on your lower back and knees.
The glass sliding doors that led to your backyard was wide open when you finally stepped into the common areas of your house. Your mother stood on the porch, smiling widely as you finally scanned her hard work. It was clear that she did not plan a single thing, with wildflowers of all kinds scattered around and standing almost as tall as yourself. Though she did make a stone path that would meet in the very center where a gorgeous fountain was found. Although the chaos was present wherever your eyes landed, you couldn’t help but be completely mesmerized by its unconventional yet natural beauty.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathed. She motioned for the porch swing right beside the sliding doors, and you gladly took a seat as she joined you. “I’m glad you finally got the garden you wanted.”
With a gentle smile, she said, “It could not have been without you.”
You tried to ignore the swelling in your chest, though the smile that formed against your wishes betrayed you and your mother smiled a little wider though thankfully did not say anything for another long while.
“Do you have anyone?”
The sudden question caused you to scoff, rolling your eyes before you could stop yourself. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she forced out through gritted teeth at your attitude, so you purse your lips as a silent apology. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Mom,” you sighed. “You know that I am not allowed to be dating as an idol.”
“Yes, that might be true,” she continued to insist. “But I am always reading about idols who date anyway.”
“And why are you able to read about it, Mom? Because they were either caught or because their companies allowed them to come out as taken.”
“Yes, yes,” she swatted her hands in the air as if physically dismissing your words. “Rules are only a suggestion, they can’t ultimately control you like that.”
At the words coming out of her mouth, you can’t help but chuckle breathlessly and glance up at the stars above as if they’d send some strength your way. The incongruity of her words almost made you want to laugh out loud.
“You don’t understand, I could get fired if I am caught dating, and it has happened before.”
“At least listen to what I have to say,” she huffed stubbornly, and you sighed in defeat. “The reason why I bring this up is because I met with an old friend of mine from my youth—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Hold on—”
“No, Mom, I am not meeting any sons of your friends.”
“Please!”
At her shout, you stopped yourself from responding any further, jaw clenched together in annoyance. In order to keep your composure, you turned your gaze towards the serene garden.
“I met with a friend from my youth, and she has a son who is also an idol. I didn’t promise her anything, but I told her I would talk to you about it and if you agreed then you’d meet with the boy at the coffee shop two blocks away from here this Friday. Even if you’re concerned with your company firing you, which I doubt given your success, you can always just say you were meeting a friend instead of being on a date. There is really no harm in meeting one boy for your mother’s sake.”
“My answer is still no, I don’t want to—”
“Oh, Y/N, please! I don’t ask you for much—”
“No, Mom, you ask me for everything! It doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate all that you have done for me because I do, but my answer will still be a solid no.”
“So you would rather embarrass me?”
With an exasperated sigh, you look up at the stars once more, begging them to save you at this point.
“You know what, fine,” you grit out, not bothering to hide your clear frustration. “But I will meet him only once and you will never bother me with this nonsense again.”
The beam that took over her expression would have been comical if you weren’t so exasperated with her. She hops to her feet in excitement, kissing your cheeks before rushing back inside to presumably tell your father about this. In the distance, you could hear her reminding you that the meeting would be this Friday at noon.
Another sigh makes it past your lips, rubbing your temples before leaning back in your seat.
The garden truly was beautiful, and the starry night sky was even more stunning.
posted: 06 • 14 • 2024
💬 a note from green;
i broke up with my girlfriend today but we roll haha. Anyway, I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, more will be coming since i'm just going to throw myself into writing instead of coping because therapy is expensive and i don't want to.
( 🏷️ ) taglist: @agi-ppangx @jisunglyricist
You guys are insane (affectionate)! Thank you so much for all the love you’ve given this piece 🫶
──★ 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ( enhypen )
❛ In which you’re the idol who somehow snatched the members of Enhypen’s heart at first sight.
𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐞𝐧 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) 8.8k
꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! All of the members are found below the cut! Enjoy! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Love at first sight trope, Idol Y/N AU, inconsistent POV, whether Y/N is a solo artist or a member of a group varies from member to member, lots of mentions of being stressed with work, Y/N in Jake’s piece has some negative opinions on the HYBE company (which doesn’t reflect my own personal opinions), Y/N and Sunghoon are drunk together but it’s all pretty mild, meet-cutes for all members except for Jake — his is more of a one-sided enemies-to-lovers trope, let me know if I missed anything!
( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )
이희승 ── LEE HEESEUNG.
An exhausted sigh brushed past Heeseung's lips as he trudged into the empty elevator of his company building. With his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, he leaned heavily against the cold, metallic railing at the back of the enclosed space. The hum of the elevator's ascent seemed to echo his own weary thoughts, a turbulent mix of pride and anxiety swirling in his mind. Images of the countless posters featuring his face, alongside those of his members, plastered all over town flashed before his eyes. Despite the pride he felt in the fanbase Enhypen had garnered since their debut, a gnawing fear tugged at his heart — a fear that after all the sacrifices made for this new comeback, it might still fall short of expectations.
Lost in his own tumultuous sea of thoughts, Heeseung was jolted back to reality by the sudden chime of the elevator, signaling its stop. The sound snapped him from his reverie, and as the doors opened, he stumbled out onto the wrong floor, colliding gently with someone exiting the opposite way. His face flushed with embarrassment as he muttered a hasty apology, realizing he had disembarked prematurely. Flustered, he shoved his arm between the closing doors to force them open again, avoiding eye contact with the stranger who had witnessed his blunder. The mortification deepened as he heard the soft, amused chuckle from the person he’d bumped into.
In the brief moment of awkward silence that followed, your melodic voice broke through, catching Heeseung’s attention. “Aren’t you one of the members of Enhypen? Heeseung, right?”
His gaze, which had been fixed on the floor in embarrassment, hesitantly lifted to meet your bright eyes. The connection felt electric, as if a spotlight had suddenly focused on you, illuminating the exquisite details of your face. Heeseung was struck by an overwhelming sense of awe, his heart racing as he tried to gather his thoughts. Unfortunately, his voice seemed to have abandoned him completely, leaving him with no words other than a timid nod.
The smile that graced your lips was like a burst of sunshine, sending Heeseung’s heart into a whirl. Your eyes sparkled with genuine excitement, and he could almost feel the warmth of your enthusiasm radiating towards him. It was a small yet endearing display of your excitement that tugged at his heartstrings.
“I honestly can’t believe I’m meeting you,” you said, your voice bubbling with unfiltered joy. “I’ve already listened to every song on your new album, Romance: Untold, and it’s truly amazing. My favorite is definitely ‘Moonstruck’ — I’ve had it on repeat so much that it might be considered a bit of an obsession.”
Heeseung managed to curl the corners of his lips into a shy grin, chuckling softly at the sight of your unrestrained praise. Though his mind was still blank and his ability to articulate a response seemed impaired, the sight of you raving about his work was heartening. You didn’t seem to mind, as you turned your attention back to the slowly descending elevator, which gave Heeseung a clear view of your slightly flushed cheeks.
Suddenly, a realization seemed to hit you, causing your eyes to widen in a mixture of panic and embarrassment. “Oh no, I hope you don’t think I’m just a weird fan who snuck in here! I’m actually one of the members of a new group that debuted a few months ago. I’m the eldest member, actually. Um, I’m Y/N.” Your once bold and outgoing demeanor gave way to a nervous, stammering apology as you quickly rattled off your introduction. Heeseung couldn’t help but chuckle softly, the sight of your flustered state easing his own tension.
As if sensing your discomfort, the elevator doors slid open with a familiar chime, allowing you to bow hurriedly before slipping out of the confined space. Heeseung, feeling a sudden surge of determination, followed you into the lobby. His hand reached out, gently grabbing your wrist and bringing you to a stop. The startled look on your face, accompanied by your crimson cheeks, made Heeseung’s heart race. The way your eyes gleamed with curiosity and surprise left him breathless, and he felt a rush of courage to keep you from walking away.
“I – I really appreciate you enjoying our album,” he blurted out, his voice trembling slightly. His eyes darted around, searching for the right words to extend the fleeting moment. “I’ll admit that I haven’t heard your music yet, but... um, if you’re free now, maybe we could grab a coffee? I’d love to hear more about your group and listen to your stuff.”
The transformation in your expression was instantaneous. The soft gasp that escaped your lips, combined with your shy nod of agreement, filled Heeseung with an exhilarating sense of relief and excitement. If the thread of his life had been cut at that moment, he would have died the happiest man on earth. Your smile, so bright and genuine, breathed new life into his day, turning a simple encounter into something extraordinary.
박종성 ── PARK JONGSEONG.
As the award show neared its conclusion, the atmosphere of genuine enjoyment gradually gave way to a palpable restlessness. Idols, exhausted from hours of watching performances and listening to repetitive acceptance speeches, were eager to leave.
Jay, seated among the sea of idols, found himself particularly conscious of the numerous cameras stationed around the venue. Each lens seemed to capture his every movement, broadcasting it to the fans watching from the comfort of their homes. Normally, he was accustomed to this constant scrutiny, but tonight felt different. The hours seemed to stretch interminably, and he watched as a parade of performers and winners he barely recognized took the stage.
His body ached from the relentless dance and vocal rehearsals leading up to their next comeback, the dull pain in his muscles a constant reminder of his exhaustion. Despite his best efforts to maintain a stoic expression for the sake of Engenes, Jay felt the strain, his neck twinging painfully with every attempt to relieve it.
The host, a familiar figure in a sharp suit, made his way to the center of the stage for the final time. Adjusting his tie with a practiced charm, he flashed a bright grin that could be seen even from the back rows. Jay barely registered the words as the emcee began his closing speech, his mind focused on the discomfort in his neck.
“What a night, what a night,” the host began, his voice tinged with rehearsed sentiment. “I can comfortably say that this will be an unforgettable evening for many — myself included.”
He paused, glancing around the audience with a knowing smile. “I know I’m supposed to end the night with a heartfelt speech, but we have one final surprise that I’m sure you’ll all enjoy — a special performance.”
Confusion rippled through the audience as murmurs filled the room. Jay furrowed his brows, intrigued yet weary.
“As you all know, there is a nationally beloved solo artist who has been on hiatus for seven months.” The anticipation in the room grew palpable. “Yes, you know exactly who I’m talking about! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome back our one and only — Y/N!”
The moment you stepped onto the stage, the audience erupted in applause and cheers. Your emotional grin barely concealed the tears threatening to spill from the overwhelming support. For Jay, the world seemed to collapse in on itself, leaving only the ethereal vision of you. The simple act of walking and smiling was enough to leave him breathless.
As you took your place at the center of the stage, the music began, and the cheers gradually quieted. Every discomfort Jay had felt moments ago vanished as he watched you raise the microphone to your lips, your eyes turning into crescent moons with your unwavering smile.
Your voice was enchanting, filling every corner of the stadium and striking the hearts of everyone present with its raw emotion. Jay was no exception. He was captivated by the intensity and beauty of your performance, feeling every note resonate deeply within him. As the final gentle notes faded, tears you had held back began to roll down your cheeks, ruining your makeup but enhancing your vulnerability.
The audience's applause was deafening, a testament to their love and admiration. Despite the chaos, your heart swelled with gratitude at the sight of so many people celebrating your return.
The award show faded into a distant memory as you found yourself surrounded by people offering heartfelt praise and excitement. Your cheeks ached from smiling, but the bliss of the moment was worth every second. Faces blurred together as you moved from one conversation to the next, each interaction a reminder of how much you were loved and missed.
Throughout it all, Jay watched you from a distance, his group members having long since left. He desperately wanted to approach you but felt intimidated by the constant stream of admirers. Eventually, he resigned himself to the idea that he might not get the chance to express how profoundly your performance had affected him. With a heavy heart, he signaled to his bodyguard that he was ready to leave.
Outside the stadium, the noise of the city offered a reprieve from the weight of his celebrity persona. Jay enjoyed the simple act of watching cars pass by, lost in thought. He didn’t notice you until you sighed contentedly and took the empty spot beside him.
“Pretty night,” you said softly, your voice tender and soothing. Jay turned to you, stunned into silence by your presence. The fluttering in his stomach intensified.
In an effort to compose himself, he looked back at the road. “You must be tired,” he said, trying to sound casual. “After so long away from the spotlight, I mean.”
You giggled, a sound that squeezed his heart. “Blissfully drained.”
Jay chuckled, stealing a quick glance at you before returning his gaze forward. The comfortable silence between you was enough, each moment charged with unspoken emotions.
“You know,” you began, “I watched your performance from the dressing room. I really enjoyed it.”
The blush that crept up Jay’s ears was immediate, followed by a shy smile. Your compliment left him feeling both flustered and elated. You turned away slightly, your own cheeks flushed.
Before Jay could respond, a black Cadillac pulled up in front of him, signaling it was time to leave. Panic set in as he realized he hadn’t said everything he wanted to. You, however, seemed unfazed, your confident smirk never wavering.
“May our paths cross once more,” you said with a warm smile, taking a step back and waving.
Jay watched you disappear into the night, your words echoing in his mind. He hoped fervently that this wouldn't be the last time he saw you.
심재윤 ── SIM JAEYUN.
Amidst the cacophony of angry voices clashing like a storm, your blood boiled at the pure entitlement of the people standing before you. You'd barely managed to set your bag down on the leather couch of the recording studio you had waited weeks to finally use when the door burst open, revealing the breathless mess of a manager responsible for some boy group you couldn't even be bothered to acknowledge. He claimed that there had been an error in the schedule for the room, that it was supposedly meant to be occupied by his group—never mind the fact that your name had been very clearly stated in the timesheet for weeks.
The sour taste on your tongue intensified as soon as you noticed a group of six boys hesitantly approaching the tense situation, led by a younger-looking boy with almost cartoonishly big doe eyes. His brows furrowed as he tried to decipher the not-so-clean words being exchanged between both teams. Letting your own manager handle the mess, you remained seated on the couch with your arms folded over your chest, hoping you'd be compensated for the reserved time you'd lost to this fiasco, though you were almost certain you wouldn't be.
Somehow maneuvering themselves around the strife, the newcomers entered the recording room, only to awkwardly stand before you as if expecting you to explain the situation. Despite your clear distaste, you let your hands fall limply onto your lap with a frustrated sigh.
"I reserved this room for today weeks ago," you said, the acidity in your tone unmistakable. None of the boys seemed too bothered by it as they continued to watch you intently. "Your manager, however, decided it would be a good idea to waste everyone's time by claiming there must have been some kind of oversight since apparently he also reserved this exact time for you guys."
"Uh, I think there might have really been a misunderstanding since we were also set to record here," Doe-Eyes responded quickly, glancing back towards his manager anxiously as if unsure of his own words. You couldn't help but scoff and roll your eyes.
Pulling your phone out of your back pocket, you didn't try to hide the incredulous shake of your head. Once you found the confirmation email you’d received upon booking the studio, you turned your screen so that all six boys could read. “Unless you also have an email similar to this— which, by the way, your manager has failed to show us instead of calling his boss—then I don’t think there’s really any room to call this a ‘misunderstanding’.”
Almost immediately, Doe-Eyes pulled his own phone out of the pocket of his hoodie, hurriedly scrolling through it while taking a seat a little further down the same couch you'd been glued to for the past twenty minutes. The rest of the members didn’t seem to have anything else to say as they either pursed their lips awkwardly or whispered amongst themselves, their furrowed brows signaling their own concerns about what it would mean for them if you were to keep the studio. And although you were confident that you and your team had done everything right, you were barely able to suppress your own fear of being left high and dry. It wasn’t uncommon for solo artists such as yourself to have no other alternative than to fight tooth and nail for fair treatment in an industry with a clear preference for boy groups like the ones present at the moment—and the company you were currently working for was really no different, as evidenced by the infuriating stories shared by the painfully sparse number of solo artists you’d met in this very building.
Then, as if suddenly remembering something, Doe-Eyes whipped his head around as though looking for someone. “Where’s Jake?”
The other members uselessly copied their friend’s action, shrugging silently. “I think he was talking with his mom on the phone when we left, but he said he wouldn’t be too long.”
Almost as if the act of voicing his name could summon him, a very disheveled seventh boy skidded to a halt behind the ongoing commotion taking place right outside the studio. His eyes widened in bewilderment as he processed the admittedly rare scene unfolding before him. His attention quickly shifted to the group of idols crowding the already confined space as one of the members waved at him to join them, a silent command that didn’t need to be repeated as he squeezed his way inside. Once he made it past the door, he hunched over breathlessly, a string of gibberish pouring out of his mouth as he tried to explain his tardiness—not a single word of it being even remotely comprehensible to you.
Ultimately, the boy’s excuses didn’t matter as everyone’s attention was drawn to the familiar authoritative figure who finally made his appearance (as requested by the boys’ manager) to solve the ridiculous dilemma, the typical severe expression etched onto his face. You tried to brush aside your rising anxiety to no avail, your leg subconsciously bouncing up and down.
While your mind raced with worst-case scenarios, Jake—the boy who’d just arrived—found himself stilled by the mere sight of you. Encircled by a heavenly bubble that seemed to drown out his surroundings, he found himself captivated by the worry tainting what he was positive would otherwise be the most heart-mangling pair of eyes he’d ever seen. Even with your entire essence emanating a mixture of irritation and anxiety, Jake was sure his eyes would never find anything or anyone that could compare to the profoundness of your beauty. He almost questioned if you were real, or if he had lost his sanity to a sweet hallucination, though he quickly pushed the idea out of his mind for fear of losing sight of you.
“Hi.” It was all that Jake could muster, hoping his heart wouldn’t suddenly stop when your weary eyes landed on him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.”
Several conflicting emotions passed through your face as you tried to make sense of the unexpected contrast between the serious situation and his dazed expression. In the end, all you could do was scoff nastily at his lack of ability to read the room, a reaction that still made Jake feel as though he could levitate since your simple acknowledgment of his existence was enough for him to obsess over for the rest of his lifetime.
The sight of the newcomer was almost ridiculous as you shifted in your seat almost uncomfortably, unable to understand what could possibly be going through his mind.
“Okay, let’s do this.” The authoritarian voice of your superior was enough to drag your attention away from the oddity of this boy. “Since Enhypen’s comeback is set at a sooner date, I suggest Y/N allow them to use the room first. I’ll be sure to postpone the reservations of the people meant to come here today or tomorrow. That is my final say on the matter.”
He raised his hand in a stern manner the moment he noticed you quickly jumping to your feet to argue, immediately shutting you up as your lips curled into a disgruntled snarl. Even though a part of you had predicted this outcome, you still couldn’t believe it as your eyes found the familiar pair belonging to your exhausted manager.
Since it was clear that you and your team had no other option but to pack up what little had been set up before this whole fiasco began, you begrudgingly snatched your bag to sling over your shoulder—though not before scowling in the boys’ direction, causing them to wince back. Except for Jake, who annoyingly remained in his spot, smiling stupidly at you.
Hours after being kicked out of your own appointment, you found yourself sitting alone under the shade of a large tree at a nearby park. Bitterness still possessed your heart despite coming here to calm yourself in the comforting alternative universe that only seemed to exist in this very spot, usually waiting for your return whenever life took a rough turn. Every other time, the gentle kisses of the wind against your skin, the delicious warmth that dwelled just under the surface of the ground, or the simple serenity that washed over your troubled mind as you listened to the natural melody of small animals and children playing would immediately comfort you. However, your little piece of paradise did not spare any mercy for you today. The chilly wind nipped at your reddened cheeks and nose, the ground beneath you was still moist from the light rain of the previous day, and all you could hear were the exhaustive sounds of distant traffic and the robotic voices of business people on their phones. Your little piece of paradise, your alternative universe hidden in plain sight, had become distressingly bleak.
You were just about to abandon your spot, the disappointment becoming overwhelming to the point of blurring your vision with unshed tears, when the sound of cautious footsteps from behind alerted you. Breath catching in your throat at the thought of what could possibly happen, you hoped whoever was approaching would just walk past and prove you to be foolishly paranoid.
“You hide well, Y/N.”
The sinister words unmistakably belonging to a man hung in the air, making you consider breaking into a run—or perhaps attempting to kick him in the knees to temporarily incapacitate him and give you more time to escape. A million thoughts stormed through your head as your heartbeat picked up.
“I’m sorry about what happened with the studio.” The specificity of the man’s apology made you pause. You noted that he had stopped moving, evidently standing just a foot or two away from you. Still, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around. “After you and your team left, I was finally told what went down, and I felt guilty. Obviously, you have every right to be upset considering your name was the only one that appeared to be scheduled.”
Only a moment passed before the owner of the mysterious voice stood before you, sporting a shy smile while holding a brown paper bag close to his chest. It was the boy who had arrived late to the recording session, the one with the dazed look in his eyes — the same one still present as he looked down at your sitting figure. His presence reignited the smoldering anger you’d managed to suppress over the past few hours. You didn't bother holding back the immediate glare directed at him, a glare that would have made anyone else shrink back. But he seemed unfazed, his smile only growing into a full, boyish grin that vaguely reminded you of a Golden Retriever, with an infectious warmth that was hard to ignore.
He stood there, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the bag crinkling slightly in his grip. His tousled hair caught the last rays of the setting sun, creating a halo effect around his head that softened his features. Despite your irritation, you couldn't help but notice the genuine innocence in his eyes, as if he truly had no intention of causing any harm — deep down, you were well aware that your anger was misdirected, though your pride didn’t let you back down.
“Anyway, I'm really sorry about earlier," he repeated, his voice gentle and sincere. "I know things got messed up, and it wasn’t fair to you."
The softness of his tone momentarily disarmed you, but you quickly remembered the frustration of being pushed aside. You folded your arms across your chest, maintaining your steely gaze. "It's not your fault, but that doesn't make it any less infuriating," you replied curtly, though a part of you felt a pang of guilt for being so harsh.
He nodded, understanding. "I get that. I really do. That's why I wanted to apologize properly." He held out the bag towards you, his eyes pleading for you to accept his peace offering.
