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akindaflora · 4 days ago

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you want to read this you need to read this it’s soooo soooooo sooooooooo good.

‘The Collector’

When Y/N inherits a crumbling old estate from a great-aunt she barely knew, she discovers dozens of portraits in the attic. Each depicting the same impossibly beautiful man. As she begins to uncover her aunt’s obsession, Y/N starts to dream of him too. Whispered words. Eyes in mirrors. The sensation of being watched.

Hyunjin is everything the paintings promised. Elegant, possessive, devastating. He’s not a ghost. Not quite human. He’s something else. Something that feeds not on blood, but on devotion. Surrender.

As Y/N falls deeper under his spell, the house becomes a trap. The paintings breathe. Time unravels and love begins to taste like ruin.

Word count - 13k (both parts)

Warnings - MDNI 18+, Horror themes, Mentions of death, Nightmares, Dreams, Smut, Mean Dom Hyunjin/Sub Reader, Power dynamics, Orgasm denial, Petnames - darling, little thing, Hyunjin is mean, possessive but also loving, Reader is an absolute simp, Hyunjin likes reader to say ‘she belongs to him’ repetitively.

A/N - This is my apology for how long it’s taking me to write my squid game au fic, I appreciate all of your patience. This idea popped into my head a few days ago and I just had to write it. Don’t worry the next chapter of ‘Red Light, Green Light’ is almost ready! I know this isn’t on my teaser list but the idea came so I ran with it. The other fics in the teasers are also in the works, plus I have some surprise fics on their way too. ;) I hope you enjoy this little one shot about our lovely Hyunjin. For this fic I wanted Y/n to be extremely receptive to him, not anything like she is in my other fic. So apologies if you’re not a fan of a simp y/n.

^ The song above is the song that plays in the house and the one the reader sings to herself. Just imagine it a little slower, played on a vintage phonograph.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

September 1995

The key sticks in the lock as you turn it, your fingers trembling from the cold. The door finally groans open, revealing the dim interior of the old house your great-aunt left you. Dust coats every surface, thick as frost. The air is musty, tinged with something sweet and decaying, like old roses rotting beneath floorboards.

The house is a Victorian mansion just north of Maine, it towers over a small town in the hills and the forests.

You don’t remember her. No one really does. Your great aunt, Elena. They said she’d been strange, a recluse who spoke to paintings and locked her doors, mail left in the mailbox for weeks on end. But now her house is yours, she’d given it to you in her will, randomly so you thought. Every creaking wall and faded floorboard. You tell yourself it’s just a place. That you’ll stay long enough to sort through her things, sell what you can, and leave.

You spend your first day trying to sort out some form of internet, maybe get the electrics going and unpacking the groceries you’d bought to tide you over for the month. You liked to be prepared, even if it seemed over the top.

After calling an electrician, you soon found that the house would ultimately need to be rewired. Something you hadn’t really factored in but you accepted it nonetheless. They couldn’t book it in for you until January, and it was currently September. Great. You enquired at a few places but all said the same thing. ‘It’s a small town, we can’t do everything at the same time.’

You admit defeat, you can always check into a local hotel if it gets too much. You continue to explore the house, the peeling damask wallpaper, the loose floorboards and you find your aunts' old diaries scattered in random cabinets and drawers. You make a mental note to give them a read later, you’d need some entertainment, with no TV or any of your true crime books.

But then you find the attic.

It’s behind a narrow door at the end of the hallway, hidden behind an old armoire you push aside on instinct. Dust explodes into the air. The moment you touch the attic handle, your skin prickles, as if someone were watching. As if something were waiting.

You open it anyway. Using your full side profile with a push to get into it, the hinges are stiff and rusted. The door finally swings and you step inside. The attic is vast, the roof slanted and beams exposed. Covered furniture sits like forgotten monuments under yellowed sheets. But it’s the far wall that draws your attention. Portraits. Dozens of them.

All of the same man.

Different poses, different styles some oil, watercolour, charcoal but always him. His face is elegant, hauntingly beautiful. Long dark hair. A sculpted mouth. Eyes that seem to look through the canvas, through time. Even when painted in abstract, his features are unmistakable. There’s something intimate about them, something… wrong.

You don’t know why your chest tightens.

One painting in particular pulls you closer. It’s larger than the rest, nearly life-sized. He’s lying back on a velvet chaise, white shirt half-unbuttoned, gaze directed outward but it’s the expression that gets to you, amusement laced with sorrow. Like he knows something you don’t. Like he’s waiting.

You reach out. Your fingertips hover just above the surface.

And that’s when you hear it.

A whisper.

So faint, it might be the house settling. Or wind against the roof. But it sounds like your name.

“…Y/N…”

You snatch your hand back, pulse thudding.

You’re alone.

A beat of silence.

Then a soft creak, wood shifting under weight.m but the attic is still. You turn, eyes searching the corners, breath caught halfway between fear and something else. Curiosity. Something more dangerous.

You look back at the painting.

The man’s eyes are different now.

Wider.

Focused.

On you.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You don’t sleep in the bedroom upstairs. Not yet, the bed is dusty and old. You haven’t bothered to put your new bedding on there yet. Staring at all the paintings earlier you had lost track of time and suddenly night fell.

You settle instead on the worn velvet sofa in the sitting room. It smells like mothballs and fire ash, but at least it feels less haunted than the rest of the house. You light a single candle, since there’s no electricity yet and the flame flickers violently, like it resents being brought here.

Outside, the wind claws at the single-glazed windows, and the trees cast shifting shadows across the faded wallpaper.

You should feel tired, but your body refuses to rest. The house is too quiet. Not peaceful. Watchful.

You reach onto the coffee table where the stack of your aunts' journals sits and pull the old leather-bound book and place it on your lap, You still can’t stop thinking about the paintings. The journal, with your great-aunt’s name scrawled on the first page in ornate, spidery ink. You flip past yellowing pages until one entry catches your eye.

October 17th, 1989

He was in my dream again. The same eyes. The same mouth, painted in oil and silk and hunger. I awoke with the weight of him still on my chest, as though he had been there watching. Waiting.

I locked the attic but I still hear the frame creak when I sleep. I still feel the warmth in the paint.

He is beautiful. Terribly so.

You pause. A chill runs down your spine, not from the cold.

There’s another entry, dated two weeks later:

October 30th, 1989

I found the new canvas had moved. It was not where I left it. The brushstrokes on his lips have changed. More smirk than smile. The man is constant, but he is not still.

I should burn it but I cannot bear to.

You close the book and something groans above you.

The attic again.

You grip the blanket tighter around your shoulders. You tell yourself it’s just the wind… until you hear it again. A creak, deliberate. One slow footstep.

Your throat dries.

You glance toward the hallway. It’s swallowed by shadows.

Nothing moves and yet you see a flutter in your peripheral vision. Like something just stepped out of frame. You spin toward it. Just the bookshelf but when you cast your eyes down, a book has fallen to the floor.

