themes: body insecurities, sad for a quick minute but a happy ending, felix is an angel as always, felix is whipped
She couldn’t help but to feel insecure—watching as the waves crashed against the shore. Y/n cast a glance in the direction of all the commotion—her gaze landing on one of the women currently wrapped up in an intense game of beach volleyball against some of the guys.
‘I wish I looked like that,” she couldn’t help but to mutter.
Y/n had never been super insecure of her body. That was until she started coming around. It didn’t help knowing that she also had a crush on Felix or that she was absolutely gorgeous. Her weight sat in all the places Y/n wished hers did. A beautiful hourglass figure, flat stomach, silky smooth skin, and a chiseled face.
Layla had a body she never would. And to top it off, she was an absolute angel.
Y/n couldn’t hate her even if she wanted to.
“What’s wrong with the way you look now?”
His deep voice made her jump, eyes wide as she turned towards Felix. There was a frown on his plump lips as he closed the cooler and took a seat next to her. Y/n’s eyes lingered a little too long on the glistening skin of his chest. She blinked, clearing her throat before moving over to make room for Felix on her towel.
She thinks if the silence lingers between them, that he will think she didn’t hear him and they can move on from this. Act like she wasn’t caught admiring another woman’s body and wishing hers didn’t look the way it did.
“You didn’t answer me.”
There’s a pout in his voice as she turns towards him. Her heart skips a beat at how close he is sitting to her. His bare arm brushes hers—the coolness of his wet skin providing a bit of relief to her overheated body.
She doesn’t know how it’s possible, but she thinks that his freckles have multiplied from the past few hours spent in the sun.
“I-,” she begins, but hesitates.
“It’s nothing Felix. Just thinking out loud.”
She laughs but there’s no humor behind it, instead her lower lip wobbles. She turns her gaze from the blonde next to her and back towards the others.
Layla cheers as the ball touches the ground in front of Changbin. Her smile is bright, wind a paid actor as her auburn hair floats beautifully behind her.
‘If only.’
Suddenly, there’s a hand under her chin, turning your attention back in his direction. Her eyes are wide as they meet Felix’s. There’s a furrow between his brow, but his eyes are soft with worry.
It’s then that Y/n feels a wetness on her cheeks. Felix gently wipes her tears before pulling her into his embrace and somehow…it makes her feel worse.
It makes her even more aware of their size difference.
Y/n wiggles free of his grasp, she pretends like she doesn’t see the look of hurt on his face as she stands.
“I’m going to head in for a bit,” she mutters—swiping at her wet eyes as she makes her way past the others and back up towards the house.
‘A bit’ ended up being the rest of the evening. When Hyunjin knocked on her door to see if she was okay, she had told him she felt a bit exhausted from the heat and was going to lay down early—which resulted in Chan delivering a couple of water bottles to her room and scolding her softly for not drinking enough.
She could hear the laughter travel up the staircase as she left her room to shower. Y/n could hear Layla’s laughter—probably at something Felix had said.
She closes the door to the bathroom, slipping into the shower, and letting the water wash away the sand and salt from not only the ocean, but her tears as well.
Y/n is beyond tired when she steps out. She dries herself—frowning as she tries to avoid looking at her body for too long. She continues with her night routine so that she can slip between the sheets once she returns to her room.
As she secures the robe around her waist—there’s a knock at the door.
She thinks it’s one of the others needing to use the bathroom. Without thinking, she opens the door—greeted by the man she had left stranded on the beach.
His hair was wet, the shoulders of his shirt spotted with water droplets from his ends. Y/n figured he must have just washed up as well in his and Chan’s shared bathroom.
He doesn’t say anything as he gently takes her hand in his, leading her back towards her room.
Y/n’s heart leaps in her chest as he shuts the door.
She notices the shiver that wracks his body momentarily from the cool air in her room.
Before he can say anything, she motions towards the vanity, “Sit. I’ll dry your hair.”
Felix looks like he wants to protest but she starts the dryer, waiting for him to sit. He does, but his eyes don’t leave hers. She feels the weight of them on her in the mirror, her palms growing clammy under his gaze. She doesn’t like the attention, not with her earlier accidental confession weighing in the air.
It doesn’t take long for Felix’s hair to dry. She turns the dryer off, moving to lay it on vanity. But as she does, Felix grips her arm. Y/n gasps dropping the dryer onto the floor with a loud thud as she’s pulled into Felix’s lap.
“Felix,” she protests but he holds her firmly in his lap.
“Stop moving.”
The deepness of his voice stills her.
He reaches up, gently brushing a strand of hair from her face, “Now tell me, what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“It’s nothing Lix. Just forget I said—.”
“It’s not nothing Y/n. You think I don’t notice the way your mood shifts when Layla is around? How much more you cover up and try to make yourself unnoticeable? How you won’t let me touch you without pulling away or stay still in my lap because you think you’re hurting me.”
Y/n’s eyes well with hot tears, her eyes moving to look anywhere but at his. But Felix won’t let her. His own soft brown eyes are filled with tears of his own.
“You don’t realize how perfect you are in every way and that kills me.”
Her brows furrow as she hesitantly meets his gaze, “W-What?”
Felix signs, moving both of his arms around her waist before pressing their foreheads together. Y/n freezes in his grasp, the heat of his breath grazing over her lips.
“You don’t realize the effect you have on me.”
Y/n feels as though she stops breathing.
“But I—wouldn’t you prefer someone like Layla?”
Felix huffs out a laugh of disbelief. His eyes flicker with mischief.
“Layla isn’t the one in my lap right now, is she?”
Y/n’s eyes widen, her cheeks heating but she doesn’t say anything.
“Is that what brought this on?”
His words are soft, wanting nothing but to understand her.
“I—maybe? I never thought anything of myself or my body until she started coming around. She’s amazing don’t get me wrong but she’s so gorgeous. It got worse with the beach trips and then knowing how she felt about y—.”
Y/n bits her tongue as she meets Felix’s gaze.
“I know she likes me.”
Y/n didn’t know how she felt about the news. Before she could overthink, Felix brushed his nose against hers before pulling back slightly.
“I told her that I already had someone else in my heart. Someone funny, kind-hearted, who doesn’t see how perfect she is inside and out,” he whispers as he inches forward again.
“Someone I’ve always dreamed of holding like this.”
Y/n’s breath catches in her throat as his plush lips brush against hers.
“Someone so beautiful in every way it drives me crazy,” he finished breathless before slotting his lips with hers.
The kiss is slow, each press of his lips against hers sending butterflies throughout her body.
Y/n lets him hold her and kiss her until they are breathless. Until those silly thoughts leave her head and until voices rise in the hall wondering where the two of them had disappeared to.
If you enjoyed this, please share so that others may enjoy it as well!
KISS ME
➥ Drea must be running a dictatorship somewhere because your first intimacy exercise with Hyunjin feels like a form of torture invented by the horniest tyrants.
➥ 7.6k (~32 min. read)
⚠ — Rizz galore, Hyunjin going full Sam (iykyk), explicit sexual content (see masterlist for more)
a/n: Ikr, finally. This one's for the Strokes Fan Club. Let me know if you enjoy and would like to see more!
“Are you fucking hearing yourself? They must be receiving THOUSANDS of submissions!”
“So?”
“So you know how rigged these awards are. The industry competition is insane as it is.”
“We have a chance, Hyunjin.”
“They’re never gonna take notice of two twenty-somethings still in school.”
“Then what if we were no longer in school?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying let’s just quit before we get ‘fired.’”
“You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“Isn’t that why I’m your best friend in the first place?”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god…
The car ride to the Petite Mort HQ was as quiet as a temple, but you were still experiencing sensory overload thanks to the ceaseless squeal in your brain. Understandably, no one in their right mind would be chill about the prospect of intimacy with Sam motherfucking Strokes, so if evERYBODY COULD SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR A SECOND, PLEASE!
Per Drea’s briefing, the point of these pre-shoot exercises was to get you and Hyunjin more and more comfortable with each other, both physically and in intimacy-related communication. She called them ‘embarrassment-breaker activities’ but didn’t follow with an “I’m just joking”. Therefore, the closer you approached your destination, the more you were convinced that she was dead serious when she told you to leave your autocensor mechanism at home. All you knew about the events on the horizon was that there would be four people and a few cameras in a private rehearsal space. “Baby steps,” Drea had said, adding she wasn’t expecting anything physical to take place that day.
Expect being the operative word…
Keep reading
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
TEMPT ME
➥ You should have been more careful while filling out your intimacy form because now Hyunjin has an entire arsenal that he can and will use against you.
➥ 2.7k (~12 min. read)
⚠ — Live porn, heavy sexual tension (see masterlist for more)
You were perceiving the heading on the screen that read “Consent & Intimacy Form”, but for some reason, it wasn’t sinking in.
HAHHAHAHA WHAT A NORMAL FUCKING TITLE!!!
You had to chug so much rosé before you could even start scrolling down the form as if someone was in the room with you, witnessing your shame spiral live. Each question on the screen was inducing small meltdowns, causing you to pace around your kitchen until your core temperature returned to normal. It wasn’t necessarily the content itself that made you break into those nervous giggle fits, thank you very much.
You just couldn’t stop picturing yourself doing these things with a certain demon whore!
“Come on, girl,” you slapped your cheeks after your third glass and sat on the stool by the kitchen island. “We gotta make Meg proud. It’s just a bunch of questions. They can’t hurt you.”
Then you took a deep breath and reread the title of the first section.
Giving Preferences (check all that apply)
“Jesus christ…” you slammed your laptop close.
After splashing some cold water on your face, you sat down for the last time and started filling out the form with the diligence of a star student. It wasn’t like you had to give college essay answers to each question—the form was mostly comprised of checklists anyway, with some optional comment sections here and there.
The only problem was that you ended up checking almost everything, even the things you had no idea about, just because you were willing to try them all with Hyunjin—which was an actual note you wrote verbatim.
“Lissen,” you addressed the invisible audience around your kitchen island, slightly slurring with your fourth glass in hand. “Iss not like he’z ackshully gon’ see my answers, and EYE was raised an honess girl, ‘mkay?”
Content with doing your homework, you hit ‘Submit’.
As you were getting ready to log off for the night, something you hadn’t noticed before in your inbox, home to a jillion unread emails, caught your attention. Drea had sent two invitations back to back, and the first one was…
Andrea Blake has invited you to edit the following form
Edit. Which meant… Editor access… Which meant…
You immediately hit ‘Open’ like your life depended on it, and there you were, actually inside the form with the ‘Responses’ tab staring at you. You clicked on the spreadsheet, searched for the name of your person of interest, and…
“Oh, god,” you slammed your hand over your mouth.
Eaten alive by your curiosity, you grabbed your hypothetical magnifying glass and scrutinized every single answer Hyunjin submitted. You know, for research purposes. Advancement of humanity. Co-star study. Spank bank material.
WHATEVS.
Giving preferences—everything checked. Receiving preferences—everything checked. Position preferences—everything checked with a note reading, ‘You, bent over a dressing table while we practice lines together.’
“NO, YOU FUCKING DID NOT!” you yelled at your screen as if you were in a Teams meeting with Hyunjin.
Weakest point(s) on your body: Cum gutters. Kiss that vein 💋
When the referenced body part suddenly popped into your head courtesy of the many videos you watched of him, you got off the stool and turned the AC on, then started fanning yourself with a takeout menu for good measure.
Aftercare preferences: Kisses on my neck. Did I say kiss that vein? 💋
You were a giggling mess, kicking your feet, twirling your hair, getting WET with each answer, and your heart was beating rabidly like it was ten seconds away from cardiac arrest. But then, you suddenly heard glass shattering in the distance when an unexpectedly candid line caught your attention.
A red flag that kills the mood instantly: Faking it.
And just like that, your giggles vanished into thin air.
A scenario started playing in your inner mind theater, and for once, it wasn’t a pleasant one. You and Hyunjin in the middle of a scene, and you faking something just so you could wrap up. Would it really turn him off that bad that he would be uncomfortable with you every time you needed to get intimate? Should you maybe talk to him about it? What did ‘Faking it’ exactly entail anyway?
You didn’t know how long you stayed perched on that stool, thinking about a truckload of What ifs. This was supposed to be ‘hot goss’ material, not an existential crisis trigger, but maybe you had it coming for snooping around. And also…
You were so lost in your thoughts that you did not notice the circle on the top right corner of the screen with the initials ‘HH’, signaling you that someone else was also in the document.
“Oh, fuck, no, please, no, fuck, DON’T!”
You pounced on your laptop in an attempt to delete your answers so you could redo the form while fucking sober, but you were too little, too late. There was already a comment bubble from Hyunjin right on the cell of your first answer.
HH: Don’t bother. I’ve already read it all 🥰
This was Hyunjin’s first time visiting this set as a guest. He recognized everything from the prop furniture to the color of the wallpaper, but at the same time, it felt like all of these belonged to someone else’s memories. As if he had never shot scenes in this exact space before.
As if he had never set foot in this building in his life.
“The Count of the Cunt is back!” Kurt greeted him, handshake quickly turning into a hug. “Fuck you for changing your number, bro. We missed you around here.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but no bullshit necessary, man,” Hyunjin chortled.
“I’m serious! Everybody was looking for you at the 2 Million rager,” Kurt insisted. “The ladies dissed the fuck out of our stripping skills.”
“My favorite muncher!” Malena threw herself into Hyunjin’s arms as soon as she entered the set. “I died when I heard you were coming back. PUH–LEASE teach this guy how to eat properly.”
“HEY!”
“Fine, I’ll make a tutorial playlist from my best-ofs,” Hyunjin let out a heartfelt laugh at Malena’s hyper antics. “Enjoy your shoot.”
“Hyunjin! Over here.”
Drea was waving at him from the viewing area while issuing orders and directives to her staff left and right. As he was walking back, Hyunjin was trying to figure out how the hell he was going to melt this block of lead on his chest, constantly causing him to lose focus every five minutes. Did he maybe make a mistake accepting to be a part of this on a whim? Based on nothing other than pure, unmitigated impulse?
But then he saw you enter the set, greeting Drea with those same beaming eyes, and his steps quickened all of a sudden.
“There’s my OTP,” she brightly smiled at both of you like an affectionate older sister, then handed a document outlining a scene. “Here’s what we’re working on today. Feel free to critique amongst yourselves. I’ll see you after this, okay?”
When she turned around and sat in her director’s chair, you quietly squealed, inadvertently squeezing Hyunjin’s arm hard enough to leave a bruise. Sacrificing his bicep to your intense fangirling, he nudged you towards the chairs you were supposed to sit on, a few feet behind Drea’s. Once you had settled into your designated seats, you turned to the first page of the document, and Hyunjin leaned in closer so he could read it.
Your heart switched gears from one to three in the blink of an eye.
“So…” he started, eyes glued to the page in your hand, “I read your form.”
“Oh, jesus fucking christ, not now…” you snarled in a whisper.
“It was a very informative piece of literature, I must say,” his smug smirk joined the conversation.
“Please stop.”
“So you’re willing to try everything with me, huh?”
“Will you stop?”
“Why? Is that not what you put down in your notes?” he looked straight into your eyes, then bowed like a knight would bow to his queen. “I consider it an honor.”
“SHUSH, the scene is about to start,” you slapped his arm and diverted your attention from his rosy spice scent to the set. At least, to the best of your ability.
“Quiet on set, please!” Drea addressed the set, then commanded her actors. “And, action!”
“Hundred bucks says Kurt finishes before Malena even sits on him,” Hyunjin immediately began his quiet running commentary, his grin way too amused.
“What?!” you let out the loudest whisper of your life.
“Oh yeah, my man’s toast,” he nodded at the screen in front of you.
“How would you know?”
“Well, two things. First of all, he clearly overdid it with the prep edging. You can see the full hard on,” he explained with profound seriousness. Then he turned to you, and his tone shifted to something more… knowing, “And I know he’s had a ginormous crush on Malena for years.”
“You’re enjoying this a bit too much,” you unwittingly snorted at his perceptiveness, zero disdain, pure entertainment.
“Just helping a co-star learn the ropes,” he hummed with a shrug. “The right person looking at you like that can end your life, just saying.”
Your eyes darted to Malena on the screen. She was walking towards Kurt in almost slow motion, eyes hooded, smirking like she knew something he was trying to hide from her. The closer she approached, the tenser Kurt became, about to draw his last breath under her touch.
You couldn’t help but think—what would it feel like if Hyunjin looked at you like that?
“So?” he extended his hand. “Hundred bucks?”
You fucking knew better than to accept a bet originated in this man’s playground, but eh, fuck it. All in the spirit of learning the ropes.
“You’re on,” you daringly reached for him without thinking. You really should have.
Because only when your hand was midway in the air did it dawn on you that you were about to touch him for the first time.
Oh, you didn’t think this through at all.
When his skin found yours, the world stopped turning and time stood still. The only thing that existed in that moment was Hyunjin, and the only thing you could sense was his scorching touch. You were going insane, unable to comprehend how something could feel this soft yet this firm at the same time. You didn’t know what it was, but it sure as fuck wasn’t a handshake. A casual touch wouldn’t linger for hours. It wouldn’t make you feel like Zeus’ entire arsenal struck you all at once. It wouldn’t yank your heart from your chest, squeeze it dry, then shove it back like nothing remotely atom-rearranging had transpired just now.
As you slowly let go, you could swear you felt his thumb caressing your hand, but there was no way you could prove it. You cleared your throat and got to watching, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t extract teasing material out of this moment anytime soon.
Because you would cease to exist.
Malena had made her way to Kurt by then, placing kisses on his back as he watched the whole thing in the mirror before him. You couldn’t exactly tell if he was watching Malena or himself, but unfortunately for you, you were so going to lose the bet with Hyunjin. All Malena did was caress his body, but Kurt already looked like he was on the verge of combusting, heavily breathing every time her lips ghosted on his skin. You tried to pass your small gasp as a hiccup when Malena suddenly pulled the sheets covering Kurt, exposing his full nakedness. You were about to scream in protest as to why no one was showing a shred of emotion—people were having sex right there, yet everybody on set was dead serious like they were either at a church or someone’s wake. It somehow relieved you as much as it tensed you up because this at least had to mean these people took their jobs very seriously.
Meanwhile in your peripheral vision, Hyunjin was having the time of his life watching you squirm, trying to think of ways to contain his cuteness aggression.
“See that right there?” he leaned forward and pointed at Malena’s hand tracing Kurt’s body.
The camera had zoomed in on her hand ghosting him, the distance between skin to skin barely noticeable but still there. Kurt was taking shaky breaths as if he were scared. As if there was a possibility of him getting shot dead at any given moment.
“That’s what kills you,” Hyunjin tilted his head, a whisper of a smile clinging to his lips. “Not the touch, the almost. Captured in 4K macro.”
He was being weirdly… analytical. Like this was a film class. He didn’t comment on the slick dripping down Malena’s thighs. He didn’t comment on how Kurt was painfully hard. He commented on the almost instead. You wondered if that was his residual film school knowledge, or if he was ever behind a camera at all. And if it was the latter, who did you have to kill to get your hands on that footage?
He leaned in closer, his shoulder now pressing against yours, and you could feel his body temperature from that touch alone. Even if it was behind the bars of layers of clothing.
“Right there,” his finger hovered on the screen, pointing at Malena’s devilish smile as she removed her leather dress. “She knows she has him in the palm of her hand. And not as a part of the role.”
You tried to keep your expression neutral while watching Malena rub her breasts against Kurt’s crotch, but your pupils dilated to the size of a full moon were snitching on your arousal levels big time. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. You wanted to at least look professional, but you couldn’t. Palms sweaty, throat dry, hands balled into a fist… Hyunjin was taking note of every single one of your tells, his eyes intently watching you. Not the scene. You.
Being subjected to his incessant gaze was much more flustering than watching a beautiful woman worship a beautiful man right in front of you.
“Imagine this was our scene,” Hyunjin whispered into your ear. “Would you look at me like she looks at him, too?”
You turned to your right to face him, and he was so close that your lips almost brushed against each other. There was no touch this time, but Hyunjin was still the only thing that existed. His scent was the only thing you could sense. You were going insane, unable to comprehend how something could smell this erotic yet this wholesome at the same time, and there were zero thoughts in your brain to produce a coherent answer with. His eyes darted to your lips, his own parting with a shaky exhale, and you didn’t have to prove anything this time. He was actually leaning into you, the distance closing between you taking your breath away, and you were ready to die suffocating in between his lips.
“FUCK! I’m so so sorry.”
“Cut!”
Kurt’s voice bouncing from wall to wall all around the set gave you and Hyunjin a terrible start, and you both started laughing your asses off, tensed bodies suddenly going limp like the worst jumpscare had passed. You reached for one of the water bottles before you since, well, god fucking knows you were in dire need of irrigation in multiple parts of your body.
“So?” Hyunjin asked with reassuring chirpiness. “Not that bad, right?”
“Sure,” you internally fanned yourself, trying not to sound breathless. “Not that bad.”
“I believe you owe me a hundred bucks,” he casually stuck out his hand.
“I don’t recall signing a contract,” you narrowed your eyes at him.
“What do you mean? We shook on it,” he responded seriously, borderline offended. “Verbal contract. Extremely binding.”
“You’re the worst.”
“At losing. Yes.”
You rolled your eyes and dipped your hand deep into your purse, then handed him a stick of gum as payment.
“Savor it,” you deadpanned, trying a little too hard not to burst into laughter. Hyunjin’s rascal smile grew wider as he shoved the gum in his mouth, happier than an overexcited puppy with the bait and switch.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
TRY ME
➥ You and Hyunjin gather at the Petite Mort HQ to sign your contracts, but you might not make it out of the building alive when the flirting levels are lethal.
➥ 3.3k (~14 min. read)
⚠ — No major warnings apply (see masterlist for more)
Concrete has neither a beating heart nor a long-term memory, but Hyunjin still felt like he was meeting an ex to discuss estate division after a hostile divorce.
Chest heavy with inexplicable heaviness, he walked through the revolving doors of the glass-clad building cosplaying a Wall Street company. Some things had changed around here, such as the purple reception desk Anita had installed by the entrance, the neon Petite Mort logo on it glowing like a sultry welcome.
“Mr. Hwang,” the receptionist welcomed him with impeccable professionalism before he could even introduce himself. “Mr. Han is expecting you in the conference room, sir. Here’s your visitor pass.”