You hesitated, your curiosity piqued despite yourself. Slowly, you reached for the bag, feeling the crinkle of the paper beneath your fingers. Peeking inside, you were met with a colorful assortment of convenience store sweets and chips. The sight was so unexpected that it momentarily broke through your anger, leaving you both surprised and amused.
“Hold on, what is this?” you asked, incredulous, pulling out a pack of sour candies and a bag of your favorite potato chips.
He lifted a shoulder into a half shrug, the motion causing his tousled hair to fall slightly over his forehead. A dark blush tinted the tips of his ears, standing out starkly against his pale skin. “I wasn’t really sure what you might like, so I got everything.”
You couldn't help but let out a disbelieving chuckle. The gesture was absurdly extravagant, almost comical, but undeniably thoughtful. Your gaze shifted from the bag to his face, taking in the earnestness in his eyes. The softness of his brown eyes, filled with a mix of anxiety and hope, caught you off guard. Despite the frustration and anger still simmering within you, the sincerity of his actions tugged at your heartstrings.
The gesture was ridiculous, you decided. But as your eyes finally locked with the softness of his brown ones, you couldn’t seem to ignore the swelling in your chest. The warmth of his gaze, combined with the blush that refused to leave his ears, chipped away at your resolve. A smile forced its way onto your lips despite your desire to maintain the angry mask.
“Well, I guess it’s a start,” you conceded, the corners of your mouth curling up despite your best efforts to remain stern.
He exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, relief washing over his features. “I’m really sorry about today. It wasn’t fair to you, and I wanted to make it right, even if just a little.”
You sighed, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders. “It’s not your fault. It’s just... this industry, you know?”
He nodded, understanding evident in his eyes. “Yeah, I get it. It can be tough. But hey, at least you’ve got some snacks now.”
You couldn’t help but laugh at that, the sound lightening the oppressive atmosphere that had settled around you. “True. Thanks for that.”
He grinned, the boyish smile returning and making him look even more endearing as he took a seat in front of you. “Anytime.”
As the two of you continued to talk, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the park. The earlier tension seemed to dissipate, replaced by a tentative camaraderie that hinted at the possibility of something more. For the first time that day, you felt a glimmer of hope that things might just turn out okay.
박성훈 ── PARK SUNGHOON.
Under the soft glow of city lights and the gentle hum of midnight traffic, Sunghoon stood apprehensively at the entrance of a seemingly lavish apartment complex. The crumpled invitation from Jake was like a heavy weight in his pocket. An internal turmoil raged within him — whether to keep his promise to his friend and attend the gathering or to retreat to the comforting solitude of his bedroom. The flurry of potential outcomes made his head spin, leaving him frozen in place. He couldn’t help but notice the curious glances from the woman behind the front desk, her occasional head tilt suggesting she was trying to figure out what he was doing there, even as she returned her focus to her laptop.
Social gatherings had stopped being Sunghoon’s forte somewhere along the transition from his teenage years to his recent adulthood. Normally, he would have turned down Jake’s invitation without a second thought. But his mother’s worried voice echoed in his mind from their recent phone call, her concern palpable. “You used to have me worried sick every single night when you would go out to all these parties, and now you have me worried sick every night you tell me you’d rather isolate yourself in your room, love.”
Taking a deep breath, Sunghoon willed himself to move forward. The memory of his mother’s concern pushed him to break free from his self-imposed isolation. He finally pressed the buzzer, his heart racing. When the door clicked open, he stepped inside, feeling the unexpected warmth of the building wrap around him in a soothing manner. He sent Jake a quick text, letting him know he would be up in a minute or two.
The elevator ride to the top floor felt interminable, each second stretching out with mounting anxiety. When the doors slid open, he was met with Jake’s bright smile and slightly unfocused eyes. “You made it!” Jake exclaimed, pulling him into a quick hug. Sunghoon managed a smile, the familiar comfort of his currently tipsy friend easing some of his nerves.
As they walked down the corridor towards your apartment, Jake’s enthusiastic chatter filled the air. He rattled on about everyone who’d made it, the music, the food, and all the games he’d missed. Sunghoon tried to absorb some of his friend’s excitement, though part of him still longed to retreat to the safety of his room. The door to your apartment was slightly ajar, and lively music and intoxicated laughter spilled out into the hallway.
Inside, the atmosphere was warm and inviting, with a soft, ambient glow from various lamps and candles. Sunghoon scanned the room, taking in the mix of vaguely familiar and unfamiliar faces. He was pleased to find only a small group present, just as Jake had promised. His eyes finally landed on you, who effortlessly commanded the room’s attention with a level of self-assurance Sunghoon could only yearn to achieve. As if sensing his eyes, you glanced in his direction, finally taking notice of their arrival before making your way over, a welcoming smile on your face that had Sunghoon’s stomach performing pirouettes.
“Jake, you’re back!” You cheered tipsily before focusing on the visibly anxious new guest, bowing as a polite greeting — an action immediately returned. “Is this the friend you told me about? Park Sunghoon?”
The way Sunghoon’s name rolled off your tongue with such sweetness had him reeling. Jake responded for him with an animated nod, slinging his arm around his friend’s shoulder despite being shorter.
“I’m very happy you were able to make it, Sunghoon!” You giggled lightly — a heavenly melody that tugged at Sunghoon’s erratic heart. “Please make yourself at home. There’s food and drinks over there,” you added, gesturing to a table laden with various treats.
As the evening progressed, Sunghoon found himself slowly relaxing, the initial tension easing away. Although he’d made the conscious decision not to consume any alcohol so that he would still be able to bring Jake and himself back home safely, he joined in the laughter, engaged in conversations with other idols, and sampled some of the food. Despite his initial reluctance, Sunghoon was beginning to enjoy himself.
During a lull in the conversations, Sunghoon found himself standing alone on the balcony, looking out over the city lights. The cool night air was a welcome respite from the warmth inside, and he took a moment to breathe deeply, savoring the tranquility. However, his head was tormented by thoughts of you as he almost obsessively replayed a mental film he’d recorded of you throughout the night, capturing candid scenes of you leaning against the wall while talking to one of your guests, sipping your drink between bursts of laughter, engaging in an impromptu dance competition with Jake, and the times he’d catch you watching him from the opposite side of the room with an unreadable expression before looking away timidly. These were memories he hoped to hold close to his heart even if the two of you never crossed paths again after this night. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear you approach until you stood beside him.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You spoke softly, eyes fixed on the glittering skyline. Sunghoon nodded, feeling an electrifying jolt rush through his veins at the unexpectedness of your company, followed by a strange sense of calm that soothed the fresh spike of his anxiety. The two of you stood in comfortable silence for a while — you simply enjoying the view, and him almost hearing the soft whirring of his mental camera as it recorded the moment for him to save.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” you eventually said, turning to face Sunghoon. There was something in your twinkling gaze that made Sunghoon’s heart skip a beat, an unspoken connection passing between you both.
“Me too,” Sunghoon replied, surprised to realize he meant it. As the two of you continued to talk, an unexpected warmth blossomed in his chest, sensing the creation of an unbreakable red thread that linked you to him. It was both thrilling and terrifying. For the first time in a long while, Sunghoon felt as though he was exactly where he was meant to be.
As the night wore on, the two of you found yourselves drifting away from the main party, your conversation deepening with each passing minute. You discovered shared interests and experiences, revealing parts of yourselves neither were usually eager to share with others. Sunghoon was captivated by the stories of your early days in the industry, the struggles and triumphs that mirrored his own journey.
There was a moment when the laughter died down, and the air between you seemed to crackle with unspoken words that neither of you was brave enough to voice out loud but both seemed to understand. Sunghoon looked into your eyes and felt a magnetic pull, an undeniable connection that made his heart race. He wondered if you felt it too, this strange and exhilarating sensation that was both new and familiar.
You broke the silence, voice soft and sincere. “You know, I’ve been where you are now. The isolation, the doubt…it can be overwhelming. But sometimes reaching out, even if it’s just for a night, can make all the difference. So I’m really glad you’re here tonight.”
Sunghoon nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I didn’t expect to feel this way tonight,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.
You smiled, a warm and understanding expression that made Sunghoon’s heart flutter. “Neither did I,” you replied. “But I’m glad we both took the chance.”
The city lights continued to sparkle below you both, a silent witness to the beginning of something new. As the night drew to a close, Sunghoon knew that this had been more than just an ordinary gathering. It was the start of a bond that held the promise of something deeper, something that could change both of your lives forever.
김선우 ── KIM SEONWOO.
As the limousine pulled up to the grand entrance of the high-fashion show, Sunoo took a deep breath, steeling himself for the evening ahead. Being a part of a rapidly rising KPOP group, he was accustomed to the spotlight, but attending this event alone felt different. The opulent venue buzzed with the energy of the fashion elite, cameras flashing and voices blending into a hum of anticipation.
Stepping out onto the red carpet, Sunoo was immediately enveloped by the dazzling lights and the flurry of activity. He straightened his impeccably tailored suit, aware of every eye on him. Yet, despite the familiar pressure, there was a unique thrill in the air tonight. As he prepared himself to move forward, his eyes were immediately drawn to a striking figure across from him — another idol, unknown to him, yet governing everyone’s attention with an effortless grace.
You strolled down the velvet red carpet, pausing every few steps to allow the photographers to capture the stunning design adorning your figure, which had been made especially for you. Your movements were fluid, each step exuding confidence and natural charm. As the ambassador for a rival brand, an impeccable aura of sophistication rolled off your skin with an ease that captivated Sunoo in an instant. The way the rays of the setting sun seemed to favor you, casting a perfect golden glow on your flawless features, made it impossible to look away.
Sunoo’s trance was disrupted by the heavy hand of the security guard who had kindly opened the limousine door a moment prior, silently urging him to make haste before the next celebrity arrived. He quickly gathered himself, offering a polite nod to the guard before making his way down the carpet. By the time Sunoo returned his gaze to where your mysterious essence had stood, he was surprised to find you already inside, leaving behind an air of secrecy that lingered in Sunoo’s mind.
Entering the grand hall, Sunoo was greeted by a sea of fashion icons, designers, and celebrities from all around the world mingling under the shimmering chandeliers. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the buzz of conversations and the clinking of champagne glasses. Yet, amidst the glamorous chaos, Sunoo’s thoughts kept drifting back to the enigmatic memory of you.
He navigated through the crowd, exchanging polite greetings and smiles, but his mind was elsewhere. The brief glimpse he had caught of you had sparked a curiosity he couldn’t shake as he found himself subconsciously searching for you. Who are you? What is your story? The questions swirled in Sunoo’s mind, adding a layer of intrigue to the already dazzling event.
As Sunoo settled into his seat, the lights dimmed, signaling the start of the show. The runway came to life with models showcasing the latest collections, each piece more stunning than the last. But even as the fashion show unfolded before him, Sunoo found his eyes wandering to the rows opposite him, searching for that familiar face.
And then, there you were. You were seated just a few rows away, attention fixed on the runway. Sunoo took the opportunity to observe you more closely, noting the confident way you carried yourself, the subtle elegance in your every movement. There was something magnetic about you, a presence that drew Sunoo in and refused to let go.
The fashion show progressed, each segment more captivating than the last, but for Sunoo, the true highlight was the possibility of a single minute with you. As the final model strutted down the runway and the audience erupted into applause, Sunoo knew he had to find a way to introduce himself. This night, under the dazzling lights of the fashion elite, gave him the unmistakable sensation that it might mark the beginning of something extraordinary — such a thing being yourself.
Following the fashion show, Sunoo took a moment to collect himself. The applause gradually subsided, and the room buzzed with excited chatter as attendees began to mingle and move toward the reception area. Sunoo’s heart raced with a mix of anticipation and nerves as he scanned the crowd, seeking another glimpse of you.
The hall was now a swirl of elegant gowns, tailored suits, and sparkling jewelry, with everyone engaged in animated conversations regarding the slew of unique designs they’d just witnessed. Sunoo made his way through the throng, offering polite smiles and hasty bows while his thoughts remained fixated on you. He couldn’t shake the sense of urgency, the need to introduce himself and learn about you who had so effortlessly stolen his sanity.
As he approached the bar, Sunoo finally spotted you standing near a cluster of fashion executives and designers. You were engrossed in conversation, your laughter echoing like a melody above the hum of the crowd. Sunoo hesitated for a moment, gathering his courage before making his way toward you.
Just as he was about to reach you, a voice called out his name. He turned to see his brand’s creative director, a smile on her face as she beckoned him over. Sunoo’s heart sank slightly, but he knew that ignoring her was not an option. With a polite bow, he approached her, engaging in a brief yet lively discussion about the evening’s show and their brand’s latest collection.
As soon as the conversation reached its natural end, Sunoo didn’t waste a second to glance back to where you had been, only to find you had moved on. Panic set in, though he took a deep breath, determined not to let the opportunity slip away. He began to weave through the crowd once more, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of you.
Finally, he spotted you near the entrance to a quieter lounge area, a serene space with plush seating and soft lighting. Sunoo made his way over, his steps quickening as he neared you. He paused just a few feet away, taking yet another deep breath to steady his nerves.
“Excuse me,” Sunoo said, his voice somehow calm yet tinged with an anticipation you didn’t miss. You turned to face him, your eyes meeting his with a curious, welcoming gaze that weakened his knees. “I couldn’t help but notice you during the show. I’m Sunoo, from Enhypen. It is a true honor to meet you.”
A smile spread across your face, genuine and warm. “Hello, Sunoo. I am Y/N from SM Entertainment. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
The conversation flowed easily from there, a mix of introductions, shared experiences, and mutual admiration for the evening’s fashion showcase. As the night wore on, the initial spark of intense curiosity between you grew into a deeper attachment. The surrounding chatter and movement seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of conversation and laughter.
By the time the evening came to an end, Sunoo knew that the unignorable sense of tonight marking a thrilling new beginning had been correct. As you exchanged contact information and made plans to meet again, there was an unspoken understanding that this thread that linked the two of you, born under the dazzling lights of the fashion elite, held the promise of something truly special.
양정원 ── YANG JUNGWON.
It had been an excruciatingly long time since Jungwon had danced purely for the joy of it, even if he kept this yearning to himself. He was well-aware of the sacrifices demanded by his career when he first started as a trainee, and he would make that commitment again without hesitation. Yet, the craving for dance, like a dormant ember, flared up intermittently, refusing to be extinguished by the relentless demands of his life.
At the moment, Jungwon felt an urgent need to escape, a desperate desire to retreat into solitude where he could breathe without the relentless pressure of work bearing down on him. The large headphones that had pressed into his ears for the duration of the recording session now hung around his neck, heavy with the weight of his mounting frustration. As he watched the producing team, whom he had come to know through each Enhypen album, huddled in private discussion, he felt increasingly isolated. The mics were off, their muted voices blending into an unwelcoming silence that amplified his sense of failure. He had repeated the same lines over and over since he first entered, unable to capture the performance they sought. It was baffling why something that should be simple had become so exasperatingly complex.
After what felt like an eternity, the producers nodded curtly at each other, signaling their agreement. They turned to Jungwon through the subtly tinted glass, their faces betraying a hint of resignation.
“Jungwon,” one of them sighed into the microphone, the voice slightly distorted as it came through the speakers. “I think we should try again next Monday. Please take this time to rest.”
Disappointment pierced through him like a cold, sharp blade. He slumped his shoulders, his gaze dropping to the floor as he gave a solemn nod. Swiftly, he removed his headphones and gathered his belongings. The room was filled with pitiful smiles from the team, but Jungwon was too eager to escape to notice. The confined space was stifling, and he was desperate for freedom. As he trudged down the nearly vacant corridors of the company building, his frustration simmered, bubbling up like molten lava, searing through him with each step.
He searched his mind for a place where he could be alone. Going home was not an option with half his members there, their typical boisterousness far from the sanctuary he craved. Restaurants and coffee shops were possibilities, but he lacked the appetite for anything. And then, as if the universe had taken pity on him, memories of hours spent dancing alone in the company’s dance rooms flooded his mind. It was enough to redirect his aimless wanderings. He made a beeline for the elevator, his steps quickening as excitement surged through him, a welcome escape from the stifling environment. He reveled in the knowledge that no one would question his whereabouts, believing him to still be at the recording booth.
With his heart pounding a rhythm of genuine elation, everything around him blurred into insignificance as he focused solely on his destination. The seconds stretched painfully as he awaited the elevator doors to open. The tip of his tongue seemed to taste the sweet promise of freedom as he finally reached the end of the hall, where the rarely used dance room stood, its door a familiar friend in his moment of need.
Had Jungwon not been so absorbed in his whirlwind of emotions, he might have noticed the soft strains of music emanating from within. Instead, he burst into the room, breathless, only to find himself frozen by the sight before him. There, bathed in the warm, gentle light, was you—dancing with a grace that seemed to defy the ordinary.
You were lost in your world, every movement flowing effortlessly with the tender rhythm of the music. There were no goals to reach, no steps to follow—just a pure expression of emotion that dripped from your every move. You danced as if the weight of the world had melted away, a blissful freedom that Jungwon hadn’t felt in ages. Your dance was a vivid reminder of what it was meant to be before fame had ever touched his life.
To Jungwon, who stood silently by the door, watching in awe, you were completely absorbed in your own realm. The peaceful, contented look on your face made it clear that you were in a moment of serene solitude. He tried to retreat quietly, but stumbled over his own feet, causing you to stop abruptly and turn toward him with wide, startled eyes.
In that instant, the world seemed to collapse around you both, leaving only the connection between your eyes and his. The silence stretched, laden with awkwardness, and you were the first to look away. Jungwon’s heart sank, wishing he could lose himself in your eyes forever.
“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice tentative. “I was just finishing up. I’ll get my stuff and leave.”
The last thing Jungwon wanted was for you to leave in such a rush. He was overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—entranced, confused, dazed, distressed—but the most powerful feeling was the undeniable pull toward you. You, who had suddenly appeared in his world, who moved with effortless grace like a bird in flight, and who had given him the briefest of smiles that seemed to halt his heartbeat. You were an enigma he felt destined to connect with, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Before you could slip past him, Jungwon found himself instinctively reaching out, his hand landing gently on your shoulder. The contact elicited soft gasps of surprise from both of you. His eyes locked onto yours, desperately trying to savor every detail of your features. He realized there might never be enough time to fully appreciate your beauty, but all he wanted was a single minute to bask in your presence. He was acutely aware of his own vulnerability as the desire to remain near you replaced his previous yearning for solitude.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen someone dance the way you just did,” he said, his voice barely audible. The blush that colored your cheeks was all the confirmation he needed that you heard him.
“Oh,” you blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”
“If you’re not busy,” Jungwon continued, though he was unsure of where his words would lead, “please stay.”
You studied his face, searching for sincerity and intent. Perhaps it was the raw desperation in his brown eyes or the electric tingle of his touch that convinced you. Whatever it was, you decided to stay, offering him a shy but genuine smile. Your heart raced as you noticed the dimples that appeared on his cheeks, a sign of his radiant smile.
And so you stayed. What began as a moment stretched into hours, then weeks, and eventually a lifetime. In that dance room, amidst the echoing melodies and fleeting moments, something truly extraordinary was born.
西村 力 ── NISHIMURA RIKI.
In the bustling expanse of the airport lounge, the soft hum of conversations mingled with the distant announcements of flight departures provided a backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts in Ni-ki’s mind. Seated amongst his fellow members, sought a fleeting moment of tranquility before their flight to Tokyo, the next stop on their concert tour. From such a young age, normalcy had been a distant concept, eclipsed by the relentless rush of performances and public appearances that left little room for peaceful introspection. The early morning departure had left them all groggy, their energy sapped by the unforgiving schedule that defined their lives.
Ni-ki leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing as he sought to capture a fleeting sense of peace amidst the chaos. The lounge, a hive of activity, was populated with travelers—some dozing off in their seats, others engrossed in their devices, and a few engaged in low murmurs of conversation. The atmosphere was a curious blend of anticipation and exhaustion, a microcosm of the frenetic life Ni-ki had come to know so well.
When Ni-ki opened his eyes, his gaze drifted across the room, taking in the varied faces of fellow travelers. His eyes settled on a vaguely recognizable group of young idols seated across the lounge, their presence unmistakable even amid the sea of people. Your group, though from a different agency, radiated a camaraderie and vibrant energy that felt oddly familiar. Among them, you stood out—a figure of serene poise amidst the lively chatter of your companions.
Ni-ki’s attention was drawn to you, his curiosity piqued by the quiet aura you exuded. There was a subtle grace in your demeanor that captivated him. You sat with large headphones covering your ears, occasionally glancing around the lounge as if seeking a moment of solitude amidst the bustling environment. Your hair fell gently over your eyes as you absentmindedly adjusted your oversized hoodie, a small, seemingly insignificant action that made you appear both approachable and endearingly shy.
Minutes stretched into an hour as you and Ni-ki waited for your respective flights. While his group members were absorbed in their own activities—some napping, others lost in games or music—Ni-ki found himself increasingly drawn to you. There was something magnetic about your presence, an unspoken allure that made his heart race each time your eyes briefly met. The pull he felt was inexplicable yet undeniable.
You possessed an effortless charm, a quiet confidence that set you apart from the crowd. Ni-ki found himself imagining what your voice might sound like, wondering what thoughts occupied your mind, and what music you might be listening to—all while grappling with his own doubts and shyness that held him back from approaching you. The mystery surrounding you only deepened Ni-ki’s fascination, turning mere curiosity into a profound longing to know more.
