˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Hyunnielix 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
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ellievsbear
Show & Tell
d e v o n
will byers stan first human second
occasionally subtle

Love Begins
Game of Thrones Daily

Kiana Khansmith
h
Jules of Nature

★
wallacepolsom
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
RMH
Claire Keane
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oozey mess
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Three Goblin Art
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
seen from United States
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seen from Singapore
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seen from United States
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seen from Malaysia
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@hyunnielix
˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ Hyunnielix 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗
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I am sorry I am still shock
But I am in awe too
ZAYNE IS SUCH A GENTLEMAN
The way even as him "loses control" he is protecting her from discomfort.
Topping her over but making sure the edge of table doesn't hurt her in impact
Throwing the books away so SHE can sit comfortably
Because to him that is more important than any books
Pushing her against the wall but putting his hand first for her head to hit on
Also shoving glass away if you consider how that would be uncomfortable for both parties
it’s the way Zayne is always prioritising MCs comfort to ensure she doesn’t get hurt or feel any discomfort.
It was never him acting out of character . He is still the gentleman he would be in any other given moments omfg zayne
ZAYNE THE MAN YOU ARE .
decode. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'unpacked every single word you wrote and i, overanalysed it, front, back and beside it'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 4.2k (unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance. dance coach!reader
— warning's: fluff, kinda angst maybe? Y/N is jealous. domestic!hyunjin watch out! This is an emotionally charged chapter! Minho mention.
→ playlist on spotify
You woke to sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains, painting Hyunjin's cozy room in soft golds and ambers. The faint smell of paint lingered in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of fresh coffee. You rolled over, the sheets rustling beneath you, to find him already out of bed. His side, empty but still warm. Your gaze shifted, landing on him—his frame hunched over a cluttered desk in the corner, bathed in morning light. The corner of your lip twitched at the sight. The shirt he wore hung loosely off one of his broad shoulders, revealing a tantalizing sliver of skin.
God you felt like a school girl with a crush.
Sunlight spilt across his face, highlighting his golden features—the sharp slope of his nose, the defined line of his jaw, and the delicate curve of his long lashes.
For a moment, you observed him in silence, the scene so achingly familiar yet foreign. It felt like you stepped into one of his paintings—a snapshot of your history, tinged with an ever-looming sense of impermanence.
“Morning,” you said softly, breaking the quiet.
Hyunjin glanced back over his shoulder, his face breaking into a crooked smile that sent a flutter through your chest. “Morning. Coffee’s on the counter. I would’ve brought it to you, but considering how clumsy we were last night…” His voice trailed off.
You groaned, placing your head in your hands as warmth crept into your cheeks. A giggle escaped you despite yourself. “Oh god,” you muttered, peeking at him through your fingers. “That’s a good point.”
“Figured you’d appreciate me sparing the mug from an early demise.” He chuckled softly, turning fully toward you, his shirt slipping even further down his shoulder. “I laid some of your pajamas on the edge of the bed for you to change into,” he said, his lips curling into a playful smirk. “Not that I’m complaining about the current view.”
His words made your cheeks heat even more, a blush blooming across your face. “I didn’t realize you kept some of my clothes,” you admitted, your voice shy but curious.
“Sentimental, I know,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, though the slight tilt of his lips betrayed the fondness behind his words. Without waiting for a response, he turned back toward his desk, the soft flick of his brush filling the room as he focused on painting once more.
You glanced at the neatly folded pajamas Hyunjin left for you at the edge of the bed. A faint smile tugged at your lips as you reached for them, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric. Quickly, you slipped the blanket off your shoulders.
Grabbing the pajama top first, you tugged it over your head, the cotton sliding down to cover you. It hung loose on your frame, the hem brushing just past your waist. You paused briefly, catching a faint trace of his scent lingering in the fabric—clean and familiar, like him.
Next came the underwear. You slipped out of the unmade bed and then stepped into them, fumbling a little as you balanced on one foot, hurriedly pulling them up to settle on your hips. The elastic hugged snugly, contrasting with the oversized top. Once dressed, you combed your fingers through your hair, smoothing it down.
You cast one last glance at Hyunjin, and for a moment, you thought about saying something, but instead, you slipped out of the room.
The hallway was dimmer, a contrast to the golden warmth of his room, but it carried a comforting stillness. The wooden floor felt cool beneath your feet as you traversed it.
When you reached the kitchen counter, the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted you. The steam rising from the pot danced in the gentle morning air like a silent invitation. You hesitated for a beat, fingers brushing the edge of the counter as your thoughts lingered on him.
Hyunjin's apartment was small, but undeniably his—sketches pinned haphazardly to the walls, stacks of canvases leaning in corners, and brushes soaking in jars on every available surface. The place felt lived-in, but not settled, like he could pack up and leave at a moment’s notice. You hadn’t fully taken it in last night.
You moved into the kitchen space, and reached for a cup from the neatly stacked collections in one of his cupboards, the smooth ceramic cool against your fingertips. You set the mug on the counter.
Grasping the handle of the coffee pot, you tipped it carefully, watching as the dark liquid poured out in a smooth stream. You paused for a moment, the heat radiating through the ceramic as you wrapped your hands around it. Your gaze strayed, landing on the dining table.
A stack of letters bound with twine sat, one lying slightly askew. You didn't mean to pry, but the handwriting caught your eye—delicate, almost calligraphic. The letter wasn't fully tucked into the envelope, and curiosity tugged at you.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you padded closer to the table and leaned down, reading the opening lines:
"Jinnie, Your perspective and raw emotion—it inspired me in ways I never imagined. Do think about returning to Paris… It feels emptier without your presence. You were, and always will be, my greatest artistic influence. —Minji Kwon"
The words hit you like a sudden gust of cold air. You had tread carefully, always steering away from questions about his time in Paris, wary of stirring up old memories or emotions. But now, standing in the quiet of his kitchen, the thought crept in—maybe you should’ve asked.
Maybe you should’ve known more about the chapters of his life you weren’t a part of. About the moments that shaped him, the ones that left traces in his art, his words, and even in the way he looked at you now.
Who was Minji Kwon?
You heard the soft scuff of Hyunjin's footsteps as he approached, and you glanced up, startled. He followed your gaze to the letter, his expression tightening for just a moment before softening into something unreadable.
“You were reading that?” he asked, his tone even but careful, his eyes studying you with a mix of curiosity and something almost apprehensive.
You blink, caught off guard by his question, and quickly reached for the letter, your fingers brushing over the smooth paper as if you could erase the moment. “I didn’t mean to,” you said quickly, your voice tinged with slight embarrassment. “It was just… open.” You avoid his gaze, unsure if you should explain further.
He halted in front of you and watched you for a moment before nodding with a slow, deliberate motion. His fingers carefully slide the letter back into its envelope, sealing the contents away as if it were something delicate—something he didn’t want to expose further.
“Minji,” He said her name like a foreign taste, the syllables lingering in the air. He shifted slightly, his posture tense as if bracing himself for the words. “Uhm. She was… someone I worked with in Paris.” His voice dipped lower, and there's a quiet weight to his words. It's not just a casual remark; it carries the weight of memories, of things he hasn't shared, of things you can only guess at.
The way he said it—the way he pulled the letter away from view—made you feel like there was so much more beneath the surface. But instead of probing, you stayed quiet. You leant against the dining table, awkwardly wrapping your hands around your coffee mug. “She called you her greatest artistic influence,” you say gently, "That's a big claim."
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. She was important to me—professionally and personally.” He hesitated before leaning against the kitchen counter opposite you, his eyes fixed on the floor. “We were together for a brief time.”
The silence that followed was heavy but not uncomfortable. You let the words settle. He needed space to breathe. You knew he could feel your eyes on him, so you let your gaze wander, now focused on the mug in your hands, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim.
“She was everything an artist strives to be. But... I couldn’t give her what she wanted. I just—” He pauses, his hands fidgeting. “I couldn’t commit.”
His honesty stung, but it didn’t feel like a betrayal. Instead, it felt like a glimpse into the parts of him he’s kept locked away. Your fingers tighten around the mug, grounding you as you look at him. “Is that why you came back?” The words slipped from you.
He lifted his gaze, dark eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “No,” he replied, his voice quiet but steady. “Paris stopped feeling like home. But it wasn’t just that.” He took a slow step forward, his expression shifting to something more vulnerable.
You took a slow sip of your coffee, buying yourself a moment to think. “She must have meant a lot to you."
“She did,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t the same. What I had with her… it wasn’t like this. It could never be like this.”
You don’t know if you believe him, not fully, but you nod anyway. Was he really here because he wanted to be with you? or was it because he was running from her? From Paris? The insecurities nibbled at your mind.
The tension deepened and he reached for your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “I know I’ve hurt you before,” he says quietly. “But I’m here now. And I want to stay.”
You let him hold your hand, even as doubts swirl in the back of your mind. You couldn't help it— The question slipped out before you could stop it. "Your recent works," you begin, your voice small but firm, the words feeling heavier with each breath. "The ones in the... what was it? The Abstrait La Perspective Exhibition?"
His body tensed at the mention of the exhibition, a subtle shift in his posture, his head jerking slightly as his gaze flitted away for a moment.
You swallow, steeling yourself. "Were they for her?" You hold his gaze, trying to keep your voice even despite the racing thoughts in your head.
For a moment, he didn't move or respond. Then he leant forward, one hand bracing against the counter. His other hand gripping the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. When he finally looks at you, his expression is raw—distress tangled with hurt. You can't quite describe it, but the heartache on his face mirrors your own.
"I… didn't mean for it to be that way," He starts, then falters, "But yes, some of it was."
The confession lands and you don’t react immediately, willing yourself to stay composed, to let him speak.
His voice was low and strained as he spoke, “Everything about her—her perspective, her passion—it consumed me. At the time, it felt… necessary.”
You nod slowly, keeping your face neutral, “And now?”
His eyes met yours, a flicker of panic in them. “It’s over. I told you—I couldn’t give her what she wanted. The paintings, the exhibition… they were part of that chapter. A chapter that’s closed.”
“So, did you come back to run away?” you asked quietly, taking a step back.
"No." His shoulders sagged, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t come back because of her,” he says after a moment. “I came back because I realized I was done with that life. With Paris, with everything it represented. And because I saw you in everything. In every corner and every street. When I tried to forget, it only made it clearer. It wasn’t just the passion for art that I missed. It was you.”
You wanted to believe him, you really did, but the memory of those paintings from the Abstrait La Perspective Exhibition lingered in your mind. Each piece had been emotional, evocative, and undeniably inspired. They weren’t just works of art; they were love letters—poured out in oil and canvas, each stroke aching with meaning.
You remembered standing in that gallery five months ago, a time when missing him felt like an ache you couldn’t shake. You hadn’t planned to go, but the curiosity had been too strong. Seeing his name in the exhibition lineup had been like catching a glimpse of him through a cracked door. Another life.
“Hyunjin." You set your mug down on the counter beside him. “Am I part of your new chapter, or am I just a break between pages?”
“You’re not a break,” he said, his voice trembling. “I know I don’t deserve you, not after everything. But please let me try and prove myself.” The emotion in his words pulled at you. His head dipped, and he exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face, his palm lingering for a moment as if to wipe away the vulnerability etched there.
“The gallery is on my ass,” he finally muttered, his voice tight like it were an admission of some kind. “Hence all the letters.” He gestured vaguely toward the stack on the coffee table, the twine now slightly frayed from your earlier touch. “I left three weeks before one of the exhibitions, and I haven’t finished all the pieces.” His gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s not like it matters now, in hindsight.”
“It does matter,” You stepped closer, your voice firm but not unkind. “Hyunjin, yes it does. You have to finish it. You have to go.” Your hands found his broad shoulders, your thumbs tracing soft, deliberate circles.
His muscles tensed beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away, his dark eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, understanding, or maybe both. “What?”
“You can’t just leave it like this." You gestured toward the room, toward the unfinished canvases stacked against the walls. “This is your work. Your life. You can’t walk away from it because it’s hard or because it reminds you of something painful.”
He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “It’s not that simple. Do you know what it was like? Trying to pour everything into those pieces, into her, and still feeling like it wasn’t enough?”
You took another step closer, your voice softening. “I don’t know what it was like, but I know you. You don’t give up on something just because it’s complicated.”
Hyunjin’s gaze darkened, his brow furrowing as he exhaled sharply, the question slipping from his lips without hesitation. “Isn’t that what I did to you?” His words were heavy, the rawness of the moment evident in his stiff posture. His lips pressed into a tight line and his jaw clenched.
You paused, your heart sinking at the thought. Gently, you cupped his cheek, the touch tender. “Hyune, that was different. You didn’t give up on me. If anything, I gave up on myself.” Your voice trembled slightly, the honesty flowing without restraint.
“Then what if I don’t have it in me anymore?”
You could see it—the hesitation, the excuses he was clinging to like a lifeline. His hand reached out, gripping your wrist gently but firmly, as if afraid you might slip away.
“You do,” you declared. “I’ve seen it. That passion, that brilliance—it’s still there. You just have to find it again.”
Hyunjin's gaze finds yours, his expression torn between doubt and something that looks like hope. “If I go back for the exhibition,” he mumbles, “What happens to this? To us?”
You falter for a moment but force yourself to stay steady. “If you don’t finish what you started, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life." You laugh, despite yourself. "Ahh this conversation feels familiar."
He swallows hard, his gaze dropping to the floor. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of his fridge. “I’m scared,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.
“I know. But you’re not alone, Hyunjin. You never have to be. I'll be on your team always.”
Slowly, he nods, his fingers tightening around yours. “Okay,” he says firmly. “I’ll finish it. For me.”
“And for Minji,” you add, meeting his gaze. “Because leaving it unfinished won’t make the past go away.”
He nods again, this time with a faint smile, though the sadness in his eyes remains. It’s a start, you think.
“If I go back,” he begins, his voice tentative, his hand sliding from your wrist to hold your fingers. He pauses, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I don’t want to go alone.”
You blink, caught off guard. “What are you saying?”
He stepped closer, his free hand rising to rest lightly against your waist, his fingers curling against the fabric of your shirt. “I’m saying I want you to come with me.” His eyes find yours again. “You could... be my date to the exhibition.”
Your breath catches at his words and a flicker of something—hope? fear?—ignites in your chest. His hand at your waist tightens slightly, drawing you just a fraction closer, the warmth of his body brushing yours.
“Hyunjin, you don’t need me to—” you start, but your words die as he searches your face with a quiet desperation.
“I need you,” he says softly, leaning in just enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. “I need you there. Not just for the exhibition, but for me. You remind me why this matters. If I go back, I want to share it with you.”
“Paris, an exhibition... that’s a lot,” you murmur, unsure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.
“I know,” His breath fans against your cheek, “But you don’t have to decide now. Just think about it. Please.”
The idea of Paris, of standing beside him as he unveils his new work, is dizzying. Part of you feels overwhelmed, but another part—a quieter, braver part—wonders if maybe this is what you both need.
You nod slowly, a small smile playing at your lips. “I’ll think about it.”
Hyunjin exhales, relief flooding his expression. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “That’s all I need right now."
Your stomach rumbles, breaking the stillness of the moment. The sound is louder than you'd like, but instead of embarrassment, a small laugh escapes your lips. Hyunjin's eyes widen in surprise, and then his face lights up with a bright, warm laugh that fills the room. His shoulders shake with the force of it, his hand still resting gently on your waist as he looks at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's a beautiful sight.
“You’re starving, huh?” he teases, his thumb still caressing your hips with slow circles.
A sheepish grin pulls at your lips. "I didn't realize how hungry I was until now."
"Well, that definitely stole the moment," he chuckled, stepping back a bit to give you space. "How about we fix that, yeah? Get you something to eat before I distract you with all my problems again?"
Hyunjin patted your hip one last time and then moved around the kitchen. Turning toward the dining table, you reached for a chair and dragged it closer to the kitchen counter, the soft scrape of the wood against the floor filling the quiet space. You slid onto the chair, your legs stretching out beneath you as you settle into it. Your gaze stayed on Hyunjin, the question he asked swirling in your mind.
“Do you want eggs or toast?” he called, opening the fridge and peering inside.
“Both,” you say and rest your chin on the counter, grinning stupidly.
He glanced over his shoulder and poked his tongue out. “Greedy.”
“Hungry,” you counter, your voice light and teasing, as you gesture dramatically to your stomach. "You heard her!"