Mr. Hwang. If anyone saw this exchange, they would think he was about to sign for an Oscar project.
After a wordless nod at his greeter, Hyunjin headed to the elevator and scanned the card. His blood pressure climbed in line with the changing floor numbers, making him dread the jumpscare of certain faces he would much rather not see at the moment. He briefly considered stopping the elevator to go back down and ghost everyone, but he was in too deep to run away like a coward again.
When he walked out of that cabin, the man who possessed the collective confidence of a small country’s population—and made sure everyone knew it—suddenly felt self-conscious like he’d never been. It was as if all eyes were on him, rolling back in snide judgment, questioning the source of his audacity to be here after all the ruckus he caused. The distance between the elevator and the conference room was about fifteen steps, but it felt longer than his post-2023 St. Patrick’s Day walk of shame where he had to go home barefoot.
“Déjà vu, much?” Jisung’s chirpy voice greeted him in the very same room they met for the first time, instantly lowering the BPM count in Hyunjin’s ribcage. He broke into a smirk and slammed his hand into Jisung’s palm, pulling him into a hug.
“I’ll believe I’m not having another nightmare when your first check clears,” he quipped, sitting down on one of the swiveling chairs, and reached for the standard-issue stack of paper on the table that he’d seen a dozen times before. “Listen, boss, I kinda have a favor to ask.”
“Chris and his girl are in Cannes, so you have nothing to worry about,” Jisung responded before the question could make a proper appearance.
That was chillingly quick. Maybe Jisung’s marriage certificate came with a mind-reading upgrade to adapt to the ‘Happy wife, happy life’ motto, but also… Cannes? Were they just vacationing there, or…?
So what, that was none of his goddamn business.
“Why would you think that was what I wanted to ask?” Hyunjin uttered, still with perfectly convincing composure.
“The label on your water bottle is all fucked up,” Jisung pointed at the dented plastic that looked battered as hell. “You’re clearly nervous about something.”
“Can’t it be about the boss lady?”
“It can,” Jisung shrugged, “but you and I both know she’s not the reason you’re writhing in guilt.”
“I’m not writhing in guilt,” Hyunjin curtly replied.
“Back so soon, Chrizztopher?”
When Jisung waved towards the glass door, Hyunjin immediately turned around, jumping in panic like someone stabbed him with six knives, barely calmed pulse all rabid again.
“I love you, and we don’t have to talk about it, but don’t fucking bullshit me,” Jisung scoffed. “Don’t worry, we will be shooting in off-site studios, and I made sure the trailers are suuuper fancy.”
“That wasn’t funny,” Hyunjin clenched his jaw through a sigh of relief.
“Neither is your denial, bitch, but here we are,” Jisung pushed the documents towards him. “The contract is essentially the same as the one you signed before, but if you wanna take a look…”
“Nah, I’m good,” Hyunjin grabbed the pen resting next to the file. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Damn, don’t you think that’s a bit too trusting?” Jisung smirked. “What if I’ve quoted slave wages in there?”
“You care too much to let that happen, and you’ve already bragged about the budget of the project when you said, and I quote, ‘You can pay me with a Lambo’,” Hyunjin closed the file and leaned back into the chair, his infuriating smugness making a comeback as he swiveled from side to side while rotating the pen between his fingers. “I’m sure you won’t object to one trivial condition I put down.”
“Condition?” Jisung reached for the document and turned to the very last page, the handwritten note above the signature in stark contrast with the Times New Roman suit of the contract.
Should the co-star of Hwang Hyunjin change, this document shall become null and void, effective immediately.
“You’re so fucking petty,” Jisung burst out laughing.
“Thank you for noticing,” Hyunjin reciprocated with a calm smile.
The laughter set the room temperature to a balmy 25 degrees Celsius, sending the blizzard of terror and worry packing. Nevertheless, Hyunjin couldn’t help but remember the last time he was in this room, and he shivered with the chilly breeze of remorse blowing down his spine.
Before he risked catching a nasty cold, however, his co-star’s arrival closed the window causing the draft, and he suddenly felt all warm again like he was wrapped in toasty blankets. Maybe he was even sweating a little bit.
Did it get too hot in here or what?
“What’s up with you two constantly meeting before me?” you sat down across the duo with a man clad in the sharpest suit money could buy pulling a chair next to you.
“I was trying to pull a fast one on you to negotiate secret terms,” Hyunjin blasted the charms your way without wasting a single second. “Damn your punctuality!”
“Maybe don’t joke about it with a lawyer present in the room,” the man immediately showed claws, eyes devoid of any expression other than the intent to fuck shit up in a courtroom.
“I brought Seungmin with me because I’m totally illiterate in Legalese,” you confessed, somewhat abashed that you hadn’t informed Jisung of your plus one beforehand. “Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course!” Jisung handed Seungmin an identical set of documents, lowkey intimidated by his corner-office-owner presence.
While Seungmin was well on his way to finish reading the entire document in 45 seconds, this was probably going to take you 45 minutes because of someone sitting across from you. Hyunjin wasn’t doing anything other than swiveling in his chair, hands clasped on his lap, and staring at you with that annoying smirk on his face, but it was enough to distract you.
Now add the fact that he looked stupid sexy while simply SITTING.
He had probably sprayed just two spritzes of perfume, but you could perceive all the notes as if he had dunked himself in a bathtub filled with it. The elegance of rose was making love to the absolute debauchery of spice under the woody sheets. A little earthy, a little powdery, as if he had asked for the specific aroma of a classy whore. It was nothing flashy, but still unequivocally him. Graceful. Seductive. A safe haven to breathe easy.
It was actually fucking insulting how he looked camera-ready even in the plainest clothes ever manufactured, just a white top and jeans like he threw on whatever was lying around. He was wearing his hair up, his face flawless with zero decoration other than his eyebrow piercing, making the truest statement ever made with that t-shirt that said, “Careful, the body you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot” in large print.
Amen, brother.
You cleared your throat to recalibrate your focus and started reading the contract from the top.
And all of a sudden, it felt real.
The document opened with a description of the project, followed by the classic performer rights and responsibilities, confidentiality and exclusivity clauses, grounds for termination, and all that jazz. What you were pleasantly surprised by was the extra emphasis they put on regular health screenings as well as the two entire pages dedicated to explicit scenes and consent protocol. Then came the juicy part.
Only at that moment did you realize that you had never even thrown a ballpark number Jisung’s way on the off chance that you might say yes.
Ergo…
“That CANNOT be the right amount,” you almost screamed when you got to the part titled ‘Compensation’.
“I mean, we can negotiate,” Jisung put his cards on the table candidly, “but I don’t think I can convince legal for a substantial increase.”
“That’s not what I meant!” you followed up with eyes widened like saucers, voice still unsure whether to be dumbfounded or scandalized. “I… I usually make like… a fraction of this.”
“Oh,” he raised his brows in pleasant surprise, then his tone shifted to rightful pride in an instant. “Then welcome to the world of productions that pay enough to live with dignity.”
“I can have them tighten up the language a little more if you want, but termwise this is good to go,” Seungmin dropped his final review and stood up, buttoning his blazer like he owned the goddamn room. “I have court in half an hour. Call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Thanks, Seung, I appreciate it,” you sent him off with a wave.
It wasn’t like you were expecting Jisung to play games with you, but no one could blame you for needing a translation of the fine print. After Seungmin left, a ticklish feeling set in your chest, making you smile for no reason at all. You were about to reach for a pen when the door swung open again, and a woman walked in, your astonishment dropkicking the document off your hand.
“Sorry!” she apologized with a warm smile, “We had to do so many retakes today.”
“And the queen arrives,” Jisung greeted her with open arms. “My children, meet your ringmaster.”
You suddenly lost control of your body and rose to your feet like a general had just arrived, literally standing at attention for how starstruck you were.
“M–Ms. Blake,” you bowed 90 degrees, suddenly forgetting what the proper decorum was for social interactions. “I’m a huge fan. Huuuge fan!”
“Likewise! You were phenomenal in A Doll’s House,” she extended her hand for a firm shake, “And please, call me Drea.”
You instantaneously turned into the standing emoji personified, shock throwing itself from wall to wall inside your brain.
“I sincerely apologize for what I’m about to do,” you opened with a calm, professional voice, just to lose your shit two milliseconds later, “but SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU WATCHED ME?!”
“Of course, I did,” Drea let out a heartfelt laugh, slightly confused as to why you were surprised by this information. “Your director Priya is an old friend of mine. She can’t praise you enough.”
“You should have opened with THAT!” you vehemently waved the protest flag in Jisung’s face, one hand pointing at Drea. “Not Playboy over here.”
“Sure, pretend I had zero influence on getting you through the door,” Hyunjin faked a pout. “You’re hurting my feelings, Trouble.”
None of the sassy comebacks you wanted to throw at his face were rendered correctly in your mind due to the acute onset euphoria. You sat back down with Drea settling into Seungmin’s former chair next to you, and the expression on your face was so aggressively endearing to Hyunjin that he couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. Your beaming eyes suddenly generated captions, and they read, This is my favorite topic of all time, let’s talk about Drea’s movies, please. Can we talk about Drea’s movie’s please? Drea’s movies—
“A little bird told me you might still have some reservations, so I’m here to answer any questions you may have for me,” Drea addressed you directly, and the air in the room toggled back to contract rush mode.
Oooh, boy, okay, here we go.
“I love Megara’s character. I really do, but… do we have any creative agency here?” you asked apprehensively, terrified of offending the director you would throw hands for. “Are we allowed to go off-script and improvise, for example?”
“By all means!” Drea nodded. “If it doesn’t work, I will have you do retakes, though.”
The sigh of relief you let out was cartoonishly deep. In all honesty, you hadn’t fully believed it when Hyunjin said you would have a say in how sex was depicted, and there had to be a reason people kept saying ‘Never meet your heroes.’ Thank FUCK for the country you had saved in your past life so that you could dodge the disappointment that would crush your soul.
“Well, how do we… rehearse?” you moved on to your next question, nervously playing with your fingers. “For… you know.”
“Well, you might have noticed the script Jisung gave you is a draft copy. I will need you both to fill out a form first, which will shape the final choreographies,” Drea explained. “Of course you’re going to act, that’s what an actor does, but I value authenticity over everything else. That’s why I have my performers do intimacy exercises before explicit scenes.”
“Such as?”
“This,” she pulled something from her bag that looked like a deck of cards. “I prepare some prompts and have you execute them in a private rehearsal setting. I do film these sessions, and your intimacy coordinator and I use it to rechoreograph if necessary. Once we wrap up production, we destroy the footage unless the performers mutually agree to keep it archived.”
‘I fucking KNEW there was a reason I love you!’ you wanted to yell in her face, but a wordless nod had to make do. You imagined what that setting would be like. You and Hyunjin in a cozy room, picking out cards with intimate prompts on them like you were playing a spicy game over wine, three seconds away from heavily making out.
When would be the appropriate time to start kicking your feet and screaming exactly?
“Hyunjin says your intimate scenes are free-form?” you emphasized the word. “What does that mean?”
“It means while we do envision the scenes to unfold a certain way, you don’t have to count to five when you’re kissing. I found that it distracts my performers. What matters is the natural progression of the choreography,” Drea responded with awe-inducing professionalism. “I have full confidence in Hyunjin to make you feel comfortable. He always pays close attention to his partners’ rhythm.”
“He… does?” you inadvertently turned your head in his direction.
The fuckboy energy was so strong that you never would have guessed. Hyunjin usually looked like he devoured everything given to him in the best sense possible, but at that very moment, his eyes were as soft as they come, looking at you like he was silently pleading a case.
Your mind suddenly conjured the memory of him describing himself as an actor, and you smiled to yourself, averting your eyes from him.
“Tell you what, I have a shoot next week here in one of the in-house sets. Why don’t you come visit so you can see it for yourself?” Drea nonchalantly offered, making your jaw drop as if you weren’t going to experience the exact same thing in the very near future.
“Can I really come?!” you almost screamed in full fangirl mode, completely forgetting the intents and purposes of your presence in that room and making everyone burst into laughter.
“Of course!” she held your hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
“If you’re ready to make magic,” Hyunjin passed you a pen across the table to sign the paperwork, “let’s make it official.”
“You sign it first,” you looked at him daringly.
“I already did, and Jisung agreed to shred the document if it doesn’t have your signature next to mine,” he pointed at the file. “Ready to marry me?”
Just WHY did he keep saying stuff like that?!!!
You slammed your hand on the file and pulled it towards yourself, menacingly staring at Hyunjin as a cover-up for your extremely flustered state. You turned to the last page of the document, and there it was, a jumble of lines somehow looking like encrypted art, and right above it, a handwritten clause.
Yes, it made your heart skip a beat, SO WHAT?
All of a sudden, it didn’t seem so scary to put your name down. You took a deep breath and copied Hyunjin’s statement only with the name changed, and signed the contract with the kind of finality associated with marriage certificates or death warrants. Because this was either going to be your big break or straight-up career suicide.
You weren’t sure why it actually felt like you were taking Hyunjin’s last name for a second there, though.
“I am SO happy right now I could cry. I think I’m actually gonna cry,” Jisung pressed a hand on his chest with fake tears. “Monumental moment in erotic cinema, and this calls for getting shitfaced on champagne. Let’s go.”
“By the way, I highly encourage you two to spend time off set,” Drea urged you as she followed suit after you into the hallway. “When we work on long-form projects, it usually helps my actors build rapport and feel much more comfortable with each other.
“What do you mean usually?” you creased your brows, getting ready to tease. “There’s a chance we might hate each other?”
“Maybe,” she broke into a knowing smirk, “but there’s also a chance you might fall in love.”
Pshhh, YEAH RIGHT!
Realistically, set romances weren’t unheard of, yes, but your situation could not afford anything of the sort. You weren’t just going to portray clean romance and get away with faking a smile if things went south. There was physical intimacy involved in this, and you historically had a problem getting in the zone when there was emotional restraint between you and your partner. It would definitely show on camera, and who knows how long it would take to get the scene right, if at all.
“Come on now, Drea, no such thing will happen,” you uttered with excess confidence, clearly trying to overcompensate for your own uncertainty. “I’m a professional.”
“Whatever you say, baby girl,” she shrugged as she looked for her phone in her bag, “but you’re also human.”
“Wait, did that ever actually happen?” you suddenly turned serious.
“You tell me. I’m happily married to my wife for three years now, and all it took was one silly nickname she called me on set one day,” she answered, grin still perfectly intact. “I sent you the link to the form. Don’t forget to fill it out before your set visit next week, okay?”
Then she left you there in the hallway to contemplate your life choices as if everything was alright with the universe. Drea had basically just told you she found her soulmate on a porn set, and you didn’t know what to do with that information. Right when you were on the ledge of a massive spiral, you were pulled back to reality through the vortex of Hyunjin’s velveteen voice.
“Here,” he handed you one of the water bottles he copped from the conference room. “Hydrate. You will need it to quench the thirst, Trouble.”
Your entire existence was electrified when your fingers brushed for the briefest second as you reached for the bottle. Hyunjin just winked and left for the elevator whereas you were pinned to your place, now flustered ten times worse when you replayed the instances of the past hour in this brand-new context that didn’t occur to you before.
“Crap,” you muttered under your breath.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
SWAY ME
➥ One text message at late AM hours, and all of a sudden all you can think about is that slutty waist of his.
Maybe this is how Victorian men felt when they saw a woman’s ankle for the first time.
➥ 4.7k (~20 min. read)
⚠ — Depiction of porn, issues of self-doubt and shame (see masterlist for more)
What the FUCK am I doing?
When you came home that night, the feeling was a convincing replica of masturbating to nasty porn, then being immediately ashamed of yourself after cumming. Oh, the irony.
The two weeks that followed had been a hardcore cramming hell as if you were preparing for a three-part high-stakes exam, which, well, you kinda were. The sections included the critique of Andrea Blake’s sensual cinema, the in-depth analysis of the condensed script copy Jisung had left you, and the oral defense of Strokes Intimacy.
You spent approximately 18 hours rewatching some of your favorites by Andrea, journal in hand, brows furrowed, taking fervent notes like you were about to brutally sashay someone away after a heated panel deliberation. You scrutinized everything—tropes, themes, depictions, sex acts, all to find one thing that would make you throw your fangirl goggles in the trash, but the reasons you adored this woman’s work remained fully intact. The performers were a beautiful palette of such ordinary people that you could literally run into them in your hallway. Nothing felt ‘for pay’ about a pair intimately touching each other, each genuinely curious and eager to please. Rooms so cozy, lights so soft, cinematography that would give a lot of mainstream productions a run for their money. Midway through Charcoal Blues, there were tears in your eyes and between your legs yet again, which firmly engraved Andrea in your mind as the inventor of emotional horny once and for all.
Onto the next one.
The protagonists of Jisung’s story had this je ne sais quoi to them that made them infinitely alluring. It would indubitably be so much fun bringing Meg to life, a charismatic gallery curator allergic to emotional proximity and wearing an armor made of appetite under her leather jackets. Someone who knew exactly what she wanted and got it.
An antithesis of you.
Whereas all Hyunjin would have to do was portray himself. Dean seemed like a fictional photocopy of him—a lethally charming artist who fed on lust and never received ‘No’ for an answer. Not ‘took’—received. His clash with Meg was endlessly entertaining even in written form, and the idea of portraying this push and pull with Hyunjin was giving you hot flashes. Sure, Dean was sexy; he was what everyone who was into conventional attractiveness wanted.
But he was also every man that ever made you feel disposable and hate yourself for wanting to be held after sex. As if that was a weakness.
You couldn’t tell if it was a good sign or the darkest omen that parts of the story were hitting a bit too close to home. In any case, it was clearly written as watchable emotional damage, and with Andrea in the director’s chair, so many people were sure to send their exes “U up?” texts at ungodly hours after watching this show.
Now, onto the next and most dangerous one.
As you were searching for Hyunjin’s content, you felt eerily watched. As if one wrong click was going to flag you and let him know in obnoxious caps lock that you were looking into him. You were being extremely cautious for no reason, trying to convince the invisible people in your bedroom that you were watching porn for very legitimate and professional reasons.
Unironically! Honest!
The first three search results for “Sam Strokes” were more than enough study material. Hyunjin updated his content pages and socials rather frequently, and the number of interactions even under mere thirst traps was so north of mere thousands that you could feel the Arctic breeze in your bones.
Seriously? Sacrificing a firstborn just because he stood in front of a mirror shirtless?
You couldn’t even begin to imagine the kind of unhinged DMs this guy must receive on the daily.
The only thing missing from the most clinical porn-watching experience of your life was a magnifying glass. You were hyper-focusing on the subtlest details. How he interacted with his partners. How he touched. How he fucked. The videos didn’t seem scripted; they looked more like samples of the infamous sex tapes he mentioned making, but Jisung didn’t lie when he said even the nastiest stuff Hyunjin did looked aesthetic to the camera. He was an S-class porn performer with god-tier visuals and impeccable dirty talk proficiency, ruining lives one lick at a time.
Porn performer…
Out of complete instinct, you opened a new tab and searched for “Hwang Hyunjin”, just to find out that the online realm was crawling with his namesakes. You had almost given up hope by the time you reached Page 10 of the search results, but you found it at the most obscure, dusty corner of the Internet on a dead blog. And this was about to be the most crucial task for your nonexistent magnifying glass.
His acting skills.
The five-minute video opened in a bedroom still bathing in daylight, but the sky was burning outside with soft oranges. The backdrop was intimate. A lived-in place, a bit messy. It could very well be Dean’s bachelor pad. The open window made the curtains dance, but there was nothing wholesome about this frame.
Ten seconds in, and your heart was already aching.
He looked younger in this footage. His hair was much shorter, and he was stripped of his trademark “I can and will fuck you up with a single look” aura as well as his clothes. The camera showed the scene from right above the bed. He was lying there with someone, face to face and fully naked, caressing the woman’s cheeks.
She was crying.
Neither of them spoke for a full minute. All Hyunjin did was just watch her and listen. To her quiet sobs. To her heartbeat. To the wind blowing away the dead petals still clinging to the withered bouquet on the nightstand.
“To remember,” he finally uttered with the softest voice ever, and started to descend lower.
He kissed her gently everywhere as he made his way down. The frame only showed his lips pressing on the pieces of her skin. He kept going down. And down. And down. The camera didn’t portray full nudity. But it did.
It portrayed the most naked thing in the world.
Two-second frames of close-up details started flashing back to back. Her eyes squeezed tight. Her throat bobbing as she swallowed thickly. Her chest rising and falling in more frequent intervals. Her hands grabbing fistfuls of the bedsheets. His fingertips sinking deeper into her thighs. Her soft moans. His quiet hums. She slowly unraveled, and he held onto her like he wanted to keep her from falling. He resurfaced again and rested his head on her thigh, breathing in full sync with hers. He stole a kiss from her wrist when she reached for his hair, then let himself be caressed, eyes closed with heavy tranquility.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered through a sob.
The scene faded to black, and so did your brain.
“That was… porn?” you asked the invisible people in your bedroom out loud.
Nothing had happened in that video, but so much had happened that you were having the hardest time processing it. It settled in your chest like a giant rock, the crushing feeling refusing to leave as if you had just watched something extremely traumatic. You couldn’t stop thinking about how gentle his gaze was, like he was in unbelievable pain to watch her hurt. The man delivered one line, and there you were spacing out, thinking about the hundred different things it could mean.
Hyunjin wasn’t simply good. He breathed life into whatever skin he was wearing. He meant it. He felt it. Every second of it. You wanted to know what that felt like, too. Would he make you believe you were someone else and forget who you really were? Would he help you remember what it felt like when you fell in love with acting the first time?
Two whole weeks. The indecisiveness was killing you, but you had run out of time.
You will thank me later.
Maybe you would, but… what if you were selling out? What if you were being desperate?
You left your bed and followed the light to your kitchen, pouring yourself a large glass of water and blankly staring into the distance as you sipped. You did a mental recap of everything leading to tonight, the night of the 14th, and tried to be as objective as you could. How would you react if you saw this show in the wild? How would your loved ones react? Would they be proud of you? Would you be proud to be a part of it? Duh, it was Andrea, of course you would.
Then what were you this scared of? Who were you this scared of?