Across the lounge, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. At first, you thought it was a trick of your imagination, but the sensation persisted. Your sensitivity to the energy around you made Ni-ki’s gaze feel like a gentle but persistent tug. Despite your attempts to focus on your group’s animated conversation, your thoughts kept drifting back to the boy who seemed so captivated by you. You wondered what had caught his attention—was it your appearance? Clad in an oversized hoodie and leggings, with minimal makeup, you certainly didn't stand out in the traditional sense. Or was it your demeanor? You had done little more than sit quietly, attempting to conserve your energy and maintain a reserved presence. Though outwardly calm, your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, adding to the enigma Ni-ki seemed drawn to.
Finally, a boarding announcement for a flight to Osaka broke Ni-ki’s reverie. He watched as your group began to gather their belongings, preparing to leave. A pang of disappointment struck him, realizing that his chance to approach you and strike up a conversation was slipping away. Just as he was about to redirect his attention back to his own group in a silent acceptance of defeat, he noticed you had lingered behind, your eyes meeting his for a brief, charged moment.
In that fleeting exchange, there was an unspoken connection, a shared understanding that transcended the chaos surrounding you both. You offered a small, almost shy smile before rejoining your group, leaving Ni-ki with a lingering sense of anticipation and curiosity. The way your eyes had held his, as if conveying a silent message, made his heart flutter with a strange, exhilarating hope.
As you followed your group to the boarding gate, you couldn't shake the feeling of Ni-ki’s eyes lingering on you. It was both thrilling and unnerving, sparking a curiosity of your own. In the subtlest way possible, you stole one last glance over your shoulder, finding Ni-ki still watching with an intensity that made your heart race. You smiled to yourself, wondering if fate might bring the two of you together again in the near future.
As you and your group disappeared through the boarding gate, Ni-ki was left contemplating the possibility of your paths crossing again—perhaps amidst the vibrant streets of Tokyo or in the backstage corridors of a concert venue. The brief interaction had left an indelible mark on him, a spark that refused to be extinguished by the routine of his life. Settling back into his seat, Ni-ki’s thoughts drifted back to you, imagining potential conversations, shared laughter, and the possibility of a burgeoning friendship—or hopefully something more—that could blossom in the most unexpected of places.
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ My permanent taglist is open!
꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Post taglist: @llvrhee @d-dilemma
🫙 LEAVE A TIP? 🫙
🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS! STAYBLR FUNDRAISER!
Can I be added to your perm taglist please I love your stuff so much 🥺🫶🏻
Hey, yes of course! You just have to fill out this form (it’s literally just a handful of questions, I just like to stay organized) 🥹🫶 Thank you for all the love!
can i be the 👽 emoji for your anons??? i wanna interact with you more than just liking and reblogging but i’m scared to do it off anon
Hello! Yes, welcome to the family! I really appreciate all the support and love you’ve given me and I’m so excited to have gained a new friend!
How are you? How’s life treating you?
Also, I’ve seen your request and will get to it as soon as I can!
this felt like reading a long poem about experiencing the intensities of love, yet having the strength and will to choose yourself first and i loved every minute of it.
Visions of You in Solitude
Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x fem reader
W/c: 26.5k
Warnings: erotic painting, mentions of masturbation, sex in a semi-public place (no one is around), breast/nipple play, dry humping, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem receiving), cum eating, use of pet names, drinking
Synopsis: You were hired to paint him- not fall for him. But intentions quickly shift when Hyunjin finds himself infatuated with you and learns the secrets you harbor.
[this work was based off a request by “🐼” anon - thank you for requesting!]
18+. Mdni!
•
There’s something to be said about the loneliness that comes with being an artist. The repetitive cycle of translating tangibility to canvas or paper in whichever chosen medium. Fleeting muses you draw inspiration from, which quickly become burdensome as you’re faced with them every waking second of your day. Obsession with perfecting your craft, the anxieties that come with criticism of your life’s work and sometimes even succumbing to changing it entirely at the hands of someone else’s advice.
It’s very seldom even your craft at a certain point, only existing to satisfy the visual demands of others and turn a profit when displayed at a show. And it’s certainly not for everyone, not when it’s this lonely and rooted in the discomfort of personal solitude.
*
From this proximity, the blinding white walls that span the perimeter of the waiting room feel like that of a prison’s- coupled with the glossy laminate flooring and glaring white lights, you feel completely entrapped.
“They’re almost ready for you,” your boss says abruptly as he enters the room and occupies the gray folding chair next to you. “You have everything you need?”
Headcount- your black leather briefcase of oil paints, brushes, charcoal, pencils, paint thinner, old rags and your painting palette.
“The canvas is already set up,” your boss chimes in as if he can read your mind. “And there’s a seat for you. Just relax, and don’t push yourself.”
You take a deep breath, doing your best to follow his advice- but a part of you wants to get up and leave, to run away from all of this. Painting is your passion, it’s your forte and it’s been your life’s work for as long as you can remember. But being commissioned like this, for men much richer than money you’ll ever see, it feels suffocating.
They don’t tell you their names these days, nor the name of whatever organization they’re from. Last month it was an elite group of stock investors, the month before, it was a famous violinist from Japan. And today, it’s a male group, eight members with net worths that look like telephone numbers, or so you’ve been told. And it’s not that you’re intimidated, but you do get self-conscious at the prospect of people watching you while you paint. At some point, it’s like you become the model, their eyes boring into your flesh as you paint long strokes across the canvas and order them to hold still.
“Five minutes,” your boss now says, checking the time on his silver watch and adjusting it so that it sits a little higher up on his wrist.
You wish he wouldn’t count the minutes. You wish he’d stay quiet, allow you to sit with your thoughts and ruminate the day ahead of you. And yet he taps his heel in syncopation with the second hand on the clock above you, the echoing click of both driving you up the wall.
“I need a breather,” you state suddenly, sitting up from your chair and smoothing down your smock. “I need to go outside.”
“Three minutes,” he responds sterly, tapping at the glass lens of his watch and motioning to the door.
You shove your way past the double doors, past the white tiled hallway and just in front of the double doors that lead to freedom again. Two minutes.
It’s like your body is giving out on you involuntarily, your knees buckling as you grip the stair railing and steady your breathing. A quick glance around to ensure no one’s caught you heaving so nervously- and you’re too late. A man saunters down the hallway past you, his hands shoved casually in his pockets as he cocks his head to stare at you, his long black hair falling loosely around his shoulders as he does. He’s tall, and slim, with an elongated torso hugged by an expensive denim coat, his slender legs on display in black slacks and complemented by a sharp pair of boots. You don’t catch a very good look at his face, his figure blurring by as you check your watch, to the second now- you’re supposed to be inside.
You waste no more time jogging down the hallway past the figure and back into the waiting room, where your boss is angrily tapping his heel and scanning the room for you.
“There you are,” he says frustratedly. “No more breaks if you can’t manage your time. They’re waiting for us.”
And with a deep breath, he helps you gather your art supplies, motioning in front of you to the brightly lit room. You take one breath, and then two, as you finally begin into the painting room, eight men already seated and ready for you.
*
The crowd is nothing like the stock investors, or the violinists you’re used to. They’re rowdy, and loud. They very seldom sit still, cracking jokes amongst themselves and shoving each other off the wooden stools every other minute. You do your best to keep your gaze away from them when you don’t need to look at them, trying to memorize their features in intervals so you can focus on just the canvas in front of you as you paint. But it’s nearly impossible, their melodic voices pressing you for answers and insights into your artist career.
“What’s the hardest painting you’ve ever done?” One asks, his baritone voice sounding almost startling in contrast to his bright appearance.
“There’s lots,” you reply quietly. “I’m not sure I can pick one.”
You give him a small smile, trying to memorize the freckles on his face before turning back to the canvas, hoping you won’t have to glance back over at him for the next minute or so.
“Let’s take five,” your boss says as he enters the room again, two iced coffees balanced in his hands. “Thanks, guys.”
And the men scatter to their break room, where neat trays of food are already set out for them to choose from. As the doors swing closed behind them, you watch them select from a variety of pre-cooked noodles, assorted fruits and vegetables, packs of chips and trays upon trays of desserts. They’re fed as though they’re the ones doing all the painting.
“Coffee,” Q says, setting down a plastic cup in front of you, the straw already conveniently placed for you.
“Thanks, Quinton.”
Your boss, Quinton, or Q, is a brutally honest man when he wants to be, quick to comment on your work and keep you in your place. He runs your calendar like the military, never missing an important appointment and opting you in for every profitable painting session possible. He’s another thing you find suffocating at the worst of times, always somewhere breathing commands down your neck and dragging you to every private event under the sun.
“Let me see,” Q states plainly, gesturing to the canvas with his cup of coffee. You shyly angle the canvas toward him, hoping he won’t scrutinize anything about your pacing- you’re trying to get out of here as quickly as possible, and you silently pray the art doesn’t reflect that sentiment.
But to your surprise, he doesn’t, swiping a few stray eraser shavings off the canvas and giving you a nod.
“Looks good. Remember, we just need the skin tones and facial features. The clothes and all that can be filled in later with our reference pictures.”
You nod in response, taking a generous sip of your coffee, realizing this is probably the worst beverage you could’ve picked to calm your nerves. The caffeine pulsates through you, making your heart flutter even more than it already is, and the bitter taste leaves little to salivate over.
“How much longer, do you think?” You inquire, chewing on the tip of your straw nervously.
“No more than an hour, if you keep up this pace,” Q responds. “I’m going to the bathroom real quick, have everything ready again for when I get back. Don’t make me wait.”
You watch as he gets up from his own wooden stool, placing his cup of coffee where he sits, and exits the room to the corridor once again.
You’re alone in the painting room, the white sheets that line the floors staring back at you with little eyes in the form of paint splotches. From behind the door, you can still hear the eight men shuffling about, laughing loudly and downing their snacks. And you want to leave again, the feeling instilling another sense of foreignness inside of you. Like you don’t belong here, even though you’re the painter. You feel small, cramped, even useless, as you stare down the painted flesh outlines across from you.
A click of the door closing beside you garners your attention, and you look up expecting Q to return and resume the session. But it’s not Q- it’s the same figure from earlier in the hallway, slowly making his way inside and hoisting himself back up on the wooden stool. He keeps his head down as he gets comfortable again, two hands running through his black hair and slicking it back out of his forehead.
And then he looks at you- or stares, rather, two hands resting on the exposed wood in front of him as his legs balance on the wooden beams below. You can feel his eyes burning into your figure, and you do everything in your power to avert his gaze and keep your eyes locked on the canvas in front of you. But he remains like that, staring, for several minutes, until you nervously tilt your head to catch his gaze.
You feel your heart race as you do, catching a glimpse of his flawless features as he furrows his brows in concentration. His silky black hair isn’t the only striking thing about him- he has piercing brown eyes, which narrow with such intensity as he remains seated there, unmoving and confident in his stance. His plump lips contrast beautifully against his chiseled jawline, and his lanky figure makes him look like the contemporary art statues you’re so acquainted with, like he’s formed from wire and positioned to slouch so artistically in his spot.
You say nothing to the man, opting to give him a little nod, before focusing back on the beverage in your hands. And despite his clear fascination with you, he doesn’t reciprocate, instead pulling a cell phone out of his back pocket and preoccupying himself again.
You can’t quite tell if he’s rude, or strange, or even just unaware that his presence is so uncomfortable when he’s choosing to speak through cold stares instead of words. As you watch him through your peripheral vision, you hear the familiar sound of Q’s boots click through the doorway, gesturing rapidly at you and at the canvas.
“Let’s continue,” he orders, clasping his hands together with such purpose. “Where are they?” Q then questions, his eyes darting over the quiet man’s indifferent posture. And the strange man finally gets up from his stool, making his way through the break room door to usher the others inside once again.
They follow like a row of ducks, back to their respective seats, some of them with drinks in hand as they share whispered laughter amongst themselves and make little effort to sit still. You have no trouble picking up right where you left off, the innate talent to mirror figures in front of you coming in handy as you race the clock to complete their flesh-colored outlines.
Most of them converse lightly amongst each other, holding your gaze with a more serious expression when they catch you looking over at them.
Except for the strange man.
He’s relentless in his ways, continuing to stare so impolitely at you, his eyes piercing daggers right through your soul as he cocks his head to the left, and then the right, studying your face as you study all eight of theirs. What his intentions are exactly, you have no clue, simply opting to avert his gaze when you can and keep busy with your painting.
One hour later, the canvas illustrates all eight outlines of flesh and distinctive features, highlighting the beige freckles on one man’s, the toned biceps of another, and all other features that set them apart from each other. True to Q’s reminder, their clothes are traced in outlines, but color is void of their stencils, as you still have to bring the canvas home to complete the finishing touches. When they’re dismissed for the day, the gentlemen are all led by a sculpted man with a big smile who introduces himself as the leader, orchestrating the bows and applause that are held for you.
And as he ushers them out one by one, the strange man who’s been watching you all day is the last to leave, lingering a little bit too long with his hands shoved in his pockets like he wants to say something. He loiters by the canvas for several minutes, but you make no move to angle the painting at him, usually maintaining a certain extent of confidentiality in your work to keep the surprise.
He seems to take the hint, almost nodding indirectly at you and more toward the wall, as he finally saunters out of the room with his hands still in his pockets, his strides painfully slow as he disappears from your sight.
And when you look back to the painting, you cock your head at his outline, trying to gauge whether your art properly captures the sheer sense of unnerve he instills in you with his features alone.
*
Painting sessions are burdensome. They require a lot of planning ahead of time, stocking up on supplies, scheduling around the hours-long timeframe and of course, the mental preparation of having to be stared at by rich men for several hours.
But perhaps critique sessions are even worse these days.
Your paintings are typically set in stone after the initial outlines, considering there are usually a few important figures who review your work and give you the go ahead to take it home and finish it.
Yet sometimes, you still have people complaining, pointing out unimportant features like the color of their sneakers which aren’t to their liking. It’s normally Q who fights these battles for you, refusing to allow you to make any changes since the payments are made upfront, too. But sometimes, even he caves, ordering you to pull out your briefcase and mix a darker shade of green or add more volume to the subject’s hair.
It’s the worst with investors, who put their audacity at the same level as their incomes. But with boy groups like this, you’re unsure, having never done a painting for a band prior to this one.
The finished canvas is transported in a nylon zip-up bag, held by yourself and Q as you fit it inside the truck and secure it with metal prongs. While the drive there is just an hour long, it feels much longer than the last time you traveled there, perhaps because you’re much more nervous.
And perhaps also, it’s because of the same strange man as last time, who you already know is going to have a mouthful to say. The way he lingered by your work station a little too long, wouldn’t stop staring and even excused himself from his own break early to resume his insufferable task of making you uncomfortable. You reckon it’ll be a comment about his hair, asking for a longer length or more volume. Maybe something about the stage outfit you were presented with and how it doesn’t make his legs look long enough. Or knowing his douchebag tendencies, maybe he won’t hesitate to ask for a fucking bulge in his pants at this point.
When you arrive, Q calls over the building staff to help transport the collosal work of art, while you wait awkwardly on the side with your hands shoved in your pockets. You take a moment to crane your neck and look up at the building, a tall glass monument with blue-tinted windows and cobalt text that displays the company name. It’s just as intimidating as you remembered it, instilling the same unnerving feeling that a hospital might.
When the building staff are finally making their way inside, you follow reluctantly, making yourself as small as possible behind them while they navigate the long blinding corridors. It’s an unusual feeling to be at the top floor of the building that you were just looking up at from the street below, and as you pass the windows that line the hallways, you can make out the rows of cars and people that now resemble ants from this high up. It’s as though you were never down there to begin with, like the world is different from up here, much more secluded and shut-in.
And seeing the pin boards that line the walls, with photos of successful artists and flyers for company events, it very well might be, this haunting building where dreams either go to flourish or decay.
Into the last door on the right, eight chairs lined up for eight artists who definitely seem to have flourished. The building staff set up the canvas at the front of the room, securing it into its wooden easel, and Q occupies himself setting up a recording camera which points directly at the painting and captures all eight chairs in the frame. It’s common protocol for events like these to be filmed, not always for public consumption, but for the staff to archive important commemorative moments in the artist’s name. Once the camera is rolling, Q gives you a thumbs up, gesturing to the staff to permit their exit as you make your way to the front with him.
“Ready?” He asks, clasping his hands together as he eyes the camera nervously. You say nothing in response, giving him a small nod, before taking your spot on the other side of the canvas and folding your hands behind your back.
For a few moments of complete silence, the two of you keep your gazes fixed on the clock that lives on the wall across you, the hands ticking with the passing seconds as you await the arrival of the band. Q turns to say something, seemingly disregarding it as he turns back to the wall and shifts his eyes to the door every few moments.
You wish he wouldn’t be so… anticipatory. You wish he’d just stand there, like a rock, indicating nothing of importance, so that you could put less weight into this and unveil the painting to them without any reservations.
Here’s the painting, you want to say. It took me forever, so don’t criticize it. You guys are shorter than my usual subjects. Except for the weirdo- and he stares too much.
You smile to yourself at the thought of being so candid with them, before an abrupt push of the door startles you, and you instantly straighten your posture at the sounds of boots clicking along the floor, leading the eight men who live on the canvas behind you.
One by one they take their seats, dressed to the nines this time in black slacks and collared button ups. They even flaunt ties, mirroring the businessmen you’re used to painting, and the fancy attire quickly makes you nervous as they fold their hands in their laps and fail to joke around like they did the last time.
“Welcome,” a booming voice says, as other important looking figures stand around the room and eye the covered canvas. “It’s a pleasure to have you here, and we’re eager to see what you’ve come up with.”
Applause fills the room, inclusive of the members of the band, which you finally allow yourself to look at. They sit properly, hands folded in their laps and serious expressions painted on their chiseled faces.
Except for the strange one, again, whose gaze is locked on yours. He cocks an eyebrow curiously, as though you’re the one doing the staring. And you quickly turn your attention back to Q, hoping that disregarding the men will calm your nerves a little.
“… she’s paid particular attention to detail,” Q continues, and you realize you’ve missed half his speech already.
“And we are so excited to hang her work in this renowned building as a commemorative piece for the members. Without further ado, please let’s unveil the artwork.”
As he finishes, two members of the staff tug on the beige cloth, letting it fall to the tiled floor beneath it and expose the giant portrait.
Their faces light up instantly, little “woah’s” filling the room as they rise from their seats to take a better look. They laugh at their own figures, they point out each other's and most of them even pull out their cellphones to snap photos of your art. It’s always a gratifying feeling, having a crowd admire the fruits of your labor this way, especially when you aren’t immediately met with verbal protest against your creative choices.
You take a few steps back to give some room to them, the staff talking amongst themselves and gesturing to the building where you presume they speak about where the painting will live.
“It’s a hit,” Q says, coming around to tap you lightly on the arm. “You should be very proud of yourself.”
“Thanks, Quinton,” you respond. “I’m glad everyone enjoys it.”
And the staff applaud you once more, bowing to you and lining up to shake your hand as they begin to file out of the room again.
The members stick around for a good while, unable to take their eyes off the painting as they point out each other's features and admire their own. And as they begin to leave, several of them thank you personally on the way out, giving you a bow and shaking your hand.
“Thank you, really,” the man you remember being the group leader says to you. “We are so honored to have worked on this with you.”
Another clasps your hand in his, bowing several times before speaking. “Seungmin,” he states his name politely. “Thank you, I think you really did our old group leader justice.”
“Hey!” The leader calls, and you can’t help but laugh a little in response.
The others share similar sentiments, bowing and shaking your hand as they exit, chatting excitedly amongst themselves as they make their way down the hall for their next schedule.
And when you turn to face Q, you’re met with the last member, who folds his arms in front of him coldly and eyes the painting with raised eyebrows.
Like clockwork. He doesn’t like it, he’s going to request a change be made to it and he’s going to berate you in front of your own boss.
“It’s nice,” he chimes in casually from where he’s standing.
“Thanks,” you reply, Q gathering the cover from the floor and zipping it up again.
“Just one thing,” he says now, turning to face you.
“Oh, we normally don’t make changes after-”
“I have a freckle under my eye,” he finishes. “The left eye. You didn’t catch it.”
Your eyes scan the painting, where his chiseled face and long hair stare back at you, a serious expression in his eyes like he wears in person. And then you glance at him standing in front of you again, a small brown mole under his left eye, just like he speaks of.
“Go ahead and add it,” Q says, as he zips up the cover. “That should be on there already.”
And you nod your head at both of them, unzipping your briefcase again to retrieve your paints. He’s watching you like a hawk again, towering over your bent figure as you pull out a thin tube of brown paint and squeeze just a miniscule dollop onto the back of your hand. You retrieve your thinnest paint brush, dipping it into the paint and swiping it across your skin to rid the excess from the fine hairs.
It feels as though you have to paint it with his permission, as you bring the brush to his face and glance over at him for instruction. He gestures to his eye, motioning for you to start, as you bring the brush to his canvas flesh and tap on a tiny, single dot.
He stares at it for a moment, cocking his head as though a brown dot somehow won’t be to his liking. And even Q holds his breath while he waits for a comment from the man. You begin to say something, your lips parting silently, stuck on what to remark as you await his feedback. And then with bated breath, he finally speaks, giving a small nod as he does.
“Good,” he says simply. “It’s me now.”
Q nods at him, nods at you, and then gathers your belongings as you cap the loose tube of paint.
“Do you have a card?” The man asks suddenly, and Q pauses his shuffling about to retrieve one from his coat pocket.
“Here’s her card,” he says, against your silent protests. “She’s available for commission any time. Payments are up front and scheduling is through me only.”
The man nods, thumbing the gold foil cardstock in his slender fingers, and then shoves it into the pocket of his slacks.
“Hyunjin,” he says curtly, reaching his hand out to yours. “I’m the main dancer.”
And you just nod, placing your hand in his reluctantly as you shake once.
“Y/n.”
His hands are cold to the touch, the metal of his rings feeling like blocks of ice in your grasp. He holds it there for a moment, his narrowed eyes shooting daggers into yours, before he finally pulls away and pivots to leave with the rest of the band.