Hyunjin shook his head, pulling out a carton of eggs and some bread. You watched as he began cracking eggs into a bowl, his movements unhurried. It’s strange, you think, to see him like this—so at ease, so domestic, after three years.
“Did you sleep okay?” He asked while carefully breaking a shell on the edge of the bowl. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a moment, they lingered there.
Just as quickly, his attention shifted. He turned to the cabinet, the faint clink of utensils breaking the silence as he pulled out a fork. The motion looked like second nature as he began whisking the eggs.
You hummed in response, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him work. “Better than I have in a while.”
“Good,” he said, his voice warm. He glances at you again, his expression serious. “You looked peaceful. Like you belong here.”
Your chest tightens at his words, but you don’t let it show. Instead, you stretch your legs out and tease, “Maybe it’s just your ridiculously soft sheets!”
He stops whisking the eggs and bows dramatically. “I’ll take what I can get.”
As he moves to the stove, you let your gaze wander around the room. When he sets a plate in front of you—perfectly scrambled eggs and golden toast—it almost feels too easy.
You stare at the perfect breakfast and a part of you wants to cry, not because of the meal itself, but because of what it represents—this tender moment of normalcy, of effort, of him wanting to make you feel at home.
“You’re a bit quiet this morning,” Hyunjin commented, dragging a chair to sit beside you with his own plate. You feel his gaze on you.
“Just thinking,” you sigh, poking at your eggs with your fork.
“About Paris?” he asked, his voice careful.
You nod, not meeting his eyes. “It’s... a big deal. Going with you, seeing the exhibition. It feels like stepping into your world.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so tender it makes your heart ache. “You’ve always been part of my world,” he says softly. “Even when I wasn’t here.”
You glance up at him, and for a moment, everything else fades away—the letters, the past, the uncertainty. “I’m scared too, Jinnie,” you admit finally.
“I know,” he says, “I’m not asking you to decide now. Just think about it. Okay?”
You nod. “Okay.”
The moment lingers, warm and quiet, as you both turn back to your plates. The morning continues with the simple rhythm of shared food and soft conversation. You sit together in a comfortable silence, the sound of soft chewing and the occasional clink of utensils filling the space.
Hyunjin takes a bite of his toast, and you can’t help but watch him—his eyes crinkle as he savors the bite, you're a little amused by how seriously he’s concentrating on it. You find yourself giggling quietly.
He glances at you, raising an eyebrow, and rolls his eyes, but there's a fondness in the gesture. The laughter fades, but the warmth lingers.
After a beat, you clear your throat, suddenly aware of the thought you’ve been avoiding. A soft sigh escapes your lips, and you set your fork down, the weight of the decision settling on your shoulders. “I should probably talk to Minho then."
The smile that had been tugging at the corners of Hyunjin's mouth fades, his gaze softening as he sets his toast down. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to know how complicated it all is, how much this next conversation will hurt—for both Minho and you.
Hyunjin pauses, his hand frozen mid-air as he reaches for his coffee cup. His gaze shifts from the cup to you and the atmosphere changes, as if the easy laughter a moment ago had been replaced by an unspoken understanding.
His expression is unreadable for a moment, but there's a flicker of concern in his eyes, like he’s weighing the best way to respond.
"Minho’s important to you," he says, his voice low as he nurses his coffee. "I know that. And I know this isn’t easy, not for you, not for him."
You nod, unable to say anything. The lump in your throat feels like it might swallow you whole. Minho had always been there—steady, dependable—and now, things were shifting, breaking apart. It felt like you were caught between two parts of your life, each one tugging you in a different direction.
Hyunjin watched you closely, his eyes searching yours, before he continues, “I’m not going to pretend it’s simple. That conversation is going to be tough, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to choose.”
He reaches across the table, his hand resting gently over yours. The contact is warm and it seems to steady you. “I want you to be honest with him. And with yourself. Whatever happens, I’m here."
“Thank you,” you whisper, your hand tightening in his. “For understanding.”
He smiles faintly, his lips curving slightly before returning to his meal.
For a moment, you simply sit there, sharing the weight of the decision without speaking. It’s clear to you now that this isn’t just about Paris, or about Minho—it’s about you, about how you navigate these shifting pieces of your life.
Hyunjin leant back against his chair, his fingers brushing lightly over your hand. You meet his gaze, feeling something stir deep inside you—a quiet reassurance, the kind that only comes from someone who truly understands what you’re going through. And maybe, just maybe, that makes the conversation with Minho feel a little less daunting.
[Tag List]: @nujeskz @myfavoritedelusion @mandocamagica @hhwangsmoon @eastjonowhere
bet u wanna. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'Bet you're reminiscing I bet you hate the way that you said goodbye'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 4.6k (unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance. dance coach!reader
— warning's: softDom!Hyunjin, praise kink. Oral (f receiving). Fluff. Body worship pretty much at this point. He's insanely in love and touch starved. paint is involved. This whole chapter is pretty much smut. y'all have been waiting for this one!
→ playlist on spotify
The kiss, once soft and apprehensive, transformed into something unrecognizable—hungry, revealing a longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. It was as if the barriers you both carefully constructed over time crumbled immediately.
You shrugged off your coat, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, the sound of fabric crumpling almost unnoticed in the heat of the moment. Your hand reached for the underside of his jaw, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped his face.
Hyunjin's intensity could ignite the very walls of the room. His touch was gentle but insistent, his hands trailing down your body with appreciation, like each inch of you was something sacred he must rediscover. Every soft caress, every brush of his fingertips against your skin felt like an apology, a confession of how much he regretted the years apart.
You whimpered, your hands gripping his biceps as his lips found the curve of your neck. He paused, his breath hot against your skin. "I should have never left you," Hyunjin murmured, his voice rough with emotion, his hands shaking slightly as they moved over you.
The words sent a jolt through your chest, stirring something deep inside you that had been dormant for too long. His mouth returned to yours, desperate now, as if he couldn’t get enough of the taste of you— the feeling of you.
You couldn't help but lean into his touch, every press of his pouty lips and trailing hands sent a wave of heat through you. "Hyune..." you whispered, the sound of his name escaping your lips like a prayer. You felt him stiffen at the sound, as if your voice alone could bind him to you in ways he hadn't thought possible. He responded with a groan, pressing his forehead against yours, his fingers still tracing the curve of your spine.
You trailed your fingers under his jacket, the fabric smooth beneath your touch as you pushed it off his shoulders. The jacket slipped off easily, landing with a soft thud on the wooden floor.
Hyunjin stood before you. Fixed on your lips, his gaze was dark and filled with something that made your breath catch. His hands slid down your sides, firm yet tender. His voice was low and husky, breaking the silence, “Wrap your legs around me."
You hesitated for only a heartbeat before complying. His hands found their way beneath your thighs, firm but gentle as he lifted you effortlessly. Your breath hitched, heart pounding as you curled your legs around his waist. You let out a soft gasp, gripping his shoulders for balance. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt as he carried you toward the kitchen bench.
Your noses brushed and his lips hovered just a breath away from yours. The tension coiled tighter in your chest, the air between you electric, charged with a yearning neither of you could deny. His every step, deliberate and steady.
The cool surface of his kitchen bench met your back as he set you down, but the sensation was quickly overshadowed. His hands never left you, one bracing your lower back while the other caressed your hip, fingers splayed as though he wanted to memorize the feel of you beneath his palm.
His lips found yours with an urgency that stole your breath, his hands cupping your face before sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, fingers threading through his dark hair. His groan was low and guttural, the sound vibrating against your lips and making your toes curl.
You shifted slightly, desperate to get closer and your elbow accidentally knocked a jar of paint perched on the edge of the counter. The lid popped off, covering the countertop with a vivid maroon before it tumbled completely on the floor. The sound startled you, breaking the kiss as you pulled back, your gaze darting to the mess. "Oh, shit."
Hyunjin’s breathless laugh drew your attention back to him. His forehead rested against yours, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “I’ll clean it up later,” he said, his voice rich with affection.
"Okay," you whispered against him. His hands roamed over your midriff, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath your loose tank top, sending shivers across your skin.
One hand found its way to the small of your back, where his thumb gently traced the curve of your spine. His other hand tilted your chin, drawing your eyes to his. “You’re perfect,” he whispered, his gaze burning with sincerity.
The words undid you. You pulled him closer, your lips finding his again, your body arching into his touch. His hands moved back to your thighs, gripping you with a mixture of urgency and care as he pressed against you, his breath hot against your skin. The world around you—the paint-streaked counter, the chaos of spilled color—faded into insignificance. There was only him, his touch and warm kisses.
“Hyunjin,” you breathed against his lips, the sound a mix of plea and confession. His lips brushed against your temple before finding yours again, sealing the moment with passion that spoke louder than words ever could.
His fingers trailed down to your navel, brushing teasingly against your gym shorts. You lifted your hips off the bench, just enough for him to shimmy the material down. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulling your shorts and lace panties off in one smooth gesture.
He knelt before you, his hands gliding slowly up and down your legs. "My pretty girl's so needy for me." His lips hovered over your skin, each kiss he pressed to your thighs slow and deliberate.
His fingers traced lazy patterns, the gentle touch making your breath hitch. When he finally reached the center of your need, he paused, looking up at you with a gaze so intense it made your chest ache. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, his hands sliding beneath you, lifting your hips just enough so that you were completely at his mercy.
And then he began.
The first touch of his mouth was tentative, almost exploratory, but it didn’t take long for him to find a rhythm that left you gasping. His tongue moved with a skill that made your head fall back against the bench, each stroke deliberate and precise, as though he were painting a masterpiece. Hyunjin's grip on your hips tightened, holding you steady as your body began to arch involuntarily beneath him. His nose bumped against your clit, his movements sloppy and starved.
“Hyune,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure coursed through you. He groaned at your touch, the sound vibrating against your skin and sending a fresh surge of heat through your veins.
Every flick of his tongue, every gentle suck, was a symphony of sensation, building a crescendo that left you breathless. His name fell from your lips again and again, a broken mantra that only seemed to spur him on, his mouth moving with more urgency, more desperation.
His large hands, splayed on your thighs, gripped you toward him, sliding you along the counter. Your arms, braced against the countertop for balance gave way as he devoured you. Your head fell back instinctively, your fingers curling into fists against the smooth surface as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you.
It wasn’t just his touch—it was the emotion behind it, the raw hunger of three years’ worth of yearning. Three years of missed chances and unspoken confessions all culminating in this single, unrestrained moment. Every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, spoke volumes of everything he had held back for so long.
"Hyune, I-I can't feels too good." You whined, unable to restrain your moans and noises.
His grip on your thighs tightened, his fingertips digging slightly into your skin as if anchoring himself to you. The strength in his hands, the way they seemed to claim you, left you reeling. It was as though he was afraid you might slip away again, vanish from his grasp before he could show you just how deeply he needed you.
You couldn’t help the broken sound that escaped your lips. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark and intense, his face framed by the strands of his hair that had fallen loose. "All mine."
"Always has been," You breathed out, recalling his earlier words.
When he resumed, it was with an unrelenting fervor, his mouth moving against you with purpose and precision. The room seemed to blur around you, the tension coiling in your core growing tighter and tighter. When your body began to tremble, he slowed just enough to prolong the moment, his hands sliding up to intertwine with yours as he continued his worship.
You finally snapped and loud gasps escaped you. The world slowly came back into focus and you found him still holding you, his forehead pressed gently against your thigh. The warmth of his hands, still steady on your legs. He pressed a final kiss to the inside of your thigh before resting his cheek there, his breathing ragged but his expression tender. “Just as good as I remember,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe.
You reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly as you grasped the fabric and tugged him upward. His body obeyed, fluid and eager, until his face was level with yours. Your eyes flickered downward, catching the evidence of your release glistening on his lips. Heat pooled in your cheeks, before your gaze snapped back to his face.
His hair was a beautiful mess, onyx strands falling haphazardly across his forehead, framing his flushed features. The faint blush dusting his cheeks was a striking contrast to the hunger still lingering in his eyes, an intensity that made your pulse quicken. His lips, slightly swollen and glistening, parted as though he was about to speak, but no words came.
His hands slid to your waist, fingers firm and grounding, steadying you. Your grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him impossibly closer. Before you could second-guess the impulse, you leaned forward. Your tongue flicked across his bottom lip, tasting the lingering saltiness of yourself on him. A small gasp escaped his lips as you followed with gentle, teasing sucks.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, his response immediate. His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you forward, erasing any remaining distance. You could feel the tension in his touch, the restraint he was barely holding onto, and it only spurred you on.
“Don’t tease,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a deep, strained rasp, but you only smiled against his mouth, your kisses featherlight and infuriatingly slow.
“I thought you liked patience,” you whispered, your words taunting, and he chuckled lowly, his breath warm against your cheek.
“Not now,” he replied, his tone thick with yearning.
The paint-streaked countertop and chaos of the kitchen became an afterthought as the warmth of his body pressed into yours. He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, both of you catching your breath.
“We—should move. Bedroom,” You murmured between stolen kisses, your words muffled as you trailed your lips along his jaw.
"Whose the impatient one now?" Hyunjin teased, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. He wrapped his hand around your throat, brushing his thumb gently against your skin.
You rolled your eyes, even as your pulse quickened. “And you’re too busy talking when you could be doing something.”
His brow arched, his grin widening. “Oh, I’m doing something, trust me.” He leaned in, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth, deliberately slow.
Touché. You huffed, trying to tug him closer with your legs around his waist. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, and your legs dangled off the counter, a frown tugging at your lips.
“Impossible?” He leant back on purpose. “You’re the one who can’t wait to get me to the bedroom.”
Your cheeks burnt, but you refused to back down. “Because I know what I want, Hyunjin.”
Your hands glided up his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm and soft beneath your fingers as you let them linger, teasingly tracing the defined lines of his body. A small pout formed on your lips, the realization dawning on you that there were still too many layers.
His laugh was low and teasing as he adjusted his hold on you, pulling you tighter against him. “Then tell me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck, “exactly what it is you want.”
“Not here,” you managed, your voice a little breathless as his lips grazed your jawline. “The bed.”
“Ah,” he murmured, his tone mockingly thoughtful as he shifted you higher in his arms. “The bed."
Your legs slid down from around his waist and his hand found yours, pulling you from the counter. Together, you fumbled through the small space, down the hall to his room. It wasn’t graceful—your hip bumped into the edge of the counter, and his foot grazed a chair leg, sending it skidding across the floor—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
The hallway felt endless, both of you pausing every few steps to press against the wall, to kiss with renewed fervor, hands exploring skin and fabric, his warm palms cupping your ass, your fingers trailing down the curve of his neck. By the time you reached his bedroom door, you were both breathless, laughter bubbling up between you as he struggled to turn the handle without letting go of you.
“I forgot how terrible you are at multitasking,” you teased, your voice light despite the tension coiling in your chest.
“And you’re not helping,” he retorted, his smile lighting up his face even as his lips found yours again, silencing any further protests. "I'll always be clumsy around my favourite girl."
Finally, the door swung open, and you stumbled inside together. The bed, only a few steps away. His sock caught on the edge of the rug, nearly sending him sprawling, and your elbow knocked into a stack of books on his nightstand, toppling them to the floor with a thud.
When you both landed on the bed, the laughter spilled over, breaking through the haze of passion. He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him, and you collapsed onto his chest, your giggles mixing with his. The sound filled the room, light and unrestrained, and for a moment, it was just the two of you, tangled together, laughing at the absurdity of your own impatience.
“I feel like we’re in a bad rom-com,” you managed between breaths, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye.
“Hey,” he replied, mock affronted, propping himself up on his elbows to look at you. “This is pure romance, thank you very much. Paint-streaked and clumsy, but still romantic.”
You shook your head, smiling down at him, and his expression softened, the laughter fading into something deeper. He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering against your cheek. “God, it should be illegal for someone to be this pretty,” he said, his voice quieter now.
Your fingers ghosted over the fabric of his shirt, teasingly brushing against his stomach as he leaned back, his arms casually resting behind his head. There was an ease to his posture, but his eyes betrayed something deeper, following your every movement.
You hooked your fingers under the hem of his shirt and began to lift it, your movements deliberate. The fabric bunched under your hands, revealing the sculpted lines of his abs, firm and glistening faintly in the dim light. A small, involuntary smile crept onto your lips as you paused to admire him. He’d been working out—more than a little, it seemed.