You flinched in your place when your phone went off with a notification. Right on schedule, Sir Hotshot Producer needed an answer the second the calendar showed the 15th.
To his credit, the man hadn’t pushed you once since the night at the bar, so he was well within his rights with his request.
WOT?
You briefly wondered whether that Myspace-era video was cursed and somehow possessed manifestation powers because this was straight up uncanny valley.
WHY were you giggling to yourself like a virgin at this hour just because some dude made the corniest joke in the universe? It had to be a byproduct of consuming porn nonstop for two weeks straight, right? It wasn’t like you were suddenly imagining his lips and his jawline and that stupid slutty waist you wanted to wrap your legs around.
You unwittingly admitted it yourself. As much as you were pretending to be chill about it, it was bothering you that there were going to be explicit depictions. Then the question begged, would you still be this self-conscious about it if a fairy godplastic surgeon magically turned you into the hottest rendition of Cleopatra?
Your phone said goodbye to this cruel world and jumped from your trembling hands when it rang at full volume and scared the shit out of you. Hyunjin was… calling. At this hour.
WHY, if not to cause cardiac arrest for personal entertainment?!
“H–Hello?”
“The night we were at the bar, if you heard someone dissing Drea’s work next to us, would you defend her?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he spoke with his usual grounded tone, but with a tinge of passion this time, bordering on irritation. “If someone said there was no cinematic value to her movies and called them pure trash, would you defend her, or would you keep quiet in silent agreement?”
“No one disses my queen right in front of my face. I’LL STAB A BITCH!”
“Then what is the difference between you having sex with some duke on Bridgerton versus this?”
You froze. You didn’t have one solid comeback to that, and you kinda hated him for holding a mirror that you didn’t want to look at. Not much, just a little bit.
“I’m gonna ask you something, but I need you to be brutally honest with me. I’ll take no offense whatsoever,” his voice abruptly shrouded itself in uncharacteristic seriousness, worrying you a little. “I would understand why if I’m right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Could you open the door?”
NAH.
Was he…? He wasn’t, right? Like, why would he…?
At this point, you were legitimately torn between suing Jisung for GDPR violations and thanking him for your life.
You approached your front door with slow steps and bated breath, still thinking to yourself that this was about to turn into some sour prank. Still in full disbelief as you turned the handle.
Still convinced you were hallucinating when you saw Hyunjin at your doorstep like an infernal angel, clad in a leather jacket and black jeans, phone still in his ear and looking somewhat crestfallen.
“Is it because the idea of having sex with me repulses you?”
He asked that question in the exact same soft voice from the video, and your heart shattered into a million pieces.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!!!”
You covered your mouth immediately, cussing yourself out for providing ample gossip material for your neighbors, but that pseudo-scream came out as a knee-jerk reaction. Not only had that never once been a concern, but that was…
Okay, gun to your head? That was one of the few things you were maybe kinda sorta looking forward to, not that you would confess that to any living soul.
“In case you can’t tell from the dumb smile on my face, that makes me really happy,” Hyunjin ended the call and broke into that smirk that screamed mischief again.
Come to think of it, he might be the only person this universally annoying expression actually suited.
You took a step back for him to come in, and he thanked you for the invitation with a silent nod, waiting for you to lead him. Your feet took you to the kitchen instead of the sofa for some reason. As he took a seat on one of the stools, you mindlessly reached for your kettle to make some apple tea.
“It has nothing to do with any of that,” you uttered, your blank gaze glued to the teabags as the water boiled. “I’m just… scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of being deemed a clout slut selling out for mainstream success,” you admitted at long last with a smile cut in half with disdain. “Of… being a joke.”
“You think erotic movies are a joke?”
“You don’t understand,” you heaved a deep sigh as your shoulders drooped in resignation.
“Then tell me,” he emphatically insisted.
“Look, I’ve done theater all my life. This would be my first screen work. Ever,” you started, already exhausted. “And it’s straight to graphic sex. ‘Fish out of water’ doesn’t even cover the whiplash. It feels like I’m dating the biker gang leader my mom is super against.”
The kettle went off with a click. You filled the mugs with steaming water and rested them between you on the kitchen island, still refusing to meet Hyunjin’s eyes like you would turn into stone otherwise.
“It’s so cutthroat in my world as it is. If I mess it up, I will have nowhere to return.” Your voice waned into barely above a whisper. Any louder, and the words anchored to your ankles would pull you down to the bottom of your shame. “They are going to… disown me.”
Hyunjin let the silence linger in the air a little bit. You looked as defeated as he did earlier, but if his aftermath was any indication, you were also believing in things that were miles away from reality. Why jump to the most catastrophic conclusion of all as the first line of defense?
Not that he had any gold medals in that department.
“Biker gang leaders can love you like no other, if you let them,” he spoke at long last, dipping his teabag into the water. “And with all due respect, your argument is invalid for fantastic performers in their prime. It’s for has-beens who really should retire but are still desperately trying to make a comeback.”
“How would you know what kind of a performer I am?” you asked, your expression soggy with deadpan indifference.
“Jisung has tapes,” he wiggled his brows like the menace he was.
“Jesus, this man has got to chill!” you threw your hands in the air, adding one more item to argue your GDPR case.
“Why shouldn’t the opposite be true because there is graphic sex in your first screen role?” he slightly tilted his head, looking at you like he was daring you. “A gold star theater actress is suddenly starring in something heavily erotic in nature. Doesn’t that insinuate there must be something in it that she believes in?”
Huh.
Were you just trying to hold onto something to not feel bad, or did Hyunjin’s words actually make sense? Would you think the same if your mentor Becca Wilkinson, the woman whose validation meant cardinal law to you, suddenly appeared in such a production at 85 years of age, for example?
“So the question is, do you believe in this story?” he asked with profound earnestness. “It’s okay to say no, by the way.”
“I do.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, then convince me,” he swiftly pulled back, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m the most anal theater snob that ever walked this earth.”
His face turned so mean like he had a personal vendetta against you, and that sharp stare was enough to send a chill down your spine.
“How dare you even say you believe in this? It’s disgusting. Do you have no shame tarnishing the craft with something so deplorable?”
He spat those words so menacingly that your heart fell out of your chest. The mirror he was holding had turned into a highlight reel of your worst nightmares, and you could feel your blood rushing faster in your veins.
Perhaps you didn’t need that five-minute video after all. You were witnessing Hyunjin’s acting skills right in the middle of your kitchen, and it was a bit too believable, actively traumatizing you in real time.
“Th–The story of this—”
“It’s still porn. The existence of a plot is irrelevant,” he interrupted you with the manners of a puritan critic.
You wondered if he was also able to hear that snap at the back of your head.
All throughout your acting life, from your aspirational school years to your understudy suffering era, all the way to the ‘Hm, maybe you’re not half bad’ plateau, there had always been this set of… traditions. And you had to honor them because, whether you liked it or not, you had chosen sides when you started walking the path of theater. If you couldn’t act live, you couldn’t act. Commercial success meant selling out; anything remotely sexual meant shock value in poor taste; and if you weren’t struggling, you simply weren’t paying your dues. Therefore, you were only a real actor as long as you made just enough money to host wine parties for your pretentious colleagues and perform the classics in rotation with your clothes on. Fucking shame on you if you even considered a role in a screen adaptation.
You started laughing to yourself like a deranged lunatic.
“Now you listen to me, and you listen to me well, you entitled brat. If it’s hard for you to hear me from your high horse, tough fucking luck, I don’t have a loudspeaker for you.” You leaned into Hyunjin, jaw clenched and fuming out of your nose, laughter immediately muted when the rage kicked in. “Sex is as much a reality of life as the precious human suffering you obsess over. It’s literally at the bottom of our needs hierarchy. Too many of us who feel unworthy of being loved, probably because of assholes like you, use it as a coping mechanism to shut people out. Because guess what, no one can hurt you if they aren’t close enough to rip your heart out. It’s even sadder that some of us use it as a placeholder. For some warmth. For some healing. A band-aid to put on our bleeding wounds at the expense of our whole entire self-esteem because during that five minutes of blinding lust everybody wants everybody, and it takes a fucking badass to lay this tragedy quite literally bare, so no, my good sir, you cannot dismiss this as fucking PORN!!!”
You were on the brink of tears by the end of your resentment-fueled monologue, breathing heavily, your hands freezing cold and your cheeks burning vermilion. The smile that bloomed on Hyunjin’s lips was all kinds of satisfied, immediately softening your tensed posture.
“Then everything else is irrelevant,” he shifted his weight on his elbows again. “And this whole thing will shine so bright just because you’re a part of it. I promise you.”
It felt oddly cathartic to vomit all of this out loud, but you also felt embarrassed for going ballistic on the guy when all he did was impersonate. You gnawed on your lips, at a loss for words, hoping he wouldn’t judge your character based on a fictional tantrum.
“I uh… Thank you, Hyunjin,” you attempted a smile, bashful and somewhat tired.
“Was that an upgrade or a downgrade from Playboy?” he cocked a brow. “Please take it back if it’s the latter. My pride can’t have that.”
You involuntarily snorted, the day’s first genuine gesture of amusement spilling a warm feeling on your chest. It duplicated itself on Hyunjin’s gorgeous face. He looked like an entirely different person when he smiled from the heart with that dimple kissing his cheek.
He reached for his mug, and his hand hovered over the handle for a couple of moments. His fingers rested a bit too close to yours, and if one of you so much as flinched, there would be skin-to-skin contact, but he didn’t do anything. He just stared with something indiscernible in his eyes, then curled his fingers around the porcelain and brought it to his lips. What you did when he moved away could either be interpreted as a simple exhale or a longing sigh, depending on the interpreter.
The surprised mirth clinging to the curls of Hyunjin’s lips was a bit too telling of his preferred conclusion.
You cleared your throat and turned around to wash your barely touched mug as he dialed a number and put the call on speakerphone. All of a sudden, a familiar voice blared in the kitchen, loud enough to make up for his physical absence.
“THIS BETTER BE GOOD NEWS OR I WILL SEND A TACTICAL ASSAULT TEAM TO HUNT YOUR ASS DOWN!”
“I wouldn’t know, but the jury came back.” Hyunjin turned the phone to you, locking his eyes with yours. “Our star has the final verdict.”
“I will literally cry if you don’t tell me what I’m dying to hear, but no pressure,” Jisung faked a pretty convincing tremble in his voice. “Actually, I will cry either way. Lay it on me.”
There wasn’t a shred of playfulness in Hyunjin’s demeanor this time. It was solemn, silently telling you that the gravity of the situation could not afford any more jokes. That you needed to make up your mind now.
And as you were getting lost in the abyss he carried for eyes, you realized that you had already picked a route when you got in that cab two weeks ago.
“I’m in…” you spoke into the receiver.
“THANK YOU JESU—!”
“...BUT,” you pointed at the screen as if he could see you and sternly declared, “if at any point this stops being art and becomes cheap jerk off material, I quit, and you cannot use any footage I was in. Put it in writing.”
“I promise this is going to be nothing short of amazing,” Jisung emphatically reassured you, his palpable enthusiasm dripping from the speaker all over the kitchen floor. “We’re immediately tying the knot tomorrow! I will have you both picked up from your places.”
“Starlet treatment already, huh?” you rested your elbows on the island counter and leaned in. “Hyunjin is actually at my place right now. Maybe just send one car.”
The silence that followed was smothering. Hyunjin’s lips parted, thrown off by the insinuation your words carried. Did you…? You didn’t… You didn’t mean that. That was a joke.
RIGHT?!
“Strokes,” Jisung calmly addressed him at the other end of the line. “Get… the FUCK out of there!”
“Never expected this would be how I met your father,” Hyunjin snapped out of it rather quickly and feigned perfect surprise, then lowered himself closer to the microphone with utmost respect. “Nothing inappropriate is happening, sir.”
“What could you even do if I wanted a fling, hornball?” you scoffed at the phone with pseudo-anger.
“With all the love and respect I have for you, bitch, as if you are capable of doing one-night stands. Save the horny energy for the set, and I’ll see you both tomorrow,” Jisung deadpanned and ended his call with one final warning. “HYUNJIN, I’M SERIOUS, LEAVE!”
Beep.
Hyunjin chuckled to himself as he shoved the phone back into his pocket and left the stool like a good boy who listened well. He made his way to the front door without an ounce of hurry, and once he stepped into the hallway, he turned around like something had dawned on him at the last second.
“Interesting,” he leaned against the door frame, eyes narrowed with pretend calculation in his head. “Does that mean several-night stands are still on the table?”
Even though something inside you made an embarrassingly loud ‘HNG’ sound, by sheer dumb luck, you managed to keep your poise with a graceful smile. You took one step closer and also rested your shoulder on the door frame. None of you had ingested anything amber or pink tonight, but the electric current still returned at full force, even louder this time around, threatening a fatal shock.
“Looks like I’ll be your on-camera girlfriend after all. If you can win my heart, that is,” you uttered with just the right amount of sass. The reins almost slipped from your hand when your eyes darted to his lips, unwittingly forcing you to punctuate your sentence with a sigh, “We’ll see if our chemistry is indeed… explosive.”
“A promise is a promise,” he softly ran his tongue over that nest of sin he used for talking, as if there was a reason to make it any more enticing. “I did offer to change your life.”
When his gaze shifted to your lips in return, you saw him shakily exhale, and suddenly you could feel your heartbeat in your ears. You didn’t care if anyone was snooping through their peepholes. If anything, a tiny piece of you secretly hoped that they did; it wasn’t every day that a god descended to the mortal realm, currently looking at you like you were the object of all his feral desires. He was getting closer, and you were letting him, and this time he was welcome to cross that finish line. This time, he was welcome to show off in any shape or form he wanted.
You closed your eyes and braced for impact.
“But never show me your hand again. I edge as an Olympic sport,” he quietly spoke into your ear and placed the softest kiss on it. “I can’t wait to taste you.”
And the groan you almost let out when he pulled back was everything to him.
“Good night, Trouble,” he saluted you with two fingers on his temple and a lethal smile on his lips, the taste of flawless victory dissolving on his tongue as he walked away with his hands in his pockets.
Once you closed the door after Hyunjin, you couldn’t move for a few seconds, letting out an aghast chuckle. Your heart was beating like crazy, and the spot his lips touched throbbed like it was subjected to blunt force trauma. You rolled your entire exchange all the way to the beginning in your head and replayed your favorite moments, zooming in on the subtleties—the way his eyes were crawling with dread when he asked you that question at your doorstep, the way he pushed you to face your demons, and how his lips parted when you said what you said to Jisung. Like he was questioning if that was really an invitation or not.
As you took a sip from the mug he left behind, from the exact spot his lips touched, a part of you wondered how he would react if you whispered ‘Please don’t go’ into his ear through a sob.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
the author's note is so funny to me bc like???? of course i like him wdym?????? i would die to fuck him if he let me and i'm ONLY 2 chapters in. gonna mass reblog the next days sorry not sorry GODDD i shouldn't have read this at 1am (still in my very catholic dorm) what am i supposed to do with all this TENSIOMNN BETWEEN THEM AGHHHHHH AGH AGH. i have nothing constructive nor important to say other than fucking loud screeching and moaning. thank you very much for being such a goddess of a writer. there's a very little amount of serieses i enjoy enough to be excited for the next chapters but this one is fucking one of them tho. can't wait to wake up tmrw and keep reading (and getting horny over it) 🤭🤭🤭
MEET ME
➥ The bar smells like expensive liquor and bad decisions. Hyunjin swirls the drink in his hand as he listens to Jisung, waiting for an opening to let him down easy. As karma's magnum opus, the bar door swings open when he says his third 'No' in a row, and the expected guest of the night lets herself in. High heels. Red coat. Finesse for days.
Hyunjin puts the gear in reverse so fast that his barely-there backbone irreparably cracks.
➥ 7.7k (~32 min. read)
⚠ — Conversations around porn and pleasure, sexual tension (see masterlist for more)
It may look cocky, but it at least correctly described him.
Hyunjin knew sex; he had built an entire career around passion and pleasure. Not only did he love his job, he was fucking good at it, and it didn’t matter if he was facing key lights on a set or a ring light in his bedroom for him to be jaw-droppingly spectacular. He wasn’t just a pretty face, either—he was talented in performance arts, be it acting or seduction, able to charm anyone, anywhere, anytime he wanted.
Oh, to be cursed with a blessing…
His slightly dramatic dismissal from his former studio left him perfectly unscathed. Like the unbothered king he was, he nicely swept all his suppressed feelings under a rug, dusted off his shoulders, and carried on with his life as if nothing happened.
Because as far as Hyunjin was concerned, it was indeed nothing.
He was doing just fine appeasing his barely satiable appetite for attention with solo work, undeclared, unattached, still insanely popular as the Internet’s favorite bad decision. One thirst trap was enough to cause mass hysteria, and he had more offers than he could handle.
But when Jisung’s name flashed on his screen one night, he was forced to take a good look at that rug, and that was when he realized there was now a small bump right in the middle of it.
What did his former producer want to do with him after all this time anyway? Did his wife decide she could do a better job of crushing his dignity and wanted a do-over? Did he want to inform him about a looming lawsuit so he could lawyer up? Did Bondi want to…?
Did… something happen to…?
Hyunjin almost didn’t pick up the phone. Almost. And god knows he shouldn’t have, but his curiosity sank its teeth into his flesh so hard that he found himself swiping towards the green icon in physical pain.
“You have reached Strokes Rekt Support. Thank you for calling, your desperation is very important to us,” Hyunjin faked an authentic-adjacent automated voice. “If you have something of substance to say, please press two.”
He wasn’t expecting to hear an actual key tone. Jisung stayed silent on the other end of the line, clearly waiting for Hyunjin either to hang up on his face or to properly greet him so he could start talking.
“All our operators are currently serving other customers. Please do not hold the line.”
“Talk to me before I camp outside your apartment, you shady-ass sex incarnate!”
Even Hyunjin was surprised to hear himself chuckle when he heard that all-familiar chaotic voice again. His tightened jaw suddenly loosened, and he felt his grudge starting to drain.
One molecular drop per second, but still…
“This is Sam. How can I help you?” he continued with his customer service voice as he relaxed into the couch, propping his feet up on the battered coffee table. “Did you change your last name yet, boss?”
“Talks are in progress with my attorney. I was thinking I could hyphenate,” Jisung replied with profound seriousness. “How’s everything, man?”
“Peachy as always,” Hyunjin picked up the pen resting on the couch cushion. “Did you have a nightmare about me or something?”
“Does it have to be that dramatic? Maybe you just popped into my head,” Jisung offered an almost convincing reason. “Don’t I ever cross your mind, too?”
“Sure, I do think about you sometimes,” Hyunjin spoke with a tranquil smile on his lips, spinning the pen between his fingers. “Like I would think about an ex I’ll never get back together with.”
“Ouch, was our breakup that nasty?”
Hyunjin sighed. Of course it wasn’t. It didn’t even have anything to do with Jisung at all; everything was the consequence of his own self-sabotage, and the poor guy was just collateral damage.
But being the bigger man had never been his style.
“Considering how the topic comes up once a week in therapy, no, it was totally amicable,” he tried to flatten the bump on the rug by stomping on it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I want to talk to you about something, but I don’t wanna do it over the phone,” Jisung cut to the chase without a beat. “Can I take you out tomorrow night? It’s important.”
“Important as in…?” Hyunjin dragged out the last word with narrowed eyes, now shaking the pen between two of his fingers somewhat nervously. “Anything less than a DEFCON 3 situation is not really—”
“I have two words for you,” Jisung interrupted before Hyunjin could get any pettier. “Feu d’Or.”
And even though he was unable to see it, he could still tell Hyunjin’s face had changed from the dense silence that suddenly came between them.
“That’s right, baby,” he grinned with smug satisfaction. “Did we reach DEFCON 1 yet, or what?”
Feu d’Or. Something Hyunjin had wanted for an embarrassingly long while, but now just a line at the very bottom of his bucket list, harshly scribbled over with disappointment so that no accidental onlooker could read it. The closest he came to it… It was the very project he was removed from because of… reasons.
What could have possibly changed between then and now?
“One drink. That’s all I’m asking,” Jisung insisted. “To be humiliatingly honest, the work part is just an excuse to see you. I really do miss you.”
Miss him, huh? But maybe not enough to give a call on a random Tuesday rather than when a favor was needed.
“Fine, one drink,” Hyunjin accepted the invitation nevertheless with a loud exhale, already regretting everything as he was uttering the words.
He didn’t have a conscious agenda when he said yes to this. Honest. Maybe he was just a little too bored nowadays. Maybe he had a little more pride than he let on and wanted to show off just how much he was thriving. Or maybe the snake living in his head had done a silent calculation on his behalf, telling him this could be an opportunity. Either to settle the score, or… something else entirely.
Who knows?
“FUCK, man, you’re gonna be the reason I’ll come out of the closet as Hyunsexual one of these days. Just look at you!”
Hearing the on-brand thirst after all this time unclogged something within Hyunjin, and shards of memories suddenly started flashing behind his eyelids. It was as if they had seen each other on set just yesterday and no time had passed at all. He would never admit this out loud, but he had indeed missed Jisung, the only man he had a genuine connection with while it lasted.
The formality small talk was brief. Hyunjin was only one sip into his scotch when Jisung slid a document of sorts towards him, wasting no second of the precious one-drink-long time they had together.
“Now, the meat,” he clasped his hands on the table. “Feu d’Or has a new category open this year, and I want to submit for an award with a limited series.”
“A limited series? How would that even go?” Hyunjin mockingly laughed. “Previously on Fake Taxi… Everybody came. I wonder what’s going to happen in this episode, oh, do tell.”
“Ha, funnnny. It’s nothing like that,” Jisung deadpanned. “We’re playing for the Oscars of erotic cinema, and this thing will have my signature under it. Obviously it’s gonna be top-notch, cutting edge, state of the art, all that shit. You are my first and only choice as the male lead.”
Hyunjin suddenly stopped reading the synopsis and lifted his gaze from the script into Jisung’s eyes. He seemed dead serious and didn’t even blink when he said that with his whole chest. A question immediately started drilling a hole in his head, and after a five-second beat, he said fuck it to his resolve of keeping the tension to a minimum tonight.
“Don’t you have Chris for this stuff?” he cocked a brow, somewhat suspicious. “Why are you coming to me?”