And you can only catch a glimpse of the back of his head when he’s halfway out, before Q turns to speak to you.
“Looks like we may be back very soon,” he remarks, latching your briefcase once more. “I’d hold on to that brown paint if I were you.”
*
Exactly four days pass before you hear from Hyunjin again. In fact, you’ve all but forgotten about the little run-in, until Q barges into your studio while you add the finishing touches to another client’s piece.
“I have a proposal for you,” Q voices, setting an iced coffee on the table beside you while you dip your paintbrush in a muddy cup of water.
“What is it?”
“Well financially, a massive opportunity. Career-wise, much of the same thing you’re already doing.”
“Businessmen?” You question, working your paintbrush in thin strokes to add hair to the figure on the canvas.
“Band,” he replies simply. “The same band you did last week. Just one member, though.”
And you know instantly who he speaks of, your face contorting into an expression of disgust as you wash your paint in the cup of water once more.
“Hyunjin?” You query.
“That’s him,” he says, snapping his fingers as the name comes back to him. “He’s offering double what we paid last, and just for an individual piece. That’s a massive markup from what we usually charge.”
“I don’t know,” you reply hesitantly. “I’m pretty busy with this, and we-”
“I already said yes,” he states simply.
“You did? What- I thought this was a proposal.”
“Yeah,” he says with a scoff. “A proposal to get your stuff ready. We start tomorrow. And he wants you to bring every color you’ve got.”
“Tomorrow? Don’t we already have a prior commitment?”
“Already moved them out,” Q says, sitting on the chair across from you.
“Look,” he begins, sighing deeply. “I know you’re hesitant about these things. But this is the best move you can do, career-wise. Painting these famous figures is a gold mine for us. One day you could be commissioned to paint royalty, and then we’ll be reaping three times our salary.”
And you sigh, too, knowing very well that he’s right. Being a painter who gets commissioned to commemorate important characters, you know the best thing you can do for yourself is say yes to every opportunity. You’re very seldom able to, which is why you have Q in the first place. But the prospect of spending another day with Hyunjin scares you, and you’re not sure Q would consider it a legitimate concern if you brought it up to him.
“I’ll be there, too,” Q interrupts, almost as though he can read your mind. “It’s just him. One day, max, and then you can pick up your other projects.”
It doesn’t seem like there will be a way out of this one, no matter how much you pray that things will fall through eventually.
“One day,” you echo. “And then I’m tunnel vision on the rest of my projects.”
*
You can tell Hyunjin’s thought about this very carefully, judging by the way he saunters into the room with purposeful strides and slings a bag off his shoulder.
He’s dressed a little more casually today in a denim jacket and jeans, with layered silver jewelry that contrasts nicely against his jet black hair.
“Like a model headshot, but painted,” he describes his vision to you, gesturing with his hands as he speaks.
“I want it to look really serious. And maybe a cool-toned color palette.”
He’s meticulous with his requests, and you wonder briefly if he dabbles in art, himself.
“Sure, we can do that,” Q responds, jotting down a few points in a small notepad.
You say nothing, letting Q do all the talking, but Hyunjin’s eyes glance over at you briefly like he wants you to acknowledge the request. So you just nod graciously, giving him a thin-lipped smile, and begin to undo your briefcase.
Hyunjin assumes his same spot on one of the wooden stools, dragging it closer to you by its leg and propping it within eye-view of your big canvas. And then he sits on it, or rather slouches, adjusting his gaze to look straight at you and maintain a cold, serious expression.
It’s just as unnerving as you’d remembered it, having this model-looking figure pierce daggers through your soul while you mix your paints- cool-toned ones, at his request, and prepare for the hour-long trek of capturing his essence.
At least you won’t have to talk to him- or so you’d assumed from the last session you completed with him.
“What’s your process like?” He asks, his sultry voice perfectly matching his features.
“Oh,” you remark, mixing a set of paints to mirror his even skin tone. “I don’t know, I just paint what I see.”
He nods, satisfied with your less-than-wordy answer, and then he begins to prod you with more questions.
“What are your favorite art supplies?”
You cock an eyebrow at this, well aware that you have a long list you can indulge him in, but not wanting to share your secrets with this complete stranger.
“I dunno,” you reply softly. “Oil paints, and graphite pencils really.”
Hyunjin nods again, and then he glances at Q, who gives him a thin-lipped smile much like yours, trying his hardest to remain polite with Hyunjin. You know Q is likely frustrated with you for not entertaining this conversation in a more lively manner, especially considering what he paid for this session, but you’re not going to indulge him in anything except painting him- and only for this one session, like you promised Q.
And the rest of the session is uneventful, Hyunjin poking you with questions about your personal favorite paintings or inquiring about a time you messed up on an important piece. All questions which are answered with brief “I don’t know’s” or “there are so many, I can’t choose.”
And although you are trying hard to keep Hyunjin at a distance, nothing seems to faze him, his head nods and little hums serving as indicators of his satisfaction with all of your answers. He doesn’t get pushy, like your other clients often do, and he even presses Q for a few answers as he makes sense of your work.
At just past 5, the session draws to a close, as Hyunjin rises from his stool and announces he has to tend to his evening dance practice.
“It’s nice seeing you again,” Hyunjin says as he approaches you, giving a small bow as Q waits off to the side.
“Thank you,” you voice back, glancing at Q for a push to leave.
And Hyunjin extends a single hand, gesturing for you to place yours in his, as he towers over you with a curious expression.
You reluctantly place your palm in his, letting the cool metal of his rings graze your skin as he clasps his thumbs over your fingers and rubs them in gentle back and forth motions. He doesn’t bring it up for a cordial peck, he doesn’t shake it- he simply caresses your artist hands tenderly, before letting go again and turning to give Q a small bow as well.
“Take care,” Hyunjin says, pivoting to exit the room into the corridor.
And as Q pesters you with orders to clean up your workstation, you examine your own hands, rotating your own fingers around, like they might somehow be changed by his touch.
*
ON HOLD- The notes under your projects on the big calendar in Q’s office read, written in dark red pen and underlined twice across the pages.
You furrow your brows in confusion, setting your bag down as you enter for the day and ready your art supplies.
“What’s going on?” You ask Q, who’s busy sorting through a stack of invoices.
“Have a seat,” he replies plainly, gesturing to one of the leather chairs that accompany his grand wooden desk. And you do, sitting on the very edge of the chair as you await further instruction from him.
“A gift came for you,” Q says, slinging a large box on the desk in front of you.
You stand up once again, peering inside at the myriad of oil paints, sharpened charcoal pencils, new smocks, palettes and even books about artists and their works. You dig through the supplies, heart racing at the expensive choices, feeling undeserving of all the presents the box contains.
“This is all for me?” You question, baffled at the prospect that anybody could care enough about your career to indulge you in such a fine assortment of goods.
“Read the card,” Q then says, his arms folded in front of him as he nods toward the top of the cardboard box, where a simple yellow envelope is taped to the cover, cursive text scribbled on the front. Hyunjin, it reads.
You undo the seal, pulling out the small card inside, which only contains a short, cold sentence, in contrast to the warm gift.
“For the next few”, it says, not so much as a sign off or even a simple “thanks”.
“Next few?” You repeat, meeting Q’s gaze with a confused expression.
Q sighs, sitting across from you, folding his hands out on the wooden surface where you can see them.
“His manager called this morning,” he begins. “And commissioned us for another one. Except this one has a long set of rules. He wants you to use these supplies, he wants to visit your studio instead of occupy the company building. And he specifically asked me not to accompany you.”
“What?” You exclaim, angered at the sheer audacity he has, and knowing very well that you only agreed to one painting.
“That’s completely against our rules,” you continue. “Did you tell him no?”
And Q gives you a sheepish grin, gesturing to the stack of papers he flipped through earlier. “They’re offering quadruple the pay,” he says sternly. “He’s obsessed with your work.”
“So what?” You argue. “I have a ton of other projects to finish. And I’m not throwing all of that away because some guy wants time alone with the artist.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting alone time with an artist,” Q emphasizes.
“This is a huge sacrifice, Quinton. I wish you would’ve run this by me earlier.”
Your eyes meet the calendar above his desk again, counting the number of projects with a big ON HOLD scribbled below them. Q sighs, evidently feeling a little guilty for his own actions, and then pinches his wireframe glasses between his fingers, pulling them off his face and tucking them into the pocket of his blazer.
“I’m willing to give you 10% more than what you already make from these.”
Your gaze snaps to his, a bewildered expression on your face as you process his words.
“What- seriously? Quinton, that’s-”
“His company’s loaded” he says with a shrug. “The guy is so much bigger than I thought he was. People love him.”
And your gaze flickers between the calendar and the big red text, Quinton’s hopeful stare and at the box of new art supplies you’ll be required to work with.
Q doesn’t need to press you for verbal confirmation, knowing that the caress of your fingers over Hyunjin’s name on the envelope serves as answer enough.
*
Your studio is particularly messy on Wednesdays, housing all of the project paraphernalia from the days prior. Today is no exception, canvases that sit on easels lining the walls and cans of paint thinner spread out on the tarps. You make your best attempt at shoving everything against the wall, creating a clear pathway for Hyunjin to stride into the way he always does. And you set up your canvas prior to his arrival, getting all of your necessary supplies in place to avoid the awkward few moments of setting up while he watches you so intently.
He’s a punctual idol if you’ve ever met one, arriving at 5pm on the dot, expensive-looking sunglasses shielding his eyes from the barely visible sunlight outside, and a black beanie pulled over his head. He looks like he could be a security guard of his own, the all-black attire even more unsettling as he makes his way inside.
There’s a reason you never house clients in your own studio- the reason being it’s small. It’s office-sized, large glass windows on one side of the wall that overlook a sea of greenery that’s now overgrown with all the recent rains. The floor is gray concrete, stained just about everywhere with swatches of paint and charcoal pieces. And the two tabled surfaces that are available are covered in art supplies, the color of the furniture now indistinguishable as they house tubes of paint, brushes and cans of thinner.
“You can put your bag on the chair there,” you say as he walks in, his hands still shoved in his pockets.
He does as told, setting a designer crossbody on the folding chair by one of the tables, and then he stands confidently, observing the room as he awaits further instruction.
He takes long strides around the perimeter of the room, leaning closely into the existing canvases to study your techniques. But he says nothing, remaining much quieter than last time, the only sound coming from his heeled boots as he moves elegantly around the studio.
“I’m ready,” you say, and Hyunjin turns around to face you. He cocks his head slightly, and then he brings one hand up to pull the beanie off his head, letting his brown tresses fall loosely around his handsome face, not requiring much adjustment as they seem to fall in disarray so perfectly. He pulls his sunglasses off as well, folding them between his plump lips before tucking them into the pocket of his jeans as he finally stops to look at you.
He looks as handsome as he always does, his unreal features looking as though he was modeled by a painting and not the other way around. You feel small in front of him, and unimportant, as he approaches you and stops just in front of your much smaller figure.
“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks, cuffing up the sleeves of his black knit sweater.
“It’s up to you,” you reply to him, giving a small shrug as you speak.
“This one’s your call,” Hyunjin retorts. “I want it from the artist’s vision.”
And you can’t help the blush that creeps up on your cheeks, feeling embarrassingly flustered at the idea of someone caring even slightly about your vision. Everything’s from your client’s vision- the outfits, the poses, even the adjustments they request following the painting’s unveiling. It’s very seldom that you’re able to provide any directions to the standard of your vision, and though it’s unexpected, it’s a little endearing.
“My vision?” You echo, tapping your fingers on your chin.
You glance around the room at the supplies you have on hand, nothing special, but definitely materials you can work with.
Without replying to him, you pull forward one of the folding chairs, setting it down in front of your easel and gesturing to it.
“Could you sit on the top part? Like, on the back of the chair?”
Hyunjin nods, climbing up onto the chair and balancing as he takes a seat on the back part. It’s a little unstable looking, but Hyunjin seems to manage just fine, spreading his legs casually and running his hands through his hair.
“Your hands,” you chime in, taking note of the silver watch he flaunts on his left wrist. “Could you rest them on your knees?”
“Like this?” Hyunjin questions, sprawling his palms out over his kneecaps.
“Not quite,” you reply. “A little more like…”
And then without warning, you take both his hands in yours, positioning his elbows to rest atop his kneecaps so that his hands hang loosely in front of him. He cocks his face up to meet your gaze, the same intense expression he always houses, and you take a step back to admire the position.
“Exactly like that,” you say to him. “Tell me if you get uncomfortable and we’ll take a break.”
Hyunjin shoots a small smile, perhaps more of a smirk at you, as he sits still and watches you begin to paint in long strokes along the canvas. Your movements are fluid and impetuous, but every stroke proves itself more robust than the last, painting a clear outline of Hyunjin’s seated figure as he keeps his eyes on you. And maybe it’s because you’ve chosen his pose this time, or because it’s your third time doing this with Hyunjin, but you don’t feel nearly as uncomfortable anymore, keeping your attention on the painting and disregarding any implications that might derive from his cold stare.
“I wasn’t sure which brand of oil paints you preferred,” Hyunjin says suddenly. “So I bought you three kinds.”
“Oh, yeah,” you reply softly. “Thank you for the gifts. You really didn’t have to.”
“You have a talent,” Hyunjin voices. “I hung the last one up in my own studio.”
“You have a studio?” You question, remembering Q had previously mentioned something about him being an artist.
“I do,” Hyunjin answers. “It’s nothing like this one, just some canvases in the shared dorm we have. But I paint in all my free time. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be painting.”
“That’s interesting,” you reply. “I’d love to see your work someday.
And Hyunjin doesn’t hesitate to pull his phone out, navigating to his camera roll to show you some of his pieces. He flashes you a painting of a bouquet of roses, placed in a glass case atop a table. Another showcases a city street, scribbled cars and people that line the pavement. And a whole gallery of them depict people- couples, in particular, in all sorts of romantic poses. Kissing, hugging, embracing with such passion and force, almost consuming each other with their visible desperation for one another.
“They’re beautiful,” you say, in awe at the technique of his art. You weren’t expecting him to be so good, for someone who doesn’t paint as a full-time career.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin replies, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. “I’ve learned so much from you.”
“Me?” You retort with a small chuckle. “I highly doubt that, your stuff is very unique. But I’m flattered that you’d say that. Thank you.”
Hyunjin keeps his gaze on yours for a moment, cocking his head to the side as though he’s observing your features. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes narrowing and widening again as he takes in the sight of you dabbing a little more olive paint into his complexion. And then he straightens his back, steadying himself on the chair with two hands gripping the sides.
“When was the last time you left this studio?” He inquires with a smug expression. He sounds a little more serious now, and his tone of voice makes your heartbeat race.
“I don’t live here,” you reply plainly. “I leave every day.”
“When was the last time you escaped?” He then clarifies. “When was the last time you weren’t confined here for the purposes of work?”
You furrow your brows, trying your best to keep busy with your task and avert his gaze.
“This is my job,” you say sternly. “I don’t want to escape.”
“I’m a dancer,” Hyunjin states matter-of-factly. “I don’t live in the studio at the building. Sure, the bright lights and the walls of mirrors help with the choreography. But sometimes I dance in my dorm. And sometimes I dance in a big grass field when nobody’s watching.”
You pause your brushstrokes for a moment, finally meeting his gaze as he stares down at you. He raises one eyebrow, waiting for an answer, which you fail to provide him with as he leans forward once again and clasps his hands together.
“You feel trapped here, don’t you?”
And suddenly his words infuriate you, the sheer audacity of him to walk into your studio demanding all these rules from you, like your boundaries can be overlooked if they’re bought. And who is he to pry into your life like this, knowing next to nothing about you except that you’re a painter? It’s blasphemous- offensive, even.
“I’m not trapped,” you say, standing from your stool and backing away from him a little. “I love my job. I can quit whenever I want to, and this is my passion.”
“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?” Hyunjin inquires, and your eyebrows contort into a much angrier frown.
“Who are you to imply any of this, anyway? You’re an idol. You’re the one who’s trapped in the confines of a million rules- are you even allowed to be here right now? Who are you when you’re not putting on the mask of a completely different persona?”
You exhale frustratedly as you finish, taking a moment to catch your breath, and trying your best to avoid his gaze. But when you meet his piercing eyes again, he’s smiling, a wicked expression on his face like he’s amused at your lashing.
“I’m glad you asked ,” he says simply.
“What?”
“I’d assumed it was part of your vision, to maybe scratch below the surface of the flesh outlines you paint. I know there’s more than meets the eye to your work. You have this passion about you.”
“Passion?” You reply nervously, now fiddling with the brush still in your grasp.
“Mhm,” Hyunjin responds casually. “Like you want to lash out. Go on, get it off your chest. I won’t mind.”
And you say nothing again, shrinking back into the confines of your wooden stool as you swirl the brush around in the same mug of water and dip it back into a dollop of paint.
“I’m sorry,” you voice to him. “I don’t treat my clients like this. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Hyunjin’s shoulders sag a little, as though he was waiting for you to keep the chaos alive in this little studio. He just nods, and then he assumes the same position as earlier, his knees spread in front of him and his hands resting comfortably on his knee caps as he slouches forward.
You resume the task of shading in his skin tone, adding highlights to the elevated portions of his face and glancing over at him in intervals to confirm where the light hits him.
“I’ve learned so much from you,” Hyunjin says for the second time tonight, and you’re still unsure what he means by it. “I think we could learn a lot about each other.”
And the studio falls silent for the remainder of the session, as he allows his eyes to bore into your soul while you translate his being onto the canvas in front of you. Or at least the parts that are able to be translated.
*
Your calendar is blocked off for the remainder of the week for other clients, Hyunjin rescheduling his sessions as he prepares for a performance overseas.
Your heart sinks a little when Q announces the schedule change to you, secretly praying you haven’t completely ruined your artist/client relationship with Hyunjin. He’s definitely a little odd, and he can be pushy when he wants to be. But he’s undeniably more intriguing than the investors you’re used to housing at the studio, telling you stories of his dancing and inquiring about all your favorite techniques every chance he gets.
He’s the first client who’s ever uttered the word “vision” when it came to yours, and not his, and you can’t let go of the value it added to your last session with him. You had yelled at him, ordered him to stop projecting his thoughts onto yours and asking personal questions. But it was the first time you felt alive, somewhat visible to a client as you painted them. His eyes pierce through your soul, every tangible inch of it, and not just the empty shell of who you are when you’re not existing so loudly. And Hyunjin seems like the only catalyst that allows you to exist loudly these days, even Q walking all over you like you’re an extension of his tedious ways.
Although your last conversation didn’t go quite as smoothly as you’d hoped it would, Hyunjin’s words continue to circle your mind relentlessly, your heart trying to make sense of them no matter how hard you try.
“Who are you when you’re not painting these portraits?”
It’s a fair question, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be a discourteous one, either. Maybe he’s genuinely curious about the woman you are when you’re not following Q’s orders. But where has Hyunjin pulled the implication from that you’re anyone except for the person assigned to produce these portraits? You’ve given him no reason to think anything of you besides the well-mannered, focused painter you are. And to imply anything else would also, by extension, imply he knows something about you.
“I’ve learned so much about you,” he had also said to you, twice in the same session. And can one really learn from two, three sessions of watching an artist paint? Sure, if he was more focused on your technique and your mannerisms rather than staring at you so intensely. But he hadn’t seemed to be interested in much else, simply keeping his gaze on yours and asking base-level questions about your artist career.
If anything, you could learn a lot about Hyunjin, who has the whole world at his disposal and walks around this place like he owns it. He speaks of you like he’s trying to study you. He wants to learn from you, despite being the one wielding much more knowledge and wisdom than you could even begin to fathom. True, you don’t escape this studio- and you don’t utilize it without the intention to work. In fact, your work consumes you most days, your personal life just a microscopic dot in the grand scheme of this arrangement.
But Hyunjin seems to think otherwise, his generous gifts and his fascination with returning seeming to imply something else. Like he wants to learn from you, or like he’s convinced he already has.
In apprehension, like he knows you.
*
“Where are we going?” You query when Hyunjin arrives next, quickly ordering you to gather your supplies and ushering you to the door.
“We’re not painting here today,” he says plainly.
“What? No, Hyunjin I don’t paint anywhere except for-”
“The studio or a company,” he finishes. “That’s the issue. I want to take you somewhere more lively.”
“I can’t be around people,” you respond. “I don’t… it’ll just mess up the whole process.”
“Do you trust me?” Hyunjin asks suddenly, his hand extending out to yours for the briefcase you grasp.
What a simplified question- absolutely not. You don’t trust him, that’s the issue with leaving the studio. You’re still not sure of his career as a whole, you’re not sure why he’s so adamant about breaking all sorts of rules and you don’t know anything beyond his name.
“No,” you reply. “I don’t think I trust you at all, actually.”
And Hyunjin just smiles, stepping forward to take the briefcase from you.
“Good,” he replies, the same amused smile plastered on his face. “That means there’s still a lot I can teach you.”
He watches you slip on your coat, undeniably confused, but in a trance-like state obeying his commands, like your heart won’t let you hear your brain’s protests.
Hyunjin doesn’t drive. He doesn’t need to, having his own personal chauffeur at his beck and call, able to go just about anywhere in the evening during his allotted hours of free time. Ones he normally spends in the studio, watching you paint.
You sit quietly on one side of the fancy black car, your hands folded neatly in your lap and staring at the passing blur of city lights out the window. Hyunjin occupies the other, one of his slender hands resting atop the briefcase in an attempt to steady it whilst the driver makes sharp turns and brakes a little too harshly.
You watch as the city roads turn to one long paved road, surrounded by tall grass and trees. And this path goes on for a while, maybe 20 or 30 minutes, as you remain in comfortable silence. The driver seems to be acquainted with the road, turning every way he needs to, no form of navigation telling where to go, simply having memorized the route. And Hyunjin doesn’t seem tense in the slightest, humming softly to himself as he taps his fingers along the leather surface of the briefcase.