"You seem to be a masterpiece yourself, Jiniret," you murmured, your voice a mix of teasing and awe.
His lips twitched into a playful smirk, but the warmth in his gaze softened the moment. “Takes one to know one."
He paused, his movements deliberate as he gripped the hem of his shirt from you and tugged it off in one smooth motion. The fabric slid over his head effortlessly, revealing his toned chest and shoulders. His hair was mussed, strands falling perfectly into place, and his eyes darkened as they met yours.
Without breaking eye contact, his hands found your waist. His thumbs brushed against your sides, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You slid onto his lap to straddle his waist. Your hands settled on his shoulders, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles as you steadied yourself. Slowly, you reached for the hem of your tank top, pulling it over your head and discarding it beside you.
Left in just your zip-up sports bra, you felt his gaze linger, not with hunger but as though he couldn’t quite believe you were here with him. His hands slid higher, resting just under your ribs, his thumbs brushing against skin.
You gasped as he bucked his hips. He rolled over, pinning your wrists to the bed. His touch, once apprehensive, now became more sure, more eager, as if he was rediscovering something he had lost. His hands roamed over you, as though he was relearning every curve, every dip, every inch of your body that had once been so familiar, so perfectly his.
His eyes, dark with longing, traced the lines of your form. "You feel just as perfect as I remember," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He sighed, a deep, contented sound that made your heart race. "I missed this. I missed you. I missed how you fit against me."
His hand hesitated, hovering just above the zipper of your sports bra. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers grasped the small metal tab, the tension in the air thick enough to make your breath catch.
You held perfectly still, your chest rising and falling in anticipation as the zipper began to slide downward, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet of the room. His eyes never left yours, searching for any sign of hesitation.
The fabric parted gradually, exposing your skin inch by inch to the cool air and his heated gaze. You felt your pulse quicken. His touch was light and as he gently pushed the material aside, his fingertips brushing against your bare skin.
"Such pretty tits. Been missing these for some time." He cupped your breasts. He leaned down, his tongue darting out to trace a warm, wet line across your chest before his lips closed around one of your nipples, sucking gently.
"Hyune, as much as I—" you began, but your words dissolved into a sharp gasp as he bit down ever so lightly, the pleasurable sting drawing a soft cry from your lips.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a cheeky grin lighting up his face. "Distracted already?" he teased, his voice low and his eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Hyunjin," you breathed, your voice trembling with a mixture of impatience and desire, "I need you. Please."
You felt him shift against you until he stood at the edge of the bed. His movements were hurried, hands fumbling with the buckle of his belt. The soft clink of metal echoed in the quiet room, followed by the rustle of fabric.
You sat up slightly, your breath hitching as he shimmied out of his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, the garments pooling at his feet. Your gaze traveled down his body, lips parting involuntarily.
His hardened length stood, flushed and glistening at the tip. The way he looked at you sent a shiver down your spine, your own desire pooling low in your abdomen.
He crawled to you, his body pressing into yours, and you couldn’t help but melt. Every part of you seemed to respond to him, to the way his hands caressed your skin to the way you arched into him.
"You were always perfect for me," he breathed, his lips moving down to your neck, the warm, soothing caress of his mouth sending shivers down your spine. "No one else ever came close. No one ever felt the way you do. I didn’t realize what I was missing until I was without you." His hands slid down your body, brushing over your thighs, and you gasped as he gently lifted you, positioning you carefully, mindful of the scar and your spine. "I’m not letting you go again, not like before," he whispered, his voice soft yet insistent.
You wrapped your arms around him, drawing him closer, feeling how his body molded perfectly against yours. His touch, so familiar and warm, was a balm to the ache that had been there for so long. "You still fit with me, don’t you?" he asked, his words almost a question.
You whined in response, and his hands moved to your hips, adjusting your position. Hyunjin's hands were steady as he carefully adjusted a pillow beneath your hips, lifting you just enough to ensure your back was supported. His gaze softened as it traveled over your face, a silent question in his eyes, making sure you were comfortable. The tenderness of the moment tugged at your chest, and you nodded, your breath catching in anticipation.
“You okay?” he whispered, his voice laced with tenderness.
“Perfect,” you murmured, your fingers brushing against his warm cheek.
You felt him then, the weight and heat of him as he aligned himself with your entrance. The sensation sent a shiver through your body, your hands clutching the sheets beneath you. Hyunjin paused, his tip pressing gently against you, his dark eyes locking with yours.
“Slow,” he promised, his voice soothing against the whirlwind of emotions coursing through you.
And then he pushed forward, a gradual, unhurried motion that made you gasp softly. The stretch was both intense and overwhelming, a mixture of pleasure and yearning that had you curling your toes. Hyunjin leaned closer, his hands finding yours, intertwining your fingers as he continued.
“Baby, you're so tight,” he breathed, his voice breaking slightly as he moved deeper, filling you completely. "Need to be stretched out good again hmm?" A low groan rumbled from his chest as he stilled, buried deep within you, giving you a moment to adjust to the fullness. His breath mingled with yours, warm and shaky, as you both took in the intensity of the moment.
“Mm’ so full,” you murmured, your words spilling out.
His eyes flickered open at your confession, a spark of something primal igniting in their depths. Without a word, his hand trailed down between your bodies, his palm pressing gently against your abdomen. The sensation sent a shockwave of pleasure through you, and a moan slipped from your lips as he applied the slightest bit of pressure.
“You feel that?” he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly, filled with awe. “That’s me.”
Hyunjin’s free hand slid up, his fingers wrapping gently but firmly around your throat. A pant escaped your lips, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as a dizzying heat pooled in your core. You opened your eyes, locking onto his, and what you saw in them made your breath hitch—a perfect mix of adoration and unrestrained hunger.
You arched instinctively toward him, craving more of his touch. His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you in place as his hips rolled into yours with deliberate, intoxicating slowness.
He smirked, leaning down until his lips ghosted over your ear. “You like that?” he teased, his breath warm against your skin. “The way I make you feel?”
You nodded, unable to form a coherent sentence. His hand at your throat shifted, his thumb brushing gently against the hollow of your neck, soothing yet commanding all at once.
Your head fell back against the pillow as he moved again, his hips rolling into yours with an unrelenting, measured rhythm. The thrusts were deep and precise, each one sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.
“Jinnie,” you gasped, clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. The stretch, the fullness, the way he moved—it was almost too much and you didn't want him to stop.
He grinned against your jaw, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin there. “My pretty girl… taking me so well.”
His body moved against yours as if he couldn’t get enough of you—of the way you fit together like puzzle pieces. You felt his heart pounding against yours, his breath quickening while he traced every inch of you, as though he was savoring every moment of being this close to you again.
He kissed you fiercely, deeply, like he needed to make sure you were real, that this was happening, that you were here, with him.
And you couldn't help but respond, feeling the same overwhelming yearning, the same need. Your body ached for him, for the connection you once shared, for the way he made you feel complete. No one else could ever come close to what you shared, and in this moment, in his arms, you knew that the past—no matter how much it hurt—had led you both here. And with him, you belonged.
One hand found its way to the small of your back, where his thumb gently traced the curve of your spine. He paused, fingers lingering on the scar there, and you stiffened instinctively. But his other hand tilted your chin, drawing your eyes to his. "You're everything I’ve ever wanted," he breathed against your lips, his hands moving lower, caressing you like he was memorizing your skin. "You have no idea how much I regret not being here with you, how much I wish I could go back and make things right." He kissed you deeply, passionately, as though every word, every apology, could be sealed with the fire of his touch.
He rolled his hips, each movement deliberate, slow, and deep, drawing a gasp from your lips with every thrust. His arms caged you beneath him, strong and unyielding. Your fingers clawed at his back.
“I’m sorry," he whispered again, this time with more force. "I should have been here. I should have fought harder for us.” His fingers were gentle as they traced the scar along your body, and you gasped softly, the memory of the pain flooding back. But his touch was nothing like that. It was tender, careful, almost worshipful. "I won’t let that be a part of us anymore. I won’t let it define us."
His words, the softness of his touch, the weight of everything he was offering—his regret, his love, his unspoken apologies—filled you in a way you hadn’t realized you needed. His hands found your hips again, pulling you closer.
“I’ll never let you go again,” Hyunjin groaned, the sound low and guttural, as his hips stilled deep inside you. His chest rose and fell heavily against yours, and you could feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat echoing your own. He dipped his head, pressing a tender kiss to your temple, “Not like before. I’ll stay, Y/N. I’ll stay, if you’ll have me. Now let go for me pretty, I'm here.”
Your legs began to tremble, the intensity coursing through your body like waves crashing against the shore. You buried your face into the crook of his neck. Your breaths came in short, desperate bursts as you nuzzled into his skin, seeking solace, though your emotions threatened to overflow. You weren’t sure if the tears pooling in your eyes were from the unbearable pleasure or the weight of his words.
Then, the words tumbled from your lips—a confession you had been too terrified to voice. "I want you to stay."
[Tag List] @nujeskz @myfavoritedelusion
already over. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'kissing after a conversation
'bout how we'd probably be better off as friends'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 3.9k (unedited - another long one!)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance. dance coach!reader
— warning's: felix being a sweetheart, minho being a protective and jealous asshole, angst, fluff. Kissing! (smut in the next chapter...) they're so domestic together it makes me sick.
→ playlist on spotify
Unlike yesterday, today's schedule had been relentless. You'd finished teaching back-to-back classes and your muscles ached, your mind heavy with the kind of exhaustion that begged for sleep. Every step home felt like a victory, and all you wanted to do was collapse into bed and let the world melt away.
You couldn't allow yourself to entertain the thought of what had happened between you and Hyunjin. Each time your mind threatened to wander back to the moment you rested your head on his shoulder, you quickly shoved it aside, afraid of what it might mean, afraid of what it would unravel inside of you.
But as you opened the door to your apartment, it was clear your plans for a quiet evening weren't going to happen. The unmistakable sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles greeted you, along with the sight of Minho and Felix making themselves comfortable in the living room. Felix's bright smile was almost blinding, holding up a bottle of something that looked way too strong for a Tuesday night. Minho leaned back on the couch, swirling a glass of whiskey with casual confidence. You knew it already. He had no intention of letting you off the hook tonight.
“Finally! We were wondering when you'd get back.” Felix teased, his eyes lighting up as he gestured for you to join them.
“Come on, we’re celebrating,” Minho added, his tone lighter than usual but with an underlying firmness that left little room for argument. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground. Time to loosen up.”
You groaned, dropping your gym bag by the door and kicking off your shoes. “Celebrating what? My impending collapse from exhaustion?”
Felix snickered, patting the seat next to him. “Nope. Celebrating you. We figured you’d be too tired to object, so here we are. Sit. Drink. Relax.”
Minho poured a glass for you without waiting for your response, holding it out as if daring you to refuse. “If nothing else, think of it as a preemptive cure for your bad mood.”
You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing heavily on your shoulders, but their smiles were infectious. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude for their efforts to cheer you up. “Fine. But if I fall asleep halfway through, it’s on you two to take care of me.”
You reached for the glass Minho held and lifted it to your lips. The liquid smelt foul, you closed your eyes and downed it in one go.
Felix's deep laugh reverberated through the room as he poured himself another round. “Deal. Now, tell us how your day went before Minho starts lecturing about your lack of work-life balance.”
Minho smirked, raising his glass, the amber liquid swirling under the soft glow of the living room lamp. “It’s a lecture worth giving!” he quipped, his tone carrying that sharp edge of teasing that only he could pull off.
You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your lips tugged upward despite yourself. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” You gestured with your empty glass toward him.
He shot you a grin, leaning back against the armrest of the couch, his legs sprawled comfortably. “And yet, here you are, still listening.”
Shaking your head, you slid between Minho and Felix, who had nestled into the opposite corner of the couch with his own drink, the rim of the glass resting lazily against his bottom lip. As you sank into the plush cushions, the fabric cool against your skin, you let out a sigh.
As the evening unfolded, their lighthearted banter and relentless energy started to chip away at the exhaustion clinging to you. Even if you were tired, there was something undeniably comforting about having them here, making you forget, even if just for a little while.
The warmth of the whiskey barely began to settle in your chest when a sharp knock cut through the laughter. Your heart immediately jumped into your throat. You exchanged a glance with Felix, whose eyebrows shot up, and Minho, who frowned and set his glass down.
“I’ll get it,” you murmured, already rising from the couch. The weight of their eyes followed you to the door, and as you pulled it open, there he was. Hyunjin, in all his glory.
He stood in the dim hallway, his long coat damp at the hem from the evening drizzle, hair slightly tousled as though he’d been running his hands through it. In his arms was the canvas—the one he hadn’t finished when you left his studio yesterday. Your breath caught as his gaze locked onto yours, a storm of emotions swirling behind his dark eyes. His plush lips parted, as if he was enamoured in the same way you were.
“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying both urgency and hesitation. “I finished it.”
You hesitated, the doorway suddenly feeling far too small. You could sense Felix and Minho’s curious gazes boring into your back. “Hyunjin, you didn’t have to—”
“I did,” Hyunjin interrupted gently. “It’s yours.” His long fingers gripped the edge of the wrapped canvas as he stretched his arms toward you, offering it like an unspoken apology, a fragile truce. The warmth in his eyes was almost unbearable, and your heart twisted in response.
The raw vulnerability in his tone broke through your defenses, and instead of taking it from him, you stepped aside to let him in. Before he could fully enter, Minho was on his feet, already bristling as he approached the door. You shot him a look.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here,” Minho growled, his posture tense.
Felix still sat on the couch, his head leant in his hands, already sensing the brewing storm. You winced at Minho's tone but didn’t get a chance to say anything before he advanced on Hyunjin.
Hyunjin straightened, his grip tightening on the canvas. “I didn’t come here to argue. I just wanted to give her this.”
Minho’s laugh was cold, biting. “Oh, let me guess. Another masterpiece of her? Did you paint her like a whore again? Do you want the whole word to see it this time? Plaster it up in a gallery?”
The words were a slap to the face. Minho's words were calculated and mean. Your breath hitched, and Felix immediately shot to his feet, his expression a mixture of shock and anger.
“Minho, what the hell?” Felix snapped, storming to the door and stepping between him and Hyunjin.
Your head spun, the alcohol clouding your thoughts, making it nearly impossible to grasp what the hell was happening.
Hyunjin’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the edges of the canvas. He kept his voice low and seething. “What gives you the right to talk about her like that?”
“Me?” Minho’s voice rose, his anger spilling over. “I’ve been here! Watching her tear herself apart over you! Over everything you left behind! Don’t act like you’re some saint for showing up now with another goddamn painting!”
“Stop it!” you shouted, stepping forward. “Both of you, stop!”
Minho wasn’t finished. He scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. “You think you can just waltz back into her life, throw some paint on a canvas, and fix everything? You're fucking pathetic."
Hyunjin’s eyes burned with fury, his usually calm demeanor shattering as he stepped closer to Minho, closing the distance between them. “Pathetic? Coming from you?” he shot back, his voice sharp as broken glass. “You’ve been sitting on your feelings, haven’t you? Watching her struggle while doing nothing but sulking in your jealousy.”
A sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your gaze darted to your roommate, seeking clarity in his reaction. Minho avoided your eyes entirely, his jaw tight, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. While Felix shifted awkwardly, his expression caught between discomfort and guilt, like he was carrying a secret that wasn’t his to tell. That was all the confirmation you needed. Minho... liked you?
“Jealousy? You’ve got some ego if you think this is about you. I’ve picked up the pieces while you were too busy playing tortured artist somewhere else.” Minho’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring.
Hyunjin took another step forward and his voice rose. “I left because I thought it was what she needed. But I’m here now, trying to make things right. What have you done besides use her pain to make yourself feel superior?”
Minho scoffed, his anger bubbling over. “At least I didn’t exploit her. What kind of person paints someone at their most vulnerable and calls it art?"
The room froze and Felix let out a sharp, “Minho, enough!” But it was too late. Hyunjin’s hand twitched at his side, his knuckles whitening as his restraint slipped.
Hyunjin snapped, his voice thundering, “You don’t get to talk about her like that.” His shoulders squared, pulling his body taut like a arrow ready to fire.
Minho stepped closer, chest to chest with Hyunjin now, his voice dripping with venom. “Or what? What are you going to do? Paint another masterpiece?” He spat the word like it was a slur.
Hyunjin’s expression darkened, and for a second, it looked like he might swing.
