minhospuddin

[minhospuddin]

ֹ ˚₊‧ ୨୧⋅ 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒞𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓇 𝑀𝑒𝑒𝓉𝓈 𝒮𝓀𝒾𝓃 ୧ ‧₊˚

Hyunjin had asked you so many times now, you were starting to think he might be more obsessed with the idea of painting you than he was with painting itself.

It had started weeks ago—quiet little musings that had slipped from his lips while you sat curled on the floor of his studio, watching him work. He’d glance at you in the golden light, his hair tied up messily, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and murmur something like, “You’d look beautiful in oil colors,” or “Your skin would carry red like fire.” At first, it was flattering. Then amusing. Then constant.

“You’re not serious,” you’d laugh, brushing him off when he’d try to coax you out of your sweater.

But tonight, the rain pattered against the window like it was trying to blur the edges of the world. The studio lights were warm, casting halos on the wooden floor, and music played low from his phone—something slow, something heavy with strings and longing.

Hyunjin stood across the room, palette in one hand, brush in the other. His eyes had been on you for minutes. Quiet, intense. You could feel them on your skin like warmth before he even said anything.

“Let me,” he whispered.

You looked up from your book. “Again?”

“Please,” he stepped closer, placing the palette down on the edge of the table. “I need to. Not on canvas. Not on paper. Just… you.”

Your breath caught. There was something raw in his voice tonight. Something more than playful desire. He walked to you, kneeling on the rug at your feet, his gaze locked to yours. “It’s not about the painting anymore,” he murmured. “It’s about the way I see you.”

You hesitated only a second longer. And then, with a nervous laugh, you nodded.

He exhaled, like he’d been holding that breath for weeks.

Hyunjin didn’t rush. He never did, not with you. He started with your arms, using his fingers first instead of a brush, smearing deep blue streaks over your forearms, mixing them with streaks of violet. “The night sky,” he said softly. “Because that’s what I see in you. Mystery. Depth.”

Your shirt was next. Off, slowly, as if undressing you was part of the ceremony. He swept a wide brush gently down your collarbone with crimson and gold. “Sunset,” he whispered. “Because you ruin me beautifully.”

You let out a breath, head falling back as his hands moved lower—pausing just beneath your chest, asking permission again with his eyes. When you gave it, he kissed your sternum before marking it with a soft wash of blush and gold. “Because you’re alive. You breathe color into me.”

His strokes grew more careful, more reverent, his touch lingering as he painted patterns into the curve of your waist, your hips. Not rushed. Not lustful. Devotional. Your body became his canvas, but his eyes never left yours too long. As if he needed your reactions as much as he needed his paints.

“Can I kiss you now?” he asked quietly, finally setting down the brush.

You didn’t answer. You just reached for him.

The kiss was slow, warm, tasting of paint and longing. When you pulled him closer, smearing color onto his skin, he let out a soft sound that vibrated through you. He touched you like you were still made of wet paint, like you might smudge or vanish if he wasn’t gentle. But his hunger grew with every gasp you gave him.

He lifted you in his arms, carried you to the worn couch in the studio, the paint on your skin pressing into his clothes, leaving marks on him now too.

It wasn’t just romantic. It wasn’t just passionate.

It was art.

His hands knew you like they knew his brushes—where to press, where to sweep, where to pause and admire. And when he moved inside you, your body arching beneath his, there was no urgency. Just soft whispers, breathless “I love you”s, and the quiet thud of his heartbeat against your painted chest.

He kissed the colors on your skin as if sealing them there. Even when you both stilled, breath mingling, limbs tangled, he kept tracing his fingers over every shade he’d given you—his masterpiece.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your ear, pulling the blanket over your bodies. “I’ll never paint anything better than this.”

You smiled, curling into his chest, the scent of paint and rain clinging to your skin.

“Next time,” you murmured sleepily, “you’re the canvas.”

Hyunjin laughed, soft and breathless, and held you tighter.

“I was the moment I met you.”

[minhospuddin]

ᶻz ◜ 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬◞ 𖦹

The soft clacking of Jisung’s keyboard had become the soundtrack of the entire day.

Morning had turned into afternoon. Afternoon had turned into night. And now—past midnight—the room was bathed in nothing but the glow of his monitor and the low blue haze of the lamp he’d forgotten to turn off.

He was hunched over, hoodie slipped halfway down one shoulder, hair pushed back messily by his fingers. His lips moved soundlessly, mumbling lyrics, humming melodies—one hand scribbling notes, the other absently drumming on his thigh. The mug of coffee next to him had long gone cold.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching him with a mix of affection and… something a little darker. Something warmer.

You weren’t annoyed. No, this was his element, and you loved that about him—the fire in his veins when inspiration hit. But it was late. You missed him. And you knew he needed to be pulled out of his creative haze before he worked himself into a migraine.

So, barefoot and quiet, you padded across the room and slipped behind him.