The fork at the end of the road signals the stopping point for the driver, who hits the brakes, but doesn’t turn the car off. The keys remain in the ignition as he comes around to open your door, guiding you out with one hand and bowing graciously to the both of you.
“One hour,” Hyunjin says to him, sliding him a generously folded bill.
The driver nods, occupying his spot in the driver’s seat, and you watch him make a U-turn before driving off down the path again.
The environment is quiet, much quieter than any spot back in the city. It’s nothing except for trees and tall grass that sway with the gentle evening breeze, the sky swallowing up a now orange sun as nighttime begins to over both of you. If you squint, you can even see the mountains from here, some of them lined with little yellow lights, probably vacant buildings or farm workers. And the birds sing their last songs of the day, mellow tunes that harmonize with the growing chirps of crickets.
“It’s pretty here,” you remark to Hyunjin, who stands looking out at the view with his hands tucked in his coat pockets.
He doesn’t reply for a moment, his long hair swaying with the breeze. And then he tilts his head in the direction of the briefcase, nodding once.
“Paint what you see,” he orders.
You nod reluctantly, scrambling to open the briefcase and set up your supplies.
“Do you want to stand there? Or… do you prefer something else?”
He smiles, a little amused at your rushed state, and then he shakes his head.
“Not me,” he clarifies. “The view. Paint what you see.”
You swallow a lump in your throat, stopping your movements and pondering the words for a moment. You haven’t painted a view in god knows how long. Your skills are rusty, your techniques are skewed and the whole concept of it makes you shudder.
“The view?” You question back. You take a moment to look at the view again- there are possibilities everywhere. Green grasses that resemble paint strokes themselves, a deepening blue sky with strokes of blues and blacks, stars like paint splatters and trees with sponge-painted bushels. The art is everywhere, the possibilities are vast and endless with a view like this one.
“The view,” Hyunjin echoes. “Don’t take it too seriously. This isn’t some company's order to paint me. I just want to see the world through your eyes.”
And you nod, once, Hyunjin helping you latch your sketch pad to the easel as you mix a myriad of blues and greens together on your wooden palette.
He flips through your sketch pad for a little while before stepping away, nodding at the pages upon pages of art unlike any of your portraits. When you think he’s going to move, he doesn’t, remaining in the same spot and nodding his head at the works. And you feel a little shy, a little confused at why he’s taken so much interest in the work you complete on the side, work completely unrelated to any of your portraits. When he reaches a blank page, he meets your gaze with a small smile, nodding his head once at you as he finally moves out of the way.
And then you finally begin, hesitantly, as Hyunjin finds a spot in an undisturbed part of the grass, sprawling his long legs out in front of him and pulling out a sketch pad from his own bag. He angles it away from you, beginning to make long, generous lines with his charcoal pencil, peering over at the trees every now and then to gauge their shape. And you remain there, a comfortable silence among both of you, as you both capture the view in your respective visions.
The technique comes back to you instantly, like motion memory, quickly sponging leaves into the trees and pulling the dark sky from its draped position over you to plaster it onto the canvas you work on. Blues, greens, glittering whites for the night stars and fantastic shades of chartreuse and viridian find their homes on the canvas, so carefully placed and mirroring the view you overlook. You emulate the shadows, the waning glints of light, even the sounds seem to live on the picturesque view where time stands still in the confines of four walls.
Hyunjin doesn’t disturb your work flow- in fact, for most of the time you remain there, you cease to remember he’s even working on a sketch of his own, his delicate figure disappearing among the trees as your peripherals shut him out and bring nature to the forefront.
It’s only an hour you’re there, like Hyunjin had promised, before he’s returning to your spot and standing behind you to look over your shoulder.
“Beautiful,” Hyunjin states dramatically. “Beautiful, and spectacular, and shining.”
You chuckle lightly, wiping the brush on your smock and tucking it away in one of the front pockets.
“Will you sign it?” Hyunjin asks, cocking his head a little to try to find where your signature currently sits, but finding nothing.
“Oh, yeah,” you respond, bringing a charcoal pencil to the bottom right and scribbling a quick signature.
He scans the painting once more, tracing a finger over the corner where you’ve added your signature, and then he gives a small nod before meeting your gaze.
“This one’s my favorite,” Hyunjin tells you. “Because it’s entirely your vision.”
“The ones I make of you are my vision, too,” you explain, and Hyunjin shakes his head with a small smile.
“I like how you see the world. Not how you see me. Or anybody else, for that matter.”
And you find yourself blushing again, unsure if his intention is to fluster you with his poetic words, but well aware that he’s having the effect on you regardless.
“Thank you,” you echo politely. “I like this one, too.”
Your gazes remain fixed on each other for a brief moment, the grass now standing still as the night falls over you, stars glittering in the black sky and the crickets singing their nocturnal songs.
For the first time since meeting him, Hyunjin looks less cold at this proximity to you, his entire demeanor exuding softness and comfort as he smiles at you. Maybe it’s the black puffer coat he wears, the collar pulled up to his chin to keep warm from the frigid winter night around you. He wears his glasses, too, these ones a thicker black frame, pushed high up on his face and a little dorky, admittedly. But it’s also because he seems kinder, more warm and welcoming. There’s no existing rush to capture him any which way- in fact, there’s no pressure to capture him at all. And maybe when you’re not translating his model-like appearance onto canvas, you’re able to step back and admire that he’s soft under his hard exterior, he’s so gentle and human.
At first, you debate telling him, a sudden urge inside of you to apologize for your presumptions of him and admit that he’s slowly become your favorite client to be around. Maybe he’s right- maybe you do have a lot you can teach each other. He lives a life of lavishness, entertaining varying aspects of his idol career and serving a role of great importance to those who know him. And he is certainly of importance to your career, being your highest-paying customer and the one you’ve painted the most now. But he plays a role in other parts of your life too, allowing you to try new techniques, entertain your vision, circling your mind with his poetic words and his strategic motions. All lessons which allow you to grow outside the confines of your studio, too.
But you settle on silence, not wanting Hyunjin to think too boldly of you. Maybe he’s like this with everybody he crosses paths with. Choreographers, vocal coaches and painters alike. Maybe he’s simply as fascinating as he looks.
As you study him again, the sound of a car engine interrupts you, and you turn around to find Hyunjin’s driver has returned as promised. You bring a hand up to shield your eyes from the bright headlights that illuminate the whole field, as Hyunjin helps you gather your supplies again, securing the canvas in its case and transporting it into the backseat of the car with the driver’s help.
Hyunjin holds the door for you this time, ushering you inside, and then he comes around to slide into the backseat next to you.
“I think it’s going to rain,” the driver says as he puts the car in reverse.
You crane your neck to look at the sky through the tinted windows, dark blue clouds that loom overhead and seem to make the night even colder.
“I have one more place we need to stop at,” Hyunjin says suddenly, sitting forward to make eye contact with the driver through the mirror.
The driver nods in response, as if the last location is a secret kept between them, as he begins down the dirt path again in silence.
*
“Ever been here?” Hyunjin questions, as he holds out a hand to guide you up the stairs. The steep concrete stairs lead to a grand crested marble doorway, a bronze statue out in front and dimly lit lamp posts that illuminate the sign overhead.
Museum of Modern Art.
“Once, a long, long time ago,” you respond. “I think I usually steer clear from galleries since I don’t show my work at them.”
Hyunjin chuckles softly, stopping at the front door and meeting the gaze of a security guard, who promptly strides over and opens the door just an inch.
Hyunjin pulls out an ID, and a folded paper of some sort, and you watch as the security examines it briefly before nodding. It’s only then that you realize the museum is closed for the evening, the only person around behind the night security, but of course that rule doesn’t apply to Hyunjin, who can get in just about anywhere with the flash of a smile.
“It’s the only way to visit with no one else around,” Hyunjin says, confirming your theory. “They let me stay as long as I want. Sometimes I draw here.”
You nod at his words, giving a small smile as the security eyes you intensely, and then he opens the door to guide both of you inside. Hyunjin removes his coat, slinging it over a nearby coat hanger, and he flaunts a white knit sweater with his dark jeans, looking cozy in contrast to the dark winter night outside. He holds your sketch pad tucked under one arm, and then he skips excitedly to a room behind a curtain.
“This one’s my favorite!” He exclaims, giggling softly like a child might. “Do you know they’re all made out of recycled materials?”
And you brush the curtain aside, being met with the sculptures he speaks of, neutral-toned figurines that appear to be made of paper mache, all resembling people. Their forms hold each other, mimic ballroom dancing, and even embrace each other in a tender kiss as they stand tall in the center of the room.
You watch as Hyunjin snaps a few photos with his cellphone, craning his neck to view them at a better angle, and then he turns to face you.
“What do you think?” Hyunjin asks.
“They’re beautiful,” you reply. “They kind of remind me of your drawings.”
He shoots you a flustered smile in response, touched that you’ve even remembered what his drawings look like. And then he graciously bows as he ushers to another room.
“I think you’ll like the next one.”
The next room behind another dark curtain is a gallery of paintings, all of them abstract forms of art that experiment with different colors and mediums. You take a while in this room, sauntering down the row of canvases and observing how each one captures something completely different from the others. Some include only cool-toned shades, their strokes much smaller and overall more somber. Some play with warm tones, long generous strokes that capture passion and heat. And some mix both, two stories dancing in harmony on one canvas, contrasting light with shadow and love with regret.
As you cock your head slightly, observing the way the colors are so evocative from this proximity, Hyunjin comes to stand next to you, cocking his head in a similar fashion and taking in the same details that you do. And if someone were to stand behind you, maybe both of you would mirror the painting, too, two hues of life and recluse working in perfect harmony alongside each other.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Hyunjin asks, and you hum in response.
“Yeah. I love these colors.”
Hyunjin nods, giving the painting a last once-over before nodding in the direction of another curtain.
“Come on, I want to show you this last one.”
The last room houses a little bench, where Hyunjin occupies the left side and pats the spot next to him. You take a seat, your hands folded neatly in your lap, as you observe the colossal painting in front of you.
It’s a watercolor painting, one amorphous shape at a far distance, yet at this proximity, the tangible outline of a figure, sat with legs pulled to the chest and crouched in a position evoking such sadness.
The cold blue hues highlight the shadows which define body parts among the pile of limbs, the curve of a breast, the almost indistinguishable outline of a leg, aspects you have to really squint hard to make out. But the colors complement each other so artistically, and the figure in the painting looks so melancholy, so longing for something more than the confines of the canvas she lives on.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Hyunjin voices, and you nod, swallowing as you remain quiet.
He pauses for a moment, his voice hitching in the back of his throat, before speaking again.
“The artist was a child prodigy,” he begins. “Apparently they painted all their life and then became a sort of recluse into adulthood. No one’s seen a painting from them since. This was their last big project.”
“Interesting,” you remark quietly.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin replies. “And their art is always titled around themes of loneliness and solitude. Every painting kind of feels like a puzzle piece leading up to their disappearance from the art world.”
Hyunjin says nothing as your eyes dart around the room, swallowing nervously as you ponder what to say. And nothing comes to mind, nothing that won’t make you seem crazy, or irate.
And then before you can protest his actions, he flips open your sketch pad he’s kept tucked under his arm all this time, flipping through a few pages until he’s nearly at the end. He stops at one of your paintings, cool aqua hues filling the paper in the same manner as the one hung on the wall.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Hyunjin finally says, and you realize he’s turned to face you now.
You stand up at this point, smoothing down your blouse and turning away from his gaze.
“Sorry, I have to go-”
You search for an exit, unable to locate one amidst the dark curtains and the dimly lit room. And the only thing you can think to do is walk back the way you entered, beginning back through the abstract painting gallery as Hyunjin follows behind you.
“They’re amazing,” Hyunjin says. “You have a talent. Your paintings were always my favorite-”
“Please, stop,” you interrupt, your heart beating erratically as you make your way past the paper mache sculptures.
“Why did you stop making them?” He asks, now standing still in the entrance, the security guard on high alert as he watches Hyunjin’s stressed demeanor.
“Sorry,” you voice to the security guard, bowing to him. “I have to go, thank you so much.”
And without turning to look at Hyunjin, you push the doors open, making your way out of the museum and onto the concrete steps. It’s raining now, hard, like the driver had predicted, and you march right past his parked car to one of the taxis parked by the curb.
The cab driver takes an address from you, punching it into his navigation system as he begins to drive down the street, and you pray he can’t hear the quiet sniffles coming from you in the backseat.
As he pulls away from the curb, you glance out the window at the museum, where Hyunjin’s now shoving past the door and standing still, his hands dropped at his sides and a hurt expression on his face.
His hair falls damp around his face as he lets the sheets of rain wash over him, his driver exiting the vehicle in a rush to get Hyunjin back into the safety of the car.
But he remains there, unmoving, his hurt gaze fixed on yours, as you turn a corner and fall out of his sight.
*
And just like the sessions were uneventful before Hyunjin, they’re much more uneventful after him, too.
Putting the sessions on hold for Hyunjin is nothing, his life full of vibrancy and color when he’s not spending an hour or two with you in the evening posing for a painting. It’s time he fills with extra dance practice, vocal training, spending time with his members and even doing art of his own.
But for you, it means returning to a life of mediocrity, requesting stock brokers to angle their big heads in a more appealing manner so you can capture every one of their unsightly features. You’re ogled at by salesmen, disrespected by accountants and not a single one of them could give a shit about your vision.
A part of you wants to call Hyunjin and apologize, to explain that he was out of line in his approach to identify you and catch you so off-guard. But you’re mostly angry at him, for having ruined something so beautiful you took pride in every week. Now he’s gone, the sessions put on pause until further notice and your life forever changed by Hyunjin, though he’ll keep living his life of lavishness despite being the source of all your pain.
“Now that we don’t have Hyunjin on the books after this week, I need you to resume the work on Mr. Lee’s painting. Let’s not lose sight of the ones we started prior to his pieces,” Q says, as he flips through a clipboard of printed schedules.
“This week?” You echo in question. “I thought sessions with Hyunjin were put on hold until further notice.”
“They were,” he responds. “After your last session this week. He’ll be here tomorrow evening. He’s your last client of the day.”
“Tomorrow?” You repeat, pausing your brush strokes as you turn to look at him. “He requested to come in tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” Q replies with furrowed brows. “Why, is there a problem? I already told him yes.”
“No, that’s fine,” you reply, rotating the brush around in your fingers as you think over his words. “Tomorrow works fine.”
Despite the sessions being put on hold, you’ll still have a moment to explain yourself to Hyunjin and make amends. It might not get you exactly where you were before all of this, but the thought of letting Hyunjin part ways thinking you despise him makes your stomach turn. You’ll still get a moment alone with him to rekindle the state of your friendship.
… Or so you thought. When you arrive at the studio the next day for your last session, Q is still there, organizing papers at one of the tables and still dressed in a fancy blazer and tie like he never left from this morning’s session.
“Quinton?” You call, setting your purse down and toying with the hem of your shirt.
“Yes?” He responds, not looking up at you.
“Are you… don’t you normally sit these sessions out?”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he says casually. “I’ll be sitting in on this last one. I know they were put on hold pretty abruptly, and I wanted to be around for your last one.”
You give him a small nod, protesting his actions mentally. You won’t get a minute alone with Hyunjin after all- not with Q watching you like a hawk. You want to scream at him, to tell him he has to leave and that he’ll be permanently disrupting the client-artist relationship you’ve developed with your highest-paying customer if he stays and taints the room with his overwhelming presence. But he largely determines the success of your career, whether you like it or not. And requesting Q’s absence will most certainly point to something more going on between you and Hyunjin.
“Right,” you reply. “That’s fine.”
You wish Quinton wouldn’t be so… mechanical. You wish he could trust that you’ll get the job done, despite any existing tensions between you and Hyunjin. You wish he wouldn’t pretend to care about being present, when in reality you know he just wants to make sure it wasn’t you who screwed something up. And you wish he would leave you alone with Hyunjin to make amends the way you know you need to before you part ways with him.
When the door opens once again, you both turn your heads to look at Hyunjin, who strolls in with casual strides, his hands stuffed in his pockets. His gaze falls on Q, and he furrows his brows together, finally looking at you, with a confused expression on his face.
“Welcome!” Q says obnoxiously. “I’ll be sitting in for this session, I hope you don’t mind.”
Hyunjin shoots him a thin-lipped smile, giving a subtle nod as he slings his bag off.
“Sure,” he replies. “That’s fine.”
He assumes his spot on the same wooden stool, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, and then he turns to meet your gaze.
“How do you want me?” Hyunjin asks. He sounds more somber than the other times he’d asked the same question, his voice trailing off a little as he waits for a reply.
“This is good,” you say, taking your own seat and beginning to work light strokes across the canvas. You start with his jawline, the same chiseled jawline you’ve gotten so used to painting, working a robust angle where the crook of his neck meets his cheeks. Then his eyes, the piercing intensity of them, narrowing involuntarily as he poses with such skill, the same eyes which have graced the covers of magazines and album covers. His lips, plump and rosy, forming a small pout as he remains silent. And the outline of his luscious brown tresses, which fall beautifully around his face and soften the rest of his features.
He looks so enchanting this evening, like he’s straight out of one of the paintings at the museum. And your anger feels almost completely dissipated once he’s in front of you like this, just a pressing urge to be alone with him so you can communicate properly.
“Looking good,” Q says as he comes up behind you, his hands folded behind his back.
Hyunjin’s eyes dart over at Q’s standing figure, glancing over at you again while you paint. You attempt to shoot him an apologetic expression, wanting to tell him it wasn’t your idea to have Q here watching your every move. But you can’t properly convey your emotions to him with Q practically breathing down your neck.
“Beautiful work”, Q chimes in, nodding as you add the color to Hyunjin’s hair.
You can feel yourself getting frustrated with him, wishing so badly you could at least ask him to wait on the other side of the room like he normally does. But he remains there, crowding around you as you work and filling the room with his awkward presence.
“I’ll drag up a chair,” Q says with a small chuckle. “So I don’t have to stand.”
And both you and Hyunjin watch as he pulls up a folding chair, dragging it along the floor in one painfully slow motion, the sound of the legs screeching against the concrete floor as he places it next to you and takes a seat.
Hyunjin’s eyes meet yours again, cocking his head slightly as though he’s asking why you’ve allowed Q to be so overbearing today. But none of this is according to your plans, either.
“Go on,” Q urges. “You don’t have to wait for me.”
You hadn’t even realized you’ve stopped painting, grasping your brush between your fingers as you watch Q adjust in his seat and gesture to the painting.
“I think we should take a break,” Hyunjin says finally. “My leg is cramping a little.”
“Of course,” Q echoes back. “We can take five. There’s a vending machine out by the front door. And the bathrooms are on the right, by the-”
Q can’t even finish his sentence before Hyunjin’s shoving his way past the door, taking long strides away from the studio and waiting outside. He pinches the bridge of his nose in deep annoyance, letting out a deep sigh as he ponders the evening’s events so far.
“I’m going to use the restroom,” you tell Q, setting your brush down and following Hyunjin. “I’ll be right back.”
And you follow his footsteps, pushing on the door to meet him outside, where he stands with one hand on his hip, the other massaging his temples frustratedly.
He looks angry, as you predict he would be, but you approach him anyway, fiddling with your thumbs as he stays quiet for a moment.
“I organized this last session to speak with you,” Hyunjin says in an annoyed tone. “I should’ve known you’d invite him.”
“I didn’t invite him,” you say quickly. “I didn’t even know he’d be here, I swear. He just stayed, and he was insistent on sitting in.”
Hyunjin finally drops his hand at his side, meeting your gaze, a softening expression on his face.
“I didn’t mean to scare you off,” he finally says. “I overstepped my boundaries. I’m just here to pay you for art. Not prod into your personal life.”
“I know,” you say back. “I wanted to explain to you, but…” your voice trails off, remembering this is technically your last session with him. And judging by the way everyone speaks of him, it’ll be near impossible to contact him again after this.
“It seems like I missed my chance,” you finish, referencing Q’s persistence.
Hyunjin glances around for a moment at the overgrown plants that line the studio windows, still damp from the evening rain. It looks like a jungle out here, the plants providing no clear view through the windows and instilling such a peaceful sense of privacy.
“Could you stay a little longer?” Hyunjin questions. “After he leaves. I just want to talk to you before I go.”
You think over his proposal for a moment- Quinton is punctual at leaving right past the hour mark. He never stays longer for hours than he needs to, but he’s no stranger to you utilizing the studio to finish up some of your work after hours.
“Sure,” you say finally. “Just pretend you’ve left after the session and I’ll tell him I need to stay longer. Don’t wait near the parking lot or he’ll see you.”
A somber smile grows on Hyunjin’s face as he nods in response.
“I’m going to call my driver and tell him I’ll be longer than the original session. Meet you back inside.”
And you make your way back into the studio, where Q is busy shuffling through papers at the table.
“Ready?” He asks, already taking strides back to his stool, positioned far too close to your canvas and Hyunjin’s seat.
“Yeah,” you reply, sighing a little as he occupies the seat next to you and glances around the room for Hyunjin.
“He’s taking a phone call,” you explain to Q. “Just give him a minute.”
And Q pushes his glasses further up his nose, humming in response as he observes your painting again.
“You’ve really mastered his features,” he comments, scanning over Hyunjin’s painted outline. “Even his eye mole is already there.”
And you scan the painting too, at the little mole painted just below Hyunjin’s left eye as he requested.
“Yeah,” you reply. “I guess I have.”
You wouldn’t forget it, because everything about him occupies your mind, much like his figure lives on your canvases.
*
It’s just half an hour more before you’re finished with Hyunjin’s painting. It’s still lacking some detail, like the contours along his face and the buttons of his cardigan. But they’re all details you give yourself time to finish later, before you wrap up your final piece and gift it to Hyunjin.