Felix rushed forward, wedging himself between the two of them with his arms outstretched. “Stop it! Both of you!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. “This isn’t helping anyone!”
“Get out of my way, Felix,” Minho growled, but Felix didn’t budge.
“Minho, listen to yourself,” Felix yelled, his tone cutting through the tension. “You’re not mad at him." He pointed to Hyunjin. "You’re mad because you’ve been hiding how you feel, and now it’s blowing up. You need to back off before you say something you’ll regret even more.”
Hyunjin with his chest heaving, pointed a finger at Minho. “You think you care about her? Then stop using her to fuel your self-righteous anger and actually support her.”
“Support her? What like you have?” Minho shot back, but his voice wavered, the heat behind his words faltering.
“Enough!” you finally announced, coming to your senses and stepping between them. Your voice cracked with frustration, your hands trembling as you glanced between the two men. “Both of you—just stop. Please.”
The room fell silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Minho turned his gaze to you, guilt flickering in his eyes, while Hyunjin’s face softened, his anger melting into something else entirely—remorse.
Felix sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “We’re done here,” he muttered, his tone exhausted. He shot a pointed look at Minho. “You need to cool off. Now.”
Minho hesitated, his jaw clenching before he stormed into his room, the door slamming behind him. Lifting a hand to your temples, you rubbed them in small circles, trying to ease the dull ache forming behind your eyes.
Turning to Felix, you caught his gaze. He hesitated, reading the unspoken request in your expression, and then gave you a small, resolute nod. Without a word, he followed after Minho, his footsteps fading as he disappeared into his room.
Hyunjin's gaze settled on you, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”
You couldn't stand it any longer. The suffocating weight of the argument, the tension, and the silence that followed made your heart race in a way that didn't feel right. Minho’s words echoed in your mind, but they weren’t the ones you wanted to hear. You needed Hyunjin to know that this wasn’t about what Minho said or how angry he got. It was about what you felt and what you still feel.
You swallowed hard, your heart aching as you reached out and touched his hand lightly. “Let’s talk somewhere else,” you whispered, your voice trembling.
Hyunjin nodded, his shoulders slumping as he followed you to the front door, the canvas tucked beneath his arm.
The walk to his apartment felt like hours. A faint hum of distant cars filled the quiet spaces between your steps. You and Hyunjin walked side by side, the tension between you like a thread stretched taut, fragile and trembling. Your hands brushed briefly, an unintentional spark that sent a shiver through you, but neither of you made the move to hold on. A weird middle ground. Neither love nor hate.
Hyunjin broke the silence first, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Did you know? That Minho had feelings for you?” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. “It was obvious as ever to me.”
Your breath hitched, and you turned to him, searching his face for any hint of humor or misunderstanding. But he wasn’t joking—his expression was serious, tinged with something deeper, something that tugged at your chest.
“Even when we were together,” he added, even quieter now. His words were tinged with a bitterness that felt out of place for him. Heavy and undeniable.
You stopped walking, forcing him to pause as well, and turned to face him fully. “Hyune…” you began, but the words felt stuck in your throat. Did you know? Maybe. Subconsciously. But to hear it like this, now, from him, it made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite place.
You hesitated before asking, tugging your coat tighter. “Is that another reason you left?”
The air bit into your cheeks, cold and unwavering. You recognised he wore his heart on his sleeve, but it felt as though the wrong response could shatter what little balance remained between you. He continued walking.
Hyunjin exhaled heavily, his breath forming a mist in the crisp evening air. The dim glow of the streetlights cast long shadows on the path ahead, their golden hues flickering as the breeze whispered through the trees. His hands were tucked deep into his coat pockets, and his steps slowed, matching the hesitance in his voice. He halted, then turned to face you.
“I thought you deserved better than me,” he admitted, his words laced with quiet regret. “I knew it was just my own insecurities, but… I couldn’t shake it. Minho—he was always steady, always knew how to make you laugh, how to be there for you. And me? I was this mess, trying to juggle my art and ambitions, feeling like I’d never measure up.”
You caught the way his jaw tightened as he spoke. He looked at the ground as though the words themselves were a weight he’d been carrying for too long. You wanted to reach out to him, wrap your arms around his torso and breath him in—the faint scent of strawberries and mint.
"I think I—," He cleared his throat, tapping his shoe against the slick pavement. "Well, I sort of hoped you two would get together so I could prove a point to myself that I was right."
His confession struck you. Gooseflesh peppered your skin and an uncomfortable feeling crawled its way up your throat. How could he think that? even for a second? He began walking once more, and you followed in tow.
The path curved gently ahead, lined with bare trees that reached for the night sky. An occasional car passed by on the road nearby, headlights cutting through the darkness. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound for a moment as his words settled between you.
“You could’ve talked to me,” you murmured, your voice steady but tinged with sadness. “I would’ve listened, Hyune. I would’ve understood.”
He stopped walking and turned to you, his eyes searching yours, glistening under the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp. “I was scared, Y/N,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “Scared you’d see me the way I saw myself. Scared you’d realize you were better off without me before I was ready to let you go.”
Your chest tightened, and you blinked away the sting of tears, your gaze dropping to the ground. “You didn’t even give me the chance to decide that for myself,” you whispered, clenching your fists by your side.
Hyunjin reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm as though he was testing if he still had permission to touch you. His touch was warm despite the cold, and you looked up at him again, finding a raw honesty in his expression that you hadn’t seen in a long time.
The two of you stood there, caught in the quiet chaos of your unresolved emotions. Hyunjin gave you a small, tentative smile, his hand lingering. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”
He hooked his pinky with yours and you almost breathed a sigh of relief at his touch. Your heart ached at his words, and without thinking, you reached up to brush a strand of onyx hair from his face, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. The air between you felt electric, charged with all the things left unsaid, all the years apart, and the unspoken truth that no matter what, something between you felt alive.
"I like your black hair," you admitted, your voice softer than usual. You couldn't help but admire how it framed his face, though you didn’t want to admit just how striking it made him look. The slit in his eyebrow only added to the allure of his features, making him even more captivating in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.
He blinked at you, his hand instinctively running through his hair as if he hadn’t expected the compliment. "Thanks," he breathed out, a slight flush creeping up his neck. His eyes darted down for a moment, clearly a little thrown off by your comment.
You quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice and continued strolling along the path. The streetlights reflected the water of the night's earlier drizzle.
His gaze followed you, and a small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It suits me?” he asked, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
You glanced back at him. "Yeah, it suits you well," you muttered, though the words felt strange on your tongue, too soft for the tension which hung between you two.
His apartment building radiated a sense of chic-ness, white marble and trimmed hedges lined the entrance. A lot different from how you remembered it. Although, the familiar creak of stairs echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway.
As you both reached the entrance to his apartment building, the weight of the silence between you felt heavier, more pressing, though neither of you seemed eager to break it. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows on the walls, and with each step up, the sound of your footsteps reverberated, filling the space.
Hyunjin walked just a few steps ahead, his fingers still gripping the canvas tightly. You couldn’t help but notice how his grip tightened every time you drew closer, like he was holding onto something precious, something fragile— like how it would've been if he held onto you.
You followed him, your mind swimming with thoughts—of the evening, of everything that happened, and the words left unsaid. You could feel the heat of his presence just ahead of you as you both approached the door to his apartment.
He reached the door first, hesitating for a brief moment as if contemplating whether to say something. But when he turned to face you, his expression softened.
"Come in," he murmured, stepping aside to let you in. His voice was quiet but welcoming, as though he was offering you the space to breathe, to feel safe again.
You stepped over the threshold, the door creaking slightly as he pushed it open. As you entered, you immediately noticed the change in the atmosphere—his apartment, though familiar, felt different now, more intimate, more charged. The slight hum of an old refrigerator in the corner filled the silence that followed you both into the room.
Hyunjin carefully set the canvas down on the nearby dining table, his fingers brushing lightly over the edges as if it was something delicate, something important.
Without a word, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face, waiting for you to speak, to fill the void left by the quiet. You couldn't even spare a glance at the canvas, too intertwined with your own thoughts and feelings.
Hyunjin’s apartment felt suffocating and intimate all at once. The scent of paint and faint traces of lavender lingered in the air, grounding you in a place that once was distant but now felt overwhelmingly close.
You stood in the middle of the room, your arms loosely wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Behind you, the canvas he’d brought sat on the table, the strokes of his art silently judging. Across the room, Hyunjin leaned lightly against the dining table, his knuckles brushing its edge as though grounding himself. His dark eyes never left you, and their intensity made your stomach churn with nerves.
“What are we doing, Hyune?” Your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, the words trembling with the confusion and vulnerability you couldn't keep bottled inside. Your lips quivered, tugging downward as the tears you fought threatened to spill.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to be with you again.” The truth of your words hung in the air, raw and echoing in the quiet room.
Hyunjin moved toward you with careful steps, closing the distance with a deliberate tenderness that made your breath catch. He stopped just short of touching you, his presence overwhelming and his gaze heavy.
“I don’t know how to make this easy,” he admitted, his voice low and steady, tinged with vulnerability. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending I’m fine without you.”
His hand lifted, hesitating for a moment before cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, your body betraying the turmoil in your heart.
“You don’t have to know right now,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. “I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I just… I need you to know that I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words cracked something open inside you, and a tear slipped free, trailing down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb, his touch so tender it made your knees weak.
Your hand instinctively came up to his, holding it against your cheek. “You make it sound so easy, Hyune,” you said, your voice trembling.
“It’s not,” he confessed, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath mingled with yours, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. Always have been.”
The room seemed to shrink around you, the walls closing in, but not in a way that suffocated. Instead, it felt like the world was forcing you together, creating a space where nothing else mattered.
Without thinking, you leaned into him, your lips brushing his in the softest of kisses. It wasn’t rushed or desperate but slow, filled with the kind of longing that had been buried for far too long.
His arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. The table, the paint, the world beyond the apartment—all of it melted away. There was only Hyunjin, holding you as if letting go wasn’t an option.
[Tag List] @nujeskz @myfavoritedelusion
tornado warnings. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'don't understand how quickly we get right back in our rhythm without missing a step'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 2.9k (unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance. dance coach!reader
— warning's: fluff, some sort of angst, hyune is a big ole softie, dancing and painting! flashback! at one point! - italics signal start/finish of the flashback.
→ playlist on spotify
The quiet sniffles you couldn't quite stop echoed off the cramped walls, making the small space feel even tighter. The faint light from outside filtered through the slats of the door, casting shadows that danced across Hyunjin's face. His brows were furrowed, the same way they were that night, years ago, before he left. The same expression which haunted you ever since.
You hugged your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold together whatever was left of your heart. The air felt thick, but it wasn't the silence that weighed most heavily—it was his gaze, steady and unwavering, locked on you.
"Let me paint you." His voice was soft, but there was a firm steadiness behind the words. His hands found your shoulders and slowly, he began to move his palms in soothing strokes, gliding up and back down to the curve of your arms.
You blinked, the weight of the suggestion taking a moment to settle. "What?"
He took a slow breath, his gaze softening as he spoke again. "Dancing," he clarified, his voice quieter this time, searching your eyes for some sign of understanding. "Let me paint you when you're dancing."
You stared at him, still reeling from his words, and blinked again, as if the request hadn't fully landed. "Now?" The word escaped before you could stop it, laced with disbelief and a growing knot in your stomach.
His lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth but didn’t quite reach his eyes. “My supplies are in the car. It’ll take me a minute to grab them—I came straight from my apartment.”
His makeshift studio. That's what his old place had moulded into, you remember the shock when you first entered his apartment all those years ago. His creativity flowed around the space, filling every area.
Your breath hitched, and you stared at him, your tear-streaked face shifting from disbelief to something softer, something more vulnerable. “Hyune…” you started, voice trembling as you wiped hastily at your cheeks. “Why?”
Hyunjin's gaze flickered, dropping momentarily to the floor before meeting yours again, unflinching. “Because it’s you,” he admitted quietly, his tone laced with both tenderness and frustration.
Your breath wavered, and you glanced away, your hand brushing against the shelves to steady yourself. The closet felt even smaller, the tension amplifying the closeness of his body. You could feel the heat radiating from him and the weight of his words settling.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You shook off his hands, retreating from his warm touch.
“Just dance,” he urged gently, tilting his head. “You don’t have to explain anything or say anything else. Let me see you the way I remember—free, fearless. The way you’ve always been to me.”
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and impossibly tender. You shook your head, fingers fumbling for the handle of the storage room door. The small space suddenly felt too close, the walls pressing in, the air thick with memories and emotions you weren’t ready to face.
“Hyune…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you tried to steady yourself. “I’m worse than I was two years ago.”
“Bullshit.” His response was immediate, raw, and unfiltered. His hand shot out, but he didn’t touch you—just hovered. “You’ve always been beautiful when you dance.”
You froze, torn between the urge to leave and the pull of his words. They weren’t just flattery; they carried the weight of someone who had seen you at your most vulnerable and still thought you were enough.
“It’s not the same anymore,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not the same anymore.” You pressed your forehead against the door, hand resting on the handle.
Hyunjin took a step closer, brushing your hair over one shoulder, his breath hot on your neck. “Neither am I,” he admitted, his voice softening. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t still find pieces of ourselves in the things we used to love.”
You turned your head away, turning to stare at him and met his dark eyes, searching yours with a quiet intensity. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that you could step back into that version of yourself—even for just a moment—but fear kept your feet rooted.
“Do it for yourself,” he urged, his tone gentle yet firm. “Not for anything else. Just to prove to yourself that the passion is still there. I’ll prove it if I have to.”
Your gaze flickered back to his, and for a moment, you saw a glimmer of the young boy you once knew. Filled with ambition and love—hopeful, determined, unwavering. It was that look that finally unraveled your resolve. You nodded slowly. "Okay."
It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was something—a step forward.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and as he turned to leave, the closet door creaked open, flooding the small space with light. For a moment, you stood there in the glow.
There was one routine you could never perfect. The thought of it lingered in your mind as you stood in the small storage room, the air heavy with anticipation. You’d refused to show him back then—too afraid of his critique, too wrapped up in the fear of falling short in his eyes. It was a piece that demanded every ounce of your vulnerability, and though you’d spent hours practicing, it always felt incomplete, like a part of you couldn’t fully let go.
Now, as you stood in the quiet space, his words echoed around you—Just dance. Both a plea and a challenge. You bit your lip, remembering the way he used to watch you, his gaze filled with awe and admiration that made you feel like the most captivating thing in the world. But that routine? That one? You weren’t sure if you could ever let him see it.
His apartment was a world of its own, chaotic and creative. The wooden floors, dotted with splatters of dried paint, remnants of his restless artistry, and the scent of acrylic paint mingled with something warm and familiar—him. The cluttered space had every surface occupied by canvases, brushes, and jars of mixed pigments. Yet it felt like a sanctuary, a place where the two of you could escape the world outside.
You had the place to yourself that afternoon. He’d stepped out to pick up supplies, and you’d been left with the low hum of music drifting from his old speaker. It was quiet enough that you could hear your own heartbeat as you moved through the space, practicing the routine which haunted you for weeks.
You kept it small, careful not to knock over anything in the cramped room. Your steps were tentative at first, your bare feet avoiding the splattered paint on the floor as you moved through the motions. The melody guided you, soft and lilting, and for a moment, you felt yourself relax into it.
The rhythm built, and so did your confidence. Your arms extended gracefully, your movements fluid, but just as you reached for the next step, a sudden sound shattered your focus.
“Y/N?”
His voice startled you so badly that you stumbled. Whirling around, you saw Hyunjin standing in the doorway, a bag of supplies in one hand and a look of surprise etched on his face.
“I—uh…” Words failed you as you tried to recover, your cheeks burning.
He stepped inside, setting the bag down by the door and tilting his head. “Were you dancing?”
“No,” you blurted, too quickly. “I mean…maybe.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up in a knowing smile as he crossed the room, his footsteps deliberate and slow. “I’ve never seen that routine before.”
You took a step back, suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been working on.”
“It didn’t look like nothing.” Hyunjin stopped a few feet away, his dark eyes scanning you with a quiet curiosity. “Why haven’t you shown me?”
You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your voice betrayed you. “It’s not ready.”
“Y/N…” He said your name like a gentle reprimand, and you hated how it made your heart flutter. “You know you don’t have to be perfect, right? Not with me.”
You looked away, your arms wrapping around yourself protectively. “It’s not about that. It’s…personal.”