You didn’t hear it fall and when you kneel to pick it up, your candle flickers violently once more and then, goes out.

You sit in the darkness for what feels like hours. Listening. The whisper never comes again but you feel it now.

That you’re not alone in the house.

You never were.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You slept very little that night. If you slept at all.

By morning, the candle you relit is nothing but a puddle of wax, the journal is still open beside you. The entries haunt you more than the creaking floorboards or the way your breath fogs in certain corners of the house but not others. You blame your imagination. The cold. Your exhaustion.

You tell yourself you’ll spend the day cleaning.

Get a routine. A rhythm. Make the house feel more like yours.

So you begin in the hallway. The wallpaper there is stained and peeling at the corners, curling like old petals. You set to work stripping it away, humming softly to fill the silence. A song you’ve never heard but fills your head anyway. Beneath the paper, the walls are marked by time, water damage and faint cracks.

But then, you pause. Narrow your eyes.

There’s something carved into the plaster underneath. It’s deep, rough etchings in jagged lines. You pull more of the paper down, heart slowly sinking.

There it is, a name. Hyunjin.

You freeze.

It’s not written once. Not twice. It’s scratched into the wall over and over again, some deeper than others, some nearly illegible, as if whoever carved it kept repeating it until their fingers bled.

Hyunjin. Hyunjin. Hyunjin.

The name dances across the wall like a ritual, a plea, a curse.

You don’t know why, but your hands tremble as you touch one of the carvings. The edges are sharp. Still fresh, somehow.

You whisper the name out loud before you can stop yourself.

“Hyunjin.”

A gust of wind slams against the window down the hall. The floor creaks.

You spin around, but nothing’s there. It’s like the air shifts. Like someone just walked through the room. It’s breath on your neck. You back away from the wall slowly, the hairs rising on your arms. Your eyes catch something just before you turn fully.

Another mark.

A date, 1994 scratched in smaller letters below one of the names. Your stomach turns. Your aunt died in 1993.

You go back upstairs. You don’t want to, but you do. Like it’s calling to you.

The attic door is closed, but not locked. You open it again, candle in hand this time. The paintings are where you left them, except one.

The large portrait. The one you couldn’t stop looking at. It’s still there but something is different. There’s a new painting propped beside it, one you don’t remember seeing before.

It’s unfinished. The brushstrokes are broad, urgent, and messy.

It’s… a woman.

You.

Your face.

Painted in the corner of the canvas, as if just beginning to emerge from shadow. Your eyes are wide mirroring your own. Frightened and beside you, only half visible, him.

Long hair. A bare throat. That same gaze.

He’s reaching for you.

You don’t remember deciding to touch it.

One moment, you’re staring at the new, unfinished portrait. Your own half-formed face staring back at you in pale, ghostly brushstrokes and the next, your hands are gripping the heavy wooden frame of the larger painting. Your favourite.

The original one. Him.

The weight surprises you, solid and cold like stone. You manage to lift it, arms trembling slightly as you descend the attic stairs. The old wood groans beneath your steps, like it disapproves.

You bring him into the sitting room.

Place him gently above the fireplace, where a cracked mirror used to hang. The dustless patch on the wall is still there, like a ghost of what used to be. You prop the frame up, stepping back to examine your own absurdity.

He stares at you from the canvas.

The same expression. That faint smirk. That devastating gaze. You tell yourself it’s just a painting. Oil on canvas. You need it to be just that but the room feels warmer now. Not cosy, it’s something subtler. Like breath. Like body heat. The kind of warmth that fogs glass when you exhale against it.

You sit back on the couch, eyes never leaving his. The silence settles differently now, less empty. More attentive. You feel watched. You feel… kept.

“Hyunjin,” you whisper. Like you already know that’s his name. The ones carved into the wall.

The candle beside you flickers. You don’t sleep that night, either. You lie curled on the couch under a heavy blanket, staring at the fireless hearth beneath his portrait. Every time your eyelids grow heavy, a noise snaps them open, whispers behind the walls, footsteps upstairs, the soft drag of something across the floor. You think you hear your name. Once. Maybe twice.

By 3 a.m., you’re shivering, but your skin is damp. When you finally do fall asleep, it’s shallow, strange. You feel groggy. You dream of velvet and a white silk shirt. Of long fingers. Of a voice you almost recognise whispering in your ear.

“You brought me closer.”

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When you wake, the fire’s still dead, but the room feels too warm again. Sweat clings to your back, your skin flushed as though touched in sleep. Your dream evaporates too quickly to recall but his name lingers on your tongue.

Hyunjin.

You sit up slowly. The blanket you fell asleep under has been pulled up neatly around your shoulders. Tucked in. You don’t remember ending up sleeping with a blanket last night. You had been too hot.

Your eyes flick to the painting above the fireplace. His face hasn’t changed. Not obviously. But there’s something new in it. The smirk a little more knowing. The gaze a little lower.

No longer looking out. Now looking at you. Your thighs press together and your pussy clenches around nothing. You don’t know what it is about the man in the painting that makes you so aroused.

You try to shake it off. You go about your morning in silence, making tea on the old stove, watching the steam curl up like breath from unseen lips. You talk out loud to yourself, just to fill the air but the silence answers you anyway.

A creak above your head.

A soft whisper. Like the beginning of a song, just out of reach.

You freeze.

The cup trembles slightly in your hand. You glance toward the staircase, but there’s nothing there. Just shadows coiled at the top of the landing like smoke. You set the cup down. Decide to clean again. The hallway feels tighter today, the corners darker. As you pass the spot where the name Hyunjin is carved into the wall, your eyes catch something new.

A handprint. It’s faint but it’s there.

Just below the letters, as if someone had pressed their palm there while scratching out the name. You reach to touch it. The plaster is ice cold. You shiver and turn away quickly but you can feel it now.

That thing they never taught you how to name, the feeling of being watched, not with malice… but with intent. Like you’re no longer a guest in the house.

You’re the prize.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

By late afternoon, you return to the attic again.

You don’t know why, but you’re longing to be near them. The paintings.

The unfinished portrait is still there. Still of you but it’s different now. The brushstrokes are sharper, the shadows deeper. Your eyes in the painting are more complete. Wide, startled like you’ve just realised something and next to you, in the shadows, the faintest outline of a hand now emerges from the dark space near your shoulder. Long lithe fingers. Just reaching.

You didn’t paint this and you haven’t let anyone else inside.

You back away slowly, heart pounding, and as you turn to leave, the old phonograph in the corner creaks to life without warning. The record spins. No one touched it. The needle drags.

Then the music begins soft, slow, haunting. Like a waltz half-remembered from childhood dreams. It’s the song. That song. The one you were humming to yourself.

You freeze on the spot and a gasp falls from your lips. In that moment. There’s no electricity, how is it playing? In the dusty reflection of a mirror propped in the corner, you swear you see him. Only a glimpse. Standing just behind you. Not quite smiling. Before the mirror goes still again.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

After the mirror incident, you don’t return to the attic for the rest of the day. You crave it but you resist.