“He doesn’t perform anymore.”
Oh. So he was the first and only choice due to a technicality. Because he was the next best thing in Golden Boy’s absence. Like he always was.
“I can hear you resenting,” Jisung stared a hole into Hyunjin’s forehead, voice all stern. “Before you jump to extremely wrong conclusions, even if he was still performing, he wouldn’t be a good fit for this role. I need the kinda toxic fuckboy energy that induces the most passionate ‘I can fix him’ for this.”
“Have you cast your other lead yet?” Hyunjin pretended he was perfectly unaffected by the words he had just heard.
“The person I have in mind is an insanely talented friend of mine, but she’s... classically trained,” Jisung heaved a nervous sigh. “Not exactly gunning for a porn resume.”
Hyunjin huffed a laugh. No shit.
“I really need her to say yes to make this thing Feu-worthy, but I have no idea how to get her to buy in. It’s a really hard sell.”
“I hate to break it to you, boss, but hard would imply you have a chance,” Hyunjin swirled the drink in his hand. “This is straight up no sell.”
“Way to kill my vibe, man…”
“It is what it is. You might wanna make a shrink appointment if you think you can sell porn to Shakespeare groupies.” He raised his hand and gestured three levels in the air, each one lowering closer to the table. “There is beneath them, then thirty feet of crap, and then porn.”
“When did I ever do just porn, Strokes?” Jisung wore a triumphant smile on his lips. “That’s actually the other reason I asked to meet.”
“What is?”
“I need you to seduce her.”
“You what?” Hyunjin laughed, low and lazy.
“Seduce her. She will be here soon,” Jisung repeated with a straight face, like he was asking him to pick up groceries and not cajole someone into starring in arthouse porn. “You understand the assignment. You’re relentlessly charming. If there is one person who can make her say yes, it’s you.”
“Wow, you must really want her if you’re willing to butter me up.”
“I really want her and you,” he emphasized. “I’m looking at the horny rendition of Romeo and Juliet here. DiCaprio version, of course. You are a perfect match!”
“Just out of curiosity,” Hyunjin tapped his fingers on the smooth mahogany surface, “does the boss lady know you’re here with me right now?”
“Yeah, why?”
“And she’s greenlighted my involvement in this project?”
“Of course.”
“We didn’t exactly part ways on best terms,” he pressed even further. “How come she is super chill about me now?”
“Because I wore her down. She knows I mastered my oral skills by watching your work,” Jisung answered, utterly serious. “This is bigger than some petty fight. If we succeed, it’s a career milestone for me, and a fuck ton of prestige for her.”
It seemed like Hyunjin was running out of reasons to say no. It was suspicious, to say the least, that everything was suddenly all cool. When something was too good to be true, it usually was. There was this uneasy feeling right under his ribcage, telling him to tread with utmost caution and look for the catch.
Because there had to be one.
“Fine…”
“REALLY?!”
“…I’ll help you with your friend even though you ambushed me into it,” Hyunjin completed his sentence, “but best of luck finding your male lead.” He took his phone out and tapped away, clicks of keyboard culminating into a whoosh sound at the end. “There. I sent Minho’s number to you. Solid guy, smooth like butter even in group scenes.”
“Oh, COME ON!”
Jisung was going on and on, but Hyunjin had stopped listening two sentences ago, just politely nodding at the futile attempts to convince him. Oh, this was going to be so great. Oh, this was his biggest project to date. Oh, the budget was so insane he could pay him with a Lambo if he wished. Feu d’Or, man, FEU D’OR!!!
“In case I wasn’t clear enough, I’m really not interested in rekindling our love, boss,” Hyunjin flashed a dull smile. “It was nice while it lasted, but you can’t make an ex your next.”
“But you can still have sex,” Jisung pointed at him, enthusiasm still through the roof. “What’s the harm in being fuckbuddies for a few months?
“No.”
“For old time’s sake.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease?”
“For the last time,” he grabbed his glass, getting ready to finish his drink in one go, “No.”
The thud of the empty glass meeting the table initiated a chain reaction, and the bar door swung open. The movement in the distance stole Hyunjin’s attention, and the stunning woman that entered stole his breath away. Red coat. High heels. Finesse for days.
And scanning the room like she was looking for someone.
“Is that your friend by the door?” he pointed towards the entrance with a nod.
“Oh, yeah,” Jisung raised his hand to signal his location.
You waved him back and started walking towards the table by the window with quick steps. As you approached closer, Hyunjin did his best not to stare, but his eyes were still on you as he talked to Jisung.
“Delete the number.”
“What?”
“I said delete the number,” he quickly repeated before you arrived. “If she says yes, I’m in.”
“Don’t toy with me like that, man! Are you serious?”
“Like a fucking heart attack.”
“Then make sure we get the yes,” he hissed.” “I have no project without her.”
“Hi, am I late?” you pulled Jisung into a hug. “I thought you said 9.”
“No, you’re on time. We got here early,” he answered as he pulled away, then introduced you to the stranger sitting across him. “This is Hyunjin.”
“Do I… know you?” you asked with furrowed brows as you extended your hand for a shake.
“I don’t know. Do you?” Hyunjin smirked with a lazy, practiced curve of his lips.
“You look familiar,” you muttered with narrowed eyes, a trace of suspicion melting into confusion. “Have we met before?”
“I’ve got one of those faces. You’re probably thinking some celebrity,” Hyunjin shrugged, voice smoother than velvet. “Pleasure to meet you.”
The reason you were there that night was your soul-crushing dry spell lately in terms of work. The theater world had started getting a little… mundane. The same plays over and over, nothing to help you stretch your creative muscles or hone your craft. Naturally, when Jisung called you overly passionate about a screen role he wanted to offer, you gladly accepted to meet him.
He hadn’t said anything about Aphrodite’s son joining you for drinks, though.
“Without further ado,” he dove right into it after your rosé arrived, “You’ve been mentioning that you wanted to do something daring for the longest time, and man do I have the best fucking thing for you.”
“Loving the enthusiasm so far,” you nodded with a big smile. “Let’s hear it!”
He shot a look at Hyunjin as if to say I’m going in, then started his presentation in earnest.
“The story opens with two emotionally unavailable people who already have this massive unresolved sexual tension between them,” he opened with palpable confidence like he was boasting about his firstborn’s academic achievements. “They cross paths again at a house party and end up being friends with benefits to explore pleasure together.”
“Okay?”
“And when one of their steamy experiments goes awry, they will be forced to confront their feelings and make a decision,” he concluded his elevator pitch. “We want to chronicle their journey in the form of a serial, and each episode is going to feature one of these experiments.”
Okay, wow.
The emotional premise seemed intriguing enough. If this popped up on Netflix, you would definitely check it out, but the real question was, would you keep watching past the first episode? The market was already saturated with shows featuring heavily erotic undertones regardless of the genre, not to mention the surplus of I caught feelings for my fuckbuddy movies.
How were you going to stand out in that crowd?
“How steamy are we talking about here?”
Jisung’s sudden wiggling in his seat was definitely a sus move like he was sitting on something bigger than he let on.
“I mean… It’s sex,” he tried to be as nonchalant as he could be. “It’s bound to get graphic.”
“How steamy, Jisung?” you stared at him with a pseudo-psychotic smile, “And that answer better be It’s just simulated sex.”
Yup, the moment of truth. He needed to let the cat out of the bag, but he just didn’t know how to do it tastefully.
“It’s… not,” was all he was able to say after writhing for ten seconds.
“You’re asking me to star in fucking PORN?”
“It’s erotic cinema!”
“What the hell is the difference?!”
“One is a tasteful depiction of people having sex, and the other is an IKEA assembly tutorial for two sets of genitals!” He abruptly turned to Hyunjin with an apologetic hand gesture, “No offense, man.”
“None taken,” Hyunjin shrugged. “As an industry veteran, I concur.”
You were reminded of someone else’s existence at the table when that velvet voice caressed your ears again. He was just sitting there, super chill, sipping on his refreshed scotch and watching the chaos before him like he had tuned in to an extremely enjoyable episode of Saturday Night Live. When he said industr—
Oh, fuck…
“Holy shit, you’re Sam Strokes,” you spoke without thinking, blankly staring at him with parted lips.
“Do you remember where you know me from now?” he smiled sultrily into his drink.
Why, YES, YOU DID!
Back to back Pleasure-impics Golden Medalist, the Connoisseur of the Cunt, the Titan of the Tongue, the motherfucking God of Oral was sitting right there. It wasn’t like you had done something to embarrass yourself, yet you were so flustered with one look that you still wanted the ground to part open and swallow you whole. Meanwhile, Jisung took the slightly starstruck energy and worked to his advantage like the opportunist businessman he was. Well, he had turned into.
“Look, this is not your typical trash porn with minimal plot. I worked really hard on this.” Then he pointed at Hyunjin like he was presenting an offering to the queen, “My man here invented eroticism, and even the nastiest stuff he does looks fucking aesthetic to the camera. He’s the best partner you can have to portray intimacy.”
“Praise makes me cum. Tread carefully, please,” Hyunjin politely smiled, amused to his bones.
“H–He… He would be my partner?!” you shrieked, your eyes widened in shock, and now you were burning up for two reasons.
“I hope it doesn’t displease you,” Hyunjin flashed the puppy eyes with dangerously convincing concern.
It was doing the extreme opposite of displease, but it was also making you lowkey self-conscious.
When you said daring, you most certainly didn’t have this in mind.
“I’d say this is the perfect challenge for an actress,” Hyunjin finally chimed in. “Erotic scenes require a lot more acting than you’d think.”
“I’m familiar. I did a lot of that with my ex-boyfriends to last a lifetime,” you spat, suddenly begrudging. “I appreciate the opportunity, Jisung, but no can do.”
Damn, two nos in one night? It had been a hot minute since Jisung got this rekt.
His mind was working in overdrive. If he couldn’t convince you, Hyunjin was also going to back off, and then there would be no project, and then there would be no submission, and that was just simply NNNOPE.
“Just look at the script once before you flat-out turn it down,” he cranked up the begging to the max. “I really think you’re gonna like it. Please? For me? With so many cherries on top?”
You heaved a deep sigh as you looked at the title that read Unconditional, turned a page, and started skimming the document.
It was actually somewhat wholesome. Jisung’s synopsis read ‘A couple experimenting within the safe space of their love for each other, buried six feet under their hearts.’ It made something tingle inside you for some reason. You went over a couple of pages to see what the scenes were like. The locations seemed to be intimate rather than the office of a raunchy casting director with a black leather couch. There was a lot of dialogue. Genuine, vulnerable dialogue. Half a page of a monologue somewhere.
To portray all of this… With Hyunjin… It was already tempting in itself.
But then your eyes darted to the production credits, and you saw the name.
Drea Blake.
“Dre— ANDREA BLAKE IS THE DIRECTOR?!!”
“You know her?!”
“CHARCOAL BLUES, HELLO?!”
“SHE’S MY SISTER IN LAW!”
“CONGRATULATIONS, YOU LUCKY DOG!!!”
You and Jisung hugged each other out of nowhere as if your favorite team had won the nationals. Now that you knew the queen herself was involved, a part of you reeeeeally wanted to do it, but…
Oh, the internal conflict was nauseating.
“I… I have to think about this, Ji. It’s… too much to process all of a sudden.”
“Take all the time you need! All I ask is that you give it a fair chance as a legitimate production,” he reassured you just to immediately contradict himself, “but you have to make a decision by the 15th.”
“HOW IS THAT ALL THE TIME I NEED?”
“We have a deadline to finish production so we can prepare for the award submission.”
Hyunjin was listening to the entire conversation in silence like he was just an outsider looking in, endlessly entertained for no reason and unable to stop smirking. He took another unrushed sip from his scotch, savoring the smoky taste on his tongue, then addressed Jisung.
“Boss, do you mind giving us some alone time?”
Jisung looked at him with such a loaded gaze that he didn’t even have to say anything. Hyunjin was very well aware that it was all up to him to drive this home now. Leaving the copy of the script with you, he left, urging you to call him as soon as you reached a decision even if it was the asscrack of dawn. When it finally sank in for you that you were alone at this table with Hyunjin, you suddenly became too aware of yourself, excessively feeling every single one of your limbs like you never had.
“Is this where you sway me with a one-on-one?” you attempted your hand at being chill and barely passed.
“Maybe. I can be very persuasive when I want to,” he tilted his head ever so slightly. “A lot of my first-time partners hesitated, too. I figured we could do a chemistry test to help you make your decision.”
“Chemistry test?” you cocked a brow, rapidly descending into a state of panic shortly after. “Wait, you’re not… actually asking to…”
“Have sex? Please,” he chortled, somehow managing to tickle you in the process. “We’re just gonna talk, and if you have any burning questions, you can ask me comfortably without someone breathing down your neck the whole time. When you don’t have chemistry with someone, it definitely shows on camera, so if you decide you’re not vibing with me, you can just tell Jisung it’s not gonna work.”
Well, when he put it that way, it sounded very reasonable.
“I don’t bite,” he leaned forward, his voice low. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Another glass of rosé doesn’t sound half bad right about now,” you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
“Excuse me,” he stopped a passing waitstaff. “Could you tell Ian that Hyunjin would like his bespoke bottle? He knows what it means. Thank you.”
He was being so suave that you momentarily lost perspective, completely forgetting you were having drinks with a pornstar. How were you even supposed to approach this? Like a professional function? Like a social gathering? Like a fanmeeting?
As you were lost in your thoughts, Hyunjin leaned back, letting the moment linger as he traced the rim of his glass. Unless you were making things up, there seemed to be this… electric current between you, and you were wondering if he could feel it too.
Meanwhile Hyunjin was wondering if you, like him, had also traded magic for survival once upon a time.
“Have I seen you in anything?” he asked softly.
“I don’t think so. I haven’t been in anything major recently.”
“Then let’s go over what’s not recent.”
It was as if this was a blind date all of a sudden. It tickled you inside a little bit, but it also didn’t feel real at all. How was this guy a pornstar? Like… If you didn’t meet him under these circumstances, you could actually see yourself asking him to—
What?
You mentally slapped yourself as hard as you could. This wasn’t the time to be crushing, nor was this the person to have a crush on.
“I haven’t done any screen work before. Just theater,” you responded. “If you’re familiar with A Streetcar Named Desire, for example…”
“Anything with desire in it, I’m there,” he subtly raised his glass towards you.
Before you could even bask in the warmth of the moment, your bubble was loudly popped by a small group of people crowding the table, giggling and nudging each other like a bunch of schoolgirls.
“We are huge fans,” one of them declared, clearly on the verge of hyperventilating. “If it’s okay to ask, can we please see your tongue?”
Hyunjin raised his brows, then leaned towards the girls, beckoning them to approach like he was going to share a secret.
“No, it’s not okay. Please google it,” he stressed the word, albeit warmly smiling. “As you can see, I’m on a date here.”
Thump.
He said it, right? You didn’t mishear it. He looked these girls in the eye and said he was on a date. You freaking knew it was to politely send them away, thank you very much, but your heart rate didn’t get the memo.
“Oh, my god, sorry. I love you. Thank you. Sorry. Your girlfriend is so lucky. Sorry. Thank you. You’re the best, Sam!”
“Wow…” you snickered to yourself as they scurried away.
“Sorry about that. Thank you, I got it from here,” Hyunjin took the very expensive-looking, perfectly chilled bottle of rosé from the waiter, then asked you as he poured your wine. “Well, do you have any questions for me?”
Well… LOTS.
“A big one.” You cleared your throat, trying to buy time while looking for the right words that wouldn’t come across as offensive. “How are you so comfortable… like… recording…”
“Having sex on camera, you mean?”
“Yes,” you thickly gulped as you averted your eyes.
“You’re so cute,” he chortled, immediately sending a heavy heatstorm to your cheeks. “I guess it doesn’t feel that different from my own bedroom. I enjoy recording my sexual encounters. With consent, of course.”
“Isn’t it embarrassing to… do it in front of people?”
“You have your live audience, I have mine.”
How about that? You had never thought about it that way before. You didn’t feel embarrassed when a scene required you to be partially naked, did you? Then why should he?
“There is a certain allure to exhibitionism,” he spoke in that sensuous voice of his. “Why do people spend hours online watching others have sex? Because it turns them on. Let alone being embarrassed, I consider it a job well done if people on my set get hot and bothered.” He tilted his glass towards you, a wicked smirk curling like a serpent on his lips. “Think about it. We fuck so hot that someone has to leave the premises immediately to touch themselves. Isn’t that sexy?”
You wish you didn’t think about it because the mental image gave you a severe hot flash.
“So you like being watched, huh?”
“You can’t succeed in my line of business if you’re not an attention whore, even just a little bit. It’s kind of a prerequisite,” he uttered matter-of-factly. “It’s the college diploma of porn, if you will.”
“How did you decide you wanted a career in adult movies?”
Hyunjin flinched in his place just a little bit but managed to show no color.
“In college. I wanted to make the kind of movies I’d like to watch,” he replied. “I went to film school.”
“Seriously?!”
“Well, I didn’t finish, but yeah.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Creative differences,” he took a deep breath like he wanted to calm himself. “We weren’t allowed to shoot graphic sex as part of our projects.”
That was just fascinating. A pornstar. With film school knowledge. No wonder there was a certain aesthetic to his work.
“Is there anything in the script that caught your eye?”
“I’m more interested in the characters and how much of this project is going to be dedicated to their development,” you mindlessly flipped through the pages. “I’m all for a story that has sex in it, but not sure about a sex story.”
“If you’re concerned the sex will cheapen the work itself, you have nothing to worry about. The art behind this is solid,” Hyunjin reassured, his expression the most serious he wore on his face all night. “It is a challenge, but you will also have a say in how sex is depicted. Isn’t that worth something?”
“Did you read the script?”
“Don’t need to. Jisung wrote it, and you already know Drea’s entire oeuvre is about female sexual liberation and owning your pleasure,” he continued with confidence, zero hesitation in his endorsement. “We worked together before. If she tells me to walk into traffic, I’ll do it no questions asked because I know she has a legitimate reason.”
“I’m… surprised,” you broke into an endeared smile. “I didn’t expect you to take your job this seriously.”
“Just because I have sex on camera doesn’t change the facts. I’m still an actor.”
Indeed fascinating. Hyunjin was doing something most people frowned upon, the butt of a lot of jokes, but he wasn’t ashamed of it at all. Not only did he fully own it, but he even held it in high regard, describing himself as an actor. Not a pornstar. Not an adult entertainer. Actor.
Now that was an attitude you could get behind.
“Why are you trying so hard for me to accept this?” you asked, trying to catch glimpses of truth in his unreadable eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Hyunjin remembered what he said to Jisung about the Shakespeare groupies earlier that night. Maybe the answer was inside the problem itself. He dimmed the sultry charms to a comfortable lumen, respect and seriousness matching that of a Royal Shakespeare Company audition.
“Wherefore doest mine lady bethink thither should beest a profound reason? Thee art quite quaint, and I but wanteth us to fornicate.”
A tremendously disgraceful laugh ripped from your throat, the way you were caught so off guard. He had delivered the fake line like it was supposed to be a heart-fluttering compliment, wording polite, gist horrendously brazen.
As if he didn’t basically tell you ‘You’re hot, let’s fuck’.
“Never in a million years would I expect an Elizabethan twist on fratboy mantras, and somehow I feel like I should say thank you,” you wiped the corners of your eyes. “Do we have to shoot porn for that, though?”
“Of course not, but you would never say yes to me if I put the moves on you as a civilian.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“When was the last time you went on a date with a pornstar?”
You saw it. He had that indifferent smile slapped to his lips, but he was slightly tensed up. Like he was mad at something.
Like he hated that word, even though he loved everything about it.
“I think erotic actor would describe you better,” you attempted to soften the mood, “And including today? Once.”
His velveteen smile came back. Not to his lips. To his eyes. Neon lights were dancing in them again, and it was such a beautiful sight to behold.
“Then you can at least expect me to show you a very good time,” he smugly responded.
“I thought we weren’t going to have sex tonight.”
“We’re not,” he shook his head. “I’m just studying what you look like when you’re turned on.”
“Why would you assume I am turned on?”
“I’m not assuming,” his grin grew wider. “You are.”
“How would you know?!”
“If eating pussy were culinary arts, I would be Gordon Ramsay times two,” he spoke with the certainty of a true expert. “I can tell how wet you are. Your scent changed.”
Jesus, this man… Why was he this hellbent on inducing a heart failure in you tonight exactly? More importantly, did he fucking get anything out of this except for diabolical entertainment?!
“Or you’re just perceiving what you want to perceive,” you countered in vain.
“And your nipples are staring at me.” He instantly raised his hands, “Respectfully.”
“I uh… er erhm… I’ve always wondered something,” you crossed your arms over your chest and leaned into the table, acting like you didn’t hear what he just said. “Your… expertise. Is there a reason you picked it as your niche?”
“First of all, thank you for calling it an expertise because it is,” he switched to gloat mode. “When I first started, I chose it as a subliminal tactic, but the unintended side effect was that it gave me a horrible case of oral fixation.”
“Subliminal tactic?”
“It equates me with guaranteed pleasure in your mind,” he clicked his tongue. “Cunnilingus is not something as normalized as, say, blowjobs. It’s still treated as a favor in this day and age rather than a staple in foreplay. Like kissing.”
“And when you say oral fixation…”
“I have fuckbuddies just for this purpose. I get a craving, I call them to eat them out.”
“You ask to meet to make them cum and leave?” your face contorted in confusion.
“No, I eat until I’m full, which takes about an hour if I just wanna snack. If I’m starving, good luck not passing out.” As he was bringing his glass to his lips, his hand hung midair when he saw your aghast expression, and he broke into yet another smirk. “Don’t look at me like that, my partners consent to this.”
“What’s even in it for you?” you asked, genuinely trying to understand. “I thought the point of having fuckbuddies was mutual benefit.”
“How do I explain this?” he pursed his lips together. “Have you heard of Stendhal Syndrome?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s kinda like that. I have such morbid weakness for the aesthetics of female genitalia that sometimes it makes me cum just to eat it. Everybody leaves happy.”
This time, it wasn’t a raised brow. It wasn’t parted lips. Your jaw straight up dropped at what you were hearing. He had to be fucking with you, right? There was no goddamn way.