His gaze softened, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting the quiet stretch between you. “Okay,” he said finally, his tone light but laced with understanding. “But when you’re ready, I want to see it. Deal?”
You nodded, your cheeks still flush. He grinned then, leaning down to grab a stray brush from the floor. “Until then, try not to knock over my masterpieces, yeah?”
You laughed despite yourself, the sound breaking the tension, and for the first time, you thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be right—you didn’t have to be perfect. Not with him.
You drew on the memory, letting it guide you as you stepped back into the quiet studio. The familiar hum of the fluorescent lights above was your only accompaniment—no music this time. You didn’t need it.
Closing your eyes, you allowed the choreography to unfurl in your mind. The steps came to you effortlessly, muscle memory born from years of painstaking practice. Your feet slid across the floor with precision, each movement sharp yet fluid, honed by relentless determination. Your arms extended, fingers brushing the air with the grace you worked so hard to master.
But then, there it was—that twinge. A sharp, nagging ache radiated from your lower back, a reminder of the battles you’d fought with your own body. It begged you to stop, to rest, but you refused to listen. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through it, defying the pain with every deliberate step.
This wasn’t about comfort or ease. It was about proving to yourself that you still could. That you were still the person who poured everything into perfecting this routine, who sacrificed hours to feel this freedom. You moved with purpose, each gesture carrying the weight of years of frustration and triumph.
A soft crack echoed through the room, drawing your attention to the doorway. Hyunjin stepped inside, his arms laden with supplies—tubes of paint precariously balanced against his chest, a few brushes gripped in one hand, and a smaller easel tucked under his arm. One stray brush was clamped between his teeth, and his brows furrowed in intense concentration as he maneuvered through the narrow space of the studio.
You froze mid-movement, watching him struggle. "Do you need any help?" you asked, tilting your head, watching as he shifted his load onto the floor with a clatter that made you wince.
He waved you off, shaking his head. "I got it, don't worry."
"I know what I want to show you," you replied, your voice quiet but certain. You gestured to the space ahead of you, moving toward an open corner. "But no music this time. Just me."
Hyunjin’s brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face before it softened into something warmer. "That’s good enough for me," he murmured, "Always has been."
Hyunjin glanced up at you then, his lips curving into the faintest smile. His fingers worked deftly, setting up the easel with care, mirroring the intent in his gaze. A lightness bloomed in your chest as you turned back to focus. Contemporary dance. Your first love.
"Alright. I'm ready for you to begin."
You glanced over your shoulder at him, his posture straight and focused as he sat by the easel. The brush was poised in his hand, ready but unmoving, his gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity that sent a shiver through you. The light in the room was soft, spilling from the overhead fixture and pooling on the floor, casting faint golden hues across the space. His eyes held a weight, a mixture of curiosity and something deeper.
Your breath hitched as nerves bubbled up in your stomach, but you willed them away, replacing them with resolve. It was now or never. You took a deep breath and stepped into the middle of the room. Slowly, your body began to move, each gesture deliberate yet fluid, the years of muscle memory guiding you. The first step was cautious, testing the waters, but soon the rhythm of your own breath became the only music you needed. The routine came alive beneath your feet, a blend of smooth transitions and sharp accents. Emotions. Rage and sadness.
The quiet in the room was almost sacred, amplifying every small sound. The brush of your feet against the polished floor, the faint creak of the wooden boards beneath you, and—most prominently—the rhythmic whisper of Hyunjin's paintbrush against the canvas. An intimate symphony, the strokes soft and deliberate, capturing each moment of your dance as emotion radiated from you.
You risked a glance at him mid-spin, your hair catching the light and fanning around you. His eyes never wavered from you, intense and focused, as though he were painting not just your form but the your soul. The way his hand moved across the canvas, fluid and confident, matched the rhythm of your steps, a silent conversation between the two of you.
For a moment, you forgot the weight of the past and the scar that marred your body and heart. Here, in this space, under his watchful eye, you were free.
The cool wooden floor greeted your bare feet with each step, grounding you as your arms swept through the air, fingertips grazing the light as though pulling it into your orbit. You spun, the hem of your loose shirt fluttering in the motion, and leapt, the kind of leap that made you feel weightless for just a moment before gravity pulled you back.
Soft shadows on the walls shifted with your turns. The air, alive and electrified by the energy you poured into the space. While the tension in your back, a lingering reminder of old battles with your body, tugged at you briefly, but you ignored it. The pain, now distant, insignificant compared to the freedom in the dance.
You glanced at him once more, expecting his focus to have faltered, but there he was—still, silent, his gaze following every movement like he was capturing it all with his eyes before his brush could.
Your movements grew bolder, the routine pulling you further into its world. It was no longer just a dance; it was a conversation, one which demanded honesty in every step and flourish.
You finished the routine, your arms extended and chest rising with with deep breaths. The quiet hum of the room was broken only by the faint scrape of Hyunjin setting down his brush. When you turned to face him, his expression was unreadable, a mix of awe and something softer, something heavier.
“That was the routine you were too scared to show me?” His voice was quiet, reverent almost. His eyes glimmered with an emotion you couldn’t quite place—something between curiosity and longing—and it sent a fresh wave of unease through you.
You hesitated, then nodded.
Hyunjin tilted his head, his dark eyes searching yours. “Why didn’t you show me before?”
You hesitated, wrapping your arms around yourself as if bracing for his reaction. “The surgery didn’t work,” you whispered, the words fragile, like glass. “The progress reversed.”
Realization dawned on his face, and he leaned forward slightly. “The scar…”
You nodded again, avoiding his gaze. “I know I never really talked about it. I felt ashamed. I still do. It’s part of why I struggle so much with dancing now. My body doesn’t feel the same anymore. That’s why I teach instead of being on stage.”
His expression shifted, softening in a way which made your chest ache. “Y/N,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret, “why didn’t you tell me?”
“We stopped talking,” you said, your voice cracking slightly. “No more daily updates or check-ins. I knew we were both busy, and… it was for the best. I had to learn to heal on my own, away from you.”
“I should’ve stayed,” he sighed, the weight of his guilt pressing down on the room.
“How were you supposed to know, Hyune? I didn’t expect that of you.” You stared at the wooden floor beneath you, kicking your foot against it.
“It doesn’t matter.” Hyunjin's jaw tightened. “I should’ve been here. You were struggling, and so was I. The only difference is that we were apart.”
You let out a bitter laugh, your lips curling into a faint, sad smile. “Recipe for disaster, so it seems.”
He patted the wooden floor beside him. “Come sit.”
You hesitated, but his gaze held a quiet insistence, so you crossed the room and sat down next to him, the faint scent of paint lingering in the air.
“What are you going to call this one?” you asked, nodding toward the canvas.
“Mon Claire de Lune,” he said softly, his eyes flickering to yours. “My moonlight.”
You froze, the meaning of his words sinking in, and before you could stop yourself, you leaned your head on his shoulder. He stiffened at first, the tension radiating from him like static, but then he relaxed, his body shifting slightly to accommodate yours.
For the first time in years, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full—of everything you left unsaid.
[Tag List] @nujeskz @myfavoritedelusion
how many things. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'Remember when you left once That never made too much sense to me'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 2.7k (unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry). dance coach!reader
— warning's: fluff, angst, kissing! Hyunjin being insane. very emotionally charged
→ playlist on spotify
Outside, gray light filters through the blinds, casting muted shadows across the space. Your room, inhabited by a quiet stillness. The knot in your chest hadn't loosened since last night.
Clothes were draped over the back of a chair and spilling out of an open dresser drawer, abandoned in your haste to change out of last night’s soaked dress. The hot chocolate mug Felix made for you sat half-empty on the bedside table. Your bed was unmade, the sheets tangled from tossing and turning, while a fluffy blanket lay half on the bed and half on the floor. Felix's mattress looked like a patchwork of borrowed blankets and mismatched pillows, wedged awkwardly between your desk and the bed. His backpack was propped up nearby, like he was ready to stay for as long as you needed him.
You blinked against the grogginess, rolling over to grab your phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up, and there they were—Hyunjin's texts. A long string of apologies and explanations, each word pulling at the threads of your resolve. It stirred something within you—frustration, maybe guilt, even the faintest pang of longing. But it’s all tangled with the memory of last night’s discomfort, the way your stomach dropped when you unveiled that painting. You glanced down at Felix, still asleep on the mattress on the floor, his soft snores echoing through the room.
You scroll slowly through the messages:
Hyune: I kept replaying everything in my head last night. I need to say sorry again… for the painting, for everything. I never meant to hurt you.
You frowned, the corner of your lip tugging downward as your thumb hovered over the screen, scrolling through the long paragraphs.
Hyune: I really messed up. I didn’t think about how it could've made you feel. It was selfish of me. I don’t expect you to be okay. I just want you to know how sorry I am.
There was an hour-long pause between his latest texts, a noticeable gap and the timestamp stared back at you, emphasizing the hesitation.
Hyune: Can I just ask you something? Is there any way I can fix this. Or have I ruined it for good?
The silence between his words felt heavier than the texts themselves, and you wondered what he’d been thinking in that hour. You tried to decide how to respond, or if you even should.
Deciding against it, you clambered out of bed, the cold floor beneath your feet grounding you as you carefully tiptoed over Felix’s makeshift mattress, mindful not to disturb his sleep. You moved around him as gently as possible and made your way to the corner where your gym bag sat.
You grabbed your gear, pulling out a pair of leggings and a loose tank top, the soft fabric a welcome change from your pajamas. You stripped out of them. After slipping into your workout clothes, you grabbed your sneakers and tied them. You gave yourself a moment to breathe before heading out.
Finally reaching the door, you slipped out of the room and into the quiet hallway. To no one’s surprise, Minho was already up, sitting at the dining table with his signature mug of coffee in hand. His sharp gaze flicked to you as he took a slow sip. "Feeling any better?"
You shrugged, but immediately regretted the motion, a sharp pain shooting up your back. You cringed, wincing as the discomfort intensified. Instinctively, you rubbed your hand against the affected area, trying to ease the ache. Some days it was more bearable, others, like today, felt like every movement made it worse. You pressed your palm harder against the sore spot, hoping the pressure would bring some relief. Time for painkillers.
"Is it your back again?" Minho asked, his voice casual.
You nodded, unable to hide the discomfort that was clear on your face. "Yeah."
He didn’t immediately respond, his eyes drifting to his watch. Minho’s expression remained unreadable, but the way his fingers grazed the edge of his watch seemed to convey that he was weighing his options—whether to ask more, or just let you be.
"You heading off to some classes?" he asked, his tone shifting into something more neutral. You noticed the flicker of concern in his gaze, though it was subtle enough that you might have missed it if you weren’t paying attention.
"I was supposed to be teaching back to back classes but too many of the students called in sick. So looks like it'll only be one today. I'm lucky I woke up before my alarm." You shuffled toward the kitchen, your mind racing as you tried to remember where you’d last put your prescription. Reaching up to the top shelf, your fingers brushed along the unfamiliar bottles, until, "Hah! gotcha."
You finally found your prescription, tucked away in the back of the cabinet. Without hesitation, you grabbed two of the pills. You didn’t bother with water and swallowed them dry. Not the ideal way to take them, but it was the quickest and right now, you didn't have the patience for anything else.
"Don't overwork yourself."
"Yeah, Minho I get it. I'll be fine."
Minho didn't let up, his gaze locking with yours as he leaned back slightly, placing his coffee cup down. "I know what you're like. You’ll throw yourself into your work until it consumes you. But you can't afford to do that this time." His words hit harder than expected, not because of their harshness, but because they were true. Minho knew you too well.
"I won't. I just need to clear my head and this is the perfect excuse." You avoided looking at the artwork in the hall. It sat there on the wall. You hesitated for a moment, then finally glanced at it. "Can you take down that painting?" you asked, your voice quiet but firm, almost as if you were asking him to erase a memory that still lingered.
Minho didn’t miss a beat, his eyes brightening with a glimmer of hope. "I can do that."
You nodded quickly, feeling a strange mix of relief and guilt. "And when Felix wakes up, can you tell him thank you for staying over? Okay, bye!"
Minho opened his mouth to say something but you were already walking toward the door, the sound of your shoes clicking against the floor as you made your way out. Without looking back, you shut the door behind you with a soft click, the weight of it momentarily lifting as you stepped into the apartment hall.
The dance studio was alive with the sound of music and the shuffle of feet. The class worked through the routine, slow but with precision. Just how you liked it.
The spacious room had mirrors lining one wall, reflecting the movements of the students. The floor, once smooth was now well-worn from countless hours of practice. The choreography had been coming together, but there were still a few kinks to work out—people stumbling through transitions, steps slightly off-beat, or missteps that threw the flow off. You could feel the tension building in the room as everyone tried to perfect their movements.
One of the students, Jaehyun, lingered at the back of the group, his steps faltering with a heaviness which didn’t go unnoticed. Your gaze shifted to him, drawn by the subtle struggle in his movements.
"Jaehyun, more sass!" you called out, watching as he hesitated for a moment. You stepped forward, adjusting your stance, demonstrating the movement with a sharp flick of your wrist. "Yeah, there you go!" you encouraged, nodding as he began to mirror you. You flicked your hand away from your body, exaggerating the motion to show him how the energy should move—quick, confident, and full of attitude. "Flick it away from you," you said with a grin, your own body flowing with the rhythm.
Your back ached in response to the constant motion, the familiar tightness creeping in as you push through the routine. With every pivot, the pain gnawed at the edge of your concentration, but you tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the music and the rhythm. As you demonstrated each step, you could feel the weight of the room’s gaze, every student focused on perfecting the choreography you were teaching. The pressure to keep everything fluid and precise only made the ache in your back worse.
A figure in the background caught your eye, leaning casually against the wall. He was dressed in a loose tank top and baggy pants, his posture relaxed but somehow out of place in the midst of the class. But what really drew your attention was the ridiculous hat perched on his head covering the top half of his face.
Hyunjin lifted his head up, meeting your gaze with an almost amused expression.
Your voice cut through the quiet murmur of the classroom like a whip, drawing every pair of eyes toward the back. "What are you doing here?"
Everyone halted and the sudden shift in the atmosphere made you realize how unprofessional you were being. You quickly gathered yourself and cleared your throat.
"Let's all wrap it up and take a break," you addressed the class, trying to regain control of the situation.
You strode toward him, your movements quick and deliberate, and gripped his wrist firmly. Your eyes flicked toward the storage room and you felt a sharp sense of urgency. Whatever this was, it needed to be dealt with away from the class. Half of the students watched with curious eyes. You swore under your breath and turned, leading him to the room.
You wrenched it open and tugged him into the small space, barely big enough to fit both of you. The air smelt like cleaning supplies and a faint scent of sweat from earlier classes. You awkwardly manoeuvred, the shelves filled with equipment pressing against you on either side. Reaching for his stupid hat, you snatched it off his head, placing it on a shelf.
You glanced up at him, irritation simmering beneath the surface. "What, you're stalking me now?" The words were sharp, cutting through the tension that filled the tiny room.
Hyunjin leaned against the shelf with a grin, clearly amused by the situation. He tilted his head slightly, his usual playful demeanor shifting the focus of the moment. "We met in a very similar fashion to this, didn’t we?"
He moved with an almost casual grace, his fingers trailing along the dusty shelves. His words caught you off guard, distracting you from your blinding anger. "Caught in a closet by our dance teacher?" Hyunjin continued, his lazy smirk growing. He seemed to enjoy the absurdity of the situation.
For a second, the tension between you both eased and the air in the small, cluttered room felt less suffocating. You let out a quiet sigh, your annoyance still simmering, but the familiar situation almost made you forget for a moment what had brought you here.
"This time with the dance teacher," you mumbled, your voice lower than you'd intended, barely a whisper in the space between you.
Hyunjin's response was a soft, knowing "Mhm," but it wasn’t the words that caught your attention. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a heartbeat, and it made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or something else entirely.
You clenched your jaw, your fists balling and then straightened up, shaking off the moment. "This is a very good time to talk about boundaries," you said, your voice firm, though you couldn't help but notice how his body seemed to draw your gaze—his defined obliques subtly visible under the loose fabric of his shirt as he shifted slightly, the muscles shifting with the movement. You found yourself admiring them against your will and a rush of heat crept up your neck.
Stupid. Attractive. Infuriating Man.