You spend the evening with every candle you can light, even though only half of them stay lit. The static from upstairs still plays. The windows stay shut. You don’t eat. Your appetite drowned in the echo of that phantom music.

Instead, you return to the leather-bound journal. The same one you found in the cabinet.

You flip to the middle, where pages curl like dried leaves. Some have stains on them, water? Ink? You can’t tell. But the handwriting is shakier now. More urgent.

You land on an entry marked,

November 6th, 1989

I heard him again last night.

No…

I felt him.

The bed dipped as though someone sat beside me and then… the air moved against my throat like a sigh. Not cold. Not warm either. Just there.

I said his name out loud. Only once. I didn’t mean to but it made the silence pulse. Like the house held its breath.

I asked him to show me. Just once. I begged. I don’t know why I did it. Or maybe I do.

I want him to look at me like he does in the paintings. I want to know if I still exist when he sees me. If I am anything more than dust to him.

He answered me but not with words.

The candle by my bed burned out the moment I closed my eyes and I saw him. In the dark behind my eyelids. That long face. That mouth was made for both cruelty and worship. Plump and pink.

He said my name but it was my voice that spoke it.

You read the entry three times.

Your fingers tighten around the page until it crinkles. You can’t help but look up, slowly, toward the sitting room fireplace where his portrait still hangs.

He hasn’t moved.

Of course, he hasn’t.

You feel something in the room has changed. The air has that same tension you feel before lightning splits the sky. A pressure, subtle but deep, like you’re being pulled forward by a string threaded through your chest.

Your gaze lingers on the painted man’s eyes. You whisper it, just like she did.

“Hyunjin…”

The candles flicker and you swear, just barely, that you hear it again.

A voice. Yours.

“Come to me.”

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You fall asleep with the journal open across your chest, a single candle still burning on the mantel.

The flame dances for hours.

Then stills.

You’re dreaming.

The room is the same, your same blanket draped over your legs, the same armchair in the corner, the same low hum of silence wrapped around you like a second skin but the painting above the fireplace is missing.

In its place is a velvet curtain. Deep crimson. Heavy.

Then, you hear it.

Music again. That same song from the attic phonograph, slower now, like a heartbeat underwater.

You rise, barefoot, drawn forward by something warm pulsing behind the curtain. The room smells like candle wax and cedarwood. Like skin.

When you pull back the velvet drape, he’s there. Not painted. Alive.

Standing in the centre of the room like he’s always belonged to it. The same face you’ve memorised from canvas after canvas, only now he’s moving, breathing.

His dark hair falls in loose waves over his cheekbones in a half-up up half-down ponytail. His pillowy lips are parted, just barely. His cat-like eyes. God, his eyes are molten shadow, thick with knowing. With hunger. He wears a soft white shirt, half-unbuttoned, exposing the smooth line of his collarbones, the delicate notch of his throat.

You know it’s a dream.

You know it.

When he steps toward you, slow and sure, you forget your name.

He says yours.

Not out loud. Not exactly. You feel it inside you, like a thought someone else whispered into your skull. “Y/N.” You shudder. He walks closer. Doesn’t touch you, he just studies you. Like you’re the art now.

“I’ve waited so long,” he says. His voice is velvet soaked in wine, deep and patient, with something trembling beneath it. It’s the most gorgeous sound you’ve ever heard. “I watched them all. But you… You came to me willingly.”

You part your lips, but no sound comes out. You’re not afraid. Or maybe you are. But it’s beautiful and that makes it worse.

“Do you know what it means,” he murmurs, “to bring the portrait down from the attic?” His eyes hold yours, unwavering. “It means you want to be seen.” He raises a hand slowly. You don’t move away.

His Fingertips trail just above your cheek, not touching, but close enough to make your skin burn.

“You dream of me because I dream of you too, darling.”

The candlelight flickers violently behind him and then the room begins to peel away. The dream collapsing in on itself like silk slipping from skin.

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your mouth, and in the final moment before waking, he whispers.

“Soon.”

You wake with a gasp.

The candle is out. Your neck is damp with sweat.

In your lap, the journal has been turned to a new page. One that wasn’t there before. The ink is still drying and it reads:

You brought me closer once. Will you let me in now?

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You avoid mirrors that morning.

You catch yourself doing it.

Not deliberately, at first, just a feeling. A tug behind your ribs. An awareness. As if your reflection might not behave. As if you’d look up and he’d be there, standing just over your shoulder, still and watching.

You shower with the curtain half-drawn, wipe the steamed mirror without meeting your own gaze. You get dressed slowly, distractedly. Your hands tremble when you button your blouse. The fabric brushes your skin and feels… too much. Too heavy.

Every sensation has been louder since the dream. You keep touching the spot on your neck where you felt him breathe. It lingers like perfume, like ghostfire.

You make tea to keep your hands busy but you don’t drink it. You wander through the house instead, pretending to organise, dusting shelves that don’t need dusting. Moving books. Not looking at the reflection in the hallway frame. Not looking at the portrait over the fireplace.

It’s there, that feeling. He is there.

Always watching, always waiting and you feel it. More than ever before.

Not just in the painting. Not just in the attic. He’s… everywhere now. Like he’s under your skin, in your blood. In the groan of the floorboards. In the hush of the house when you walk by. In the faint brush of wind against the back of your thigh when no window is open.

You see movement in your periphery at least three times before noon.

Once in the reflection of the cracked hallway glass. Just a silhouette, long and dark, gliding behind you like a shadow with intention.

The second time in the kitchen window. He’s standing in the garden for less than a heartbeat before he’s gone but you definitely saw him. Didn’t you? Pale skin. Bare, delicate throat. Hair pushed back like in the painting’s earliest strokes.

The third time, you see him more clearly and you don’t look away. His smile curves into a maniacal grin like he knows he’s winning.

Later you’re in the drawing room, picking through old boxes, pretending the pounding in your chest is just exertion. The window beside you is fogged by the rain outside. You don’t remember it starting.

Lightning flashes once, briefly illuminating the garden.

This time he doesn’t vanish. He’s standing just beyond the window.

Hyunjin.

You freeze.

He’s not moving. He isn’t trying to come closer. His head is slightly tilted, like he’s studying you, the same way he did in the dream. Like you’re the portrait now. His masterpiece.

You raise your hand, fingers lifting as if drawn on strings but before you can touch the glass, He smiles again.

Just slightly. Just enough to make your stomach twist. You hear him through the glass like his lips are pressed against your ear. “If you knew what I dream of doing to you, you’d run. Or maybe… you’d crawl.”

Then, the thunder rolls in, and when the light flickers again, he’s gone.

You don’t run. You don’t scream. You don’t even cry but your heart is pounding under your blouse, your blood pumping incessantly. Instead, you walk to the sitting room. To the fireplace.