“And now you’re curious if it’s true,” he sipped on his drink, smile insanely annoying.
“Stop reading my mind,” you reached for the bottle, but he stopped you to serve you himself.
“So,” he made a casual segue onto the next topic he had in mind, “How do you usually pleasure yourself?”
“WHAT?” you almost choked on the wine.
“Sorry, was that invasive?” he asked, infuriatingly calm.
“Uh… YEAH?”
“But how are we going to get to know each other without answering these questions?”
“Can’t we just tell each other what our favorite foods are?”
“Unless I get to eat cream off your pussy, I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
OUTRAGEOUS. Why the fuck was this guy so brazen like he had his shame gland removed during birth?! The closer you got to dying, the more he was on the brink of totally cracking. His cuteness aggression was so severe that he was barely holding himself back from wheezing his lungs out at how flustered he was making you, a crooked smile never leaving his lips.
“We should be able to talk about these things if there is a prospect of us getting physical,” he tsked with a pout.
“I mean…” you searched for your entire vocabulary to look for one word that would make sense. “Standard issue masturbation?”
“Toys?”
“Sometimes.”
“Clit suckers?”
“What even is that?”
“What gets you in the mood then?” he asked more seriously. “What are some things that excite you?”
“I’m… not sure I know what they are,” you answered, your eyes intently examining the wet circle on the coaster.
It wasn’t the sheer outrageousness of having sex on camera that made you hesitate this much. Hyunjin might have said erotic scenes required acting, but at the end of the day, the act was physical. There was touching, there was kissing, and you weren’t sure how convincingly you could fake something you’d never felt before. Being able to voice what you needed without dying of mortification was the hardest task on earth, which usually meant barely average sexual experiences with no external orgasm providers whatsoever. With a lot of acting involved.
Maybe that was what led you to a career in performing arts in the first place, who knows?
“Is there nothing that you enjoy about sex?” Hyunjin questioned. “Even foreplay?”
“I do enjoy it. It’s just…” you fidgeted, “It feels like the other person has more sex with me than I do with them. I’ve always been so busy forcing myself to finish that it didn’t leave any room to… explore. Does that make sense?” You suddenly chuckled to yourself, remembering who you were talking to and what he did for a living. “I’m sure this sounds silly to you.”
“Not at all. Unless I work on projects like this, nine out of ten times it’s just mediocre sex. No one’s having a pleasure seizure,” he responded, somewhat jaded. “That transfers to real life, too.”
“How so?”
“A lot of people want to have sex with me because they think I’m this god of oral or something…”
“I mean… Aren’t you?”
“If you portray a murderer on TV, does it mean you killed someone?”
“Are you saying you’re faking it?”
“No, I’m saying they want to have sex with Sam,” he exhaled through his nose. “Not me.”
And when the always-in-the-mood, overly enthused persona didn’t match the real thing…
You thought about how empty it must feel for these actors after some time. Of course it would be mediocre in real life, too. A neverending parade of people. Different bodies, different tastes. Touch everywhere, intimacy nowhere. No getting used to, no habits formed. It was nothing short of being a forever beginner in a language.
Just when you were about to grasp the basics, the grammar would change.
“What did you mean by projects like this?” you attempted to disperse the suddenly thickened air.
“Drea’s sex scenes have a certain choreography to them, but she prefers freeform. It’s more natural and makes for actually pleasurable sex for once,” he answered rather professionally, then continued with his mini case study on you. “Then what about the kind of porn you watch? Anything specific there?”
“It’s criminally vanilla, I’m afraid,” you sneered.
“Well, do you watch me?”
He fucking knew you did, and you'd had a little enough of his relentless teasing. You downed your entire glass in one go for some liquid courage and stared right into his eyes, smirking in the exact same way that he’d been doing the entire night.
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have a favorite?”
“The one in the club.”
“What about it?”
“It gets me super horny in two minutes and makes me cum in four.”
He was enjoying the shift in gear a bit too much. What was that thing again? Drunk words and sober thoughts and whatnot…
“You have great taste,” he nodded, excessively satisfied. “I mean, obviously, since you’re watching me.”
You laughed in unison. You didn’t know exactly why, but it was at that moment that something seemed to have changed in the air. No one was touching you, but you still felt something soft on your skin. Like you were being caressed.
“How about you?” you turned the mic to him. “Is the kind of porn you do any indication of what you watch?”
“Yes. And no.”
Then he started reciting a laundry list of porn tropes, and it took everything in your willpower to keep a straight face. It was as libertine as he was. Gangbangs, partner swaps, literally anything public…
You were pretty sure smoke was coming out of your ears when he finished.
“Shame on you,” you playfully faked a scandalized gasp. “Would thy quaint lady still feel like a lady if you fucked her in an alley, Playboy?”
“Of course she would because it has nothing to do with location,” he tapped his nails on his glass. “I can still make you feel like the queen of the world even when you dance on my lap at a strip club.”
He said you, and all of a sudden, your imagination started rendering multiple mental images again, this time in 16K, and unfortunately for you, they were a lot more brain-frying.
“See, the art of disrespect demands the utmost respect,” he scooted to the edge of his seat and leaned into the table. “When that meets with the right person touching you just the right way, you’d be surprised what kind of filth you would suddenly crave them to do to you.”
He started to slide his hand towards yours ever so slowly, like a serpent slithering towards its prey in pitch black darkness. Your heart was beating louder in your throat with every inch he was closing between his skin and yours.
“Consent is hot…” his fingers hovered over your hand, close enough for you to feel his warmth on you. His gaze clung to yours like he wanted to suffocate you just with a stare, his voice waning into a whisper the loudest temptation in this bustling bar. “...but desperation is hotter.”
You jumped in your place when a passing waiter crashed several plates right next to you. There was no way you could prove it, but you just fucking knew that accident was the result of the deadly heatwave exuding from your table.
“Tell you what,” Hyunjin refused to lean back into his seat even though the moment was gone. “Saying yes to this will be the best decision you will ever make. You will thank me later.”
“Are you…” you smiled through your furrowed brows, “trying to make a bet with me?”
“If you wish to call it that,” he winked, “but you might wanna make sure you’re ready to lose.”
After you finished your drinks, Hyunjin asked for the check, and you both stepped into the chilly night outside. He hailed the approaching cab, then opened the door for you, needlessly gentlemanly as if he was about to see you off after an actual date.
“I had a great time tonight,” he gallantly kissed your hand. “I hope our talk will help make your decision.”
“Well, it certainly made me reevaluate things,” you responded truthfully.
“Sorry, I meant, will you call Jisung yourself to accept the role, or should I make the call for you?”
You involuntarily laughed at his cocky antics, relaxed way too much with the wine coursing in your bloodstream. “I’ll think about it.”
The door of the cab was still open. You weren’t getting in. He wasn’t moving. All you did was just look at each other, nailed to your places. You both lost the unofficial staring contest when your eyes simultaneously darted to each other’s mouths. His lips looked a lot fuller from this up close. A lot more kissable. A lot more sinful, more so because you knew exactly what he was capable of doing with them. That electric current seemed to have come back around, this time pulling you towards one another at a beguilingly slow pace.
“You know what I’m known for,” he finally broke the silence, “but you’re gonna have to come be my on-camera girlfriend to get it.”
“That sounds like blackmail.”
“It’s only blackmail if there is nothing in it for you, and I’m offering to change your life.” He put one arm on top of the open taxi door and leaned in. “And after tonight, I think you also agree we have fucking explosive chemistry.”
His eyes returned to your lips again, just the sight of them making him lick his own in anticipation. He was getting closer, and you were letting him. You weren’t even remotely drunk to be making stupid mistakes, but when he came close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, you wanted to be as stupid as you could ever be.
You fucking craved it.
“Say yes,” he softly whispered against your lips. “Please say yes to me.”
You smiled, but didn’t answer.
“Good night, Playboy,” you whispered back.
And the almost audible groan he let out when you pulled back was everything.
As Hyunjin watched the yellow vehicle disappear into the distance, his hands shoved in his pockets, his heart was racing. He rolled your entire conversation all the way to the beginning in his mind and replayed his favorite moments, zooming in on the subtleties—your eyes, your smile, the way your finger twitched when you were nervous, and how your sweet spot seemed to be three glasses of rosé. No more, no less, just right for unfiltered candor. A part of him really wished he could only see you as just another job, but unfortunately for him, you weren’t.
You were something else.
✉ Enjoyed this? Your feedback & reblogs free my chapters from the draft prison.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
I'm almost positive fanatics of Team Bondi have it out for this dude, but here's the million-dollar question: Are you sure you have the full context? 🤔
Word on the street is I have to have at least one (1) Hyunjin project open at any given time otherwise I die, so welcome back to the saga of "Petite Mort Proudly Presents". I'm very nervous to be returning to this universe, but I also can't help the excitement. It kinda feels like... coming home?
If you wish to tag along to see whether Hyunjin's red flag ass is at all redeemable, the story taglist is open. Looking forward to hearing what you think of him! ^^
first things first, i wanna apologize for reading this SO so very late despite having been so fucking excited for this. i hate readers on taglists who aren't even readers and i have turned into one of them and seeing how insanly underrated this chapter is makes me wish i would have read this so much eaerlier to gush about it!!
BUT!! to the important part; THIS CHAPTER WAS EVERYTHING. talk about an opener for a series. this was PERFECT. there will always be smth about pornstar x reader fics i'll love, and you embodied EXACTLY what i love about these fics in this first chapter already; the human behind the star, the hint of "i can fix him". UGH i'm already so so hooked on this story.
the Love/Attraction/Something-in-the-Air on first sight hit me like a truck. hyunjin's confident cockiness made me wet. the yet unknown dust beneath the rug as you called it hooked me into this story so bad. the sheer fucking writing (i fucking loved this para: "A neverending parade of people. Different bodies, different tastes. Touch everywhere, intimacy nowhere. No getting used to, no habits formed. It was nothing short of being a forever beginner in a language." poetry.) and the humour and SEXINESS in this got me weak in the fucking knees.
i haven't read fics (and erotica especially) in AGES and god am i glad this was the first thing i came back to. i'm glazing like crazy rn i know but god i missed fanfiction like this. so so much.
i WILL be gushing abt the other chapters the next couple days i am SOOO BEYOND HYPED
"Nuh-uh," Jisung says indignantly. He pokes you in the ribs. "I did it last time-"
"Liar!" You say, crossing your arms. "Hurry up, the line's starting to get longer. I want a drink."
Jisung rolls his eyes and flops dramatically into the cafe seat. "No. You do it. I have anxiety."
You groan and slap the back of his head, steeling yourself to walk up to the cafe counter to order. "Fine."
Sighing, you grit your teeth before joining the back of the line. When it's your turn to order, you say it silently in your head once, rehearsing what you want, and look up at the barista.
Hyunjin grins back at you shyly.
"Hyune," you say, relieved. The nervousness you'd felt at ordering disappears as your eyes meet your friend's. You and Hyunjin have been friends for a few years. But you weren't sure how to talk to him, really. There was always something awkward about it.
"I, uh, didn't know you worked here," you say as Hyunjin taps in your order. "Thought you were in art school."
"I am," he says shyly, not quite meeting your gaze. "I just decided to take up a part-time job. Takes the edge off the pressure."
"I'm sure you're doing great," you say as warmly as you can, and it seems to translate, because his cheeks flush pink.
Cute.
"Order won't take too long," he says, stuttering. You nod and tap your card before heading back over to Jisung. Your body feels all floaty. Jisung has his head buried in some video game on his phone.
You lean in to whisper as you sit. "Sung, you didn't tell me Hyunjin worked here!"
"Uh," he says, not taking his eyes off the game. "What a coincidence."
You scoff in disbelief. "You knew he worked here, you jerk! That's why you made me order!"
"Oh, come on," he whispers back fiercely. "You've both been dancing around your feelings for years. Go and do something about it before I shove something up your-"
"Alright, I get it!" You say, standing up as your number is called out.
Heading to the counter, you brush back your hair and smile as Hyunjin slides the drinks across the counter to you. You show him the receipt and as you take the drinks, your fingertips brush with his. They're warm, and still flecked with blue paint from whatever masterpiece he was painting earlier. "Thanks."
"All good," he says softly, not looking at you. "Um, come again soon."
You know it's what the cafe workers are supposed to say, a sort of greeting to customers. But somehow, it feels more personal than that. Like an invitation only you're allowed to hear.
You nod once more and feel your heart almost sink as you turn away. You didn't even do anything. Didn't make a move. Jisung is going to kill you.
"Damn it," you say quietly, disappointed as you sit. "I clammed up. Who am I kidding? Why would he like me, of all people-"
"Y/n, be for real," Jisung says, gulping his hot chocolate like a man possessed. "Did you even look at the cup? You're even more oblivious than I am."
You blink before tilting your takeaway cup towards you. There's your name and a sticker with your order, but a tip of black marker peers over the side. You gently peel the sticker off.
Behind it, Hyunjin's number in scrawled black ink, and next to that a heart. And one more thing.
Call me. I think I need to tell you something.
a/n: dividers by @toastray @cursed-carmine @kodaswrld
Handyman!Hyunjin lives next door and always seems to “just be around” when something at your place breaks down. He insists it’s no trouble at all. His excuse? “I like fixing things. Besides, I’d rather you call me than some random guy.” But really, he just loves being near you. He won’t take money, no matter how much you push. If you try to hand him cash, he just grins and says, “Keep it. Consider it a neighbor discount.” You compromise by cooking for him: dinners, fresh cookies, cakes that you “just happened” to have baking while he replaced your light fixture. He pretends it’s unnecessary, but he secretly melts every time. It becomes domestic. He’s standing on your ladder, sleeves rolled up, tool belt hanging off his hips, while you’re barefoot in the kitchen whipping cream for dessert. You look like a married couple without ever having talked about it. He lingers after fixing things. Sitting at your counter, eating the slice of cake you plated for him, watching you with that soft, almost dreamy smile that gives away his crush. Eventually, you push again: “Hyunjin, you have to let me pay you back. It’s not fair.” He finally sighs, sets down his screwdriver, and smirks in that boyish way: “Fine. But not with money.” You’re confused until he leans against your counter and says, “Let me take you out. A date. That’s all I want.” Your heart stumbles in your chest, he’s sweaty from the repair, hair messy, grin cocky, but his eyes are shining, nervous and hopeful. The tension snaps. You drop your wallet on the counter and instead step into his space. His hand, still calloused from the tools, finds your hip instinctively, like he’s been holding back for months. He kisses you like he’s wanted to forever hungry, grateful, finally. The dessert is forgotten on the counter while he backs you against the kitchen island, murmuring against your lips: “God, I should’ve asked you out the first time your sink broke.” The night ends with tangled laughter, flour dust on his shirt from where you pressed too close, and the promise of more dates… though both of you know your “repayment” has only just begun.
💕but you both still desperately need each other
NSFW drabble, MDNI. feedback appreciated :) wc: 437 chan version here!
The only sounds in the room are your intertwined moans and the creak of the bedframe, matching the steady rhythm of your grinds against him. Sleepiness still lingers in the air, but right now, you each want to make the other feel good. “That’s my girl - fuck,” he moans from below you. Tiny amounts of sweat clings his hair to his skin. His hands grip your waist, not bruising, just guiding. “You feel so good - always s’good for me.”
He fills you up so well. The angle has him hitting the perfect spot, and your clit brushes against him with every grind. Every movement brings you closer to your release.
You roll your hips slowly, feeling every inch of him deep inside you. He sucks in a sharp breath. His grip on your waist tightens almost imperceptibly. A whine escapes his lips, eyes quickly darting to yours to check if you heard it.
Of course you did. You smile back down at him and repeat the motion, enjoying the view of his head falling back as he stifles another whine. One hand drops from your waist to cling to the rumpled bedsheets, like he’s holding himself back.
Another roll of your hips. His cock pushes further in, causing your knees to weaken from pleasure. You whimper, “Hyunjin, baby -”
“I know, I’ve got you,” he breathes, and brings his hands up to support your weight. You let your body slump forward, leaning your arms against his chest as you try to keep your rhythm. His gaze lingers on your breasts, swaying as you move.
Your pace falters more with each delicious grind, your high quickly approaching. He feels your walls clench around him and he knows you won’t last much longer. Neither will he. He needs you to come with him, but fuck, he’s already almost there.
“Baby, please,” he begs, for nothing specifically and everything at once. He grabs your hand and guides it to your clit, choking on a sob as he watches you rub small circles in rhythm with your pace. His eyes clench tight, one of his signs that he’s close.
Your orgasms overtake you at once. His name falls from your lips over and over, like a prayer, as waves of pleasure wash over you. He groans as he spills familiar warmth deep inside you.
Afterwards, you lean forwards, laying on his chest. He runs a hand through your hair, pausing every so often to kiss the top of your forehead. He whispers, “I love you,” against your forehead. Eventually, the two of you drift off to sleep, still tangled in each other.
🪷 In which you make flowers bloom in a heart hyunjin saw as lifeless.
pairing: (tortured) painter!hyunjin x florist!yn.
genre: fluff. strangers to lovers. angst (but not between the characters). just very soft and tender.
wc: 10.2k
a.n.: this entire fic is inspired by the fact that hyunjin has his florist’s number. so i ran with it and it gave way to this!! i really love this fic so i hope you’ll love it in return 🫶🏻 and, of course, happy birthday to my spring, my light, my hyune. thank you for being such an easy person to love. i hope happiness always finds you wherever you may go❣️you deserve it. (pic is mine which is #crazy still can’t believe i’ve been in monet’s home!!!!)
In theory, a heart is simply a heart—an organ, no more sacred than the others, pulsing to pump blood into our veins, working tirelessly to keep one alive.
But to Hyunjin, a heart is a bit more than that. To him, the heart is a graveyard, a hollow, decaying thing where his dreams are laid to rest before they ever bloom. He finds it cruel, almost laughable, that the very thing meant to sustain him is the tomb beneath which he perishes—day after day, night after night.
Hyunjin never understood the notion of ending one’s own life. Weren’t there always reasons to stay? Beautiful things to gaze at, to hold on to— the slant of golden light through a window, the swell of waves as they kissed the shore? Wasn’t the sun always there patiently waiting to be seen?
But now he understands. It doesn’t matter if the sun is there or not. For the sun rises every day, yet Hyunjin can no longer see it.
Hyunjin hadn’t seen the sun for a long time.
He wasn’t always like this. In fact, he loved existing. He loved finding beauty in the smallest of things, in the details that mortal eyes don’t often stop to admire, too busy running, too busy surviving. But Hyunjin was different. He craved living. So, he paused. Almost reverent in the way he’d breathe in the sweet perfume of roses, soak in the way the sea folded itself around his ankles.
And he liked commemorating his feelings, he didn’t have the strongest memory, so he painted. He liked painting. No, he loved it, since he was a child and he found out what a brush is. He loved it the way the ocean loves the shore, relentlessly, endlessly, painted until his hands ached and his bones grew weary. He painted the way he loved too— excessively, hungrily, until the first threads of light stretched across the sky, his fingers stained in oil and watercolor, in reds deep as longing and blues heavy as sorrow.
It felt like a waste not to spend every waking moment painting, loving, yearning. it felt a waste not to feel as grandly as the mountains, as vastly as the stretch of oceans.
It felt like a waste for Hyunjin not to love Scarlet.
It must have felt like a waste, too, for the universe not to let him die at her hands.
So it did.
Hyunjin has not been alive for a long time. He does not think he will ever be again.
He’s staring at the blank canvas before him, a cruel expanse of white that’s almost mocking him. If he looks long enough, he can almost see a shape forming, lips moving to whisper the same word, over and over—worthless. worthless. worthless.
His fist drives through the cloth. The canvas falls to the ground in a thud so loud Hyunjin has to cradle his temple to ease the pang of pain it shoots through him. The wood easel splatters to the floor, though it does not look out of place in the ruins of his studio. Not when his brushes are scattered everywhere, palettes smashed against the walls, paint smeared in angry streaks against his floor.
His chest heaves as he stands there, amidst the wreckage that he caused, the place that once used to be his sanctuary. When did it all change? Perhaps when there was nothing left worth painting. Nothing worth breathing for.
He has always known it. A life does not end when one is laid underneath the soil. A life ends when nothing stirs wonder in your heart anymore, when you pass through the days but they do not pass by you, when they leave you untouched, unchanged.
He buries the sob wrapping around his throat. He has cried enough for things he cannot change, hasn’t he?
With trembling hands, Hyunjin reaches for his phone, thumb pressing Felix’s name—his publicist, his friend.
“Did you paint something?” Felix’s voice is bright, unshaken as he replies instantly.
Hyunjin closes his eyes.
“No,” he breathes. Not anymore.
A pause. Then, “Would you book me that trip to Giverny?”
“Giverny?”
“I’m giving myself one last chance.”
“To paint?” Felix asks, tone too eager, too hopeful.
“Mm,” Hyunjin nods absentmindedly. He can’t find it within him to break Felix’s hope, to whisper bleak things when his voice is so cheerful.
It’s not about painting anymore.
This is Hyunjin’s last chance to live.
—
The bell above your florist shop chimes sweetly as someone pushes open the large wooden doors. You glance up, slipping off the gloves you wore to tend to the newest arrival of white roses, carefully removing every damaged leaf and petal.
Your smile falters.
A man stands in the doorway—not just any man, but the most beautiful human you have ever seen.
You’ve had many visitors in the short year you’ve been in Giverny—locals and tourists alike. There is always a certain gentleness to the people who choose to step inside, those who pause in the midst of their days, their travels, to admire flowers, to buy them for their loved ones. You’ve seen it all—honeymooners exchanging delicate bouquets, old couples finding the smallest excuses to gift each other roses, solo travelers picking their favorite flowers to commemorate their journeys.
But never have you seen someone so heartbreakingly beautiful, so unbearably sad stepping into your shop.
“May I help you?” you ask.
He jolts, as if pulled from deep waters. His eyes meet yours across the shop, and it strikes you then—how effortlessly he belongs among the flowers. How his eyes resemble withering petals, how his sunken cheeks remind you of a bloom left untended.
You take pride in the way you’ve arranged your small shop. No flower is placed randomly, rather, you wanted them to speak to one another, talking in a language only few can understand. All your visitors have never failed to mention just how beautiful it looks. And yet, here he stands, untouched by its light.