Q is relentless in his micromanaging for the remainder of the session, making useless comments about your techniques and asking Hyunjin about his own work. Hyunjin’s answers are all short and echo his clear annoyance, desperate to finish the session in order to speak with you privately. But you both remain collected in your manners, graciously conversing with Q and reaching the end of the session.
Q reviews his invoice documents as Hyunjin slings his bag on once more, standing by the door as though he’s ready to leave.
“Payment was finalized today, and your sessions are on hold until your tour is completed.”
“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, bowing graciously. “It was a pleasure to work with both of you. I’ll be back when we’re done overseas.”
“Don’t hesitate to reach out!” Q calls, as Hyunjin makes his way past the door. He waves Q off with a small smile and then turns the corner until he’s out of sight.
“Well, there goes your best-paying client,” Q remarks with a deep sigh. “We have a lot more to pick back up on. I know Mr. Lee’s paintings are still in progress-”
“Thank you, Quinton,” you voice to him. “We’ll talk scheduling tomorrow. Please just get home safely.”
“You’re not leaving yet?” He queries, already pulling on his canvas bag and hanging his clipboard from a thumbtack on the wall.
“I’m going to finish the details while I still remember them. I’ll only be an hour longer.”
Q shrugs, making his way pivoting on his white canvas sneakers and giving you a small wave.
“Call if you need anything,” he says plainly. “Make sure to lock up.”
“I will,” you echo, craning your neck as you watch him finally exit past the door and jog down the stairs. You can’t see Hyunjin anywhere, but Q doesn’t seem to notice him if he’s still around, starting his car and speeding out of the parking lot.
And not even a full minute passes before Hyunjin makes his way back inside, shaking water off his hands.
“I stood under one of the gutters,” he says in a disgusted tone. His hair is stringy wet with rain water, and he chuckles when you meet his gaze with an amused smile.
“You’ll have to let me paint it like that, someday,” you respond, and he laughs lightly.
You take a seat on the folding chair previously occupied by Q, and Hyunjin assumes his same spot on the wooden stool. For a moment he says nothing, observing your face as you tap your fingers along the metal of the chair below you. There’s not a sound in the room between the two of you, with the exception of a small creak coming from the wooden stool as Hyunjin adjusts his long legs. He runs his hands through his hair nervously, and then he licks his dry lips with his tongue before speaking.
“I have something for you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, his voice echoing around the empty room.
He stands up to pull his bag off the floor, and then he digs around in it for a moment before pulling out his sketchbook. You watch as his slender fingers open the spiral-bound cover, flipping past pages upon pages of sketches and paintings. He flips close to the end, and then he stops, bookmarking the page with his index finger before turning the book to face you.
“I’m sorry if you don’t like it,” he says, keeping the book shut in anticipation. “It’s just something I drew.”
And then with bated breath, he opens the book out to you, adjusting the page in your view to give you a clear sight of its contents. It’s a carefully drawn sketch, of you, standing in front of an easel with a brush in your hand. Painting, like you always do. You recognize the scenery around you as the spot he took you to the other day, the long charcoal streaks perfectly capturing the grass that surrounded you and the tall trees that overlooked the hills. Although it’s a sight familiar to you, it also feels so foreign, seeing yourself through somebody else’s eyes. It feels peculiar to remember people also perceive you while you paint. It makes you feel less unimportant, a little more visible.
“Wow, Hyunjin, this is…”
“Do you like it?” Hyunjin interrupts.
“It’s so lovely. Really. I feel like I don’t deserve this.”
“You do,” he’s quick to respond. “You’ve drawn countless ones of me. And of so many other people. I wanted to gift you one of your own.”
You run your fingers along the thick paper, watching as Hyunjin tears it along its perforation and hands it to you.
“Please, keep it,” he urges.
And you bow once in response, turning to set the drawing along with your bag so you won’t forget it.
“Thank you,” you finally say. “I love it. I’m going to hang it with all my favorite art.”
Hyunjin smiles in response, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips, and then he shoves his hands in his pockets again, leaning against the wooden stool as a silence falls over you both.
For a moment, you ponder what to say to him, wanting to explain the events from the other evening, but unable to verbalize anything amidst your nervousness. Any way you think about it, you fear Hyunjin is going to get mad, especially considering you’d just walked away from him in the face of confrontation. But you also couldn’t help it, his accusation coming so suddenly and so boldly, regardless of it being based on any sliver of truth.
“I’m sorry,” Hyunjin breaks the silence. “I don’t know if I was right or not. But it wasn’t my place to ask you.”
You nod at him, initially planning to divert the topic. But you can’t any further, a growing urge inside of your chest to unveil the truth to him, knowing he’s already pieced this much of it together.
“It is my painting,” you say finally, your voice shaking a little. “I specialized in those ones before portraits. They kind of gained traction when they were first unveiled, and a lot of galleries picked them up. But they drew a lot of criticism, and it became so draining to be the topic of people’s judgment. I think being perceived so heavily just kind of… scared me off. So I shifted to portraits instead, and I no longer do public showings or galleries.”
Hyunjin doesn’t react in a shocked manner, nor does he press you for questions immediately. He just nods, taking in your words, and then he meets your gaze with a concerned expression.
“I learned so much from you,” he explains. “When your paintings were unveiled at the annual art show across the city, I was so mesmerized. They’re why I started painting, too.”
You chuckle lightly, shrugging at him as you slouch back in your seat.
“Yeah, well, I don’t do them anymore.”
You think over your response for a moment, and then you stand up from your seat, too, furrowing your brows together.
“How did you… know it was me?” You question, cocking your head slightly.
“I had a hunch when I first saw your painting techniques. But I also knew it the moment I saw your other paintings in your sketchbook,” he explains. “My favorite painting of the series is printed out and taped to my locker in our dance studio. It just felt like you. I paid attention to your art for years. I was bound to know it when I saw it.”
You nod for the umpteeth time tonight, making sense of his words as you think back to the signature you drew in front of him back in the field.
“I’m sorry I figured it out,” Hyunjin says finally. “I know this was an elaborate plan to remain anonymous and shift your focus to a new form of your work. And your portraits are amazing. But you have a real talent for those older ones. And the whole series just… it changed me.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you tell Hyunjin, looking up to meet his gaze at last. “If anyone was going to find out, I’m glad it was you.”
“You are?” Hyunjin questions, and you hum in response.
“As a client, you have this really interesting way of making me feel seen. When I’m around you, It feels a lot more comfortable from the businessmen I’m used to. It’s like…” your voice trails off as you struggle to finish your sentence. “I feel like I did when I was painting my old stuff. I can see the world beyond just portraits for a little bit.”
Hyunjin says nothing, his eyes flickering down to your lips and back at your eyes once more, which are wide with curiosity and passion as you speak. It’s such a sight to see you talk about your art with this level of devotion again, color in your face once more as you attest to your life’s work.
“Tell me,” Hyunjin begins. “Why are all your paintings so lonely?”
You chuckle softly, shrugging up at him.
“I am lonely,” you say simply.
“I’m lonely, too,” Hyunjin remarks.
And your expression turns serious again, your eyes not leaving his intense gaze as he flickers over your parted lips and takes one step closer to you. He’s towering over you at this point, a strand of hair falling into his face as he lets himself lean into you a little more, just barely grazing his lips over yours.
“Can I please kiss you?” Hyunjin asks so politely, his voice coming out in a whisper as he stops himself from pressing his lips to yours while he waits for an answer.
“Yeah” you finally reply in a whisper of your own, almost on your tippy toes to match his towering height.
And then without another second to waste, Hyunjin closes the gap between both of you, leaning down to press his plump lips to yours and embrace you in a tender, desperate kiss.
He tastes like mint, his lips working against yours with no particular rush, yet his mind still running rampant with thoughts of having you as close as possible. It feels so wrong kissing him here, in the studio you strictly use for the purposes of completing your work-related tasks and nothing more. But with Hyunjin’s lips on yours and his slender hands snaking around the small of your back to pull you closer, it also feels so thrilling, instilling a sense of desire deep within you that can only be fulfilled through acting upon the emotions rooted in your innate fascination with Hyunjin’s entire being.
And you feel visible right now, so tangible when Hyunjin’s nimble hands are running down the sides of your waist and sprawling his delicate fingers along your flesh. It’s you kissing him here, not some shell of who you are when you’re capturing the essences of millionaires on canvas. You’re not the scribbled outlines in Hyunjin’s sketches of couples consuming each other with such passion, though you mirror them. It’s you, child prodigy artist turned portrait specialist, and Hyunjin, in all his fame and splendor, who chooses to spend his free time with you in this studio teaching you about yourself the way you learn from him, too.
Hyunjin’s hands move to tug off the fabric of your cardigan, slouching it off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, where it piles in disarray among the white tarp that houses loose paints. You’re pretty sure there may still be wet paint on its surface, but you don’t care, your body desperately arching into Hyunjin’s tall frame as his hands cup your cheeks to kiss you even deeper.
You can barely reach him while his frame looms over you, only able to reciprocate his kisses on the tips of your toes as he takes full control of you with his mouth. And Hyunjin seems to take notice of this, intertwining his hands in yours and pulling you down with him as he sits among the tarp and sprawls his legs out in front of him. You bestride his lean figure, balancing yourself on his lap as he adjusts himself on the concrete floor, and you both laugh when you take note of the admittedly uncomfortable positioning. It’s not meant for lovers, this dinky studio and its cold, concrete flooring. But it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked when his lips are back on yours, kissing you breathlessly and tucking strands of hair behind your ears. You can feel him smiling into the kiss, an indication by Hyunjin’s definition that he’s wanted this so badly. And he knew it from the moment you walked into the company building the first time, nervously preparing yourself out in the hallway like you weren’t going to be an absolute pro at your craft the way he now knows you are. He also knew it every time he observed your paintings, both your old ones and the newer ones that capture Hyunjin with such ease, every minute detail that builds up his intense stare only to break him down and soften him, translating this multifaceted version of him only you seem to visualize. And he gains confirmation of it when he’s finally acting upon his urges, your hands snaking around the back of his neck and moving in tandem with his hungry kisses against yours, grasping at his flesh like you’re trying to prove to yourself he’s real, too.
His sweater is the second article of clothing to go, your bodies only separating from one another briefly as you guide the knit fabric off over him and discard it beside you in the tarp. Your hands find his torso reluctantly, running your fingers along his flesh as though asking for his permission. And Hyunjin smiles when you do, placing his hands over yours and pressing down a little firmer for you, so that you can feel every inch of his toned body. He wields the body of a dancer, delicate curves that run along his sculpted obliques and highlight the years of intense training he’s done. His body feels strong underneath you, but he still feels soft, his touches exuding the gentle fondness he possesses for you.
And you’re kissing him again, all while his hands find your tank top and he separates to undress you, pulling it off over your head and tossing it aside. His hands are quick to find your breasts, splaying them over the mounds of your chest and massaging gently as his kisses turn hungrier. You can feel him getting hard underneath you, and you can hear his breath hitching in the back of his throat as he struggles to contain his growing bulge while you straddle him. But you indulge him even further, undoing the clasp of your bra with your own hand as you continue kissing him. Hyunjin doesn’t notice until your hand reaches out to toss your bra aside, a gentle rustle emitting from beside you as it joins the pile of discarded articles of clothing. And he separates to take in the sight of you, raised goosebumps along your bare skin and your nipples aroused for him, the cold air grazing over your chest as you wait for him to resume his touches. Hyunjin gasps a little, leaning forward to take one in his mouth, and then he begins to suck harshly as his tongue swirls around your bud generously and trails saliva along your skin. You moan at the sensation, Hyunjin digging his fingernails into the small of your back and leaving little crescent marks as his sucking resumes harshly, soft moans bubbling from the back of his throat, too, as he stays latched to you. And then he pulls away to give attention to the other one, his teeth grazing the tip of your nipple before sucking again, his eyes shutting as he relishes in the taste of your skin in his mouth. Hyunjin’s hips rock gently against you as he does, chasing the friction of your legs around his crotch as he grows even harder beneath you, desperate for some release. And then he pulls away finally, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with lust and a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. You bring a thumb to his forehead, swiping the bead off his blushed skin, before cupping your hands around his cheeks and bringing him in for a kiss.
“Please let me fuck you,” Hyunjin says sheepishly against your lips, groaning lightly when he feels you squeeze your thighs once against his crotch.
“You want to?” You ask teasingly, massaging your hands up and down the sides of his neck as he nods eagerly.
“I really, really want to,” Hyunjin responds, shutting his eyes as you squeeze your legs again and pepper his face in kisses, trailing from his forehead, to his cheeks and down his neck. Hyunjin leans back on the palms of his hands in a state of pure bliss, taking in the sensation he’s only dreamt of until now. And when you nibble down on his neck, beginning to suck a small bruise into his skin, he sits up suddenly, his hands finding yours and pushing you away gently.
“Wait,” Hyunjin says. “I can’t… do hickeys. Company’s orders,” he admits, a little defeated, and you nod your head quickly.
“I’m sorry,” you remark. “I totally forgot.”
“It’s okay,” Hyunjin almost cuts you off with a kiss, leaning forward and sitting up on his knees. He guides you down onto the tarp, hoisting himself up over you so that his figure is now hovering over yours, and then his hands find your pants.
“You can do hickeys though,” Hyunjin says in an amused tone, trailing kisses down your neck the same way you did him, and latching his teeth onto your flesh to suck a line of purple bruises. You chuckle underneath him, the sensation tickling a little, but still adding to the generous pool already formed between your legs. And as Hyunjin presses into you with his kisses, you can feel his erection graze your upper thigh, once more seeking the friction of your body for some sense of relief as he longs to feel you around his hardened cock.
“Hyunjin,” you voice as he kisses you, and he hums quietly in response.
“You’re hard,” you remark, your eyes flickering to the tent pitched underneath his jeans.
“Sorry,” he replies, pulling away with a worried expression in his eyes, and you shake your head quickly.
“No, no, it’s fine,” you assure. “I just want to take care of it for you.”
And your hands find your own jeans, pulling them off your legs and tossing them aside. Hyunjin’s eyes skim over your lace panties, the trim almost see through with delicate feminine patterns, and he begins to undo the button of his jeans, too.
He kisses you as he snakes off his own pants, not wanting to separate from you any more as his eagerness grows to be as close to you as possible. And when he’s finally letting his hard cock rub against the fabric of your panties, moaning softly at the sensation, he knows he won’t be able to take it much longer if he doesn’t make love to you right here in the studio.
So his hands work to pull off his boxers, finally freeing his erection against his abdomen and gasping with the cool air grazes the tip of his cock. You slide off your own panties as well, tossing them aside and letting his cock rest against your bare flesh now, his precum painting your clit with his preemptive arousal as he ruts against you. Your flesh is slick with his arousal and yours, the existing lube between both of you allowing your skin to glide upon one another so effortlessly, the same way your lips work against each other. And he continues to push his hardened length against you until he’s halfway inside of you, your cunt taking him with no struggle as he thrusts inside of you now. You adjust to his thick girth easily, his length seemingly never ending as he pushes deeper and deeper into you. And then he gives one particularly hard thrust, bottoming out inside of you and coaxing a fervent moan out of you.
“Is it okay?” Hyunjin asks, wincing at the sensation of your walls hugging his erection.
“So good,” you whine, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Feels so good.”
And he begins to move in and out of you at a slow pace, trying his best to stave off the orgasm he’s already close to reaching as he fucks you, filling your cunt entirely with his long cock and bottoming out every time he thrusts himself back in.
And he tries to kiss you, but he can’t, his mouth simply looming over yours in its parted position as he echoes his moans into you and lets his saliva-coated lips graze over you. He looks like the subject of an erotic painting himself, eyebrows arched up so artistically with every thrust, melting into your touch as you run your hands through his hair. His initial dominance over you is quickly shifted to that of submission to your mind and your body, little whines leaving his lips as he lets you consume him whole and mold him between in your touch, like he’s made of clay and you’re the sculptor. His lanky body seems to extend as he sways his hips into yours, little dips from the pads of your fingers embedding into his pale skin. He folds effortlessly above you, the points of his elbows jutting out as he steadies his body over you, like he’s made of wire and positioned to balance over you so perfectly, not very sturdy, and yet bent and snapped just right so that he can remain glued to you. And if you were to climb out of your body and paint this exact moment, all you would see are an indistinguishable, amorphous set of limbs that seem to dissolve into each other like hues of paint on a palette. Two colors swirling around to make one, the two of you like primary colors that create endless possibilities when mixed together like this, offspring of a hundred different shades, painting the darkened studio around you with your yearning for one another.
And as Hyunjin brings a hand to stroke your cheek gently, a smile grows on his breathless lips as he realizes he’s brushed a thick stroke of wet paint along your skin. The indigo stripe contrasts coldly against your flesh, still glistening in its freshness like he’s just begun on a blank canvas.
“It’s paint,” Hyunjin says as you gasp at the cold sensation, smiling too, when he swipes it again with his thumb and flashes it down at you.
And you chuckle lightly below him, taking note of the bright orange streak that lines his neck, just below his adam’s apple. You’re not sure when it got there, or whether it was from you or him, but you run a finger through it too, bringing it to his cheek to rub your thumb lovingly across his face and paint it there, too. And in one swift motion, Hyunjin swipes the palm of his hand along the tarp, coating it in hues of indigo and deep violet and gray, cupping a hand around your breast to coat it in the same wet substance. And you do the same, your hand dipping generously into the myriad of reds and fuchsia paints that live below you, running a hand down his chest and painting a long stripe along his toned torso.
You both laugh, as he picks up his pace again, pushing himself to the hilt inside of you, the paints melting together with your sweat as he fucks you rhythmically again. And like two blank canvases finally being put to use, new colors blossom between the two of your longing bodies, shades of magenta and blue-gray making themselves known across your breasts and his torso. The colors are vibrant and robust, transferring life from the dull tarp of the studio floor onto blank slates of skin. You wish you could step out of your body and capture the colors forever, mix paints together into little jars and name every shade after every feeling Hyunjin’s ever given you. Longing, lust, fear, fascination, infatuation, obsession.
“I think I’m obsessed with you,” Hyunjin breathes into your mouth so desperately. “It’s indescribable, the things you do to me.”
He lets his hands intertwine with yours again, giving them a small squeeze as he fucks you a little faster now and lets his groans shift into small whimpers that escape his lips.
“Please let me cum inside you,” Hyunjin begs, his cock slipping against your cervix with ease as wettened noises of his arousal pooling against yours fill the room. “Please, please, I promise to take care of you, baby. I feel like I belong here.”
He’s a whimpering mess for you now, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he fucks you and lets his hands explore every inch of your body. You want to cry, too, at the realization again that this all feels so tangible, that he makes you feel so seen when he’s hovering over you, placing open-mouthed kisses onto yours and letting his melodic moans fill your ears. The paint between you serving as proof that he’s touched you so desperately and wholly, creating art together in the confined space of your otherwise dull studio. And you want to feel him cum inside you, too, as a final reminder that you’re visible to him, that you’re no longer a fleeting, anonymous artist when you’re with Hyunjin. That he sees you for exactly you are, he knows your deepest secrets, and yet still he holds you, whispering words of permanence in your ear and letting you mold him like art. He’s an artist on his own, and he’s art at the hands of you, both of which draw you to him in ways you can’t begin to fathom, unlike anything you’ve felt before. And he teaches you that you’re an artist on your own, and art at the hands of a lover, both of which you hadn’t considered before Hyunjin, deeming yourself invisible in your comfortable solitude to the vast world around you. But the two coincide to echo the same sentiment that he teaches you exactly the way he also learns from you.
“Cum inside me,” you breathe desperately, grasping his hands a little tighter as he fucks you at a faster pace now.
“Yeah?” Hyunjin confirms, still staving off his orgasm until your verbal consent is heard.
“Yes,” you respond, wrapping your legs around his waist and making your best attempt to kiss him through his release. And you do, your lips moving against his in labored breaths, as he finally twitches inside of you and paints the inside of your listless body, hues of glazed white arousal filling your aching cunt as he whimpers through his orgasm.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin, breathes, giving a few more thrusts as he slows, his arousal dripping onto the tarp below you as he pulls out. And he rolls over to lie beside you, a mess of paint streaks sprawled out along his skin as his chest rises and falls with slowing breaths. The two of you say nothing for a moment, your eyes glued to a blank canvas housed on an easel in front of you.
It’s an almost blinding shade of white, begging for an ounce of color like the shades that now live on your skin. And through your heavy breaths, you picture the endless possibilities that can fill in the empty spaces above you. Grasslands, trees, oceans, clear waters and a vast, endless blue sky…
*
There is no overseas schedule Hyunjin has to tend to. You’re already aware of this, Hyunjin explaining to you that he made it up to put the sessions on hold and to keep Q from pressing him with questions.
But he resumes the sessions after a few weeks of putting them on pause, because he can’t seem to stay away from you any longer.
Hyunjin reckons he has a couple dozen of your paintings in his room now, all similar portraits of his face, portraits you capture in your signature formal essence, his face staring straight ahead or off in the distance, complete with the fine details of his long dark hair and the mole under his eye.
Only now that Hyunjin is back, Q is present at nearly every appointment. You’re not sure why things changed, and Q maintains a new stance to Hyunjin that the guidelines are based on adjusted company policies. But Hyunjin will do just about anything to be close to you- even if it means putting up with your obnoxious boss breathing down your neck every minute while you paint him.
The sessions are somehow even more unnerving than they used to be, Hyunjin still making every valiant effort to convey his obsession with you through intense stares and little gestures only the two of you can read. Q is obstinate in his ways, his gaze constantly flickering between you and your paintings to ensure everything is going swimmingly. But Hyunjin wishes so badly he could spend the entirety of these sessions alone with you, getting to break down your walls and see you for the person he knows you are when you’re not doing portraits under Q’s all-seeing eye.