To him.

The portrait.

You sink down onto your knees in front of it. The fire beneath has long since turned to embers, the room cold enough to make your breath mist but you’re sweating, trembling.

You reach up, pressing your palm gently to the frame. The wood is warm. Not from heat.

From presence.

Your eyes trace his features again, and again, and again. The way the line of his collarbones disappears into the shadow of the canvas. The tilt of his mouth. That expression, curious, smug, indulgent.

You exhale shakily. “You’re real, aren’t you?” You whisper to him.

You expect silence. Instead, a soft gust of air moves across your face, as though the painting has exhaled too. Your breath catches.

“I see you,” you say, quietly. “Even when I tell myself I shouldn’t.” Your fingers trail lower, brushing the bottom of the frame. You bite your lip. “I should be afraid of you. I think I was, at first.” The candle beside the portrait flickers. “But now…” You swallow. “Now I think I want you to look at me the way you did in that dream.”

Silence. Then something shifts in the room. The scent changes.

Gone is the must of the old house and in its place, a soft sweetness, rich and heady, like amber and something warmer. Skin warmed by candlelight. Silk clinging to damp flesh. The smell of night, and want. You close your eyes.“Did you make them fall in love with you?” you ask, your voice just above a whisper. “All of them? Did they all go mad for you?” Your voice is shaking now, but it doesn’t matter. No one’s listening. Except for him. “Is that what’s happening to me?” You open your eyes.

The portrait is the same and yet… his lips. They’re parted now. Only slightly. Like he’s going to respond.

You lean in, breath brushing the paint.

“What would you do to me,” you whisper, “if I said I didn’t want to run anymore?”

The silence holds you like arms and in the stillness, you hear it. Not out loud.

But inside you.

A voice like a promise, velvet and ruin.

“Then come to me, little thing. I’ll show you what it means to belong.”

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

That night, you lit every candle in the house.

You open the windows to let in the wind and then close them again because it smells like him. Because it makes your breath catch, like fingers grazing your spine. Like silk draped over bare skin. You tell yourself it’s foolish.

You leave the painting uncovered.

You stare at him until your eyes burn. Until you feel that soft tug behind your breastbone again, that thread connecting you to something deeper, older, unknowable.

You curl up on the sofa with the blanket and this time, you ask for him.

You close your eyes and say his name aloud like a prayer. “Hyunjin. Come to me.” And the world tilts.

The dream begins in darkness.

Then candlelight flickers, thousands of tiny flames floating midair. No walls. No floor. Just velvet shadows beneath your feet and golden heat pressed against your skin.

You’re dressed differently here.

Something soft and sheer, a slip of fabric barely covering you. Your bare legs, your collarbone, the delicate curve of your shoulder, all visible. You know it’s a dream, but you feel exposed.

Wanted.

Then, you feel it.

Him.

A presence before the voice.

“Darling,” he murmurs behind you. “You keep calling for me. Do you even know what you’re asking for?”

You turn and there he is. Hyunjin. Closer than before. Closer than you’ve ever seen him. Not a painting. Not a phantom. Real and breathtaking.

His skin glows in the candlelight, the pale gold sheen of it like something carved from marble and silk. His hair falls loose around his face, strands grazing his lips. His eyes, black fire, endless, wanting.

He steps toward you.

You don’t move.

He lifts a hand, delicate, ringed fingers and brushes them down your arm. You shiver. It’s not cold. It’s too warm. Like his touch seeps under your skin.

“You brought me down from the attic,” he says softly. “That was your invitation.”

You swallow, lips parting. “I didn’t mean-”

He cuts you off with a smile. A beautiful, devastating smile.

“You did.” He says.

His fingers trail to your wrist, holding it gently against your pulse point.

“I’ve watched you since the moment you stepped into my house. Do you know how long I’ve waited to be looked at the way you look at me?” He says against your neck.

You try to speak but you can’t.

“You dream of me,” he whispers, leaning closer, voice velvet and threat and reverence all at once. “But I was dreaming of you first. I asked for you, waited for you.”

You feel him, everywhere.

His other hand slides to your waist, pulling you against him. The slip of fabric you wear clings to your skin. His chest is warm against yours. You feel the curve of his mouth near your ear.

“Do you want to know what I’ll do to you?” His words come out through gritted teeth, like it’s taking every effort for him to hold back.

You nod before you can stop yourself. You ache. You burn.

“I’ll ruin you slowly,” he breathes. “I’ll make you forget your name, beautiful. You’ll sleep with my voice in your throat and my hands burned into your skin. You’ll beg me to stay even as you break for me.”

He brushes his lips over your jaw. Doesn’t kiss you. Just brands you with the promise of it.

“But you’ll be mine, darling. You already are.”

You gasp as his hand tightens around your wrist, his grip firm now, commanding.

“Say it,” he hisses. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m-” Your voice catches when you attempt to speak.

He squeezes harder. Your breath shakes.

“Say it, little thing.” His voice comes out harshly. So much that it shakes you.

“I’m yours, Hyunjin.” You whimper.

The moment you say it, the candles flare so brightly they blind you.

He grips your hip and then…

You wake.

You sit up on the couch, heart hammering, throat dry as your hands claw at it, like something is inside you. The fire is out again. The house is quiet.

Too quiet, then you feel it.

A throb in your skin, on your wrist.

You pull back the sleeve of your blouse, trembling fingers fumbling at the cuff. Your breath hitches. On your pale skin, a perfect outline of a hand. Long fingers. Splayed.

Pressed too hard. Bruised.

Exactly where he held you in the dream. You stare at it, chest rising and falling too fast. Tears start to fall down your cheeks and a small sob escapes your mouth.

It’s real. It’s impossible. He’s real.

You bring the wrist to your chest, hold it like a wound, like a gift. Like something sacred.

Slowly, shamefully, your thighs press together. You can feel your arousal soaking through the delicate fabric of your panties. You’re aching for someone who doesn’t exist.

Except… he does and he left his mark on you.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You stop answering the door to the postman or neighbours. The outside world dulls in your mind. It feels irrelevant. You leave unopened mail that’s now overloading the post box at the front of the house. The electrician knocks but you don’t answer. You ignore the calendar, ignore the window, ignore the time of day.

Your life narrows down to candlelight, silence, and him. Hyunjin.

You say his name out loud now, without shame. You whisper it when you pass his portrait. When you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. When your hands are shaking and your skin burns with the memory of his dream-touch.

The bruise on your wrist has darkened into deep indigo and yellowed at the edges.

You run your thumb over it every few hours, pressing until it hurts, until your eyes flutter shut with the ghost of pleasure.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three days pass like this.

Maybe more.

On the fourth, if it even is the fourth, you go into the attic again. Something compels you. Something soft and undeniable. You climb the steps barefoot, your nightgown whispering around your ankles, hair unbrushed and loose.

You pass the unfinished painting of yourself without looking at it.