Once, those ridges, those lines of muscle, had been yours to explore, your hands mapping every inch of his frame with reverent precision. You could almost feel the memory of his warmth, the way his skin had felt beneath your touch...
You snapped yourself out of it, blinking hard as you tried to focus, to remind yourself that this was not the time to be distracted. Boundaries. Keeping things professional. Right.
Before you could even react, Hyunjin surged forward, his movements too quick for you to anticipate. His delicate hands cupped the underside of your jaw, fingers warm and firm against your skin as he tilted your face up to meet his. The proximity sent a jolt of surprise through you, but you couldn’t pull away in time. His lips were on yours in an instant, demanding and urgent, and the sensation of him pushing you back against the shelves startled you.
"Ahh," you hissed, wincing as the pain from your back flared up, sharp and sudden.
Hyunjin pulled back just slightly, his eyes filled with a flicker of guilt. "Sorry, I forgot," he murmured, his voice softer now. His hand slid up your back with surprising tenderness, finding the sore spot, and he cupped the area with a gentleness that caught you off guard. You felt his warmth, the contrast of his hand against the ache in your muscles almost soothing. He brushed his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours.
Your head spun. His proximity, suffocating, but something about the moment made you hesitate. "Is sorry the only thing you know how to say now?"
His body pressed against yours again in response. There was no escape from the intensity of his gaze or the force of his presence. His actions were desperate as though he was trying to claim something lost.
Your heart raced, a mix of confusion and anger flooding through you. But despite the chaos in your mind, you melted into him, your resolve faltering. His hand slid around your torso, pulling you impossibly closer. His touch commanded your attention, pulling you deeper, until there was nothing but the heat of his body against yours and the searing press of his lips.
It wasn’t just a kiss; it was a battle—a desperate attempt to close the chasm of time and pain that had kept you apart. It was as if he was trying to erase the years of longing and regret through sheer closeness. But as quickly as you’d given in, you broke away, pushing him back with trembling hands.
"Hyune... we can’t do this. Not again. I can’t." Your voice cracked, betraying the storm of emotions brewing inside.
Hyunjin's eyes bore into yours, dark and unwavering. "Call off the class," he said, his voice low but commanding. He stood before you, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
"What?" you asked, barely processing his words.
"Call off the class. Now," he repeated, and something about the weight of his gaze made you comply without question.
You opened the door, poking your head out into the hallway where the students sat waiting. They turned to you, curiosity etched on their faces. "Class is dismissed today. I’ll make up for the lost time in the next session," you announced, your voice strained but steady.
You closed the door and turned back to him. "You can’t do this to me, Hyune. You can’t just come back after three years and expect everything to be the same."
His reply was simple, almost haunting. "You waited."
Your breath hitched, your mouth falling open. "I did," you admitted, the weight of those words settling heavily between you.
"You shouldn’t have waited," he said, his voice softer now, almost broken. "You should’ve been happy. You should’ve found someone."
The questions you’d buried deep for years tumbled out before you could stop it. "And what about you? Are you happy? Did you find someone else? Did you fall for someone? Did you treat her well?"
You saw it immediately—the way his entire body tensed, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing for a blow. His eyes flickered, the light in them dimming, and for a moment, he looked like he was struggling to breathe. His jaw tightened, the muscle feathering with the effort to hold back whatever turmoil your words unleashed.
"No," His response came, cutting through the air like a blade, "I can’t find you anywhere but here."
Then they came—the tears, streaming down your cheeks as his words wrapped around your heart.
bad for business. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'I know everyone sees That he'll be the death of me'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 2k (unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).
— warning's: mostly a flashback chapter! so much fluff, domestic shit, Hyunjin being a hopeless romantic (as usual). italics is the flashback!
→ playlist on spotify
Rain poured relentlessly, a curtain of shimmering silver that blurred streetlights and turned the world into a hazy watercolor painting. Each drop struck the pavement with sharp precision, pooling into rivers alongside curbs and spilling into your heels with icy indifference. The sound was deafening, a symphony of heavy pattering which drowned out your thoughts. It cascaded down your hair, plastering it to your face, and trickled over your trembling lips, its chill biting. You stumbled down the dimly lit street, your slick heels clicking unevenly on the wet pavement. You were desperate to escape the whirlwind of emotions clawing at your chest.
It was a mistake to agree to it, seeing him again.
The rain poured harder, saturating your dress until it clung to your frame, heavy and cold. It felt as though the sky itself wept alongside you, each raindrop a reflection of your unspoken anguish.
Tears mingled with the rain on your cheeks, blurring your vision as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to create a semblance of warmth. The weight of the past and the present, suffocating you all at once.
The catch up started fine—charming smiles and polite conversation—but the way Hyunjin looked at you ignited memories of a future that no longer existed.
By the time you reached the apartment door, your makeup was streaked like war paint. Your hands trembled as you fumbled with the keys. Inside, the warm glow of the living room lights greeted you along with Felix and Minho, their laughter freezing the moment they saw you.
Felix shot up from the couch, his wide eyes darting over your soaked and disheveled form. “Y/N, what the hell happened?”
Minho frowned, already grabbing a blanket from the armchair, and as you finally stepped inside, the tears you'd been holding back spilled over, your sobs breaking the heavy silence.
You made it to the couch and your knees buckled, sinking into the fabric. Minho approached, draping the blanket on your shoulders. You mumbled a thank you. Despite the fact you were probably saturating the lounge.
“Sweetheart, you're drenched,” Felix’s voice was soft as he crouched in front of you, his hands warm on your trembling knees. “It’s okay. Just breathe.” You shook your head, the tears pooling, unable to articulate the storm raging inside.
Minho leaned against the couch, his arms folded, his sharp gaze softer than usual as he watched. Felix's thumb brushed gently over your knuckles. You glanced at him, but didn’t answer. "I'll make you some hot chocolate? How about that." He stood, turning to approach the kitchen.
"He surprised me with a painting." Your pulled your knees to your chest and stared blankly at the floor as the words spilled from your lips. “It was a painting… of me.” Your voice, barely louder than a whisper. “Naked.”
Felix froze mid-step, his hand gripping the back of the chair. “What?”
Your fingers absently traced the fabric lounge suite as you spoke, voice quiet but laden with emotion. “He painted everything, Felix. The scar… every little detail,” You stared at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I couldn’t even look at it for long. It felt… too much, you know?” Your breath hitched and you wiped your eyes. “I just left it there, with him… and walked out."
Felix slowly lowered himself into the couch, his wide eyes locking on your face. “Y/N…”
You shook your head, the words spilling faster now, like you had to get them out before you broke. “I didn’t know what he wanted me to feel. Was it supposed to be some kind of apology? A declaration? A reminder of how intimately he knew me—I felt so… e-exposed.” Your voice wavered on the last word.
Felix moved closer, his presence grounding, but he didn’t touch you. “It’s okay to feel overwhelmed,” he murmured. “That’s… a lot to process.”
Minho removed himself from the situation and stood by the counter, his arms crossed, his usual sharp expression tinged with concern. He didn’t say anything, just watched as Felix leaned forward, his voice low and soothing. “You don’t have to figure out how to feel about it all at once, okay? Just take your time.”
You nodded and breathed a deep exhale. “I just couldn’t accept it, Lix. I couldn’t."
Felix reached for your hand, his touch gentle. “You don’t owe anyone more than what you’re ready to give.”
Your lip quivered, and you bit it hard to steady yourself. Across the room, Minho finally spoke, "It was inappropriate for him to do that." His words carried a restrained anger, the edge of his tone sharp enough to make your stomach twist. He stood by the kitchen counter, his posture rigid, one hand gripping the edge as though steadying himself. His eyes, usually soft with teasing or indifference, were now darkened, fixed on the floor with an intensity that made it seem as though he was trying to will the situation into something simpler.
For a moment, you nodded again and fixed your gaze on your knees. But the weight in your chest didn’t feel any lighter. And you wished—wished it could be simpler. Like the time you and Hyune attended your first painting class together. Just two people side by side, hands splattered with paint, laughing over botched brushstrokes. How cruel was it? Reminders of the past.
Sunlight filtered through the wide, dusty windows of the studio, casting golden streaks across the wooden floors. Easels stood in neat rows, each with their own palettes, brushes, and blank canvas's begging for color. The air smelled faintly of turpentine, mingling with the soft hum of conversation between the other attendees, some chatting nervously about their artistic skills—or lack thereof. The class seemed smaller than usual, a comforting change from the crowded sessions Hyunjin had mentioned.
The painting class was held in a quirky sunlit loft, the kind of place that felt like it had a soul. The wide windows let the afternoon sun pour in, catching motes of dust in the air and warming the worn wooden floors. An acrylic scent lingered in the room.
You stood at your easel, studying the white void and feeling slightly self-conscious about the smock tied around your waist. Next to you, Hyunjin adjusted his, the fabric straining slightly across his broad shoulders while he tied it with a flourish. He turned to you, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You look adorable,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.
“Shut up,” you muttered, a smile tugging at your lips. You felt your cheeks warm. You usually weren't this easy to embarrass.
“What? You do,” he insisted, leaning closer. His breath tickled your ear. “Like you belong in one of those old paintings—classical, elegant, slightly flustered.”
“Hyune,” You whispered, nudging him with your elbow. “Focus. The tutor is about to start.”
The painter, a woman with acrylic-streaked overalls and a messy bun that looked like it had been styled with a brush handle, began explaining the basics of oil painting. She demonstrated how to mix colors, how to hold the brush, and how to create layers that would bring depth to the canvas. Hyunjin, ever the focused student, nodded attentively, his expression serious as he absorbed each instruction. But you couldn’t help notice how his eyes kept drifting toward you, a subtle flicker of his gaze every few moments. You rolled your eyes— He already knew the basics. After all, he was an art student—he had mastered this long before the class began.
Despite the obvious, you knew he was playing along, indulging you in the simplicity of it all, and that small act made your heart soften in a way you hadn’t expected. It was just for you, a gesture of care buried in his casual attention.
You carefully selected and mixed rich, warm tones—deep reds, soft golds, and a touch of burnt orange.
When it was time to start painting, he leaned over to your palette, studying the colors you mixed. “Bold choice." He gestured to the vibrant burnt red you'd been working on.
“Thanks,” you replied, not looking at him. “You’re just jealous because I have taste.”
He laughed softly, picking up his brush. “We’ll see who the real artist is here, Picasso.”
As the session progressed, the two of you fell into a rhythm which was equal parts focused and playful. You tried your best to follow the tutor's advice, layering the paint carefully, but you couldn’t ignore the way Hyunjin kept sneaking glances at your canvas—or at you. It was distracting to say the very least.
Especially when you snuck glances at him. He was completely immersed in the act of painting, his movements fluid and purposeful. His pretty pink tongue poked out between his full lips, contrasting against the concentrated furrow of his brows. The way his eyes narrowed, locked in focus as if nothing in the world could disturb his creative flow. You couldn't help but admire how effortlessly he seemed to be in his element, every brushstroke like a dance of its own.
Hyunjin caught your stare, snapping his gaze to you. A warmth crawled up your neck and you hesitated with your brush. His golden hair, tied up in a pony tail seemed to glow from the reflection of the sunlight in the room. He tilted his head, looking past your shoulder.
"Don’t look at mine," you whined, instinctively covering your painting with your arms as if shielding it from his gaze would somehow protect it from judgment. You knew he wasn’t going to criticize, but the idea of him comparing his masterpiece to your half-hearted strokes made you feel exposed.
“Why not?” Hyunjin teased. “Are you hiding your genius from me?”
You hesitated, your fingers tightening around the edge of the canvas as you considered his question. “I’m hiding my lack of genius,” You shot back, grinning despite yourself.
"I think anything you do is worth seeing." He tilted his head, pretending to scrutinize you. “You know, your technique’s not bad. But…” He reached over with his brush, the bristles coated in a pale blue, and swiped it lightly across the edge of your canvas.
“Hyune!” You gasped, staring at the streak. The blue he added unintentionally created depth to the piece which felt predominantly warm.
“Just a little improvement,” Hyunjin said, laughing as he held up his hands in mock surrender.
“Oh, you’re dead,” You muttered, dipping your brush into a vibrant orange. You leant forward, aiming for his canvas but missed, accidentally smudging the paint onto his forearm instead.
He looked down at the streak, then back at you, eyebrows raised. “So that’s how it is?”
Before you could respond, he retaliated, swiping a dab of purple across your cheek. The paint, wet and cool.
“Hyunjin!” You giggled and tried to dodge his next attack. The room around you faded into the background as the playful war continued, smearing paint on each other like children. Your cheeks ached from smiling. By the time the tutor walked over to check the progress, both your canvases—and your faces—were a mess of color.
“Having fun?” the tutor asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Loads.” Hyunjin grinned as he wiped a streak of red from his jaw.
The tutor shook her head in mild exasperation, making her way around the room, pausing here and there to check on each student’s progress.
You let out a soft giggle, the sound light and carefree, before groaning in frustration as you tried to clean your hands with a rag already covered in streaks of paint. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, shaking your head in amusement.
As the tutor called for a break, Hyunjin leaned over, his presence close as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin. “You’re beautiful when you’re happy, you know that?”
You shot him a playful, yet mock-serious glare and your eyes narrowed teasingly. "So, I’m not beautiful when I’m grumpy then?"
He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his expression teasing. “Whose impossible now, huh?”
"Touche'." You flashed him with a smirk.
He reached forward slowly, his fingers brushing the edge of your canvas, and then, without warning, he gently licked his thumb. His eyes locked with yours for a moment before he leaned in closer. The warmth of his touch grazed your skin as he carefully wiped away a streak of paint from your cheek. The tender act, so intimate, it made your breath catch for just a second.
Hyunjin's gaze never left yours, and the corner of his lip twitched, "My little art project."
things i wish you said. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'Sorry, that I pulled the "It's not you, it's me" One day, I'll make sure you get a real apology'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 3.4k (she's a long one sorry + unedited)
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).
— warning's: bestie!minho, angst. Minho is pissed!, Hyunjin being a flirt, sexual references, fluff, reminiscing on the past! SO MUCH ANGST, reader is gifted a painting!
→ playlist on spotify
The room hummed softly with your playlist, melodic symphonies and sultry beats. The whole day you'd felt on edge, anxiety eating you alive.
The dim glow of your bedside lamp cast a warm light over your room. Standing before your desk mirror, you slipped into a black and white dress. Tiny diamanté's sparkled along the bodice, catching the light like scattered stars every time you moved. While the cinched waist accentuated your silhouette.
You sat on the ivory chair in front of the mirror, reaching for the makeup scattered along the desk. You dusted highlighter along your cheekbones and couldn’t help but think of him—his absence lingered like a ghost in the room, uninvited and impossible to ignore. But tonight wasn’t for grief or longing. This was your stage, your chance to shine in a way which let him see exactly what he’d left behind.
As you swept another brush over your cheeks, adding just the right amount of blush, you paused, staring at your reflection. This wasn’t just a night out. With each stroke of mascara, you steeled yourself, straightening your posture. This was your statement. Your chance to show him — and yourself — how far you’d come. A final touch of lipstick sealed it: a bold red, fierce and unapologetic. You weren’t the person he left behind, and tonight, you intended to prove it.
You reached for your die-cube handbag and slung it over your shoulder. Giving yourself a once over, you smiled. With a final breath, you turned away from the mirror and exited your room, down the hallway.
You stopped in your tracks, drawn to the painting hanging in the hall—the one Hyunjin had gifted you on one of your birthdays. It depicted the silhouette of a couple standing close, an umbrella shielding them from an oncoming storm. Their hands clasped in an intimate grip, a quiet tenderness captured in oil. The muted blues and earthy browns swirled together in a way that felt alive, reminiscent of so many moments you’d shared with him. Once, you loved getting lost in its strokes, marveling at the way it seemed to breathe. Now, the sight of it made your chest tighten, the ache a stark reminder of what you lost.
You wondered, not for the first time, why you couldn’t bring yourself to hide the painting. It hung there like a ghost, its presence both soothing and tormenting. Every glance at it stirred something deep inside you—a mix of longing and resentment you couldn’t quite untangle. Maybe it was the memory of how happy you’d been when he gave it to you, or perhaps it was the quiet defiance of keeping it in plain sight.
"I think it’s about time to put that painting to rest, huh?" The suddenness of Minho's voice made you flinch, his tone cutting through the quiet hum of the apartment.