With every passing day, and every passing session, Hyunjin grows a deep hatred for Q, despising the way he watches you work and chimes in to converse with the two of you. And he knows he shouldn’t, aware that Q is just your boss and nothing more. Something you’ve reiterated to him time and time again, but he can’t help it, desperate to have you all to himself every second of the day, a deep-seated longing to protect you from the hurt you’ve been dealt and wanting so badly for you to break free from the monotonous cycle you’ve confined yourself to of painting for anyone except yourself.
You can tell Hyunjin hates Q, judging by the way he doesn’t so much look in his direction when he arrives for his sessions. But you can’t convey the slightest bit of reaction in front of either of them, too scared of the prospect of what would happen to your career if anyone were to find out you’re fucking a client.
You maintain a professional composure around Hyunjin, despite the knowing stares he gives you and the sketches you catch him slipping into your purse when Q isn’t looking. At times he’s not around, you complete your daily tasks, well-mannered and organized to the clients who hire you, shooting them kind smiles and complimenting their black business attire when they show up for the evening. When the days draw to a close, Q is punctual as always, leaving just minutes past your last appointment and taking his work home with him.
And when his sleek black car turns out of the corner of the parking lot, Hyunjin slips inside like a mere shadow on the wall, quick to seduce you all over again and gift you with all of his recent sketches. Some of them are portraits of you, smiling or focused on your work. Some of them are erotic nude shots of you, lying on the tarp of the studio or touching yourself the way he pictures you do when you’re all alone. And some of them include both of you, your bodies tangled desperately into each other and drowning in your yearning and love. Sometimes nude, his hands on yours and fucking you mercilessly. Sometimes fully clothed, his lips on yours and bundled up in winter clothes. But always together, always desperate in your touches and always so tangible. You reckon he’s persuaded you into being fucked you on every surface of the dingy studio by now- against the canvases, on the tarp- several times, on the table Q typically occupies and just about every stool available to the two of you. And while Q is oblivious about why you stay a little longer every night, Hyunjin is both calculated and persuasive in returning so you two can get some time alone, time that always ends with his seed dripping out of your still-aching cunt, bodies entangled somewhere within the studio and covered in fresh swatches of paint.
He may have somewhat of an obsession with you, but life is teeming around the studio when Hyunjin is near, the colors and shapes of your work much more robust and vibrant when he’s striding around the space commenting on all his favorite pieces of yours. And you relish in stories of his days, typically spent at fan events or at dance practices. Having him return feels like having your physical figure return home to you, the world in complete equilibrium when he’s near, much less lonely than the one you’re used to.
“I could watch you do this forever,” Hyunjin remarks, watching you glide a brush along your canvas, filling in the shadows of a figure on the canvas in front of you.
And this one’s not a portrait- it’s a watercolor figure, much like the ones you used to paint back then, the technique coming back to you with ease as you highlight the convexes of a body mirroring yours and add varying hues as highlights.
Per Hyunjin’s request, you paint the figures occasionally, only because he’s repeatedly expressed his fascination at watching you complete the process in a live session. The paintings reminiscent of your old work aren’t for sale, nor are they critiqued by anyone except for yourself. And they’re certainly not done with the knowledge of Q, who would turn irate at you utilizing the studio’s supplies for anything but portraits.
They’re just for his viewing pleasure, a little exchange you indulge him in as he continues to gift you with sketches of his own.
Hyunjin’s arms snake around your waist as you paint, his head resting on your shoulder as he watches you dip your brush into a mug of water and dilute the caramel shade that taints the bristles.
“Will you add a second one?” Hyunjin asks in a curious whisper, his lips grazing your ear as you paint.
“A second one?” You echo.
“Yeah,” Hyunjin says, working a trail of kisses down the shell of your ear. “This one’s you. Will you add me?”
You chuckle lightly, dipping your brush into a warmer shade of brown and swirling it around to gather the color on the fine hairs.
“So they can resemble us,” Hyunjin says, his kisses traveling even lower. “Paint me fucking you the way you like it.”
You chuckle softly again, not missing the way Hyunjin’s hands travel to your skirt, flipping it up to graze his hands along the mound of your upper thigh.
“Hyunjin, I-” you begin to say. But you can’t answer him, shutting your eyes in pleasure as you hear him unzip his jeans behind you and position himself.
“Keep painting,” he says in a sultry whisper, pumping himself lightly behind you as he pulls your panties down.
And you try, bringing your brush to the canvas to add a second figure like he’s requested. But you can hardly make it past the first few strokes before Hyunjin’s sliding into your dripping cunt, letting his hands grip your waist to steady himself as he begins to move.
“Go on,” Hyunjin encourages, as his hips thrust in and away from your trembling figure, your hands trying their very best to keep hold of the little wooden paint brush and fill in his form.
You manage to add a subtle few streaks, beginning the amorphous outline of Hyunjin’s hair, his tall lanky figure towering over yours and taking you with such desperation.
But you don’t get very far before Hyunjin is angling your face to kiss your drooly lips, his hands now finding purchase on your breasts as he continues to fuck you. And all of this is wrong, you know very well. You’re not supposed to be sleeping with a client like this, much less one this powerful, this rich and who wields so much he can hold against you. One slip up and Hyunjin can go tell the world about how you’re the artist who disappeared to sell yourself out to rich men for all their selfish needs. And any option you have to defend yourself would never hold up against his wealthy corporation and all its investors.
But you also can’t help but give into his urges when he’s around, his lips so tantalizing on yours and his cock filling you so fully and completely when he has his way with you.
Maybe it’s not even just about the sex for you- maybe it also has something to do with his stories you live through vicariously, listening to tales of the outside world while you’re trapped in this studio or at the businesses of wealthy men. It’s also the drawings he makes for you, ones you find yourself staring at for hours after he leaves, like proof that he was here and he touched you. The drawings are you in your most tangible form, his hands on yours and his lips on the curves of your neck. It’s like a glimpse into a version of yourself that ceases to exist when he’s absent. And it’s the late hours of the night he spends asking so politely to watch you paint your older work, always so fascinated with the way your mind conjures up varying lonely figures crafted from watercolors and a nylon bristle brush. Older work you hadn’t realized you missed so dearly until you began producing it for Hyunjin again.
But you know that to Hyunjin this is just a exhilarating idea for him, to view your art the same way he carves out a couple hours each week for a museum tour or to sketch in one of his books. He probably finds it more convenient to fuck you here where nobody’s around than to stroke himself in a dorm he shares with three other men. And you can feel it in the way he so desperately pleads you to paint for him or cum for him- that his obsession with you is less about you, and more about the thought of you.
Maybe this is just the result of Hyunjin uncovering a secret nobody else paid close enough attention to connect you to. Or the thrill of you being his favorite artist for years, and realizing you’re finally tangible in front of him, real, and not disappeared like he previously took you for. You reckon it must be the same phenomenon other girls feel toward him, getting intimate with somebody they idolize, desperately cupping his face like it might dissipate if they don’t grasp hard enough. But just the thought of somebody doesn’t imply love. It doesn’t imply a mutual understanding, and it certainly doesn’t imply permanence for either party involved. When he’s gone again, you’ll cease to be real like you already are when he’s not around. And then every vision you have will be rooted in unfaltering solitude once more, your anonymous life resuming again.
“Will you cum for me?” Hyunjin asks, and you snap back to the feeling of his cock twitching in your dripping cunt as he grips your waist. “God, you don’t understand what you do to me.”
You can’t give him an answer before you feel him reaching his release inside of you, shooting thick white ropes of his cum into you and slowing his pace again as he moves your hair away from your face.
“Fuck, I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it,” Hyunjin says sheepishly as he pulls out. “Sit down for me,” he orders between kisses to your neck, trailing down to your shoulder, grazing his hands along your waist and groaning against you.
And he’s already guiding you back to one of the stools, kneeling between your legs and spreading you for him, your glistening cunt on full display for him to taste.
“Want you to cum for me,” Hyunjin whispers, before positioning one of your legs on the wooden dowels of the stool. You can’t verbalize anything to him before his tongue is darting into your entrance, lapping his own release out of you and trailing up to give attention to your swollen clit. He works you in such desperate motions, tongue working your core like a starved animal and eagerly trying to coax an orgasm out of your trembling body. When his arousal is effectively brought out of your tight cunt and painting the tip of his tongue white, he coats your clit in it, giving kitten licks to your bundle of nerves as he hums against your flesh and whispers little pleas for you to let go.
And between your pussy still clenching down around the sheer memory of his cock inside of you mere minutes ago, and his plump lips kissing all over your wettened core, you do let go for him, dribbling cum down the edge of the wooden stool and threading your fingers through his hair as he trails kisses down to your thighs in encouragement.
“So good,” Hyunjin murmurs as he comes up for air, intertwining his fingers in yours as you get cleaned up. You shoot him a little “thank you”, and Hyunjin presses a chaste kiss to the back of your hand as he nods, getting dressed once more and tucking his softened cock back into his boxers.
“Come here,” he states. “I want to ask you something.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“It’s exciting,” Hyunjin retorts.
He guides you to his same wooden stool, where he climbs upon the seat and then takes your hands in his again as you stand in front of him, pressing a small kiss to your palm before speaking.
“You know I care about you, right?” He begins, his eyebrows raised curiously.
“You’ve mentioned it,” you reply.
“And you know I love your art.”
“So you’ve told me,” you say, and Hyunjin brings your hand up to press another kiss to your palm.
“I have a proposal for you,” he then says. “And I just want you to hear me out.”
Your heart sinks at his words, already fearing the worst as you wait for him to elaborate. You pray he hasn’t done anything to reveal your identity, or to make these secret erotic sessions public, knowing you’d both never live a normal life again at either of the instances occurring.
“What is it?” You ask Hyunjin, heart racing in your chest.
He rubs his thumb along the back of your hand soothingly, trying to calm you down before he speaks.
“I privately sponsor the art gallery every year,” he begins. “I put some funding toward a painting of my choice and it allows those artists to have their pieces displayed for the winter show and make connections,” he continues.
“Okay…”
“And I want to sponsor you this year,” Hyunjin finishes, giving your hands a little squeeze.
“Hyunjin, there can't be an installment of your face at the art museum. People will get suspicious.”
“Not my face,” he says reassuringly. “Your art. Like the ones you used to do.”
And you feel your throat dry up at his words, the exact thing you’d feared coming to fruition.
“I can’t,” you’re quick to say.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t do those paintings anymore. I can paint you, or another person or whoever. But I can’t do one of my old ones.”
“But your old ones are beautiful,” Hyunjin says. “It doesn’t have to be your old series. You can start a new one. Do something entirely different.”
“I don’t want to do something entirely different, Hyunjin. It’s a chapter of my life that’s been closed already. You know I don’t do those anymore.”
Hyunjin maintains his collected composure, his eyes softening as he speaks to you.
“You’re not happy doing portraits. I know you. You have a spark in you when you’re painting for yourself, and people love them. You deserve to be doing what you love.”
“I’m sorry,” you say, letting go of Hyunjin’s grasp and shaking your head. “I’m so grateful for the offer, but I can’t put myself back out there again.”
“You can still be anonymous,” Hyunjin offers. “Some artists I’ve sponsored choose to remain anonymous and only reveal to serious patrons of their art. I can make sure they don’t find out who you are.”
“It’s me and my art I don’t want to be seen,” you emphasize.
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything now, rising from the wooden stool and reaching for the iced coffee he’s placed on the table beside you.
“Okay. I won’t press it any further.”
He swirls the cup of ice around in his hand, and then he hangs his head in defeat.
“Hyunjin, seriously. Thank you for the offer. It’s sweet of you to consider it. But I’m not ready yet.”
He shoves a hand in his pocket and cocks his head slightly.
“Is this because of Quinton?”
“What? Hyunjin, I already told you our relationship is strictly professional-”
“Not romantically,” Hyunjin continues. “You’re like a slave to him. You do everything he tells you to do. He probably doesn’t let you leave this studio.
You’re quiet again, not answering him immediately. No, you don’t stay here at Q’s behest. But it just feels safer to follow his advice. He was just a client when you met him, but he took you under his wing to get you where you are now. He runs all your schedules, he books your appointments for you, he even gives his say on most of your work. He’s the only part of your old life that’s remained the same, despite your transition to portraits, and cutting him off would be stepping into a world completely unbeknownst to you.
“No,” you say finally, but you don’t expand further upon your stance.
“You’re so lonely here,” Hyunjin responds frustratedly. “And yet you follow orders from the same person whose job it is to keep you invisible.”
“Why should I follow your orders?” You retort.
“Because I love you.”
“You don’t love me, Hyunjin,” you reply frustratedly, finally feeling the anger overtake you as you continue your angered speech. “You love the idea of me. You love the idea of escaping your crazy rich life to try and resolve the tortured artist you’re so infatuated with. You love the idea of fulfilling somebody’s life with your presence because it’s all you do for a career. I’m not the person I was when I was doing those paintings- I do portraits now, and I work under somebody who knows what’s best for me. And you’re just a client I’m sleeping with.”
Hyunjin purses his lips, amused you would stoop that low for the purposes of declining his offer. And then he shakes his head as he speaks again.
“You’re right,” he finally says. “I’m just some client you’re sleeping with. I never tried to push you out of this line of work you hate so much, or drew you on every page of my sketch book or made love to you in every square inch of this goddamn studio. I’m not proposing this because I care about you and I want you to do what you love, it’s because I’m just a client you’re sleeping with.”
And he pivots on his heel to exit the studio, taking rushed steps toward the door as tears brim the corners of your eyes.
“Hyunjin, wait,” you call desperately.
“I see you,” Hyunjin says suddenly, turning around to face you. “I see all of you. Your work didn’t just materialize by some anonymous form. You’re a painter, a really talented one, and I don’t want you to feel this all-consuming solitude anymore. I say that because I love you, not just because I’m sleeping with you. If you want to remain invisible to everybody except Quinton, then be my guest. Just know that I tried.”
And without another word, the studio is empty again, the tip of your brush still dripping with the remnants of the warm brown color and every intention to add a second figure to your painting.
*
You don’t speak with Hyunjin any more that evening. Or the next day. Or perhaps for a whole week following the conversation, for that matter. The reality is that you want to partake in his offer, the thought of it candidly piquing your interest to paint something other than another rich man. And it would be nice to watch your art be displayed for people to see just once, rather than to live on the walls of a company where only people within a certain tax bracket will ever grace your work. But what you reiterated to Hyunjin still stands- you’re scared to venture out into the competitive world of art galleries again. Your old series was a hit, sure, but it was also torn down relentlessly by those who didn’t understand it and those who simplified it down to its medium. And it was a much harder endeavor to make people understand your watercolor forms, unlike the portraits Q advises you continue producing.
But you can’t seem to stop thinking of Hyunjin’s proposal as a whole, understanding very well that his offer is one of the kindest things he could propose to you at this place in your life. He sees you- all of you, and subsequently he knows that you’re unhappy in this monotonous abyss of adding new features to the same faces every day. The way a change for you is determined only by a shift in a client’s pose or even just an addition of their pet- it’s all so repetitive, exactly what art isn’t supposed to be.
Maybe you’re just scared of getting rejected again, or perhaps it’s that you’re scared of finally being seen again, anonymous or not, putting yourself on the map again and being perceived.
*
“I want a painting,” Hyunjin says as he saunters into the studio one evening, throwing off his bag and dragging a stool to the middle of the room.
“Oh- Hyunjin, pleased to see you again,” Q remarks, bowing and giving you a nervous look.
Hyunjin doesn’t even acknowledge him, keeping a stern gaze locked on yours as if he’s challenging you.
“We have the evening booked today,” Q begins. “But I’m sure we can accommodate something for next week-”
“I need it now,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m willing to pay five times your asking price.”
And you narrow your eyes at Hyunjin, knowing he’s making his best attempt to provoke you and disrupt the work you’re completing per Q’s orders.
“How do you want it?” Q then asks, not hesitating to put aside your entire evening for Hyunjin’s offer.
“I want to be in a suit. And I want to be holding a wad of cash. I want to look like an investor.”
“Interesting,” Q says, his gaze flickering to yours. “She can do it though.”
Q turns to face you, giving you a knowing look as he raises his eyebrows. “I’ll clear your calendar for today and we can stay and work on this piece.”
And Hyunjin looks to you, too, waiting for you to protest, to say something along the lines of a refusal to partake in the outlandish task. But you avert both of their gazes, readying your paint palette and gesturing to one of the stools in front of you.
“Have a seat,” you say plainly, void of any emotion or desire to fulfill the task. And by the way Q hovers over you, void of autonomy, too, Hyunjin concludes.
“How are things at the company?” Q asks Hyunjin, leaning in a little too close to you as you begin painting long strokes on the canvas.
“Fine,” Hyunjin says, not taking his gaze off yours. His eyes are narrowed like he’s challenging you, yet you don’t give him the reaction he searches for.
“You must be busy,” Q remarks, his hands folded behind his back. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you here.”
“Yeah, and I’m sure you’re running her schedule like the fucking military,” Hyunjin retorts, cocking an eyebrow at him. Q takes a sharp breath, but he doesn’t argue, doing his best to keep in line at your highest-paying client.
“She’s pretty busy,” Q replies reluctantly. “But it’s nothing she can’t handle.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, again waiting for you to chime in, but you still don’t, working on adding details to Hyunjin’s tresses on the canvas.
“This will be my final session,” Hyunjin then says, and your head snaps to meet his gaze.
“Is that so?” Q questions. “Going overseas again?”
“Indefinitely,” Hyunjin replies. “Not overseas, I’ve just no need for the paintings anymore.”
Your lips part as though to ask if he’s serious, but you can’t, not with Q here alongside you.
“I have so many of them now,” Hyunjin remarks, not taking his eyes off you. “It’s been a lovely time with the two of you, but I won’t be returning after this evening. I hope you understand.”
“Please don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything we can provide you with,” Q voices. “I hope we’ll remain connected with the peers at your company.”
“Oh, you will,” Hyunjin replies. “I’m sure the investors and the senior managers will love portraits of their own. She’ll have a lifetime of portraits to complete when I’m gone.”
You can feel a pit forming in your stomach, queasy at the thought of carrying on this task of capturing rich businessmen and ceasing your sessions with Hyunjin. He’s unmoving in his attempts to make you revisit your old art. But his begging has also been eye-opening, making you realize just how much you hate this line of work and having Q breathe down your neck.
Hyunjin has a point, you’re unhappy doing portraits. You love the watercolor figures you paint, you love your time with Hyunjin and the feeling of unending curiosity he instills in you. There’s no solitude when he’s around, filling every aspect of your life with such color and vibrancy like the figures you paint. And you learn from him just as much as he learns from you.
But the fear remains, the feeling of hopelessness remains, the perception that Hyunjin is only obsessed with an idea of you and that your career is far gone from the watercolor figures you painted so long ago.
And of course, that you require Q’s uncompromising presence in your life to be even close to successful. He’s the one who transitioned you to a successful career of portraits after your previous line of work fell through. And you’re not sure you can shift to a new focus without him to guide you.
“Hyunjin,” you say suddenly, garnering the attention of both he and Q.
“What is it?” Q replies, as though you’re referring to him. And you wish he wouldn’t be so… disruptive, making you lose your train of thought as Hyunjin waits for your words with bated breath.
“I’ve completed the initial outline,” you settle on saying. “It should be sent over to you in a couple days.”
And he nods, a somber, thin-lipped expression on his face as he understands you’re never going to divert from this path of fear you walk, one you’re forcing yourself to stick to.
“Thank you,” Hyunjin responds, getting up to leave again. “I’ll see you around.”
*
Private events are seldom actually private for Hyunjin. The interior of the gallery is organized accordingly so that patrons can mingle with their respective artists and all of the prestigious guests invited.
But the exterior is only private up the crowd control stanchions, where beyond it live hordes of people wielding all sorts of fancy cameras and cell phones, snapping photo after photo and analyzing every one of Hyunjin’s movements.
Hyunjin’s attending an art gallery today, the crowds murmur amongst each other, the message echoing all over the city and overshadowing the art itself, which hasn’t even been unveiled yet.
His departure from the black limousine he arrives in is met instantly with deafening screams, the repetitive click of camera shutters and commands for him to angle his face every which way. The people stop to stare at his fitted black suit, the long black hair he sports styled slick out of his face and expensive jewelry he flaunts as a clear indicator that he’s a sponsor of the evening’s show, alongside a long list of other wealthy individuals.
His hands remain tucked in the pockets of his black slacks, giving a gracious bow to the fans before making his way inside to the main event.
And the gallery is significantly more packed than he’s used to, people crowding every square inch of the marbled floors and admiring the intricate pieces of art. The curtains are pulled back neatly so that guests can roam freely among the halls, easels set up in neat rows and canvases mounted on walls to display all the sponsored works of art.
Hyunjin is quick to gravitate to the long white table pushed against the wall by the entrance, set up with generous servings of hors d’oeuvres. And in a bout of nervousness, he’s sampling the cheese platters and the varying flavors of wine, sighing as he swirls a glass of cherry merlot between his slender fingers.
He was supposed to be here sponsoring you tonight, unveiling your paintings for the world to appreciate once again, and so that he’d finally put forth the notion that you’re more than the halls of law offices your portraits exist in.
But that was three weeks ago now- three weeks in which Hyunjin failed to visit you like he’d warned he would. And three weeks in which neither of you reconnected, letting the temporary affair between you dissipate like the sketches he stopped producing of you, like the portraits he finished collecting from you. And like the hope he held onto that maybe you’d come around and entertain a life in which you aren’t so comfortable being invisible and inhibited at the hands of your Q. But that never came around, and although Hyunjin is frustrated with you, he misses you just as much, knowing very well he could spend a lifetime learning from you if only you let him. Now in the gallery he once dragged you to, where he admitted to having learned the secret you hid, he can only pray you know that he sees you for who you are, and not some invisible producer of your static portraits. That a life lived in complete solitude doesn’t have to be the answer to succumbing to your fears, even if it feels more comfortable than the perception and the critiques of others. And that although the idea of you was a lovely one indeed, he loves every part of you, not just the concept of you- and pushing you to grow was his way of making it known.