You know he’s in it now, you can feel his eyes on you. You carry a new canvas under your arm.

You set it down in the centre of the attic floor. Light spills through the stained-glass window at the far end, painting the space in muted red and gold, like the inside of a wound.

You kneel and begin. You don’t know why you paint. You’ve never been trained. Never done more than sketch absentmindedly in notebooks during meetings but your hand moves like it remembers something your body forgot. Like it belongs to someone else.

The first stroke is his jawline.

Then his mouth, plump and smirking, as always.

You dip your fingers into the paint instead of using a brush. The way the oil clings to your skin feels like sin. Like blood.

You paint until your shoulders ache and your knees are sore against the wooden floor. You paint until the candle beside you burns low, until the red light from the window fades into black.

By the time you stop, his face is there.

Not perfect but it’s close.

Too close.

Later, you wake up on the attic floor.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Your fingers are stained with paint, red, black, a strange bruised plum. It’s dried under your nails, in the crease of your knuckles, like something living.

The painting stares back at you and he’s beautiful.

He looks younger in this one. Softer, perhaps. His lips slightly parted. His throat is bare again under the collar of his white shirt. One side of his mouth lifted in a secret smile, the kind lovers share when no one else is watching.

You realise what you’ve done.

His chest is exposed. Smooth, pale, ethereal. You painted him how he looked in your dream.

Worshipful. You painted desire. Then, you carry it downstairs. This time, you hang it in your bedroom. Opposite the bed. You’ve started sleeping in there now.

You stare at it for a long time, standing in your nightgown, arms wrapped around yourself. You feel flushed. Like you’ve been caught naked by someone who sees everything.

Your breath shallows. “Is this what you wanted?” you ask quietly. “Me like this?” The painting doesn’t move but it’s like the room shifts. The temperature climbs. The air thickens. Your nipples harden under the cotton fabric. You squeeze your thighs together without thinking.

The candle on your bedside table flickers violently, then steadies. Your heart pounds. You know what’s happening. You know this is madness but, it’s a madness that feels like coming home.

You lie down on your bed, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. You turn your head toward the painting.

Hyunjin looks down at you.

Not the way a man looks at a stranger but the way a man looks at someone he’s already claimed.

You reach down slowly, one hand drifting beneath the blanket, under the hem of your nightgown.

Your eyes stay on his as your fingers slide lower.

You shouldn’t but your body hums with need, and there’s no one to stop you now.

No one to save you from him and worst of all, you don’t want to be saved.

Your fingers trace your folds lightly, as you imagine his would. Your slick coating them, you circle your clit lazily, moaning under your breath. Your under hand joins and you pull apart your pussy, like you’re displaying it. For him.

You pull the sheets away, now fully exposed towards the painting where you meet his lustful gaze through the canvas.

Your lips part and you sigh, pushing two of your fingers into your tight opening. Your cunt clenches around them at the thought of your indecency. You curl your fingers upwards finding your g-spot, your hips rock to meet them and you whimper his name like a curse. Like you’re begging. You know he sees you and you want him to.

You come quickly then, imagining his palm against your throat and his fingers buried inside you. His voice whispering, “Darling.” Your pussy pulsating as you climax.

By the time you drift into sleep, you feel warm, spent, glowing. Your hand rests loosely on your chest, rising and falling with each soft breath but before your eyes flutter closed, just for a moment, you think you see the painting blink.

The candle burns out while you sleep.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that waits.

You dream again.

This time, there is no gentle darkness, no soft invitation. The space is harsh and shadowed, the air sharp as bitten lips. The candles that usually float like stars now flicker erratically, angry. The air hums with static, with fury.

He’s there before you can turn. Hyunjin, but he’s not like before.

His beauty is the same, still impossible, still so lovely it hurts, but his expression is different. Not amused. Not worshipful.

He looks betrayed. His jaw clenched and his eyes are black with fire.

You blink, your breath already catching in your throat. You try to speak, but he’s already closing the space between you. His steps are slow, deliberate.

He’s furious and yet, you ache for him.

“Do you think this is a game?” he asks, voice low and sharp like a blade, you wince at his harsh tone. “Do you think I don’t see you?”

He circles you, the air thick with him. The scent of spice and storm.

“Touching yourself,” he hisses, just behind your ear. “Under my gaze.”

You flush. “I-”

“Without asking.” He’s in front of you again, gaze burning. His lip curls. There’s hurt beneath the anger. Real, wounded.

“You think you can use me like a mirror,” he murmurs. “Look at me and take what you want, and leave me wanting?”

Your chest rises and falls too quickly. Shame curls hot in your belly and underneath it, something worse. Desire.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whisper. A tear falls and his thumb presses against it, holding it on your skin like he wants to keep it there. Make you feel it. The wet. The shame.

He tilts his head. “No?” He steps closer.

You try to move back, but the room shifts with you, keeping you trapped in his orbit. Your shoulder brushes a floating candle, and the flame licks your skin without burning.

“You think this is about lust?” he breathes. “You think I wanted to watch you fall apart while I stood here with nothing?”

Your throat dries.

“You begged for me,” he says. “You called me to you. You painted me. You spoke to me. You offered yourself and now you act like I’m not the one who decides how this goes?”

You can’t answer. Your hands are shaking and he notices. His voice softens, just slightly, and that’s what makes it worse. “I would’ve touched you,” he says, low and raw. “If you’d waited. If you’d asked me.”

You close your eyes.

“I would’ve undone you slowly,” he murmurs, stepping closer again. “Kissed your thighs. Worshipped you, made that ache you can still feel between your legs go away.” He pauses, his mouth so close to yours. “But only if you were mine.”

You open your eyes. “I am,” you breathe.

“Say it again.” He demands, his hand on your cheek now bruising.

“I’m yours.” You sob.

His expression flickers, something cracks. Something breaks open. He moves and grabs your chin, tilting your head up. Not rough, but not gentle either.

His thumb brushes your lower lip.

“No more touching yourself without permission,” he says, voice thick. “You want release? You ask. You wait. You earn it.”

You nod slowly, lips parting. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

His jaw tenses.

“I think you did.” He spits. He leans in, so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

“But I forgive you,” he whispers, so softly, so gently, like his anger flipped like a light switch. “Because you’re my little thing. Because I’ll teach you better.”

Your knees nearly give.

He leans forward like he’s going to kiss you. But he stops, just an inch away. His voice lowers to a growl. “And next time you touch yourself without my permission…” he pauses. “I won’t be so merciful.”

The dream begins to unravel around you like smoke but his hand stays on your jaw, holding you in place. His lips against the corner of your mouth teasing with a faux kiss.

“Now wake up.”

You jolt awake in the dark. You’re sweating and the sheets are tangled between your legs. Your lips feel kissed, but they weren’t. Your core throbs with unspent ache. Your hands are empty. Your wrists are bare but your skin still tingles where he held you and you know now, for sure. He’s not just a ghost in the walls.