You turned awkwardly on your heel, clutching your bag tight to your chest. The dim overhead light cast warm shadows across the small kitchen, the faint scent of dish soap hanging in the air. "It’s probably for the best," you mumbled, avoiding his eyes.
Minho stood at the sink, his sleeves rolled up as his hands moved in the soapy water. The clinking of plates stopped, and his brows furrowed slightly as he turned to glance at you. "Where are you going all dolled up, pretty?"
You shifted uncomfortably, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder as you approached the bench. "I’m going to La Luxe for dinner."
His lips quirked into a teasing smirk as he returned to scrubbing the dishes. "You finally found someone to take you again? Don’t tell me it’s Felix."
His playful jab caught you off guard, and you rolled your eyes, forcing a laugh, though the weight of the conversation pressed on your chest. “It’s nothing like that, Min,” you said, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Just a catch-up with an old friend.”
“Would I happen to know this old friend?” His eyes narrowed, the edge of his tone sharper than usual.
“What’s with you and the questions?” You sighed, avoiding his gaze. You hated how easily he could read you.
He tilted his head, crossing his arms like a disappointed parent. “You’re getting defensive. So, I definitely know them.”
Your gaze drifted to the painting on the wall—that painting. The one you couldn’t bring yourself to take down.
“Y/N,” Minho's voice softened, barely above a whisper.
“He’s back,” you murmured, turning to face him. “He came back.” The fabric of your dress suddenly felt too restricting, like it was suffocating you. You caught the flicker of surprise on his face—and was that disappointment? Felix was right. Of course he'd be upset.
“And tonight, you’re going to tell him you don’t accept his half-assed apology, right?” Minho's tone carried a warning edge.
A silence swallowed the room. Your answer lingered there, unspoken but painfully clear.
“He can’t just waltz back into your life after three years and expect you to grovel at his feet. It’s pathetic. He should know better.”
“Min,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady, “you know I love you, but I need to handle this on my own. Please, let me make my own decisions. Okay?”
"If you get hurt again, I won't be the one picking up the pieces," Minho huffed, tossing the dishrag onto the counter. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He left the rest of the dishes undone, wiping his hands on a towel before disappearing into his room.
The tension in the apartment lingered. The last thing you needed was him being mad at you. Although, Minho's frustration was nothing compared to the storm brewing in your chest. With or without his blessing, you had to face your tangled mess of emotions.
A buzz interrupted your train of thought, you slipped your phone out of your handbag and read the notification.
Hyune: I know I said we would meet there but I'm outside your apartment. You don't mind if I give you a ride right? If it's too weird I can just go.
Y/N: It's okay. I'll be out in a minute.
The car ride was filled with small talk and a comfortable familiarity that you hadn’t anticipated, especially considering how cold he had been the last time you saw him. An ease lingered in the air, the kind of casual chatter which made it feel like no time had passed at all. You found yourself laughing at his jokes, the same dry humor which used to irritate you, now felt oddly comforting. The tension you braced yourself for never materialized; instead, it felt like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes—familiar, yet strange and new.
You'd almost forgotten how the interior of the restaurant, La Luxe Charm, looked. Bathed in warm, intimate glows of low golden lighting.
Hyunjin's hand ghosted your waist, his fingertips close enough to feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin but never quite making contact. His frame stood beside yours, close enough that the faint scent of his cologne— Mint and raspberry, reached your nose, refreshing and sweet.
As you stepped inside, the clicking of your heels was silenced, the plush carpet beneath muffling the sound of your steps. The walls were lined with a deep crimson velvet, embossed with intricate golden patterns which shimmered subtly under the soft light of chandeliers which hung overhead. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and the faint aroma of gourmet dishes being prepared in the kitchen.
Dark wood panels created a sense of secrecy, while gilded frames adorned the walls, each holding carefully chosen artwork that spoke of refined taste. Your gaze drew to one of the paintings, the style eerily familiar.
Instinctually, you reached for Hyunjin's hand, intertwining your fingers. His skin was warm against yours, the subtle callouses on his fingertips a reminder of the hours he spent painting. You turned your head slightly, leaning closer until your lips hovered near his ear, your voice dropping to a whisper, "It seems like they have taste too. Look at the work they're featuring."
You glanced back at him, catching the way his gaze lingered on your joined hands. His expression softened, almost as if he were entranced by how naturally your fingers fit together.
"Hyune?" The name slipped out before you could stop it. His eyes flicked to yours, surprised. "Oh. Sorry." You quickly dropped his hand, the warmth lingering on your fingertips. A blush crept up your cheeks as you glanced away, suddenly self-conscious. "Force of habit," you mumbled, the words barely audible.
"Hmm? yeah it's flattering to say the least."
You forced your gaze ahead of you. Tables were draped in crisp white linens, set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses. But the booths were your favourite part, deep and inviting, with high backs, offering an air of privacy and comfort as patrons conversed in hushed tones. Everything about the space—every detail from the dark, rich color palette to the gleaming accents— you adored. It was the sort of place where time seemed to slow, and every moment felt like something to savor.
You were led to your table by a cute waitress, her smile genuine as she gestured toward the velvet-upholstered chair. Hyunjin stepped in, excusing the waitress and pulled out the chair for you, a warm smile dancing on his lips.
The waitress dipped, placing the menus and glasses on the table. The soft swish of her movements almost blended into the elegant surroundings and her gaze lingered for just a moment longer before she turned to leave.
"I can't believe we used to come here every Wednesday. We'd argue so much over what pasta to try and then you'd steal my desert." You sat, placing your handbag on the floor by your foot. You ghosted your hands over the menu, avoiding his intense stare.
Hyunjin tilted his head. "You say that like you didn’t always end up taking half of mine!"
"I liked seeing you get all worked up over it. You always took everything so seriously." You giggled, airy and light. "This restaurant was only my favourite because you introduced it to me you know."
He paused and you glanced up, drawn to his silence. His silky onyx hair framed his face in a way which seemed effortlessly deliberate. His lips, naturally full and slightly pouted, parted as if he were about to speak but thought better of it. Your eyes roamed down his body, the tailored suit he wore was jet black, its sharp lapels accentuating his shoulders. The crisp white shirt beneath, unbuttoned at the top, hinting at a casual defiance of formality. Definitely on purpose.
Your eyes traced the sharp lines of his jaw before settling on the small slit in his left eyebrow. Subtle yet striking—a detail that added an edge to his otherwise polished appearance. It was new.
He noticed your stare, and for a fleeting moment, his lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Well. You were always the carefree one, always able to shrug things off. I admired that. Took one day at a time."
"And you," You pointed your finger at him. "Were always trying to fix everything. Always had a plan. I never understood how you did it. I couldn’t keep up." That's why I was left behind... your smile faded. "You always knew what the next step was."
Hyunjin shook his head and stared at the menu. "I didn't. I just pretended like I knew what I was doing."
"And now look at you! Mr. Artist." You rested your chin on interlaced hands.
"Hah." He sighed, "Yeah."
You frowned at his tone—hollow and restrained. It didn’t match the warmth he once carried, the easy laughter that used to light up every room he stepped into. "So what was it really like? Paris!"
"It was great at the start. The classes were fun, I made some really good friends. I think you'd love Jeongin." The corner of his lips tugged upward. "I owned my own studio and was invited to prestigious events. All the flashy bullshit."
"It sounds like fun."
"Yeah until I grew bored. I couldn't place my finger on it. My work became monotonous. Lacking colour and emotion. My recent pieces I scrapped. I seem to have lost my inspiration." he said, his voice low as his eyes locked with yours, steady and unwavering. "So, I guess that's the reason I'm here."
Your brows furrowed. He couldn’t be implying what you thought he was, could he? The air between you thickened with the question hanging in the space, a subtle tension building that made your heart skip. You watched him closely, searching his face for any signs of a joke, any hint that he wasn’t being serious. But there was nothing. Only the quiet intensity of his gaze and the weight of his words sinking in.
"You came back to find new inspiration?" you asked, your voice edged with disbelief.
"I think I realized my very flaw," Hyunjin began, his voice faltering slightly, "My work has always been inspired by the people around me and—" He paused, visibly struggling to find the words. His gaze dropped to the table for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as if the motion would give him the courage to continue. His usual confidence, the one you used to admire so much, seemed to be slipping away, replaced by something more vulnerable.
He met your eyes again, his expression softer, almost hesitant. "I’ve spent so much time trying to capture things that weren’t mine to hold. People. Moments. You. All of my art has one common denominator," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He didn’t say it outright, but you didn’t need him to. The unspoken truth laid bare between you, like a canvas waiting for its final stroke.
Your stomach tightened as his gaze lingered on yours, searching for a reaction. You didn’t know what to say, your thoughts tangled between disbelief, anger, and something dangerously close to longing. The realization crept over you slowly, each piece falling into place like a puzzle you weren’t sure you wanted to solve.
"Me," You whispered lowly, your chin trembled and you let out a sharp exhale.
"I didn’t expect to feel… like this, when we sat down again. I thought it’d just be some casual catch-up." Hyunjin let out an airy, nervous laugh. "I didn't plan a monologue or anything so I'm flying by the edge of my seat here."
"Yeah me neither." You hesitated, "I don’t think I ever really stopped thinking about you."
"I get it," he said softly, voice laced with regret. "I tried to bury a lot of things too. Things we never talked about. But now, seeing you again… I realize there's so much I still wish I had said."
"Like what?" you asked, the words escaping before you could stop them.
He hesitated, fingers fidgeting as he stared down at them. "I'm sorry," he finally murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "For leaving the way I did. I never gave you a proper explanation. Telling Felix and Minho, expecting that to be enough? I couldn't even stomach telling you to your face." A bitter laugh escaped him as he glanced away. "How much more of a coward could I have been?"
"Hyune. You don't have to apologise. You were following your dream and I just didn't fit into that space anymore. I understood, I just think... I think I wanted you to fight harder to stay. It's silly."
He reached over the table, his hand brushing lightly against yours. The contact sent a soft shiver through you. His hands were as gentle as you remembered them—warm, soft, and full of the careful tenderness. "It’s not silly," he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity.
You looked up at him, surprised by the firmness in his words, but before you could speak, he cleared his throat. "I—I, uh, brought a present with me," he said, his eyes flickering with something like nervousness.
Surprise painted your features as he pulled out the present, a canvas wrapped in simple brown paper, the size of a painting. Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at it. He hesitated for a moment before handing it to you. "I thought... you might like this."
You took the canvas carefully, fingers brushing over the smooth texture of the paper, the edges slightly creased from the wrapping. The soft rustling of paper echoed in your ears as you peeled it away, revealing the canvas piece by piece. Hyunjin watched you intently, his hands resting in his lap.
Your breath caught. It was a painting of you. Your body, bare and exposed, captured in a way that felt so intimate it almost hurt to look at. The brushstrokes were so delicate and shadows seemed to dance around your form, casting a softness that made the image almost too real. The lines of your body were captured with such detail, it was as though he memorized every inch of your form—your bare skin glowing, the faint curve of your waist, the gentle arch of your back.
A rush of heat flooded your face. You didn't know how to feel. Shocked, confused? maybe even angry, but none of it seemed to come together. You expected many things, but this? This wasn’t what you imagined. The intimacy of the piece unsettled you—too much of your body laid bare, too much of your soul exposed.
Your voice was barely a whisper, as if saying the words out loud made the weight of them even heavier. "My scar is there..." Your eyes fixed on the painting, not quite seeing it anymore, but instead tracing the path of the old wound that marred your skin.
The image of your body, so exposed and raw, was both beautiful and jarring. Hyunjin captured your form so delicately, but in that moment, all you could see was the mark, the jagged line, etched into your flesh from years ago. It had been a part of you for so long, hidden beneath layers of clothing and carefully constructed walls, something you rarely allowed anyone to see, let alone be immortalized in oil paints.
Your chest tightened. The scar became a focal point. It was a reminder of pain, of loss, of something you'd never fully healed from. The scar wasn’t just physical; it carried years of emotional weight, an experience you never spoke about. Not even with him.
You felt a coldness settle over you. What had he seen when he painted you like this? Did he see only your beauty, your vulnerability, your essence? Or did he see the scar, too? Did he know what it represented? Did he understand how much it hurt to see it laid bare, stripped of the protection you'd spent years building?
You wanted to tell him how you felt, to explain the confusion, the grief that welled up inside you. But the words felt foreign, like they didn’t belong in the same space as the picture before you. How could you explain his painting awakened something you weren't ready to face, something that had been buried for far too long?
Tears stung the back of your eyes, but you fought them, swallowing the lump in your throat. The warmth of the room seemed to fade, replaced by a suffocating tension. "Thank you, Hyune."
He blinked, caught off guard. "You don't like it?" His voice quietened.
You shook your head, avoiding his gaze, struggling to keep your composure. "I'm sorry. I think this was a mistake. I don’t think I can do this." You stood abruptly. The weight of the words felt like a confession.
"Y/N!" The desperation in his voice hit you like a punch and he gripped your wrist, his touch almost bruising.
Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you locked gazes with him. In that silent exchange, a thousand unspoken words passed between you. The worry carved into his expression only made it harder to hold yourself together.
His hand, once firm and grounding, loosened its grip, hesitating as if unsure whether to comfort you or give you space. That small gesture, the faltering of his touch spoke volumes.
You left and didn't look back.
read your mind. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'Decompressing, tryna ease the tension. But you got me stressing'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 1.6k
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).
— warning's: bestie!felix (and minho), jisung mention/cameo, angst! fluff. Felix being a cutie pie as usual. Baking! sort of...
→ playlist on spotify
The walk to the baking class was brisk. You pulled your coat tight against the cool air and approached the storefront with its polished gold-lettered sign reading 'Tiff's Bakery Masterclass'.
You paused, your lips quirking into a faint smirk at the name. It was a little pretentious, wasn’t it? The building itself felt charming enough, with its warm brick façade and a row of flower boxes spilling violets and rose blossoms over the ledge. A chalkboard easel sat by the door boasting, "Perfect Your Pastry Skills Today!" in a looping cursive font, complete with a few flourishes you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at. You could only hope Felix understood exactly what he’d gotten you both into.
You pressed your palms against the opaque glass door, pushing it open. A soft chime rung out as the smell of warm sugar and cinnamon wafted through the establishment. The interior felt cozy but modern, with rows of gleaming countertops and shiny stainless steel appliances reflecting the glow of vintage-style bulbs hanging from the ceiling. For all its pretension, the room was inviting—enough to almost make you forget how silly you felt walking into a class with total strangers.
Felix's aura radiated like sunshine through stormy clouds, his energy demanded attention with golden hair and freckles dusted like sprinkles on a cupcake. His deep laugh echoed through the room and you tilted your head. A smile tugged at the corners of your lips, unbidden and slow. You were supposed to be annoyed with him damn it! Yet every time you saw him you melted, like seeing a kitten playing with yarn for the first time. Too damn adorable.
You approached his table. He sat next to another boy, one with brown Boba eyes and shortish onyx hair. Your eyes travelled to the boy's tank top, drawn to the tattoo peaking out which read— 'blessed'.
"Y/N, you made it on time!" Felix wriggled in his chair, blonde hair slightly tousled and dressed in a white apron. He embodied the confidence of someone who’d done this before.
"Lix," you sighed, shaking your head as you pulled out one of the tall stools. The scrape of its metal legs echoed in the tiled room. "I thought this was a beginners’ class."
He grinned, the kind that tugged at the corner of his lips and added a spark to his pretty eyes. "It is!"
The door opened, the chime reverberating once more as it revealed a tall figure. She entered the room with flour-dusted hands and a smile which softened the stern lines of her face. Her voice carried over the hum of excited chatter, authoritative yet calm. "Welcome everyone, to the beginners masterclass. Contradictory, I know," She began and picked up a wooden spatula that sat on the desk before her. "Familiarise yourselves with your stations. Everything you'll need is here." She pointed toward the tools.
You took a moment to glaze your eyes over the bench before you. A gleaming metal mixing bowl sat beside a whisk. While an array of sharp knives glinted under the kitchen lights, rolling pins positioned beside folded aprons.
“Ingredients are premeasured and labeled to avoid confusion,” she added, nodding toward the small, clear containers of sugar, flour, and butter at each station. Her eyes scanned the room, pausing to offer a reassuring smile to a student gripping their whisk like a lifeline. “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes!” she proclaimed, “Baking is equal parts strategy and art, today, you’re all artists.”
Your lips twitched into a bitter smile. Artists. Sure, let’s call them that.