“I’m just looking,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and you have to lean in to catch its fragmented pieces. His gaze skims over the flowers, never lingering, never seeing.
“Is it your first time in Giverny?” you ask.
He nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. A white graphic tee clings to him, a plaid shirt tied loosely around his waist. A cross dangles from his neck. Your eyes trace the hollows of his cheeks—he is beautiful in the way shattered glass is. In the way standing amidst a storm is.
“It is,” he says curtly, then hesitates. “I’ll be here for a little while, though. Three or four months… We’ll see.”
“That’s exciting!” You smile, sidling closer. He smells of something sweet—flowers and musk, warmth and rain. “So, you don’t know what kind of flowers you’re looking for, do you?”
He shakes his head. “No.” He whispers it as if ashamed of not knowing.
“Then I’ll make you a welcome bouquet! On the house.”
“You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs, your eyes locking on his. all you see is his sadness, it’s everywhere, dripping over his face, staining his clothes, the very air around him. He’s so sad it makes you sad too.
“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’d like to.”
A pause, then, something uncontainable prompts you to add—
“I know what it’s like to need to get away. Even if just for a little while.”
Your cheeks warm under his scrutinizing gaze. You’ve never been this bold with a stranger. Did you overstep?
But he only holds your eyes a moment longer before exhaling, a quiet breath through his nose.
“Thank you.”
You get to work. He lingers by your desk, watching as you deliberate over which flowers to pick. Minutes pass, and you can feel his gaze, burning as it traces the nape of your neck.
You know what to pick then. White Freesia—delicate, trumpet-shaped, the star of the bouquet. You pair them with Delphinium, deep blue against soft white, and baby’s breath, like a scattering of stars. A touch of foliage, then—
“What’s your favorite color?” you ask suddenly.
His eyes widen.
“Hm? Oh. Um—blue.”
You grin, reaching for blue wrapping paper. Scribbling a note, you tuck it into the bouquet before placing it in his hands.
“Ta-da,” you smile. “I hope I’ll see you again.”
It’s a courtesy to say to all your clients, but somehow you find yourself meaning it more when it comes to him. His sadness startles you, you do not know what must be roaming inside his mind for him to be this sorrowful— like an open wound, gushing droplets of blood for everyone to see.
“Will I? Right?” you suddenly add, a touch eager, worried.
His fingers delicately brush the petals.
“Yeah. You will.”
—
It is many hours later, the sky is dipped in an exquisite shade of midnight blue. Yet, sleep still refused to visit Hyunjin.
He lies awake, staring at the bouquet by his bedside. The note you wrote him itched behind his eyelids: Listen to the flowers. They’re always talking :)
He exhales, finally reaching for his phone. He types in a quick search: meaning of Freesia.
Friendship.
A small smile tugs at his lips.
Would you like to be his friend?
He doesn’t have much to offer. But maybe you’d like it if he just sat by your side while you tended to your flowers. He’ll make himself small too. You wouldn’t even feel his presence.
—
Hyunjin hesitates at your shop entrance— Anthomania, the dusty pink sign reads, swaying softly with the breeze. It’s around nine a.m., the quaint town slowly buzzing with life, like a swarm of bees swirling around the first blooms of spring. He’s clad in a white blouse, its first two buttons undone. His jade necklace rests comfortably by his collarbones, and he itches to touch it, to ground himself away from the anxiety thrumming right beneath his skin.
Is it too soon? To see you again in the very first hour of the next day? What if he had misread your gesture? What if the bouquet was nothing more than kindness, a simple marketing strategy? He must not be the only one you’ve given flowers to-
“Oh, hey!” you greet cheerfully, suddenly appearing beside him, a basket of fresh yellow tulips balanced on your hips. The scent of roses clings to you. Your eyes are so bright as if morning dew dripped into them too. You look happy, and it’s nine a.m., and Hyunjin doesn’t regret coming by as much as before.
“Hi,” he smiles, hesitant, awkwardly, only to wince inwardly. Is this what he has come to? Second guessing everything he does, even something as instinctive as smiling?
“I, um... I brought you croissants?” The statement tilts into a question as he lifts the paper bag, the warmth of the bakery still clinging to it. “As a thank you. For the bouquet. For—” He hesitates, his gaze flickering downward. “The Freesia. And… the friendship.”
Your lips curve into a smile, the morning sun catching on the glitter dusted across your eyelids. “So, you did listen to what the flowers had to say.”
You push the wooden door open, and he quickly follows.
“I looked up their meaning, if that’s what you mean.”
“It doesn’t sound nearly as romantic when you word it this way,” you pout, plucking the croissants from his hands. Hyunjin has to smile, pretend as if your words did not just stab him right across his chest in the middle of your shop. A gruesome act in the midst of beauty.
He too used to look for romance in everything. Not anymore. The more you seek it, the more it learns how to wound you.
He clears his throat, swallowing the phantom taste of blood before it can spill past his lips—before it can stain your flowers, stain you.
“I also looked up the meaning of Anthomania, an obsession with flowers in Latin. Are you?”
“Obsessed? You mean?” you giggle softly. “Given that I packed my bags and opened a florist shop in this town despite everyone’s warnings… I’d say yes.”
“Why Giverny?”
“I don’t know,” you muse, gaze drifting toward the window. Two children are walking hand in hand past Anthomania, their giggles make you smile for a fleeting instant. “Some places just feel right to our souls. Maybe because they know before we do that something beautiful is meant to happen there.”
You turn back to him, eyes warm. “Coffee?” You gesture toward the machine, and he nods, lost in thought.
“You seem distant,” you muse, gently placing a steaming cup of coffee before him. The scent of freshly ground beans drifts through the air, but it doesn’t spark anything within him—nothing like it once did. Not anymore. “Like your heart is elsewhere,” you finish.
“My heart?” He smiles softly, a breathy laugh escaping him. “Doesn’t the expression say your mind?”
You giggle, shaking your head. “Our minds wander all the time, that’s natural,” you say, voice trailing off as you study his face. “But you…” You hesitate, unsure. “You look like someone who’s been separated from their heart, and now, you’re almost grieving for it.”
He flinches.
Your eyes widen, and in a panic, you cover your mouth. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said that I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry, I never think before I speak—”
“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head, his voice gentle. You quiet down, the color rising to your cheeks, and he feels it—seen, in ways he hadn’t thought possible. By a florist on the other side of the world, a stranger, a kind one, a beautiful one.
“You’re right.” His fingers tighten around the cup, his grip a little too tight. “I don’t think I can get my heart back. It feels like it’s buried somewhere far from me… I think I buried it,” he adds in a choked whisper, “that makes it worse.”
It strikes him how easily the words fall from his lips, how terrifying they are to say aloud. Yet, they slip out before you with no resistance, no shame. Maybe it’s the flowers—the thought that their petals might absorb the ugliness of his words, carry them away. Or maybe it’s just you, and the warmth of your gaze, that makes it feel safe to speak.
“Do you know where the lotus grows?” you suddenly ask.
He shakes his head, caught off guard by the shift in conversation.
“Their seeds are buried deep into the mud, forgotten at the bottom of still water. But then they germinate. They break through the darkness, reaching for the sun rays, until one day, they bloom, floating atop the water, untouched by the ugliness of where they have been, beautiful.” Your gaze softens. “Maybe your heart is simply being reborn. Give it time. It will find its way back to you.”
—
Hyunjin sits on a bench overlooking the Epte River, a fresh bouquet beside him—white lilies and pink tulips. Hope and warmth. He insisted on paying this time, slipping you a tip far too generous against your loudest protests.
For the first time in six months, something stirs within Hyunjin. Not quite sadness, not quite grief—something else.
His fingers itch for his charcoal pens, for his pastel watercolors. not to sketch the bouquet at his side, not to capture the river’s beauty. No, only to try, attempt to trace the memory of your smile.
He clenches his fingers into a tight fist. Not yet. But maybe… soon. When he finally learns the sound of your name.
That happens quicker than Hyunjin thought it would.
For three days, Hyunjin has watched his flowers with bated breath, waiting for the first petal to give in, for the first sign of decay. Then, at last, the freesia wilts, one trumpet falling to his bedside. And before he can think, Hyunjin is already out the door, following the familiar path that leads him to Anthomania.
“Back so soon?” you tease, grinning as he steps inside, the bell above chiming sweetly.
He falters beneath your gaze, almost self-conscious, as warmth creeps up his neck, blooming across his cheeks in shades of pink. “I—uh—sorry, I can just—” He gestures toward the door, flustered, but you only laugh, reaching for his wrist and pulling him deeper into the shop.
“Oh my god, I’m kidding! You’re always welcome here.”
The ghost of your touch lingers on his skin, almost burning him right where your fingers rested. It feels unfamiliar, strange—to feel anything other than sorrow resting in his bones.
“I wanted new flowers,” he finally says.
You giggle. “Are you opening a flower shop?”
“Yeah,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Competing with yours, actually.”
You pout, snipping the stems of the sunflowers piled up before you. “That’s unfair. People will keep coming to you just because you’re pretty.”
“So you think I’m pretty?” He grins, a smile that does not feel rehearsed, nor heavy on his face. He’s smiling because he simply wishes to.
“Well, you are. Aren’t you?” you simply say, as if there is no reason to be coy about something as evident as this.
His smile softens, so does his voice. “You’re very truthful.”
“Isn’t it a waste of time to hide how you feel about things? Flowers are beautiful, right? Why is it so easy to say? Why should it be any different for people?”
You aren’t lying, that is your philosophy, you’ve found that lies sit heavy on your lungs, as if you’re caging your breaths in. Hiding the truth feels even heavier, like stones wrapped around your ankles, pulling you down. But still, complimenting Hyunjin makes you feel uncharacteristically shy.
You don’t know what to make of him—this stranger who keeps on returning to see you, his sadness trailing him like a shadow, his eyes dimmed, as if he had to snuff out their light, to pretend as if no soul inhabits his body, so he’d be left alone. So he’d survive.
“You’re right,” he says, gaze flickering toward the street. “I hate lies. I really, really hate them.” he grows quieter, smaller.
Something within you tightens at his words, at the sincerity within them mostly. You set your flowers down, turn to face him with your pinky extended.
“Then I promise that I’ll never lie to you.”
He exhales, his shoulders releasing some of their tension. And after a moment, his pinky hooks around yours. “Neither will I.”
Your fingers are soft, delicate, and he notices that your eyeshadow matches your shirt today. Auburn, a color that makes your irises gleam. He wants to tell you you’re beautiful, but the words feel too fragile in his mouth. Not as easy for him as they are for you.
Hyunjin had come for flowers, but you do not rush him. Instead, you bring him a glass of fresh lemonade, mint leaves and lemon slices swirling in ice, and pull up a stool by the window. The shop is quiet, save for the music floating from the speakers—Neon Moon by Cigarettes After Sex. His pick. You have similar tastes.
He watches you, not in a way that unsettles you, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your hands, of your breath, of your heartbeat. Mostly, he looks at the flowers, asking questions, his curiosity insatiable—What does this one symbolize? And this one? And this? But still, it is you who feels scrutinized, as if bathed in a bright, glaring neon light.
A soft hour passes then—soft like the moon light brushing against the window, soft like the way he speaks, voice never rising above a murmur when he answers your questions.
“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s your name?”
“Hyunjin.”
You taste it, let the letters settle on your tongue before swallowing it down. It will take root within you and bloom into something beautiful later, though you do not yet know it.
You say yours.
“And what do you do, Hyunjin?” his name already feels familiar for you to speak.
“I’m a painter. Was. I… I’m not really sure.” he almost cowers in his place, you pretend as if you don’t notice, but your grip on the scissors falter.
“Was?” you echo.
“I haven’t painted in six months.”
Oh.
“Are you taking a break?”
“No. I… I actually,” he pauses, sighing. “I don’t want to lie to you, so I’d rather not answer,” he says, voice quiet, almost pleading, as if baring a wound too raw to support the weight of his words.
“It’s okay,” you smile, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. You can see his moles from this up close, the shape of his velvety lips as they part to exhale.
“I’d like to tell you, it’s just…”
“Does it hurt you?”
He nods, sudden tears glistening in his waterline. The sight makes something within you crumble. You know this pain—the kind that lingers just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest touch to release it.
“The burden will ease with time. And then you’ll be able to speak of it. Your pain will be released into the wind, and the wind will scatter it away. it always does.”
“Will it still hurt this much?” he asks, lip trembling as he gazed up at you, pupils wide and lost
“It will be bearable. and soon you’ll grow accustomed to it. And then it will become a friend.”
“I suck at making friends though,” he says earnestly and you both burst into giggles.
“I don't think so. Look, you have befriended me.”
“Yeah, you’re my friend.” he smiles like the afternoon sun, like he has forgotten the warmth he used to carry at his zenith. “I'm happy you are.”
—
Hyunjin first met Scarlet in his art gallery, where the winter winds seemed to carry her in, sweeping past the doorway with each click of her heels.
She moved gracefully through the room, pausing before every painting, her crimson lips pressing together as she tilted her head to the side. Contemplating. Now and then, a hand would drift to her raven hair, tucking it behind her ear, twirling it between her delicate fingers. He was drawn to her— to her olive skin, the depth in her brown eyes, the curve of her neck that seemed to call his name.
Scarlet was a sculptor, and like the name she bore, she was vivid, untamed, catching the eyes of everyone around her. And she basked in their gaze, feeding on their admiration like it was the very oxygen she breathed.
She loved Hyunjin loudly, extravagantly, parading him through the world as if to say, Look what I have found. An artist who only has eyes for me. She draped him in praise, her voice ringing clear for all to hear. And for a while, he believed it.
But Scarlet did not love him—not in the way he had hoped. She loved his brightest hues, the fire in his hands, the sound of his name murmured in circles of art and acclaim. She stood beside him in the gallery, basking in the applause for his paintings as though it belonged to her. She loved the lights, the cameras, the way his gaze softened when it landed on her.
But she did not love his blues—the quiet ache that spilled from him when inspiration faded. She did not love the weight in his voice when he longed for a hand to hold, for a shoulder to rest upon. When the fire in him dimmed, when he was no longer the sun with planets orbiting at his feet, she withdrew. almost bored. He saw it in the flicker of her eyes, in the way her attention wandered elsewhere. As if he was a burden to care for, to tend to.
Hyunjin came to understand that Scarlet did not love him. Not truly. Not despite the way she swore she did. Not despite the way she kissed him before what turned to be his final work trip, her lips scorching against his skin. “So you’d carry me with you,” she had whispered, winking, leaving a mark on his neck like a signature, like a brand.
And he did carry her, he still does—like a weight wrapped around his ankles, like smoke filling his lungs, thick with the taste of his own shortcomings. He was not enough for her. And if he was not enough for her, then perhaps he would never be enough at all. in anything he does.
But the sting on his neck eases when he’s near you.
A month has passed since he arrived in Giverny. He has seen little of it—only the lake that stretches beyond his window, and you.
You do not shy away from his silence. If anything, your smile brightens when you see him. You do not speak of his withering career, his lost passion. You do not question why he needs flowers twice a week, and why he needs to talk to you for an hour—sometimes two, sometimes three—before deciding which blooms to pick. what words he’d like to convey to you without speaking.
Except for once.
He was lingering by the lilies, his fingers gently caressing their pink petals, tracing the lines of crimson right in their middle. Though it took him all his will to not look at you, again, more than what’s deemed socially acceptable. To capture you in his mind since he cannot do so with his pens.
“I saw your paintings,” you suddenly said, words coming out in a rushed string. He froze in his place, hand hovering over the rosy flowers. You sidled up to him. You smelled sweeter than all the blooms combined.
“I looked you up. I was curious and I… I can’t stop thinking of your paintings. They are exquisite Hyunjin.” you said with a conviction that seemed to rekindle something with him, a fire to paint even better so you’d compliment him more.
“Really?” he asked, turning to look at you. His eyes searched yours, looking for something, a reassurance, that he wasn’t a lost cause, that you’d look at him the way you do withering flowers, with the same affection as fully blooming ones.
“Yes. Your use of color… it’s breathtaking. It’s as if you give them voices, emotions, a soul almost. Especially that blue painting, the man screaming. His eyes… they feel endless, like sorrow spilling over. It’s so—” You stopped yourself, laughing. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”
“No—no,” he rushed to say, stepping closer, a flush creeping up his neck. “Please. Tell me more.”
And you did.
Over a chocolat chaud at your favorite pâtisserie, you pulled up each of his paintings, tracing every detail you loved with words only an outsider to art could offer—unpolished, unrestrained, but brimming with wonder. You asked him questions, too. What inspired you? Why this color, this shape, this technique? Which one was your favorite? Your hardest? Your loneliest?
You talked and talked, until the drink grew cold but his heart felt lighter than it had in months.
Hyunjin was no stranger to praise—he was South Korea’s youngest millionaire-painter, after all. His work was admired, auctioned, owned. And yet, no compliment had ever felt quite like yours—so eager, so sincere, so soothing.
That evening, he walked you home, stopping just before your front door, neither of you quite willing to part.
“Can I have your number?” he asked suddenly.
You tilted your head, smiling.
“For… for the flowers,” he added, a little too quickly. “So I can order them, you know, in advance?”
“Right,” you giggled, typing your number into his phone. His fingers brushed against yours, his soul felt like it was cleaved wide open.
That night, he lay in bed, staring at your empty conversation, heart thrumming. Finally, he types a message.
thank you for today :) i dont think i expressed it well, but your words made me happy
really
Two seconds.
of course!!!
And then—
idk what happened hyunjin, but… i think art will find you again,, i don’t think a painter like you could ever stop painting
it’d be a waste for our world, really
He reads your words again and again, a quiet smile curling at the corners of his lips. They linger in his mind as his fingers brush the worn spine of his sketchbook, as he coaxes it open after months of neglect. And then he draws for the first time in months—nothing grand, nothing worth sharing, surely. Just a rose at first, simple and familiar, like the path to Anthomania.
Then, he turns the page. His posture shifts; he leans into his desk, back curved, brow furrowed in concentration. Time spins forward unnoticed. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath till he finally exhales it, putting his pen down. he sees it then, what he painted in his insatiable frenzy. it’s you, smelling the rose.
He sleeps with a blooming blush on his face that night, as the inks in his dream bleeds into the color of your lips, the lines of his sketches softening into those of your silhouette.
—
Hyunjin started texting you more after that—on the days he forced himself not to drop by your flower shop. Because, yes, you said he was your friend, still, he didn’t know how many visits it’d take for you to realize he’s not worthy of friendship, or love, or the warm way you gaze at him.
But he was still greedy, drinking in the way conversations between you flowed as easily as rushing water. You spoke of everything and nothing: your favorite flower—tulips, his favorite painter—Monet. The way he missed the iced americanos from home, his deep disdain for eggplants, your love for glittery eyeshadow, and the names of the stars outside your window.
Your messages became a breath of fresh air to him, a little sanctuary hidden within his phone, filled with pictures of the blooms you carefully arranged each morning. He had no paintings to send in return, so instead, he captured his walks by the river, the way sunlight draped over the fruit he laid on his checkered picnic cloth.
Then, it turned to calls, and Hyunjin’s world shifted when your voice rang like an answered prayer through his phone. He was initially timid, calling you to check if you had sunflowers in your shop. It was an excuse, really, because it was nearing midnight and he felt terribly lonely in a way only you can soothe.
Your conversation didn’t stop then. Instead, it continued like the turning of books, spilling from one page to another. You were both so curious about one another, that it seemed as if you never ran out of questions to ask.
“When did you think of becoming a florist?” He asked you one night, the rustling of your sheets told him you were shifting in bed, in search of comfort.
“When I was five.” His eyes fluttered shut, as if to better listen, to pretend you were near. “My mom used to have lots of flowers in our backyard, and I’d tend to them on the weekends and vacation. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life surrounded by beauty, and wisdom.”
“Wisdom?” he asks.
“Mm.” And he can imagine you lying on your back, staring up at your ceiling. He suddenly wishes he was next to you, holding your hand as you spoke. “Everything I know is from flowers.”
“What’s the most valuable lesson, you think?”
You’re quiet for a long while, only the softness of your breathing ringing through the phone. It lulls him to a peaceful place he hasn’t set foot in in a long time. Somewhere where his worries drift away, carried by the tide of your presence.
“That flowers always bloom again. Even when the winter stretches for months and months, and the cold feels so harsh you forget what the sun ever felt like. Even then, the flowers will bloom once more. Winter passes, and spring comes.”
He bites his lip, as if trying to sew shut his mouth, physically stopping the strings of words from rolling off his tongue. And yet, they win.
“You feel like spring, little florist.”
A sharp inhale. Yours. A breath, unsteady. His. He wishes to bury himself within his covers. He wishes he could teleport to you.
“Thank you, Hyune.” The nickname settles against the sore places in his chest. He felt bruised by it, split open in the gentlest way.“I hope you have dreams as sweet as you.”
Hyunjin didn't sleep that night, not when his heart hadn’t felt this alive in an eternity, bursting with colors he hadn't seen in so long.
The phone calls continued, night after night, your voice coming to him as his own breath. still, no matter how much he enjoyed seeing your name light up his screen, nothing compared to you in person. Watching your expressions shift with his every word, witnessing your hands coax life into each bouquet, the warmth you pour nto every customer you spoke to.
People seemed to leave your shop a little lighter, as if you had tucked something magical between their petals. Hyunjin knew why. It’s because you understood flowers beyond their beauty, saw meaning even in the ones with bruised roots and browning leaves. And it is that same compassion you extended to humans. Though you seemed unaware of how much grace you carried within you.
It moved him. It unraveled him.
Hyunjin hadn’t known what he had been yearning for these past six months. The ache had been constant, an insatiable hunger for something nameless, a restlessness settling right beneath his skin, an itch he could not scratch. But now he knows—he has always been longing for kindness.
Your kindness, to be exact.
“You haven’t been to Monet’s house?!” you exclaim, eyes wide in disbelief. It’s your lunch break, and Hyunjin has brought you seafood pasta from a place he discovered on one of his walks.
“No, I haven’t seen much of Giverny, to be honest,” he admits.
“But you’ve been here for forty-five days.”
“Have you been counting?” he smirks, teasing.
“No,” your voice grows an octave higher, “it just coincided with a big shipment of roses, that’s all.” (That is a half-truth.)