He’s real.

He’s watching and next time, you ask.

You’ll beg.

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re interrupted by a knock, sharp and repeated three times. It echoes down the hallway like a sound not meant to be here. You flinch, nearly dropping the brush in your hand. You’d been painting again, your fifth attempt this week, all them of him. Each more beautiful, each more wrong. None of them is enough.

You haven’t had a visitor in days. Weeks, maybe.

No one should be knocking.

You hesitate, brush still dripping crimson onto the floorboards. Another knock. Firmer. More human than anything you’ve felt in days.

You finally peel yourself away from the bedroom and pad toward the front door, vision slightly blurred from hours of staring at the canvas. When you open it, blinking into the afternoon light as you gaze upon a man.

Not Hyunjin.

Someone else.

He’s handsome in a way that feels solid, real. Like a person who eats hot meals and lifts heavy things and doesn’t whisper through walls. Tan skin, strong arms crossed over a thick jacket, concern in his eyes before you even say hello.

“Y/N?” His voice is deep, grounding.

“Sorry to just show up. I’m Changbin, uh, your neighbour, sort of. Down by the hill.” He pauses. “Your aunt used to talk about you. I helped her around the place, fixed the shutters after that storm years back. I didn’t know she’d passed until recently as I hadn’t heard from her for a while.”

You open your mouth. No sound comes. Then, he looks at you, really looks and his expression changes. “You look like you haven’t been sleeping.” He steps forward instinctively, hand brushing your arm. His touch is warm. Earthly. Unwelcome.

The second he touches you, the house responds.

A deep, guttural groan rolls through the floorboards like an animal rousing from its den. The overhead light flickers. A sudden draft snakes up from beneath the door to the basement. The air grows heavy.

Changbin steps back. “Shit,” he mutters. “It’s still here.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you then, serious. No flirtation. No pretence. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m fine.” You say, a bit too bluntly.

“No, you’re not. I know this house. I know what it does.” He whispers as if he knows it hears him.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s too late. “You have no idea-”

“He lives in the paint,” Changbin interrupts you.

Your blood runs cold at his words. “What did you say?” You ask, in disbelief.

He stares at you.

“Don’t say his name. Don’t let him in and for God’s sake, don’t paint him.” He says, breathless. His eyes glazed over in what seemed like fear.

The air thickens like molasses.

“I already did,” you whisper.

Changbin’s face pales.

“You need to leave. Now. Pack what you can. Go to a hotel. Call someone.” He says, he’s shaking now but you don’t move.

Because the hallway behind you is darker now than it was a minute ago. Because the door to the sitting room has slowly creaked shut on its own and because you can feel eyes on the back of your neck.

“He won’t let me,” you say.

Changbin grips your shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re not possessed. Not yet but you’re under his influence. This house, it makes you love him. Makes you want to stay.”

“I do want to stay.” You answer, too quickly.

He shakes his head. “No. That’s not you talking.”

Something crashes behind you.

A framed photo drops from the wall and shatters on the floor, glass exploding outward, like something pushed it. Changbin flinches and looks up at the ceiling.

“You’re scaring him,” you say, voice strange and hollow.

“Good.” He says, but it doesn’t come out confidently.

Changbin looks at you again, gentler this time and for a moment, just a second, you feel like someone’s reaching a hand through the fog. “I can help you, Y/N. You don’t have to do this alone.” He says, gently.

Then, all the candles blow out at once. The air howls. The hallway stretches unnaturally long behind you and a voice you recognise, too close, too deep, curls into your ear from nowhere.

“Mine.”

You gasp and stumble, nearly falling into Changbin.

He catches you.

The house roars again, louder this time. A low, guttural thrum that vibrates the floorboards, makes the windows tremble in their frames. A wind slams against the door from inside the house.

Changbin’s jaw tightens. He pulls you toward him.

“He’s stronger now. Feeding off you. Off what you’ve done. Every stroke of paint, every time you said his name, it gave him form.” He speaks through small gasps of breath.

“I didn’t know-” you start.

“You do now.” He says.

Changbin observes you, his gaze pleading “Don’t let him take the rest.”

You’re shaking. “He already has.”

He leaves you with his home number. He writes it on your palm, presses your fingers closed over it. “If he manifests, really manifests, don’t speak to him. Don’t touch him. Don’t look him in the eyes. Do you understand?” He pleads.

You nod but you’re lying because later that night, you go to your bedroom.

You shut the door and you stand before the painting again. You trace his collarbones with your fingertip. “I missed you.” You whisper, with eyes glazed over with longing.

The house sighs around you. Pleased. Purring.

You look at Hyunjin’s features in the canvas and they’re darker than before.

Alive.

You feel him before you see him. A soft shift in the air. The flicker of candlelight is slowing.

He steps from the shadows. Not from a doorway. Not from behind you. From nowhere. From the space between breath and silence. From the place you painted him into.

Hyunjin.

He’s real, solid. Undeniable.

The same face you’ve seen in dreams of oil paints and smoke, now with skin that gleams in the candlelight. His chest was rising and falling. Bare feet soundless against the floor. Hair falling in dark sheets around his face and his eyes. They’re the first thing you try not to look at but they pull. They always pull.

You look anyway. You can’t not. They’re furious.

“He touched you.” His voice is colder than you’ve ever heard it. “That… man.”

You part your lips, try to speak, make an excuse but no sound comes.

“You let him put his hands on you.” He says. You shake your head. “I didn’t want him to-”

He’s across the room before you can finish, towering over you at the foot of the bed. His presence makes the candlelight shiver.

“You should’ve stopped him.” He curses, jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck shift. He looks almost… wounded and then something flickers in his expression.

A softness. A restraint pulled tight. “But you didn’t go with him.” He says, gently. Like he’s speaking to an innocent child.

You nod, slowly.

“You stayed,” he says, quieter now. “You stayed with me.” He kneels in front of you.

Your breath catches.

He lifts your hands in his, pale, cool fingers ghosting over your knuckles, your wrists. His touch is reverent. Gentle. Possessive. His thumb brushes the inside of your palm.

The place where Changbin’s number is still written. He looks down at it, then up at you. “Open it, give me your hand.” He says. You hesitate, then you do.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your palm. Then he wipes the number away with his thumb. The ink smears and disappears.

“There,” he whispers. “That’s better.” He looks up at you again and this time you try to look away. You turn your head, breathing shallow, remembering what Changbin said. ‘Don’t look him in the eyes’ but Hyunjin’s fingers claim your jaw and they tighten. “No,” he says gently. “Don’t deny me now.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

His voice dips, low and velvet-smooth. “You already gave me everything. I watched you in the dark, desperate, wet and shaking just from my name.”

You shiver. Goosebumps trail your skin.

“You paint me with trembling hands. You sleep beneath me. You whisper to me like I’m your god.” His grip tilts your face back toward him.

“Open your eyes, darling.” He says.