"Today we will be making an assortment of puff pastries."
You hated baking. The delicate techniques required a patience you didn’t possess, and your heavy-handed attempts only made things worse. The instructors hands moved with a precision one could only acquire through relentless practice, slicing the butter into thin sheets and layering them over the dough. You leaned closer, brows furrowed and attempted to mimic the fluid motion, your fingers awkwardly pressing the butter too deep into the dough.
The instructor began to move around the room. You felt the looming presence over your shoulder and sighed.
"Gentle precision," The instructor corrected, and guided your hand.
The scent of flour and yeast mingled in the air while rolling pins clattered against the metal tables. The dough stretched, folded and thinned. You abandoned using your hands and reached for the rolling pin, hoping your determination could make up for your lack of finesse.
The instructor’s words rang hollow in your ears as you tried, and failed, to fold the dough without tearing it. Every mistake seemed magnified under the scrutinizing gleam of the overhead lights. It wasn’t just the technique—it was the vulnerability of it, the need to be careful, precise and tender. You didn’t know how to be gentle anymore.
"Oh for fuck's sake," You muttered under your breath as the dough resisted the smooth glide of your pin. The quip earnt a soft chuckle from the instructor and she moved on around the room toward other students.
You sat up, taking in the other students and how they worked with varying degrees of success, their voices mixed together, airing questions and nervous laughter. One, which included Felix.
Your mouth fell open at the sight of his dough. The sheen of butter glistened on the surface, whispering a promise of a golden flaky crust.
Felix halted his motions, setting his rolling pin on the bench. "You seem a little spaced out. You okay?" He tilted his head ever so slightly.
You sighed and slouched, staring mindlessly at the dough. "Would you believe it if I told you I just bumped into Hyunjin at my favourite coffee spot?"
Felix's eyes widened and his lips parted, caught somewhere between disbelief and alarm. “He’s back?” he breathed, his voice low but taut.
"Yeah." You poked your finger in the dough and cringed at the consistency. No way you were saving that...
"For how long?"
"I didn’t ask. I wasn’t really thinking." You reached for your rolling pin, letting it twirl absently between your fingers, the rhythm grounding you.
"Are you alright?" he pressed gently, his voice steady but laced with worry.
"I—I’m not sure," you admitted, the words tumbling out like they’d been waiting at the edge of your tongue.
"I just hope Minho doesn't get any ideas."
The offhand comment made you pause, a flicker of confusion flashing across your face as your brows knitted together. Minho. Your roommate.
“What do you mean by that?” you asked, your voice cautious, leaning into the kind of question which already carried an answer you might regret hearing.
Felix shifted, his lips twitching with hesitation before he let out a soft, dry laugh. “He literally threw a plate at Hyunjin's head.”
Your stomach dropped, envisioning the scenario. "He did what?"
"I forgot I wasn't supposed to tell you that." Realisation washed over Felix's features.
"When did that happen?"
"Before he left. A few years back."
"He told you two before he told me didn't he? I remember that."
The memory of that night hit you with a wave of heaviness. You had returned to the apartment, the door clicking shut behind you, but the reality inside felt more chilling than the cold air. Minho broke the news, his voice low, but the words still sharp, cutting through you. The silence that followed was suffocating, each second stretching out, thick with the weight of unspoken grief. Then, Minho had pulled you into his arms, wrapping you up as if he could protect you from the world and all its terrors.
"Yeah, Minho made me promise not to tell you how he lost his shit over it," Felix whispered. He shook his head, as if the memory still surprised him.
"He doesn't need to protect me. I can handle Hwang Hyunjin."
"I know you can. I just think Minho doesn't want you to do it alone. Y'know?"
You pursed your lips and the sentiment made your chest ache. How blessed you were to know these boys.
The boy from earlier leaned over Felix's shoulder, his arm casually draping across it as he grinned wide, his expression full of mischief. "I can't help but overhearing, this Hwang guy seems like an asshole."
Your brow rose and Felix shrugged.
"Jisung." He reached out his hand. "You'll be coming to more classes right? you two seem cool."
Felix gazed at you with wide, pleading eyes, his lashes fluttering. He tilted his head just enough to make his expression unbearably cute.
You let out a resigned sigh. "I'll think about it."
"That's not a no! it's not a no!" Felix celebrated, his hands raised in triumph before turning to Jisung. Without missing a beat, they both exchanged a quick, energetic dap, the sound of their hands slapping together echoing in the air. The camaraderie between them both made the atmosphere feel lighter and you couldn't help but grin.
A vibration in your pocket drew your attention. You pulled the phone out, trying not to dust it with flour remnants.
Hyune: Le Lux Charm, booked for seven thirty tomorrow night? :)
Y/N: You're lucky my schedule is free.
Hyune: I'll see you there.
You expelled a breath you didn't realise you were holding, placing the phone face down on the messy bench. "I'm catching up with him tomorrow night apparently."
Felix leant forward and reached for your dough covered hands. "If you need anyone to save you. Me and Minho will be there."
Jisung piped up. "Me too. for y'know emotional support." He gestured to his head with his pointer finger then winked at you.
"I just met you."
"And? who could resist this cute face!" Jisung slapped a hand on his chest with a dramatic flourish.
Felix's giggle sounded and you couldn't help but follow in tow at the absurdity of it all. Maybe the baking classes weren't a bad idea after all.
texts I can't send. | hwang hyunjin
Series Masterlist
— hyunjin x (f) reader (ft. other skz members)
— word count: ongoing 26.6k (will be updated)
— genre: artist!hyunjin au, romance, explicit/adult themes. 18+ minors dni, non-idol au, dancecoach!reader
— warnings: angst. explicit themes/eventual smut.
→ playlist on spotify
The void he left behind wasn't immediate— it crept in, settling into corners of your life like a ghost. At first, you tried to fill the silence with noise—late nights with friends, a new hobby every week, countless books— but nothing drowned out the echo of his absence. You caught glimpses of him everywhere, in the brushstrokes of paintings you couldn't bear to visit in galleries anymore, in the faint scent of water colour paint that clung to his old sweatshirt hanging in your closet. Moving on became a necessity, and it came in small, painful steps. The photos together, packed away and his online updates became muted. You stopped pretending that you didn't want to cry every time a love song played and the ache remained— the reminder of a dream he pursued which didn't include you.
→ part one: "skinny dipping"
→ part two: "read your mind"
→ part three: "things i wish you said"
→ part four: "bad for business"
→ part five: "how many things"
→ part six: "tornado warnings"
→ part seven: "already over"
→ part eight: "bet u wanna"
→ part nine: "decode"
→ part ten: TBA
→ part eleven: TBA
skinny dipping. | h.h
Series Masterlist
'we'll be thinking about how different we are, from those scared little kids'
— hyunjin x (f) reader
— word count: 1.5k
— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance (I know who would've thought. eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry).
— warning's: fluff, some angst, bestie!felix (and minho)
→ playlist on spotify
The minimalist architecture is what consistently drew you to the local coffee shop. Sure, other customers may have described it as sterile, lifeless and boring (as per the reviews). But the simplicity created a sense of ease within you. Tranquil blues adorned the ivory walls in decorative swirls. Each paint stroke seemed calculated and practiced. Stay Grounded — a silly name for a cafe, despite the fact most days you felt like the opposite.
A creature of habit, most of your friends would find you sitting in a small alcove, observing people, nose in a book, or phone depending on the day. Today, however, you couldn't stay. You promised Felix you would take a baking masterclass with him, much to your chagrin. Your sneakers tapped gently against the stool you occupied, a subtle rhythm and distraction.
The coffee shop hummed with life. A barista, dressed in a grey apron stood behind the counter, skilfully crafting drinks. Steam rose from the espresso machine and the aroma of freshly ground caramel beans filled the air. The menu, black block text on a white background, exuded an air of prestige. Maybe it was snobby. You didn't care.
Nearby, a group of friends occupied a corner booth, their laughter filling the space. Your gaze travelled to the left. A couple sat by the window, engaged in quiet conversation while their mugs rested on a wooden table.
Occasionally, you glanced toward the counter, anticipating the arrival of your coffee. Your phone buzzed, directing your attention to the device.
Lixie 🩵: remember class today. you promised! <3 I'll go easy on you. first timer and all.
An amused smile crawled onto your face, and you scoffed, typing up the response.
Y/N: I have a few tricks up my sleeve Lix. Don't be surprised if I beat you!
Lixie 🩵: didn't know this was a competition :(
Y/N: It is now :)
"The iced long black with an extra shot!" The barista's voice rung through the space. It couldn't be. The order. You knew it off by heart, as familiar as the back of your palm.
"Coffee for Hyunjin!"
You gaze snapped up, ignoring the buzz of your phone. Your face paled. It couldn't be him. Hyunjin lived in Paris. His paintings adorned the walls of reputable galleries, and his exhibits were a media sensation, captivating critics and the public alike. Newspapers and art magazines clamoured to cover every detail. The headlines screamed of a young, rising artist, whose work spoke to the masses. Capturing intimate moments and the simplicity of life in a delicate way. You would know, you owned a few of his pieces yourself.
He stood at the counter, his movements smooth and effortless while he reached for his takeaway coffee. His previous golden locks no longer framed his face, instead replaced by a harsh onyx colour. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones reflected a quiet elegance, while his eyes, deep and almond-shaped, sparkled with a hint of thoughtfulness. He wore a fitted beige coat which draped gracefully over his shoulders. He looked ethereal. His slender fingers wrapped around the iced drink, and he gave a soft, polite smile to the barista, lips curving in such a way that suggested quiet confidence. With a slight tilt of his head, he nodded a thank you, his gaze drifting while he turned around, landing directly on you.
You think you imagined the way his expression softened. Although, he froze, his hesitation painfully visible. You swallowed, offering a hint of a smile and a slight wave of your hand. What's the worst thing that could happen? ignore you?
He shoved his hand into the pocket of his baggy jeans and walked over, towering above you. His tongue poked out and he sipped the coffee before bending down to your height. "Hi."
"Hi," You squeaked out. "I uh- wasn't expecting to see you here."
"Yeah. It was sort of spontaneous. Homesickness kind of thing."
"Oh. When did you get back? from Paris. I mean."
"This morning actually. I can't stand airport coffee, so this is the first place I thought of." He gazed around, then brought his eyes back to you. "It hasn't changed. It's kind of comforting in a way. Something familiar."
"Yeah..." You fidgeted with your phone and ignored his stare, which lingered far too long on your face. Had your makeup smudged or something?
Hyunjin cleared his throat. "How's Felix?"
"He's good. I actually have a baking class with him in an hour."
"You bake now?" He tilted his head, a gesture so endearing it reminded you of a curious puppy, and then came the sound—a soft laugh that spilled from his lips, light and unrestrained.
You froze, the corners of your mouth tugging down. It had been far too long since you’d heard that laugh, warm and melodic.
Before you could respond, your attention snagged on a girl behind him. She wore a maroon mini dress that clung to her like a second skin, confidence radiating with each step. As she drew closer, her focus locked onto Hyunjin. Although, his remained fixed on you, his eyes steady, waiting for your answer, completely unaware.
She reached forward, tapping on Hyunjin's shoulder. "Oh my god! It is you! Jiniret."
"Oh... yeah, that's uhh me." A faint blush tinted his cheeks, so subtle it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else. But you weren’t just anyone—you knew him better than most.
The girl rocked on her kitten heels, pleading with an unmatched intensity. "Can I please get a photo with you?"
"I'd love to but me and my—' He paused, his eyes darting to yours briefly, "friend. my friend have some business to attend to."
You chewed on your bottom lip— an anxious habit you’d picked up during high school. For a split second you swore his gaze dipped to them and back to your eyes.
"Oh my gosh I so get it. I'm sorry again.” The girl gripped one of his hands in hers, bowed, and then scurried away.
The hum of voices and clatter of cups grew as more people filtered in— your least favourite time— rush hour. "Coffee for Y/N!"
You rose abruptly from the stool, eager to leave the establishment and memories attached to it. With him.
"I guess that's me then." You flashed him a tight-lipped smile and approached the counter. Slender fingers wrapped around your wrist, halting your movement. You glanced over your shoulder. The anguish etched across Hyunjin’s face held a strange sort of tenderness.
He let go, instead running his fingers through his onyx hair. "We should do this again sometime. Like old times.”
"Hyune, do you really think that's a good idea." You shifted your weight, hip jutting out as your brows knitted together. The answer couldn’t have been more obvious.
"We can go to that restaurant. The one you like—"
"You, the Jiniret, want to go to that silly little restaurant with me?" you quipped, crossing your arms over your chest. A smirk tugged at your lips, though your heart thudded a little harder seeing the faint dimple appear in his cheek when he grinned.
"I’m hurt that you think I’m that pretentious." He pressed his hand against his chest, mouth agape in mock hurt.
Your eyes flicked to the floor, then back to his, catching how he shifted on his feet—just a small move, like he was still trying to find his footing. “I was worried Paris was getting to your head,” you teased, the words carrying a sharp edge.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you crackled, layered with old familiarity and something newer, something fragile. You caught the way his jaw tightened, just slightly, like he wanted to say something but hadn’t decided how.
"Quite the opposite, actually," he murmured, his voice barely cutting through the din.
You glanced at your phone. "I have to go. I'm going to be late for my baking class."
"I'll text you."
"I don’t have your number anymore," you admitted, your voice softer than you intended.
His brows furrowed and an emotion you couldn't quite decipher flashed behind his eyes. Without hesitation, he extended his hand, palm up, an unspoken request. The motion felt calm but firm, and something about it made your breath hitch.
You placed the device in his outstretched hand, his fingers brushed yours briefly and he began typing.
“Coffee for Y/N!” The barista’s call cut through the buzz of the coffee shop, pulling your attention away from him. Right your drink. You glanced toward the counter, spotting your drink waiting in its cardboard sleeve, a slight sheen of condensation on the plastic lid.
He reached out with his palm open. “Here,” he said, handing back your phone. His lips curved into a small smirk, and he added with a wink, “Make sure to keep me a pastry.”
You rolled your eyes, the scoff escaping before you could stop it. Turning on your heel, you made your way to the counter. Your shoes clicked softly against the polished floor as you retrieved the drink—melted now. A small frown tugged at your lips as you adjusted the lid, but you didn’t look back at him, even as you felt his gaze following you.
https://www.tumblr.com/hyunnielix/769193432922112000/crying-out-for-help-here-does-anyone-remember-the?source=share i'm pretty sure it's Unprofessional by @cb97percent
thank you so much 😭😫💜
crying out for help here does anyone remember the series where chan was a p*rn star? i think his stage name was bondi channing or something like that!!!
I've been trying to find the fic and I can't seem to find the author anywhere!!!! the context was you were a producer and got off on the wrong foot with him! Han was also the best friend!
❥open 24 hours (m)
↳ The little store just below doesn’t have much to offer beyond stale chips and lukewarm drinks, but the guy who works there more than makes up for it.
han jisung x gn!reader — meet cute, strangers to lovers, explicit sexual content. [4.5k wc] cws: reader has a vulva/vagina!! penetrative sex, barrier method used, exhibitionism(+vague voyeruism), filmed sexual activity but both parties are fine with it.
The little corner store just at the edge of your apartment building isn’t known for much.
A barely functional refrigerator, coffee that always comes out just a bit too hot to be any sort of drinkable in a timely manner, and habitually expired bags of chips often found lining the shelves.
None too great, but if the place has nothing else going for it, then it does have one thing: it’s open twenty-four hours.
Keep reading
conflict, conceal, confess | minho
kinktober day 31: thigh-riding
pairing: lee minho x reader
word count: 18.1k (💀)
genre: college au, enemies to lovers, (modern!consort au)
warnings: sexual content (thigh-riding, oral sex, fingering, handjob, marking, a whole lot of smut honestly, like 6k words of it), swearing, an ungodly amount of academia
summary:
“Why don’t we call a truce?”
Minho blinked, caught off-guard. “Truce?”
“Yeah. No more arguments…” you trailed off, the words already sounding hollow and you were the one saying them. “OK, maybe some academic debate. But nothing personal.”
“Nothing petty,” Minho added, giving you a pointed look.
It took an impressive amount of willpower to force your smile to stay on your face. “Exactly. We somehow managed it as kids. How hard could it be to do it again?”
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the like three of us on this hellsite posting about beasts of the briar are in the trenches fr. this isn’t a fandom it’s a support group