The gallery hosts are quick to introduce the paintings and their respective sponsors, a variety of them being under anonymous titles and names as they choose to remain hidden, too. But Hyunjin doesn’t wait around to listen to much of it, examining the paintings on his own in between nervous trips to the snack table, where he gets tipsy off a little too much cherry wine. It’s his first time not being a sponsor to a specific painting, instead having opted to donate a large sum to the gallery in his company’s name. But after you declined his invitation to be sponsored, Hyunjin didn’t see it fit to highlight the work of any other painting. It’s you he wants to see up there, proudly showing off your work and making a name for yourself in the industry again the way he knows you secretly want to. And he so badly wishes he could stop by your studio one last time to tell you that he’s not sure he can ever sponsor another painting again if it’s not one of yours. Your art circles his mind relentlessly, as do your words, your heart, your body and your real, tangible presence.
“Nice, isn’t it?” A voice says from beside Hyunjin. He almost jumps, the wine making him a little tired at this point in the evening, not having socialized with many people while he stands in the corner of the room and takes in the sight.
“Quinton?” Hyunjin voices plainly, scowling at his uptight demeanor as he leans against the table beside Hyunjin and crosses his legs.
“So nice to see our former highest-painting client,” Q responds. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ve never seen you at one of these,” Hyunjin chimes in. He then looks around the room frantically, thinking maybe you’d accompanied him to the event tonight.
“Don’t bother,” Q says, as he takes a sip of wine. “I’m alone. Just scoping out the competition.”
He’s quiet for a moment, swirling his glass of wine around in his hand before speaking again.
“She never had a portrait at one of these gallery shows. Said they felt too commercial. Of course her old stuff was shown just about everywhere. I think she was just scared.”
“You mean- you knew?” Hyunjin questions.
“Of course I knew. I led her career’s entire rebranding. Of course she didn’t love the portraits, but the money came to us like you wouldn’t believe. And coupled with her fear of these gallery walks and important figures, we had no choice but to compromise. I got her the opportunity to paint people like you. And she did all the work.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, simply shaking his head and crossing his legs, too.
“She had a lot of people who believed in her art.”
Q shrugs. “She was free to walk whenever she wanted. Her fear kept her controlled, not me. I’m just another businessman for all she cares.”
And Hyunjin gives a small nod, finishing the last of his wine.
“Look, I can’t help but feel like I owe you an apology,” Hyunjin says finally. “I was just a little jealous whenever you were around. Not that there was anything going on, I just mean-”
“You think you’re the first client to have taken a liking to her?” Q interrupts. “I’ve seen it a million times. People want to take advantage and they get obsessed, and they start pulling crazy shit like offering five times the pay for a simple portrait.”
Q looks down to examine his leather shoes, adjusting the glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose. And then he sighs frustratedly before speaking again.
“I would know,” Q then says, doing his best to avert Hyunjin’s gaze. “She’s a tough one to crack. She loves her paintings, and being alone and I don’t think she’d ever give the time of day to a good man. Not even if he followed her to her next endeavor.”
Hyunjin nods at the marbled floor, and then his head snaps in the direction of Q’s somber gaze.
The way he speaks of you, the way he gets a little too close to you for Hyunjin’s liking- Hyunjin finally thinks he understands. It’s not just the fear of being perceived that keeps you from picking up your old life again. It’s the fear of abandoning Q, who so arrogantly feels like he’s owed something for helping get you back on your feet after you shifted your work’s focus.
He’s the only other person who knows your secret, and he holds it over you like it makes him more important than anyone else in your life. He reduces you to a lifetime of following his orders, likely because he’s bitter that he was never the solution to your loneliness. A wealthy businessman himself, it was Q who kept returning for paintings once not long ago, accumulating piles of your work and making every last effort to pursue you. But when he wasn’t successful, he convinced you that you were right about your fears, that it was your best move to take his advice and he’d keep you turning a generous profit as long as you stuck by him. Q was so hopelessly devoted to an idea of you, and when he couldn’t help you overcome your fears, he became the catalyst for your fears, instead.
“You and I are a lot of the same,” Q voices. “Two rich men with dreams just out of our reach. It seems money can’t buy you everything, after all.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything, swallowing nervously and looking at Q. And then Q shakes his head as he sets his glass of wine down on the table.
“Only I’ve never seen her willingly paint the same client so many times the way she does with you,” he finishes. “I guess she really liked being seen, after all.”
Q adjusts his glasses once more, and Hyunjin feels his heart sink at Q’s words, suddenly feeling overwhelmingly guilty for not having contacted you again.
“Could you tell her I stopped by?” Hyunjin inquires.
“Me? Oh no,” Q begins. “I can’t get in contact with her. No one can.”
“You- what? What do you mean?”
“Exactly that,” Q responds. “She told me she was done, and she walked out on me with a single watercolor palette and a notepad. She didn’t say anything else.”
“Did she say where she was going?” Hyunjin interrupts to ask, and Q shakes his head.
“She just left, and it’s been almost a month and she’s still MIA. Maybe she’ll come crawling back when she needs another rebranding.”
Hyunjin can feel his heart sinking deeper and deeper with every passing word that leaves Q’s lips.
He’s tried your cell phone- twice since leaving, and you never answered. But he assumed it to be a fleeting argument that would eventually make amends in due time when he could stomach visiting the studio again- not you running away from all of this for good.
“I have to go,” Hyunjin says frantically, chugging the rest of his wine and slamming his glass on the table.
“It was me who found her the first time,” Q says, not taking his eyes off the art across the room.
“What?”
“It was me who chased after her. After she disappeared. Don’t be surprised if she shuts you out when you finally do find her- I think I’ve already scarred her enough with my relentless attempts at persuasion.”
Hyunjin nods nervously, watching as Q cocks his head at the art, still averting Hyunjin’s gaze. And when he finally does turn to look at him, his eyes are glossy with tears, guilt painting every feature on his face.
“Could you just tell her I’m sorry?”
Hyunjin nods, though he makes no verbal promise to relay the message to you.
“Don’t do what I did,” Q emphasizes. “I think you’re the one person who makes her feel like art, herself. Don’t ruin this.”
*
“I forgot my ID today,” Hyunjin remarks to the security guard in the late hours of the evening. He’s met with a gracious bow, the same security guard opening the door and ushering him inside anyway.
“Don’t worry about it. Take as long as you need.”
The security guards all know Hyunjin very well now, taking note of the way his visits increased tenfold following your departure from the city.
At first he felt as though maybe he was searching for you when he’d come out here, any ounce of proof that you had indeed existed the way he remembered, and hopeful for the confirmation that you moved on to something new.
But as paintings cycled through their respective artists, and exhibits cycled through varying themes, it was a confirmation he never received, never finding a hint of you among the gallery. Thus, Hyunjin drew the hopeful conclusion that you’d escaped to a nicer city, worked on your old paintings again and made a new life for yourself, independently instead of under the overbearing presence of any other man. It’s what he wishes, at least, feeling disheartened every time he remembers you’ve very seldom lived any part of your professional career for yourself only.
The gallery is quiet at this hour, akin to the silent gray evening beyond its walls, and Hyunjin’s shoes squeak along the floors as he makes his way over to the curtains that veil the artwork.
New sculptures, by the same artist who had formed the paper mache ones. These ones are formed from wire and clay, the figures once again embracing each other in tender touches and dances. Hyunjin studies every careful bend and arch, making a mental note to sketch some of them when he gets a chance.
Another room houses a similar spread of modern art from before, these ones all coinciding with the warm lighting that hangs overhead, strokes along the canvases all housing similar warm-toned hues. He knows you’d love this installment and its careful attention to making use of color.
And the last room, the same little room behind a curtain, a small bench in front of a colossal canvas and just barely lit for his eyes to make out the scene.
Hyunjin’s seated before he can even examine the artwork, squinting carefully at the painting to get a better look. He even makes a conscious decision to put on his black frame glasses, making every attempt to get a proper look at the artwork in front of him.
Diluted hues of paint and water dance along the canvas, figured outlines he’s very familiar with, and the essence of solitude radiating from every brush stroke. Only this one isn’t one figure- it’s two, a warm-toned figure and a cool-toned outline holding each other in a tender embrace, their faces indistinguishable, true to the mystery of your work.
And between them, bright hues of paint, yellows, blues, magentas, fantastic mixtures of chartreuse and vermillion, all painted like brush strokes along their yearning bodies and illustrating a profound sense of togetherness, much more robust than the ever-present solitude.
“Visions of you in solitude,” reads the small bronze beneath the canvas.
As he cocks his head to make sense of the painting, he feels the leather of the bench dip beside him, indicating the presence of another patron. And at this hour, he doesn’t need to turn his head to understand who it is.
“There’s two,” Hyunjin says with a small smile, not averting his gaze from the painting.
“It felt incomplete without one.”
“Is that…”
“You?” You question quietly.
He nods in response, eyes scanning the swatches of paint between their bodies. It has to be me, he thinks. It has to be us.
“Maybe it is,” you reply. “I don’t disclose my processes to just about anyone. But you’re welcome to make your assumptions how you see fit.”
Hyunjin gives a breathy chuckle, finally turning to meet your gaze.
You look lighter- happier, as though you have the weight of your fears and reservations off your shoulders for once. Hyunjin can’t help but lean a little closer into you before stopping himself, knowing he can’t come in here to mirror the same thing Q once did long ago.
“You’re doing galleries,” he settles on saying.
“And they scare the hell out of me,” you respond, huffing a little at the end of your sentence. “But, it is nice to be seen again.”
He gives a little nod, and then his mind goes back to Q, who had asked to relay his version of an apology to you. But Hyunjin hesitates to speak of him, not wanting to taint your new art with the mentions of the old businessmen who took advantage of you.
“I’d have kept my distance if I knew how this went down the first time,” Hyunjin explains, hoping you’ll get what he implies. “It wasn’t fair of me to ask you to shift your focus. I just wanted you to be happy.”
You sigh for a moment, scanning the painting across from you, too, before turning to speak to him once more.
“Of all the clients I’ve painted, you were the first to ask about my vision. I think you do see me. And I think it was easier to say you loved an idea of me, because I couldn’t understand why you’d love any other part.”
Hyunjin nods, not taking his eyes off of yours.
“I learn from you the same way you learned from me,” you continue. “And you make me feel so seen. But I’m learning how to do that without needing you, too. Getting comfortable with my loneliness, I don’t think it’s something I was able to practice very much. At least not with…”
Hyunjin nods, not needing to hear Q’s name to know who you speak of.
“I understand,” Hyunjin voices. “And I want you to take all the time that you need. What matters is that you feel fulfilled, and that you’re not being pushed at the hands of somebody else. That’s more than enough for me to love you at a distance.”
And you nod at him, your heart swelling at his words as he turns to look back at the painting once more. The two of you stay there like that for several minutes, observing the way you’ve so carefully captured the togetherness you feel when you’re beside him. Swatches of paints that echo the color he brings into your life, and yet rooted in the solitude you’re still learning to be comfortable with. Visions of him in your own solitude, also creating a version of yourself that will continue to learn from him as much as he learns from you. And still art at the hands of him, both when you’re loving him wholly, and at this comfortable distance from each other.
And by the summer months, he’ll love you at a close proximity when you’re ready again, exchanging passionate embraces behind the curtains at galleries and making love to you in your shared apartment. He’ll continue to draw for you, and remain the biggest fan of the two-piece figures you illustrate with watercolors, capturing the same sense of togetherness and yet unwavering solitude that comes with breaking yourself down to the world around you. And the love will be reciprocated unconditionally by you, who finally feels seen at the hands of somebody who perceives you beyond just a concept.
But for now, he’ll remain right here, at this comfortable distance, allowing himself to learn from you as much as you learn from him. And the love will be undemanding, but it will be real, tangible.
[ ᴛᴀɢs: @drhsthl , @straykeedz-recs , @caitlyn98s , @moonlinos , @cottonsthings , @jaykyo , @write143 , @pinkcinnamon444 , @maximumkillshot , @auraleeknow , @skzms @coastalmaine , @venomracha , @lmhcats , @felinows , @maexc , @kang-min-joo , @liinoracha , @sealovesbts , @hanniessleepyeyes , @hyunjinsamdl , @chans1aptop , @yomomma104 , @sheraall , @kbbok , @silentreadersthings , @beomkgyu , @diorrxluvskz , @dancerachaslut , @jeannie-beannie , @heeseungshim , @weareapackofstrays , @bethanysnow , @inlovewithmusician , @kite-lee , @heartheartisa , @katsukis1wife , @minhosbitterriver , @y-ur--i , @seung-mine , @sskzlover , @bomi-ja , @crisle19 , @binniesbang , @leritzreyw , @lixiesundrop , @chopchopslide-juggalo , @vsereniasstuff , @morethancupcake , @fun-fanfics , @awillowbent , @unstiqn , @lixiesfairygf ]
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thank you so much for your support! i'm so happy you liked it❤️
hi love !! i recently discovered your blog and to say im in love with your works would be an understatement<3
i was wondering if i could request a hurt/comfort fic with minho and gn reader? where the reader is struggling financially (for whatever reason) and minho wants to help them but they're hesitant, being ashamed of their problems.
if its too much then its completely fine !! take care, sending you lots of love<3
i'm on your side.
other works by green.
pairing: minho x gender neutral reader
content warnings: hurt/comfort, death of a sibling, grief, mentions of an orphaned child, financial struggles, christmas
rating: 13+
summary: following the devastating death of your sister, you find yourself navigating a world that throws you into the deep end of piling bills and worries that you were unsure of how to handle.
The empty locket in your hand had never felt so heavy, the silver bee engraved onto the front seemed to somehow come to life the longer you stared through the blur of unshed tears. Your entire body shivered as you sat on the front steps of the hospital, white smoke forming with every breath exhaled though none of this was something that pained you as much as the loss of your sister. The thought of returning home, where her small son had slept for the past six months since his mother was admitted to the ICU was something you simply could not bear. It was unthinkable. He was too young to know pain, your chest burned with anguish as your mind echoed the last hour in excruciating detail and tears rolled down your cheeks as a wail ripped through you.
People stared and your phone buzzed incessantly in your pocket but you hardly noticed any of it. Your throat ached from your screams of despair that only stopped when someone placed their tender hands on your shoulders, the ones you didn’t need to look to know who it was because the only person brave enough to touch you in this state would only be Minho – your lover and source of support for the past year. His touch alone reduced you to hiccups as you melted into his embrace.
“She’s gone!” You sobbed, finding it difficult to breathe. Minho tightened his arms that wrapped around you, you could vaguely feel him shaking as he, too, grieved your sister’s death. “This isn’t fair! It’s not fair! She had no right!”
“I know, my love, I know.”
“What am I going to tell her son?” You moaned, heart tightening at the thought. “He’s too young to really understand why he’s never going to see his mom again…how will I explain?”
He was rocking you gently as a weak attempt to calm your disconsolate state. “We can figure it out later, he’s sleeping at Chan’s place right now so we have time to think about it. I’ll be with you, so you’re not doing it alone.”
Tears were no longer streaming down your face, eyes instead glued on the snow covering what had once been the greenest grass you’d ever seen. The world around you began to fade away as you felt yourself becoming numb – barely even able to feel Minho’s grip on you as your cries weakened to sniffles.
“Baby? Where did you go?” Minho’s voice was the softest you’d ever heard it.
You glanced around, briefly taking note of the people who stood around watching the scene of your grief. “She had no right,” you mumbled almost to yourself. “The holidays are next week…we were in the middle of making plans to bring the kids here to celebrate here with her. I don’t understand– she was fine just a second ago. She had no right. What will I say to the kids?”
Minho’s plump lips pressed against your temple and remained there for a good moment before he replaced his kiss with his forehead. “Your sister fought so hard, she tried so hard to get better, baby, and I know you know that.”
His words were like a stab in the chest, and a choked sob escaped you once more. A desperation like this was not something you’d felt before, and it was something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemies. Your hand opened to reveal the empty locket she’d given you just a moment before her passing, she had asked you to wrap it up for her son as well as print a photo of the two of them together to place inside of the locket. She wanted him to always have her over his beautiful, beating heart no matter what became of her; and you’d scolded her for thinking so negatively, promising her that she would pull through and watch her own son grow up into a wonderful young man, but she’d only smiled at you with grief. Thinking back, you couldn’t help but wonder if she knew this would be the last time you’d see her alive.
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ 🎄
It was still dark outside when you watched the drowsy employees open the front doors of the toy shop. Minho sat behind the steering wheel of his car, wide eyes gauging your reaction though you only glared forward. He’d tricked you into coming here, saying that he wanted you to walk in there and pick any and all the gifts you thought your nephew would enjoy without worrying about the prices – adding salt to injury.
Over the last couple of days, you and Minho seemed to argue incessantly – mostly about financial matters. You were behind on bills, adding the costs of your sister’s stay at the hospital and the coming holidays you had desperately wanted to make the best of for your nephew and Minho kept insisting you to let him carry some of your burden, but you simply refused. Your nephew was left to you by your sister, and it would be a betrayal if you admitted that you were incapable of taking on such responsibility. Minho meant well, and you were very well aware, but you wished he would just let things go instead of being so infuriating like this.
“Y/N, I know you’re upset–”
“Oh, you think so?” You couldn’t help but respond sarcastically with a scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I told you I was going to figure things out, I don’t need your help.”
He was quiet for just a moment, visibly growing frustrated with you though trying to mostly keep it to himself. Your eyes remained glued to the entrance of the toy shop as you watched a few people walk in for some last minute shopping.
“Baby, Christmas is in two days, and you still don’t have anything ready for him.”
“So? Plenty of people buy gifts the day before!”
Minho sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y/N, do you really think that’s practical at all? I’m offering you a chance to make this a day that he remembers after all the shit he’s had to deal with. Why do you continue to fight me like I’m your enemy when it comes to things related to money? I’m on your side, and I thought you knew this. I have more than enough money to spare, I want to give it to you so that you both can live comfortably.”
“But I don’t need your money to take care of him and myself, Minho! My sister entrusted me with her son, and who would I be if I can’t even do that? If I have to depend on somebody else to do what she wanted me to do?” Your voice cracked slightly as a sob bubbled up, though you forced yourself to push it down. You were tired of crying, tired of arguing with your boyfriend, tired of seeing your nephew’s sorrowful face, tired of not being enough to fix everything.
“Y/N, you wouldn’t be depending on me though,” he insisted stubbornly, causing you to roll your eyes in exasperation. “Baby, I think your sister would understand if you let me pay a few things here and there. You’re still working, you’re still doing everything else that you need to do to make sure he has the best life you can offer, you’re just letting me help you even if it’s a little bit. If anything, my love, your sister would appreciate you putting your pride aside for just once– just once, so that this sweet kid can have a good day opening presents. And no, I know these presents won’t fix anything, but it’ll make him temporarily happy, just long enough for you to figure out the therapist costs and everything. Don’t you think he deserves that? I am offering you a chance that not many people get, Y/N, you can walk in there and put everything you want without worrying about the prices. Please, let me help you on this if you won’t let me help you in anything else.”
His words circled around your brain, and you knew he was right despite how angry and uncomfortable the thought made you. So instead of saying anything, you unbuckle your seatbelt and hop out of his car before slamming the door behind you. You didn’t wait for him to walk inside together, your cheeks heated in shame as you wordlessly took on his offer. You hated this no matter what perspective you tried to look at it from, this is not how you wished you could care for your nephew, but if this is what it takes for him to thrive for now, so be it. Minho quickly fell into step with you as you fetched a cart, a grin very clear and wide on his face which only made you scowl.
After a few moments, though, you heard him sigh beside you as he grabbed you by the elbow so you’d stop and turn to look at him. “Please, don’t be like this. I keep telling you, Y/N, I am on your side. All I want is for you to share your burdens with me, especially if I have the means to help you. I love you, and it would be selfish if I just stood on the sidelines as you struggled like this. Me helping you doesn’t make you anything less than a fierce person who puts their family first, you’re strong and resourceful, you’re always fighting everyone and everything in order to move forward – you must be so exhausted. Let me fight some of your battles every now and then, just until you can stand on your own again. I’m not here to take care of every single hardship, I’m not here to take control of anything. I’m just here to help my soulmate out sometimes and I don’t think that’s a sin, is it?”
You said nothing at first, only sighing before pressing your forehead onto his chest in defeat. He chuckled lightly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into the familiar warmth of his embrace.
“Today, I’m helping you with the presents, and tomorrow we can figure out something that helps but doesn’t overstep any boundaries you might have, how’s that sound? I could be the one to bring groceries every week, I’ll be happy with only being responsible for that while you continue paying for everything else like you want to, yeah?”
A muffled groan made it past your lips before you pulled away to look up at him. “I’m so lucky to have you, Minho. I don’t know what I did to end up here, but I’m happy you’re on my side.”
He smiled at you tenderly, cupping your face with both hands and caressing your cheeks with his thumbs. “I will always be on your side, I can promise you that. I adore the two of you, and I want to stay here for a long, long time.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before your lips crashed onto his. You were still uncomfortable with the idea of having someone else take part of your financial burdens, but you also knew that you were in safe hands with him. You trusted Minho, and the thought alone made your heart flutter.
word count: 1.8k 🎄 posted: 12 • 07 • 2023
💬 a note from green;
Okay, so this one really had me thinking! When I received your ask, I immediately knew it would be Christmas theme considering that we're already at that time of the year where we spend a whole lot of money on gifts for our loved ones. Also, it wouldn't be me if I didn't add a sprinkle of tragedy into my work.
Anyway, thank you for reading my work and I'm so happy you love it! Thank you for the challenge and the request! Sending you lots of love back!
P.S. I also love your writing <3
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