You can’t, so he leans in, mouth brushing your cheek. “Look at me.” His voice, startling. It echoes off the walls.

You obey and you fall.

It’s not just his gaze, it’s gravity. It’s a void wrapped in beauty. His eyes are endless, sharp and soft all at once. They strip you bare. They know you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

A whimper catches in your throat.

“You disobeyed me,” he says. “You touched yourself without asking but today, you stayed and for that…” He trails his hands up your thighs, barely grazing fabric, like a promise you haven’t earned yet. “You deserve to be rewarded.” He says, his pupils are blown. Smirk on his lips like he knows you’re already aching for him.

You tremble under his touch, under his eyes. There’s fear there but deeper still, there’s hunger. For him. For the darkness in him. For the way he sees you.

“You belong to me now, darling,” he says.

“I know.” You reply, almost on instinct.

“Say it.” He growls.

“I belong to you.” You whimper and at that, he smiles and this time it’s not cruel. It’s possessive. Triumphant.

“Then come here, little thing,” he whispers. “Let me show you what devotion earns.”

Hyunjin doesn’t rush. He never does.

You sit on the edge of the bed, barely breathing, trembling under the weight of his gaze. His hands cool, beautiful, steady, slide up your thighs, parting them with the patience of someone who already knows he’ll be obeyed.

You’ve never felt so bare. Not just physically, utterly stripped but also seen in a way that should shame you. Instead, it sets your nerves alight.

“Lie back for me, darling,” he says softly.

You obey without hesitation, sinking into the sheets, breath hitching. Your nightgown rides up your hips, and he doesn’t fix it. He just watches you.

“You’ve been so good,” Hyunjin murmurs, running a single finger up the inside of your thigh. “Even after your little disobedience.”

You whimper as he presses your legs wider.

“You stayed for me,” he continues, as if in reverence. “You looked at me when I asked. You let me in.” His lips brush your knee and your hips lift instinctively, needing him closer.

He chuckles against your skin. “Hungry little thing…” He kisses higher. Each press of his mouth was deliberate, claiming. His hands pin your thighs open. You can feel your slickness against the air now, humiliating in how ready you are.

“Look at you,” he purrs. “Already ruined, and I haven’t even touched you where you need me.”

Your voice is gone. You can’t form words.

Only shallow gasps.

Then his mouth finds you. The moment his tongue touches your clit, your hips buck violently.

Hyunjin groans against you, satisfied. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he murmurs, breath warm against your folds. “Let me taste how much you need me.” he says and then he devours you. There’s no other word for it. It isn’t slow or romantic, it’s worshipful in hunger, the way a starving god would claim an offering. His mouth is firm and sure and relentless, tongue flicking and curling with obscene skill, dragging whimpers and moans from you so raw they embarrass you.

He loves it.

You can feel the satisfaction radiating off him, feel his pride in the way your body responds, trembling, gasping for more.

You try to reach down, try to grab his hair, something, but he growls against your cunt. “No.” He pins your hands to the mattress with one strong palm. Bringing his face up to yours, his teeth are bared in an animalistic manner. “You don’t get to touch. You just take what I give you.” Your walls clench around nothing, the ache growing unbearable.

He releases your wrists but you keep them there, fearing he’ll stop if you move. His mouth presses to your wet cunt and he laps at you, lazily now, dragging it out. Teasing. Controlling.

“You’re so wet, darling.” he groans. “I could drink from you.” You cry out, legs quaking. You’re so close. So close but just before the wave crashes, just before you break… he stops.

You sob, lifting your hips, but he holds you down firmly. “No,” he says again, gaze dark and serious now. “Not yet.”

“Hyunjin… please-” Your voice is wrecked. You’re crying.

He rises from between your legs, lips and chin glistening with your arousal, the candlelight casting him in a gold and soft glow. His hair falls around his face like ink.

He doesn’t kiss your mouth and doesn’t hold you. Just watches you, flushed and gasping, undone. “This was your reward,” he says quietly. “For being mine. For staying but I never said anything about your punishment, for your disobedience.” He growls the last word.

Your body shakes from need. You don’t understand why he’s leaving but you know better than to beg again.

“Next time,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle down your throat, licking at his lips. Tasting your arousal. “If you’re very good… maybe I’ll let you come.”

You choke on a soft moan, pressing your thighs together as your hips grind into the empty air.

He steps back into the shadows. His form begins to blur. The candlelight dims but before he vanishes entirely, you hear his voice one last time. Right against your ear.

“I’ll be watching.”

You’re left trembling. Empty and marked with his mouth. You know it’s too late to leave now. You don’t want to. You want him to finish what he started but Hyunjin never gives you what you want. Only what he thinks you deserve.

The house is quiet after he disappears. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears.

You lie in bed for a long time, legs sticky with your own arousal, heart still thudding like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that he’s gone. You stare at the ceiling and imagine his weight still on top of you. His lips are still between your thighs. His breath still claims the air you breathe but he’s not there. He left you aching. Again.

Part 2

━━━━━━━━━━☽༓☾━━━━━━━━━━━━

Tumblr wouldn’t let me post it all as a one shot so the link to part 2 is above.

Disclaimer - Stray Kids are not owned by me and are just used as inspiration for fiction. This story does not represent them or Hyunjin in real life. Images in the header are not owned by me.

Feel free to like, comment and reblog.

Do not repost, translate or copy my work.

Taglist - @fairylix @hoes4minho @lilileen25 @akindaflora @tirena1 @stayjinnie @jehhskz

@alittlebitofeverything04 @chloe-elise-2000

#hwang hyunjin #hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin #18+ mdni #hyunjin x reader #skz au #skz fanfic #skz smut #yayappreciating #yaya recs

47 notes · View notes

akindaflora · 23 days ago

Text

Baby Soft

Pairing: Hyunjin x female reader, guest star Lee Know

Genre: fluff

Quick Summary: Your sick and call Jinnie for help, and he's willing to drop anything and everything to be by your side.

૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

The sun beaming, and just your luck, your sleeping eye mask had slipped off, allowing the sun to sting your precious eyes.

You hissed slightly pulling the mask back over your eyes and cuddling into your teddy plush, jiniret. For hours you had been tossing and turning your skin burning up slowly but the cold air snipped at your aching muscles. Your eyes felt swollen and something felt like it was sitting in your throat.

The weight is nonexistent, but the starchy feeling and the small claws of pain felt like whatever made home in your throat plan to stay.

You were sick, and it was so clearly obvious, you didn’t have the strength to do anything. Luckily your water bottle wasn’t far, and some cold medicine was in your bedside table drawer from the last time you were sick.

Luck had been on your side for medicine. Yet the rumbling pain in your gut the unnerving shivers felt anything close to being or feeling like it was lucky.

After tossing and turning for a few more hours you finally crawled from your bed and shuffled to the toilet with phone in hand. Google your symptoms your flared face keeping your eyes closed every moment felt like a battle.