You clear your throat, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Anyways, let’s go tomorrow!”
Hyunjin’s heart plummets to his knees. You must notice it—the flicker in his expression, the slight falter in his gaze.
“Don’t you want to go?”
He says nothing. Your voice softens.
“Do you want to go alone?”
Hyunjin sighs, taking a long sip of the strawberry lemonade you prepared that day. The sweetness of the fruit makes it easier for him to speak.
“I told you that Monet is my favorite painter, right? When I started painting, I’m talking thirteen, fourteen, I was obsessed with technique, with proving that my paintings could be as realistic as possible. But then I discovered impressionism. And I… I fell in love with it. I realized that abstraction could hold even more emotion, even more depth than realistic paintings. And I… I’ve always wanted to see Monet’s gardens, to see what inspired so many of my favorite paintings.” He sucks in a deep breath, “but I’m scared… I’m terrified I’ll sit there amidst so much beauty and still feel nothing. That I won’t feel inspired. That I won’t wish to paint again.”
You nod, understanding, your eyes softening like silk honey. A quiet settles between you before your face brightens.
“Isn’t it good then? If you don’t feel inspired right away then we’ll have an excuse to visit such a beautiful place again.”
He exhales, something in his chest loosening.
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Find a silver lining in everything I say.”
You smile, almost melancholic, your gaze lost somewhere else. “I believe life is made up of lots of sorrows and lots of silver linings.” Your eyes meet his again. “Since my house burned down, I now own a better view of the moon… It’s a Japanese quote,” you clarify after a heartbeat. “I’m not that good with words.”
“Really? I find that I like your words much more,” he says, earnestly.
Both your fingers twitch at the same time.
Do yours hungrily want to reach for his too?
—
You like Hyunjin.
It seemed to be an inevitable outcome, one you didn’t even try to outrun, a tide you did not resist, instead, letting the water carry you wherever it saw fit. It’s as if you knew it was bound to happen when he set foot into Anthomenia for the first time, when his eyes glazed over the flowers with so much sorrow it felt like thorns curling around your throat. When he returned, again and again, when you started awaiting him with your breath clenched between your teeth. When you selfishly wished your flowers would wilt faster just so you’d be able to see him again.
It was inevitable for you to like Hyunjin. The beautiful man who sees beauty in everything but himself. The tortured painter with a heart so bruised you’re scared a single press of your thumb would be his undoing, like an overripe fruit, so sensitive to any touch, aching to be treated with tenderness.
You do not expect anything out of this crush. You do not expect him to reciprocate your feelings. You don’t think he ever would; even fantasizing of him thinking of you as fondly as you think of him makes you feel like you’re floating on cotton clouds. But then, the plummeting would only hurt even more, wouldn’t it? The sweetest dreams always ache at their zenith right before they dissolve into nothingness.
But you understand Hyunjin, in ways even you can’t fully describe or explain. In ways you aren’t sure he would himself. You can’t fault him for that— Hyunjin can only see your glittering surface. After all, you’ve gotten better at concealing your anguish, worn it for so long it has become a second skin to you.
But what matters is that you understand Hyunjin. It is because you understand that you wish for his spark to come back.
A life with no spark is no life, after all.
Hyunjin is growing increasingly nervous as you wait in line to enter Monet’s home and gardens. He’s fiddling with his Vetements t-shirt, tucking his hand into his jeans only to remove them once again. His fingers twist his jade necklace, then spin the rings adorning his hand, only to reach for his necklace once more.
You stare right ahead as you finally take hold of his fingers, entwining them softly with yours. You can feel him staring at you, his gaze burning the curve of your neck as his hand goes limp in your hold. He looks at you, and you look ahead. You’re scared of what he will read in your trembling irises if you dare hold his gaze.
But he doesn’t let go. Only holding on to you tighter, his thumb swiping gently across your palm. Your wrist. Anywhere its softness can reach.
You’ve been within these colorful gardens countless times before. On your first day in Giverny and once per month since, without fail, except when it closes for Winter.
Yet, you are always as bewitched by how beautifully arranged the gardens are, by how vastly their greenery stretches before your eyes. There is beauty to behold wherever your eyes rest, conversations between blooms to catch at every corner. You smell the mingling fragrances— the sweetness of roses and the citrus of orange blossoms. You hear the birds, singing and rejoicing in seeing another day, the rush of water carving its path through stones.
It is buzzing with life, the nature that seems to stretch its hand at you, beckoning you into the warmest of embraces.
Though today, you do not heed its call. Today, you hold on to Hyunjin’s hand.
He doesn’t let go of your hold as he slowly strolls around, stopping by the dahlias, breath caught in his throat as a bee buzzes around a nearby crimson peony. He leans into a yellow rose, his nose nearly brushing the dewdrops gathered on its petals. He breathes in beauty, lets it fill the hollows within him, and you watch—because seeing it through his eyes makes it all the more beautiful.
He smiles as he climbs the stairs of the home. As he pauses in the living room, taking in the dozen paintings hung on the wall—A Woman with a Parasol, The Water Lily Pond, Impression, Sunrise, Poppies, Bouquet of Sunflowers. Then, the lively bedrooms scattered around the home, the vibrant blue kitchen, the Japanese prints, and the pink orchid.
There is a little magic to his step as you follow the flowery path to the Water Lily Pond, with bamboo trees greeting you on your walk. He pulls you onto a bench, his eyes fixed on the turquoise and the floating water lilies, rootless yet still as happy, as beautiful. Like Hyunjin.
You can’t be as truthful as you wish around him anymore. Every compliment is starting to taste like a confession to you.
“I was in love with a girl,” he says, resting your interwoven hands upon his thigh. Your breath stumbles. You did not expect the sharp, sudden sting of jealousy latching onto your ribs, the burn of it. You look at the pond, hoping the water will rise from its place and douse the fire in your chest.
“She was my muse for the longest time. I was foolish, so I… I placed my heart within her palms. Here, take it, it’s yours, I told her. I was too blinded by my own need to be loved to realize that she didn’t love me.”
You steal a glance at him to find his eyes closed, his head leaning back. He’s so beautiful it almost feels like a dagger pressed against your throat.
“She cheated on me. In my own bed. While I was away for work,” he whispers, but his words still ring loudly in your ear. His words are so violent they feel out of place in such a beautiful setting. You swallow them. You don’t let him bear their weight alone.
“I don’t love her anymore. I think it evaporated the moment I saw her with him. But what hurts–” His voice trembles, and when he turns to you, his eyes are glistening, “what kills me is that I showed her all of me. I bared my soul to her, and it did not matter. It wasn’t enough for her to love me. And I… I don’t paint out of thin air, I paint out of my soul. I pour from myself onto the canvas. And if what makes me me isn’t worthy, then how could my paintings ever be enough? How could I ever be enough? In anything, to anyone?”
What do you do when someone hands you their bruised heart, bloody and butchered, when they unveil their deepest pains under the scorching sunlight, out in the open, with nowhere to hide it, nowhere to cancel it? What do you do with this violence? How do you undo it? How do you soothe it?
You don’t know. You wish you knew, more than ever before, as Hyunjin looks at you—almost expectantly, pleadingly—as if he has been waiting for months to speak these words to another soul. To unveil it.
Release me. You could almost hear it on the tip of his tongue. Please. Please. Please.
“Hyunjin,” you choke, your thumbs sweeping away the reflections of the swaying branches on his tear-streaked skin. “Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin,” you repeat, as if he could hear the weight his name carries, the way it has taken roots within your ribs. “You are enough. You were enough before her, and you will remain so after.”
His lower lip trembles and quakes; you can feel that he’s standing on the precipice of unraveling, completely, loose threads falling apart at the slightest gust of wind. You can’t stitch him back together, you can’t order the wind to pause in its travels. But you can speak.
“Don’t torture yourself over things that aren’t your doing. She may have been your inspiration, but she was never the sole core of your talent. That is all you, Hyunjin. Your kindness is you, and your paintings are you. No matter who you loved, or if you had loved no one at all. You still would have made it here. Because you are Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin exhales, a sound between a sigh and a sob. “What if I feel like nothing without her?”
“She’s only everything because you’ve given her your entire self. She’s everything because you see in her a reflection of yourself. Your beautiful self.” You exhale softly. His tears gather at his lashes like petals trembling before the fall.
“We promised not to lie to one another, didn’t we?” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I’ve been lonely here, Hyunjin. Not physically. But something has been missing. A friend. You. Having you here makes me happy. And someone who isn’t beautiful could never make the world more beautiful just by being in it.” You smile, your nose tip almost resting against his. “You are enough, Hyunjin. Her wrongdoings aren’t your fault.”
He nods, closing his eyes, leaning into the warmth of your palm, his lips almost brushing against your skin. “I want to paint again. I miss it terribly.”
“You will.”
His next words are softer than the wind rustling the trees. “I drew you.”
You swallow the lump in your throat. “Did I turn out pretty?”
He smiles like a spring sun, warm and kind on your soul. “Of course. It would be impossible for you to be otherwise.”
—
Something has shifted.
Like sailing winds catching the perfect speed to carry a boat to safety, something within Hyunjin has clicked into place. Eased is the better way to describe it, as if his heart, once sinking like a stone in his chest, now floats weightlessly along his ribs, unrestrained.
He has been happier since stepping out of Monet’s house, his smile blooming the way flowers do in spring, the way water rushes down a waterfall, like a second nature.
He pauses before you, the sun that has pulled him from the dark, clasping his hands together. You smile, tilting your head, and his heart swoons at the simple motion, swaying as if caught in the wind.
“Should we rent bikes?” he asks, grinning. “There’s so much I haven’t seen in Giverny.”
You pout, teasing. “Is my shop no longer enough for you?”
He shakes his head fervently. “No, no, your shop is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” His eyes widen with (exaggerated) sincerity. “I think all the other florists never stood a chance against you. In fact, every flower shop in the world should close right now!”
You laugh as he throws an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. He leans into you instinctively, as if he belongs there, inhaling your flowery scent, borrowing your warmth.
“Alright, alright,” you giggle, “I’ll be your tour guide, then.”
True to your word, the two of you spend the afternoon biking—past the river, through the narrow streets of Giverny, past the old Mill of Vernon and the Impressionism Museum where flowers sketch your path. The sun sinks behind you, spilling watercolors across the sky. The wind tousles Hyunjin’s hair, and he feels it for the first time in a long time—what it must be like to be a bird. Free. Unbound. Guided by nothing but the pull of his own heart.
You keep glancing over your shoulder as you bike ahead of him, tossing excruciatingly beautiful smiles his way. He feels them in his chest, burning and ablaze where coldness once sat.
By the time you stop to rest, you’re both breathless, slightly sweaty but pleasantly exhausted.
He can already sense it– you’re only seconds away from saying you should head back, but he’s still not satiated of you, he doesn't think he ever will. “Come home with me. I want to cook for you. As a thank you.”
His cheeks are rosy, his chest rising and falling as he awaits your response. He prays you won’t say no. He thinks he’s ready to beg at your feet if you refuse.
But your smile is warm, your gaze soft as it traces the contours of his face. You’re already saying yes with your eyes.
“Depends. What will you cook for me, Mr. Hwang?”
“Anything you’d like.”
That turns out to be just ramyeon as Hyunjin quickly realizes his fridge is unfit for anything more elaborate. He peers inside, dismayed, and you burst into laughter at his expression, clutching the sides of your stomach. But as you watch him move around the kitchen, speaking excitedly about all the paintings he’s inspired to create now, your laughter slowly fades.
Because you see it then—a vision. Hyunjin cooking you breakfast tomorrow. And the day after. And the years to come. You see yourself standing up, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. It’s so vivid, so sweet to imagine that it disarms you. Leaves you aching and pulsing for nothing. Like a heart beating with no blood flowing through it.
The vision lingers, syrup-thick, as Hyunjin hands you a steaming bowl of noodles. And when he gently wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of your lips—when he licks it from his own thumb without thinking—your pulse stutters. His gaze darkens, storms brewing behind his irises. You feel as if he’s kissing you with his eyes alone, touching you as he stands a few feet away.
Hyunjin only manages to steady himself when you both settle in the canopy in his backyard, sipping the peach lemonade you made for him days ago, listening to the cicadas humming far away. The breeze is cool against his collarbones. The full moon bathes you both in silver light.
It seems closer tonight, as if watching over him. As if urging him to speak.
“Can I paint you?” he asks suddenly. “I… I’d like to paint you with you here.”
You blink, caught off guard, before placing your hand over his.
“I’d love that, Hyune.” You smile softly. “But tonight, I’d rather you paint yourself. I think it would help you see that you don’t need any muse but you.”
The sincerity in your voice makes him ache, makes him want to collapse into your arms with the certainty that you would catch him. You didn’t run when his pain shadowed you, when his tears slipped down your palm like salty rivulets. You didn’t let go.
He feels you within him now—a soft mass of stars and sunlight, resting below his ribs, expanding, glowing, loving.
So he does exactly that.
As the night weaves itself forward, the two of you settle into his room—you curled up on his bed, thumbing through a book, while he brings out his oil paints, the scent of turpentine invading his senses at once, like an old friend. The sight of you in his room drives him to the edge of delirium. You belong in his home, in his heart, so effortlessly that it makes something deep in his chest ache.
The conversation drifts in and out between you, like waves kissing the shore—never fully retreating, never fully letting go. Shadows stretch and soften beneath the moonlight. You are half-asleep when his voice stirs you awake.
“What do you think, little florist?”
He tilts the painting toward you, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.
It is a portrait of himself—but not as the world sees him. Rendered in deep Prussian and Manganese blue, abstract save for his eyes, which shimmer with unshed tears caught in the waterline. Yet his expression is not sorrow. No, it speaks of reverence. As if he is gazing upon something unbearably beautiful. Something so profound, it threatens to undo him.
You.
Your breath catches as you push yourself up, eyes widening.
“My God, you are so talented,” you whisper, stepping beside him, drawn in by the painting. He almost—almost—lets his head rest against your side but stops himself. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder, grounding, warm. You squeeze gently.
“How you ever thought you weren’t good enough is beyond me. This is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”
His ears burn. He feels their warmth creeping down his neck, this unbearable, tender shyness you seem to bring out in him every time.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.
Your gaze flickers to the window, to the darkened sky. “It’s 3 a.m. already?” you murmur, blinking as exhaustion settles over you.
He hesitates for only a moment before reaching out, fingers curling lightly around your wrist.
“Stay the night.” It isn’t a demand, nor is it casual—it is hesitant, hopeful. “Unless you want me to take you home. I will, of course, but—I’d like you here.”
A pause. Two paths forging before you.
“I’d like that too.”
You change into the oversized T-shirt and pair of shorts he hands you, the fabric hanging loose around your frame. It smells like him—like paint and something sweet, something flowery too, as if he carries Anthomania on his skin like you do.
As you climb into his bed, he lights a single vanilla candle, its flame wavers, and you watch it for a while, thinking. The bed is wide enough that you do not have to touch. And yet—like a moth to a flame, like a flower bending instinctively toward the light—something in you aches to move closer. To rest against him. To rest in him.
He feels the same.
It starts with his hand, inching toward yours.
Then, the slow, tentative brush of his pinky against your skin, gently tracing the contours of your palm. Your fingers slide over his, resting there.
“You’re still awake,” he murmurs, voice low and drowsy.
“So are you.”
He hums softly, and his thumb begins to move—small, absentminded circles against your skin. As if his body has decided to reach for you before his mind can catch up.
You shift onto your side, edging closer, and now you can see him fully—the candlelight catching on his cheekbone, the way his dark hair spills onto the pillow. His eyes flicker open at the movement, lazy and heavy-lidded, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Not yet.”
A pause. A heartbeat.
Then, softer, more vulnerable, he whispers, “Can I hold you?”
Your heart stumbles. For a moment, neither of you breathe.
“Can I tell you something first?” you ask, fully turning toward him, and he follows suit. Your fingers inch toward his face, ghosting over the mole by his eye, the one near the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, tracing his pulse where it beats wildly beneath your touch.
“Anything, little florist.”
You swallow. “I’ve never been in love before. And I’ve never been loved. I’ve spent the better part of my life craving a feeling that always seemed just out of reach.” A sad smile tugs at your lips. Hyunjin’s eyes soften at your confession. “It’s as if I’ve been deprived of something monumental and grand, something I searched for in everything I did.” You bite your lip. “And I like you, Hyunjin. I like you a lot. As silly as it is, because you are you and I am me, but it would kill me if you only wanted to hold me as a friend.”
“Shh, what are you saying?” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your lips, soft and reverent. “can’t you see it? you are the one who brought me back to life. I was a wilted thing before you. i feel as if you watered me, like one of your flowers.”
“Well, you are as beautiful as a flower.” A tear slips past your lashes. “And I am just a florist.” Perhaps it’s the late hour, or the way his warmth lulls you toward something soft, something safe. Or maybe it’s because the most beautiful person you’ve ever met is looking at you as if you are something holy.
But you start crying, unyielding tears coating your cheeks in their wetness. You don’t cry prettily nor quietly, but Hyunjin doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t leave before this gushing wound you’ve carried—this thirst for love you could never quench—now overflowing, too much, too much, too much.
Instead, he gently takes your hand, and presses it over his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart pounds wildly, you cannot fathom that it is your doing.
“I think you’re more beautiful than all the flowers combined.” His knuckle tenderly wipes your tears away. “And I adore you, my little florist. Not as a friend. In case that wasn’t clear.” He giggles, and so do you, something light and giddy coming to life between you.
“Then, can you hold me? Please.”
And he does. Instantly, greedily—his arms curling around you, pulling you into the warmth of him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, letting him breathe you in. You both sigh at once, as if you’ve been waiting your whole lives to reach this moment. As if you have spent too many years with no safe space to exhale.
“So, you like me?” he asks, pressing a tender kiss to your hair.
“I think I’ve made it pretty clear.” You smile, and he laughs.
“You feel warm,” he whispers, voice quieter now. “And safe. I never thought I’d feel this way again.” His nose tip grazes yours tenderly. “Please don’t hurt me, my little florist.”
“I think I’d rather hurt myself,” you confess, gently tucking away strands of his hair behind the cuff of his ear.
“Then, never mind. Hurt me instead,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to cry anymore.”
“Are you trying to outdo me?”
“Mm, just need to prove I like you more.”
You giggle quietly, blushing. It’s nearly five a.m. now.
“I feel like I’m dreaming, Hyunjin. I’m scared I’ll wake up and won’t find you near.”
“I’m here,” he reassures, placing a tender kiss on the crown of your head. “I won’t leave. But would you wait for me? There are parts of myself I still need to heal before I can love you properly. You understand, right?”
“Love?” you echo.
“Is it too soon?” He shakes his head. “You know, I don’t care. I know that if we continue this way, I’ll only end up loving you. I think I’ve always known.”
“So did I,” you grin like the sun. “But I won’t wait for you from afar. I’ll hold your hand till you become even happier.”
He exhales, eyes fluttering shut. It looks like the milky way is swimming within his eyes once they lock on you. “I want to love you so much you’ll forget what it felt like to not be loved. I will. I promise you.”
And you believe him.
“Can you start tonight?”
It happens then—both of you moving at once, drawn together like tides to the moon, like roots seeking water. Your lips meet and something inside you quakes, shatters, is born again. His kiss is gentle, reverent, the kind of softness that makes your skin prickle, makes you ache in places you didn’t know could.
He tastes like peaches, like flowers, like the way his name sounds in your mouth. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the curve of you, tracing the length of your spine as if memorizing the shape of you, as if afraid you might slip away. And you are floating, slipping in and out of consciousness, dizzy with warmth, with his touch, with the way his lips seek yours again and again, as if he could kiss you for eternity and it still wouldn’t be enough to quench his thirst.
Your hand is the first to move beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing over his fevered skin. He shudders, his forehead pressing against yours.
“Touch me,” you whisper.
And Hyunjin swears he could die like this—if this is death, he would meet it ten times over at your hands.
He is everywhere, all-encompassing, warm, and tender, the weight of him pressing into you, anchoring you to this moment. Still he keeps asking, voice unsteady— Would you like me to stop? Tell me and I will. His fingers slip down the ridges of your stomach, tracing every dip, every line of yours, and your answer remains the same, pleading— No, keep going, please. please. You are a flower cracking through the hard soil, unfurling, meeting the light for the first time.
You have your answer then— why Giverny? It was to find him. It was to be found. It drapes over you like a certainty a year later, when his arm wraps around your shoulders, his chin resting on the crown of your head. As you gaze at the series of paintings he’s created over the past seven months— every bouquet you’ve ever made him since his first visit to you. Your gaze drifts to the central piece of his newest exposition— you, looking out of his window, laying on a bed of wildflowers, the light grazing your bare back like a lover.
Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | blah blah blah
🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.
💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up.
p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin?
p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,”
you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)
⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Friends-to-lovers tension finally snaps and it’s carnal, needy, and fucking overdue | Oral (f. receiving) | Latex gloves | Spit | Tattoo chair sex | Filthy dirty talk — praise + hunger: “sweetheart,” “good girl,” “let me taste you again.” | Fingering | Thigh gripping | Ass worship | Tattooing as marking kink | Reader on all fours, bent over the chair | Clit attention that makes your brain fog | Aftercare so tender it hurts
Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.
The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.
The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.
Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.
God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.
He looks up.
His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.
“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.
“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”
“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”
You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”
He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”
“And you?”
“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”
There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.
You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.
Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.
The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.
Still, you stayed friends.
Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.
And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.
“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.
He shrugs. “Just sketching.”
“For a client?”
His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”
There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.
“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”
His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”
You pause.
Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.
It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”
He stares for a long moment.
When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”
You nod.
His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”
You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.
Silence.
You can feel the air shift.
Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.
“You want me to tattoo you there?”
“Yes.”
A long breath. “Why me?”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”
You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”
He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”
You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”
The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“You’ve touched me five times.”
“Not like that.”
Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.
But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”
You nod once, pulse thudding.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”
You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”
His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”
You arrive before closing.
The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.
You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.
“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.
From somewhere in the back, you hear him.
“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”
You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”
He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.
You offer him the coffee.
He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”
“Strawberry scones.”
He pauses. Blinks once.
Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”
You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.
“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”
You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.
Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.
One of his.
He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”
You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.
“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.
You nod. “Still want you to do it.”
That makes his head lift.
His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.
Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.
Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.
“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.
His inhale is so sharp you hear it.
“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”
You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”
“Not like this.”
Your breath catches.
He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.
The difference.
It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.
His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.
“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.
Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.
You inhale slowly. Exhale.
He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.
“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”
You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.
You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.
He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.
“Well?” he asks.
You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”
“Then lie back for me, angel.”
You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.
Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.
A little too still. A little too loaded.
And then he turns.
Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.
At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.
“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.
You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”
He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”
Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.
You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”
“Intimate,” he finishes.
You nod once. Slowly.
He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”
You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”
He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”
“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”
That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.
“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”
You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”
“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”
“It hurt!”
“It was a two-inch peony.”
“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.
He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.
You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.
“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”
You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”
He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.
He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.
“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.
“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.
His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”
“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”
He does not, in fact, move away.
Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”
“I’m not wiggling.”
“You are.”
“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”
“Always.”
He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.
He notices. Of course he does.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.
“You always hold my hand when I do.”
He pauses. Just a beat.
Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.
You don’t let go.
And then—
“Here we go,” he says quietly.
The needle touches your skin.
Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”
The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.
“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”
You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Say what?”
“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”
He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”
You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”
He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”
Your whole body freezes.
“I—excuse me—”
“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”
“You know what I thought you meant.”
He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”
You let out a long, slow exhale.
“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.
You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”
“What?”
“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.
His voice drops. “When I’m what?”
Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.
“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”
Those words echo.
Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.
You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.
This has never just been ink.
Not for him.
And not for you.
“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.
His gloved hand is still on your hip.
Still holding you steady. Still not moving.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”
“But you meant it,” you say.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.
And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”
You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”
It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.
The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.
You’re not sure if he means you or him.
“I’m fine,” you manage.
He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”
Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.
“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”
You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”
Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.
Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.
He notices. He always notices.
"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.
"I'm trying," you whisper.
"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."
The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.
Another petal. Another clean line.
Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.
“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”
You nod, nails digging into your own palms.
And then—
He stops.
The buzzing dies.
You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down.
The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink.
The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.
“…Finished,” he says quietly.
You look at him.
His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.
He pulls the gloves off.
Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.
Then looks at you like he’s still starving.
“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.
You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.
You watch him work.
He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.
You shiver.
“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”
You blink at him. “But?”
His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.
But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.
You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.
Is he seriously—
“Lie back,” he murmurs.
You hesitate.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”
You lie back, narrowing your eyes.
He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.
"You're being professional again," you mutter.
His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”
“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”
“I remember everything I say to you.”
He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.
And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.
The goddamn printed paper.
“I know how to—”
“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”
You sit up abruptly.
His words die in his throat.
You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.
His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.
Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.
“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.
He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.
“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”
Your breath catches.
He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.
Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.
“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”
Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.
"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”
“You already have.”
He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.
He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."
His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.
"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"
The shorts hit the floor.
And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.
Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed.
They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.
Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.
“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”
“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.
“Bullshit.”
He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.
“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”
A kiss over the curve of your ass.
“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”
His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.
“I should rip these.”
“You won’t,” you gasp.
“Oh?”
“You like how they look too much.”
He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”
And then he does something you don’t expect.
He kneels behind you.
Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.
Then—
A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”
His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.
Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.
“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”
His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.
Then—
Spit.
The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.
“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”
And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.
“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”
His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.
“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”
Then he sucks. Hard.
Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.
One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.
“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”
“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.
His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.
“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”
He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.
“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”
You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”
And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—
You do.
You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.
But he doesn’t stop.
He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.
“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.
Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—
And stands.
You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.
He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”
His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.
“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”
You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.
He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.
Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.
“You staring?” he says, breathless.
“Obviously.”
He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.
“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”
You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.
“—and all mine.”
He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.
You jolt.
“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans down, voice curling around your ear.
“Good.”
And then—
He pushes in. Slow. Deep.
Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.
“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”
You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”
He pulls out halfway—
Then slams back in.
Your cry echoes through the studio.
“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.
Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.
“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”
One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.
“Hyunjin—!”
“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”
He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.
The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.
And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.
“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”
His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—
Everything snaps.
You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.
“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—
And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.
“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.
You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”
“Worth it,” he grins.
Then: “Round two?”
You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”
He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.
You nod slowly. “Better than.”
He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”
You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.
A gasp escapes your lips.
Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”
You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.
Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.
“Let me see it,” he whispers.
You glance back, confused.
“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.
You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.
He crouches again.
One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.
His eyes go soft.
“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”
You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—
He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.
“Come home with me,” he says.
Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”
“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”
You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”
You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.
Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.
The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.
Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.
You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”
He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.
“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”
You snort. “You mean mine.”
His gaze flicks up.
“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”
He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”
You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.
He grins. “You love it.”
His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.
You squirm. “Hyunjin—”
“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.
He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.
And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.
You blink. “Another what?”
“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”
He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.
You shiver. “Hyunjin…”
His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”
You moan—already soaked, already clenching.
But he just smirks.
“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”
You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”
He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”
...where hyunjin fails (but only when it comes to you)
it seems like forever since you and hyunjin have more than 10 minutes in each other’s arms, breaths synchronised and hearts beating to the rhythm of the other. more than 10 minutes since your i love yous are interrupted by work calls or members, and never more than 10 minutes without either of you falling asleep due to the comforting presence of the other.
you mean more to hyunjin than he can ever put into words, or songs, or pictures, or movement, or paintings. because while you are his muse, you also remind him at the end of the day that he fails as an artist when it comes to you.
hyunjin always thought that love is meant to be captured through his art, he always thought that it's the only way he can translate his love so it can mean something more than it ever really is.
but he knows now that he was lied to.
hyunjin fails as an artist when it comes to you and that, to him, is the greatest honour he’s ever known. because he knows that the love you share cannot be limited to melodies or words. because he hasn't yet figured out how and when you entangle your soul in his and show him that perhaps the love that you share isn’t one he is capable of putting down on paper. because your love for each other is so deep and vast that, truthfully speaking, he’d have to put the pen through his head before he can capture it.
with the asian leg of the tour wrapped up at long last and your exhausting week of work and classes finished, you and your boyfriend find yourselves seated on the living room sofa, wine bottles in hand and warm yellow lights illuminating hyunjin’s skin ever so beautifully.
“i knew stay would say that i'm returning to my coconut phase," says the man with a growing tuft of hair, wiping away a tear of laughter with the chilled bottle of alcohol in his left hand.
you hiccup and nod frantically in response, not trusting your voice with the amount of wine in your belly. the reaction only makes hyunjin throw his head back in laughter and your heart stops at the sight.
hwang hyunjin truly is ethereal, a man you could’ve sworn is sculpted by the gods himself, a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, a man who promised you the world and rolled his eyes when you said he is your world, a man who loves you, for all that you love him too.
hyunjin is no stranger to it, but he's had no love like your love. and he's so immensely grateful for it because he knows that you'll love him even when he's no longer hwang hyunjin of stray kids, no longer a versace ambassador, no longer a rapper and dancer, no longer a man who steals the hearts of millions but simply a man who wishes to grow old with his spouse.
hyunjin knows that you'll love him exactly for who he is, and there is no greater peace than that.
he exhales, his free hand resting against your knee, thumb brushing over your skin absentmindedly. the warmth of your body against his is something he will never tire of. you fit against him like you are always meant to be there.
"you're staring," you murmur, voice laced with amusement.
hyunjin hums, but doesn't look away, bringing your hand up to press a kiss against where a vein runs on your wrist. "i like looking at my darling."
your lips curl into a small smile. "do i have something on my face?"
"just beauty," he says, and it's so terribly earnest that you can't help but laugh, shaking your head.
"you're ridiculous," you tease, pressing your fingers into his cheek lightly.
he leans into your touch without hesitation. "i mean it," he says, quieter this time. "sometimes i look at you and i think... i don't know how to make this last forever."
your fingers pause against his skin. "what do you mean?"
he hesitates, trying to find the right words. "i've spent my whole life creating things. trying to make moments eternal through art. but i can't do that with you. i can't paint you, i can't write about you, i can't dance this feeling into existence. nothing i make will ever be enough."
you watch him carefully, taking in the slight furrow of his brows, the vulnerability in his gaze. "maybe you're not supposed to," you say softly.
his lips part, but he doesn't say anything, waiting for you to continue.
"maybe some things aren't meant to be captured," you murmur, your fingers slipping down to intertwine with his. "maybe they're just meant to be lived."
hyunjin's breath catches. he looks at you like you've just given him the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
"then i'll just have to spend the rest of my life living this," he whispers.
you squeeze his hand gently. "maybe i will too."
he leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally, finally, your lips. it’s soft, slow, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world. because for once, he does.
tonight, there are no interruptions, no time limits, no fleeting moments. just this. just you. just love.
...the one where you're not quite sure how and why hyunjin loves you, but he does, and that's all you really need
it's the way he just loves you like it's normal. you don't know how to describe the feeling but it makes your eyes well up with tears everytime.
with your limited experience of love, you've never once had someone love you back as strongly as you loved them. that was until you met hyunjin.
the way he kisses your forehead before he puts down your cup of coffee on the table, the way he smiles at you every morning as he grabs you and pulls you over him, the way he silently adjusts your rings and earrings whenever you're rambling on about something that happened at work, the way he sends you random messages throughout the day about how grateful he is to have you in his life, the way he always kisses your face to wake you up in time for work and ensures you still have fifteen minutes to cuddle, the way he silently rests his head on your shoulder as he stands behind you, hands caressing your hips and soft kisses being planted on your neck.
you're not used to it. all your life, you've been the one giving and giving and giving until your glass was empty and the moment you asked for any sense of reassurance or comfort, you were told to be too much.
but with hyunjin, for the first time, it's like you're finally able to get back the love you always wanted. and this time it's not even a small portion, hwang hyunjin loves you like the world was to end tonight and he'd have no regrets when it comes to you.
so it takes him by surprise when he slips his hands into yours one sunday afternoon, the grey clouds outside admirers of your love and leans down to press a kiss against your lips only to see fat tears rolling down your cheeks.
he immediately lets go of your hand to grab the sleeve of his sweatshirt and wipe your tears away, afraid he had done something wrong.
but he's even more confused when you bury your face in his chest and cling to him tightly as you cry your heart out. hyunjin doesn't know what he's done to make you so upset and he's almost afraid to hug you back but seeing the way you hold onto him, he wraps his own arms around you before cautiously kissing the top of your head.
"you-you don't have to-i've never- i love you hyune." you cry out.
and hyunjin can only smile softly as he gathers you in his arms and takes you to the couch to get you comfortable on his lap.
he wishes he could tell you. but he can't. words fail him when he needs them most. but he knows you understand, he knows you can feel how his heart bursts from love for you.
so he'll write about it someday, maybe paint too.
because he just hopes you know that even if the earth burns to ashes, hwang hyunjin will never stop loving you.
hey so i need chan on his knees right now and to tell me i'm beautiful 😻
chan who'll push your thighs apart and slowly trace his fingers down your shorts, not from teasing but from the slowness that comes with worship.
his breath warms the skin just above your knee, and then his lips press down, soft and sure. once. twice. like he’s setting intentions with each kiss. his hands are steady on your thighs, fingers spread, thumbs brushing little arcs into your skin like he can’t stop touching even for a second.
he looks up through his lashes, eyes dark and tender all at once, and fuck. you could unravel just from that.
“let me,” he whispers, voice a mere whisper. like he's making up for how the world has been making you feel unwanted again.
he bends forward again, mouth trailing higher now, a line of heat and softness as he mouths just above the hem of your shorts. his fingers slide beneath the waistband, slow like he’s unwrapping something sacred. not teasing. just taking his time, like you’re something to be honoured.
the fabric drags down, grazes the backs of his knuckles, the curve of your thighs, and all you can do is breathe—shallow and wrecked—as he presses another kiss to your hip before biting the flesh, dragging a moan out of you.
“so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
you're half gone. and he hasn't even touched you yet.
The first time Hyunjin ever asked to draw you, it was just your hands.
You’d been flipping lazily through a book in his apartment, curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies. He had looked at you for a beat too long before saying, “Don’t move.”
And he drew.
You were his favorite subject. He told you that all the time—when you were eating ice cream on the kitchen counter, when you were brushing your teeth, when you were curled into his chest watching Studio Ghibli movies.
But tonight felt different.
Tonight, it’s your whole body.
You’re lying in his bed, legs tucked under the covers, skin glowing in the amber light of his bedroom lamp. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts—threadbare, soft—and a pair of lace-trimmed underwear you never expected him to notice.
Spoiler: he noticed.
Hyunjin sits at the foot of the bed, sketchpad balanced on his knee, hair falling into his face as he looks at you. Really looks.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmurs, pencil scratching softly against paper. "Soft. Real. Mine."
Your cheeks heat up. “You’re embarrassing me.”
“No,” he says, voice lower now. “I’m worshipping you.”
His eyes move slowly—from the curve of your thighs under the sheet, up to the dip of your waist, the slope of your shoulder where his t-shirt has slipped off one side. He draws you delicately, reverently.
The moment is quiet, intimate. Just soft breathing, pencil on paper, the hum of rain starting outside.
“You always look at me like that when you draw?” you ask, watching his expression.
He glances up at you, gaze warm and heavy.
“Only when I’m in love.”
Your breath catches.
And then—slowly, without breaking eye contact—you pull the covers down.
Hyunjin pauses, pencil hovering mid-line.
You lift the sheet off your body completely, leaving only his shirt and your underwear. You stretch out a little more, knowing exactly what you're doing. The shirt rides up. Your legs shift apart. You watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows.
“…Keep going,” you whisper.
He stares at you like he’s never seen anything so divine.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
You smile—just a little—and lift the hem of his shirt up your stomach, exposing the soft skin underneath. “Isn’t that what muses do?”
His pencil falls to the floor.
Hyunjin sets the sketchbook down with careful hands, like he’s placing something sacred on an altar. Then he’s crawling up the bed, slow and deliberate, until he’s hovering over you.
His hair falls like silk against your skin as he kisses you—soft at first, like a sigh, then deeper, hotter, tasting the way you breathe his name.
You thread your fingers into his hair and whisper, “Touch me.”
“Everywhere,” he promises, his lips trailing down your jaw. “I’m going to draw you with my hands now.”
His fingers glide under your shirt, thumbs brushing your sides, then lifting it up, over, gone. He drinks in the sight of you like a man starved.
“You’re unreal,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re… holy.”
His mouth on your chest, worshipping. His hands mapping every inch of you, slow and skilled, the way only a lover—and an artist—can be.
You arch beneath him, breathless.
“You drive me crazy,” he growls against your skin. “Laying there like a masterpiece. Begging to be ruined.”
And ruin you, he does—slowly, sweetly, with kisses like brushstrokes and touches that make your thighs tremble. He slides your underwear off with reverent fingers, and when his mouth finally meets your heat, you swear he moans first.
You’re gasping his name, clutching the sheets, eyes locked with his as he makes you fall apart.
And when he finally sinks into you, bare and beautiful and completely yours, he groans against your mouth, “My muse. Always.”
_
The room is quiet, lit only by the soft, golden glow of Hyunjin’s bedside lamp. Rain taps gently against the window, barely audible over your tangled breathing.
You’re still catching your breath.
Sweat clings to your skin, chest rising and falling as you lay back, limbs loose, trembling, blissed out and ruined in the best way. Hyunjin is next to you, his arm across your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck like he can’t stand to be an inch away from you.
You feel his lips move against your skin, murmuring, “You’re unreal…”
You let out a soft laugh. “You said that already.”
He lifts his head, eyes dark and still hungry. His voice drops, low and thick.
“I meant it every time.”
And then, he’s on top of you again. Slow. Intentional.
His hands—so gentle and talented—trail down your body like he’s memorizing it again. He kisses your collarbone, your chest, the valley between your breasts, sucking delicate bruises into your skin like he’s signing his name with his mouth.
“I want to draw you again,” he murmurs against your sternum.
You hum, dazed. “Now?”
“No,” he says, voice like velvet. “Like this.”
He slips a hand between your legs again and smirks when you gasp, already sensitive.
“Hyunjin—”
“Let me.” His breath is hot against your skin. “Let me draw what you look like when you’re coming apart for me.”
And then he’s not so sweet anymore.
His hand moves slowly—fingers gliding through your folds with purpose, teasing your swollen clit with feather-light strokes. You arch into him, whining, but he just shushes you.
“Be good, baby. I’m studying you.”
Your thighs tremble, heat pooling in your belly all over again.
His mouth returns to your body—trailing kisses down your stomach, your hipbones, and lower.
"You know what the most beautiful part of you is?” he murmurs, right before his tongue flicks out and presses exactly where you need him.
You cry out, fingers gripping the sheets.
“This,” he says between licks. “Because it’s where you give me everything.”
He eats you out like a starved man—tongue circling your clit, fingers thrusting deep and curling in just the right spot. He watches you the entire time. Watches the way your eyes flutter, the way your chest heaves, the way your back arches when you’re right there.
"You're so perfect when you fall apart like this,” he says, voice full of awe. “Like art that breathes.”
And when you come undone again, sobbing his name, his smirk turns wicked.
“You’re going to let me do it again, aren’t you?”
You can only nod.
And again. And again.
He flips you gently, guiding you to your hands and knees, kissing your spine all the way down. His hands grip your hips as he slides back into you—slow, deep, deliciously unhurried.
You both moan at the stretch, the heat, the feeling of finally, fully, being connected again.
His pace is slower this time—sensual, possessive, perfect. He grinds into you with long, deep thrusts, reaching around to rub lazy circles on your clit while he groans praises into your ear.
"You're mine," he pants. "All of you. Forever."
"Yours," you gasp, so full of him you can barely think. "Always."
The sound of skin, wet and sinful, echoes through the room with every thrust. His hair clings to his face. Yours is sticking to your back. And neither of you care.
You're past caring.
He makes you fall apart again, this time with your face buried in the pillow, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer pleasure of it.
He follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once, spilling deep inside you with a final thrust that leaves you both breathless.
But he’s not done.
After a moment—after the room is still and the air is thick with heat—Hyunjin presses a soft kiss to your shoulder.
Then, with that telltale sparkle in his eyes, he rolls over and grabs his sketchbook again.
You blink at him, laughing weakly. “Now you want to draw?”
He grins like the devil. “Yes. I want to remember what you looked like after I made you scream my name.”
You throw a pillow at him. He catches it—barely—and kisses you hard in retaliation.
As he sketches, you doze in and out of sleep, wrapped in the afterglow of the most intense night of your life. You peek at the paper once or twice, blushing at the raw beauty of his strokes.
And there, in smudged graphite lines, is you.
Mouth parted, skin bare, legs tangled in his sheets—
like something sacred, something ruined, something loved.
♡ Summary: A peek inside your boyfriend's mind and heart when he's making love to you. Told from Hyunjin's point of view.
♡ Word Count: 721
Warnings: unprotected sex & that's all, darlings
A/N: I wrote this to break my writer's block. I've never written anything from a male's POV before, let alone a male idol so let me know what you think ♡
I’ve visited museums that some artists can only dream of stepping foot in. The Musée du Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. The Tate Modern in London. The Uffizi Gallery in Florence. I’ve been inches away from Botticelli’s “Birth of Venus” painting, depicting the arrival of the goddess of love herself to the island of Cyprus.
Its beauty is enough to bring some to tears but it’s nothing more than pigmented egg yolk on canvas, dull and unremarkable when compared to you. With you staring up at me, your eyes oceanic trenches of eternal admiration, the rest of the world falls away. I drown in them...in you.
I gently brush my finger along the line where your lips meet. They’re like velvet against my thumb. They part, the air stolen from my own lungs filling yours as I sink into you. Your body welcomes me into your warmth, eagerly swallowing my length inch by inch until you have all of me. My body trembles as my mouth meets yours.
I can feel your smile. A tiny one at first. The corners of your mouth barely lift. You clench around me. Release. Clench. Release. Your smile grows wider the deeper I groan. You know what you do to me. You love it. And so do I. Your hands skim my bare chest, arms coming around to trace my spine with your fingertips.
“Hyunjin” you gasp, the pressure of my throbbing tip hitting that one perfect spot overloading your senses. “Hyunjin.” My name’s sugar cane on your lips. I crave the sound of it. I lift you from the bed just enough to take two handfuls of your lush ass into my hands. I grip you tightly, securing you in place, and thrust into you harder.
“Say it again. My name.” Please don’t make me beg because I will. Anything to hear you say it. “Hyunjin” you’re moaning, hips raising to meet mine. I trail kisses down your neck, inhaling the scent of jasmine and saffron permeating from your soft skin. Your fingers are tangled in my hair now, delicately tugging at my hair, guiding me along your collarbone.
Between your cleavage. To the rise of your succulent breasts where your buds stiffen to meet the textured surface of my tongue. I free a hand up to caress your breast as I lap at your delicious bud, pausing every now and then to watch it glisten with a thick coating of my spit. You twist beneath me, your body too lost in pleasure to know what to do with itself.
I can feel your heart racing, a rhythm I could mimic in my sleep like the notes of my favorite song. You’re soaking wet. I can feel your juices dripping down my shaft. Coating my balls. Making such a mess of your plush thighs. My hands, they have to travel. Explore the gentle curves of your body. I’m a slave to the way your soft body gives to my touch.
Addicted to tracing every stretch mark. Nibbling on the plumpest, sweetest parts of your figure. No paintbrush in the world can mimic the art of a body so tempting I’d give my whole being simply to lay eyes on it. You say my name again. Broken. Laced with need. You whisper to me, my lips at your neck once more, how close you are but I know. By the fluttering of your walls and the arch of your back.
I sneak an arm between us, stroking your firm clit with two of my fingers. Your nails dig into me, tearing skin, leaving behind an abstract message that I am, in fact, yours. Yours when your body tightens and twists, your whimpers flowing through the air. Yours when the ecstasy of your high has you trashing. Screaming. Incoherent. Nectar rushing from your pussy like a waterfall. Majestic and powerful all at once.
Yours when your sweat slicked body relaxes in my arms, those angelic eyes staring up at me with the same admiration as before. “I…” you start but your voice cracks. You clear your throat, shaky hands cradling my face like I’m some precious thing, “I love you.” And I love you. My work of art. My Musee du Louvre. My Musee d’Orsay. My Venus in Cyprus.