You groaned at the reality that over-the-counter medicine wasn't gonna cut it and the only cure would be with a doctor. But you could barely get to the bathroom from the bed so you had no choice but to call your prince and savior.

After a few rings the phone picked up.

“Hey baby what’s up?” a tired huffing Hyunjin answered the phone. You squinted at the time ahhh he was probably in the middle of dance practice.

“Hyune when do you get home,” you asked the strain in your voice.

“Hmm not till 5 why what’s up baby you don’t sound so good,” he said concern dripping from his voice.

You groaned, “Sorry baby I’m not, I think I’ve gotten sick and been in bed all day. I think I need to go to the doctor my throat hurts badly,” you said now rubbing your throat.

Hyunjin gasped before saying one second and muffled the phone. You had now successfully climbed back into bed in your little cocoon of warmth. You think you heard a muffled MY WIFE NEEDS ME, but at this point, you were going in and out of sleep from the excess use of energy. A slight smile at Hyunjin's dramatics could cheer you up even in pain.

“Baby I’m on the way you just wait there, I’m only 20 minutes away,” he said over the phone. You gave him a quiet okay but you can’t remember if he hung up or not but you could have sworn you still heard his voice through the phone.

After a while you awoke to a warm hand on your forehead opening your eyes slowly you were met with concern by Hyunjin whose eyes widened at the heat on your skin.

“My poor baby you’re burning up,” he said quietly. You moved closer to him, his body warmth feeling like it could heal you.

“Baby I’m gonna pick you up okay, we’re going to the hospital,” he said you nodded at him and it took everything in him to not fall for your cuteness. Slowly you felt being lifted in a blanket, your head leaning onto his shoulder as he rubbed you carefully.

Hyunjin while at times could be a bit of a pabo but when it came to the people he cared about when it came to you he’d get this sudden air of seriousness like he burned the world for a cure for your illness.

Usually, you were the strong one in charge and full of a clear head but when sick you turn into the soft flesh of a being only capable of smiling stupidly or sleeping like you were in a coma.

When you first got sick he panicked, he had never seen you so soft for so long. It took him months to convince you to date him and when you finally agreed, it took even longer to get you to relax around the idea. Always tense about being too clingy while he held onto you like you were his life support.

So when you got sick for the first time he panicked. You were suddenly so into cuddles and would whine when he had to leave for the restroom. Your eyes would get so big like a child eating candy for the first time. And you would easily tell him that you love him. And after the first time, he made a promise to always be there for you when you were sick not just because he got to see the soft side of you more but because he realized how vulnerable you were in those times.

He buckled you on, putting his air pillow around your head to keep your neck supported. You were strapped and snuggled up to the blanket. He quickly ran to the driver's side. Glancing from time to time, his hand holding onto yours so you wouldn’t feel alone.

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, he quickly filled out the paperwork and held you in his lap till they called your name. And while the nurses offered a wheelchair he refused and carried you into the room.

He then would read the symptoms he knew you had googled on your phone and wrote in your notes. He didn’t want to wake you up unless the doctor needed you.

The doctor could only smile at the couple and the dramatics of the young man who softly rubbed your head.

“Young man worry not Miss Y/N just has strep throat some antibiotics for a few days and sleep should do her some good. Make sure she gets some fluids in and gargles salt water three times a day to get the infection down,” Hyunjin nodded writing it all down in his notes apps.

“This might be unnecessary to say but you both make a really cute couple. Freshly married?” the doctor asked. Hyunjin slightly coughed a blush deepening on his cheeks.

“Thank you and not yet but soon,” Hyunjin said looking at your sleepy face.

The doctor smiled with understanding and handed Hyunjin the needed prescriptions and instructions for care. He thanked them before carrying you back in the car.

You were still knocked out, groaned when being moved, or if the car shook slightly too much.

“It’s okay love I got you were almost home,” he said quietly.

After you finally arrived Hyunjin set you down on the bed, pulling out a fresh set of sleeping clothes, and began filling the tub up. He gently put your hair up then softly removed your clothes and then his as he carried you both into the bath tube. You hummed softly at the warmth giving a small kiss to his chest while he bit his smile back at your cuteness.

After softly washing you he quickly dried your body and wrapped you in warm clothes. Fluffing your pillows and wrapping you in any blanket his eyes landed on.

“I’m gonna make you some congee okay? I’ll be right back. Just cuddle jiniret and then we can get you some medicine. Okay princess?” he said softly running his hands to scratch at your scalp. You only pouted slightly but cuddled into the ferret bear as you fell into your warm cocoon. Jinnie laughed before calling Lee Know for help on said congee.

At one point he messed up so much that Lee Know decided to come over and make it himself. Telling Jinnie to check up on you.

Granted Lee Know may have seemed annoyed at the task it brought him a bit of joy to see Jinnie care so much for someone who genuinely cared about him.

After a while, Lee Know brought the soup while Jinnie took the time to softly sit you up. Your eyes are still puffy and a hand softly rubs at your eyes.

You looked and felt like a mess but Lee Know and Jinnie couldn’t help but coo at your cuteness. To which you only wiggle your noise in response.

“Ya how is it that she so cute when sick,” Lee Know said in shock as Hyunjin fed you. Blowing the hot spoon before it settled on your lips.

“I don’t know but you see why I can’t leave her like this when she’s sick. She turns into a cute baby,” he said whipping the rice that dribbled from your lips.

“It’s physically impossible to be that cute she reminds me of my cats,” Lee Know said. Hyunjin laughed at the comment. Looking at you, he could see why his hyung could come to that conclusion.

Your eyes fluttered softly the fluffy cheeks, the way you couldn’t help but stretch the soft pur noises you make. Curled up in your fortress of soft blankets and sleeping mask nearly slipping from your face.

"Yeah she's incredibly beautiful," he said softly stealing a kiss on your forehead. "And she's all mine," he said again whipping the soup that dribbled from her lips.

You hummed softly your brain in a slight delay to Jinnie kiss but nonetheless your smile widen as you blinked at him.

"So Jinne when are we getting married," you said stretching and letting out a light yawn. Hyunjin froze and Lee Know looked between you both a smile perched on his lips at your antics.

"What," Jinnie asked his heart pounding minute by minute.

"You said so at the doctors," you said again pulling the teddy back into your arms. "What was it you said," your head now being supported by the bear. You looked down and then suddenly up into his eyes, "Not yet but soon?" you questioned.

A deep blush settled onto his cheeks and Lee Know let out a cackled laughed, you giggling at him before sliding down to sleep after eating your fill.

Definitely never leaving her alone, he thought to himself, never she's stuck with me.

૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆૮ ◞ ﻌ ◟ ა⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

AN: Okay having strep was actually the worst experience ever but out of it I did write this. Something soft and sweet for the kids. And yeah still thinking about getting a skzoo teddy tho I think they might be sold out now. sigh...

Y❀Y✿

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