He barely flinched when your hands slid over his shoulders. “Hey,” he mumbled, eyes still locked on the screen.

You leaned down, letting your lips brush his ear. “It’s 1:12 in the morning, Ji.”

“I just—ugh—almost there. I can feel it,” he groaned, tapping furiously. “It’s right on the edge of my brain, babe.”

You smiled against his neck, pressing a lazy kiss there. “Your brain’s gonna melt if you keep pushing like this.”

He tilted his head slightly to give you room, but his attention didn’t waver. “Mmm, then you’ll have to carry my legacy.”

You laughed quietly and slid your hands down his chest, feeling the way his breath hitched just slightly.

Still nothing.

Alright. Time to up the distraction.

You moved in front of him slowly, placing yourself between his chair and the desk, arms resting lightly on his shoulders again as you straddled one of his thighs.

Now that got his attention.

His typing slowed. He glanced up at you, eyes tired and red around the edges, but still full of heat. “What are you doing?”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Helping you take a break.”

He blinked at you, watching the way your body shifted against his. His hands hesitated in the air before landing on your hips.

“You know this is dangerous,” he muttered, voice low. “I’m trying to work.”

“You’ve been working,” you replied, dragging your fingers down his chest slowly, feeling his breath catch again. “You need to let your brain rest.”

“And this is how you want to help me rest?” His voice had that edge now—rough, teasing, a little cracked with exhaustion.

You leaned in close, just brushing your lips against his. “Exactly.”

Your kiss started soft—sweet, almost lazy. But when he didn’t pull back, you deepened it, letting your hands slide under the hem of his hoodie, feeling his skin, warm and taut beneath your fingertips. His hands gripped your hips tighter, the music long forgotten.

He leaned into the kiss now, lips parting, tongue slipping past yours with that familiar, dizzying rhythm that always made your toes curl. His hands slid up your back, dragging your body closer until you were flush against him, the chair creaking under the shift.

“You’re not playing fair,” he whispered against your mouth, one hand trailing up your spine. “You know how I get when you do this.”

“I’m counting on it,” you murmured, moving your hips subtly, letting friction speak for you.

He groaned—quiet but guttural—and rested his forehead against yours. “You’re evil.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, trailing your lips along his jaw. “But you like it.”

His hand tangled in your hair now, pulling you back for another kiss, deeper this time. His other hand slid under your shirt, fingertips skating along your ribs, your waist—gripping you like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him.

The forgotten music played softly from the speakers, but the real rhythm was between your bodies now—slow and charged and aching with tension that had nothing to do with lyrics.

You rocked gently against him, biting your lip when you felt him harden beneath you.

He growled low in his throat. “You’re gonna make me ruin this chair.”

You smirked, lips brushing his ear. “Then maybe we should move this to the bed.”

He stilled.

Then he pushed the chair back suddenly, gripping your thighs as he stood, lifting you with practiced ease. “Song can wait.”

“Mmhm,” you whispered, arms around his neck. “I’ll make sure you still remember the melody.”

And with that, he carried you off—finally, finally letting the music go for the night.

[minhospuddin]

𐔌 . ⋮ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The front door creaked open with a soft click, and Minho stepped inside, his suitcase dragging gently across the wooden floor. The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft glow of the evening light peeking through the curtains. The familiar scent of home — a mix of clean laundry, lingering hints of vanilla, and something uniquely you — hit him like a warm hug.

He let out a long breath, dropping his bag by the door and toeing off his shoes. His cap was pulled low over his face, eyes a little tired, posture slouched. The tour had been amazing, the performances electric, but now that he was finally home, all he wanted was the calm, the quiet — you.

A soft thump of paws against the floor interrupted the silence, and soon, three little fluffballs came skittering into the hallway.

“Dori, Soonie, Doongie,” Minho murmured with a tired smile, crouching down as they ran to him. He rubbed behind their ears, murmuring little greetings in that low, affectionate tone he always reserved for them.

And then he heard it — the soft patter of your feet as you rounded the corner from the living room, holding a mug of something warm. You paused when you saw him, your face lighting up.

“You’re home.”

He didn’t even answer. Instead, he stood and walked straight to you, wrapping both arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. The scent of your shampoo, the way your arms automatically came up to hold him — it grounded him instantly.

“I missed this,” he mumbled, words muffled. “I missed you.”

You smiled, one hand rubbing his back soothingly. “You’re so warm. Want to go lie down?”

He nodded without letting go, only pulling back to press a kiss to your forehead.

A few minutes later, the both of you were tangled up on the couch, a fluffy blanket tossed over your legs, cats snuggled on and around you like little heating pads. Minho had his head on your shoulder, one hand tucked around your waist, thumb absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your skin. He looked more at peace than he had in weeks.

“Was the tour hard?” you asked softly.

“Mm,” he hummed. “Only because I couldn’t come home to this every night.”

You kissed his temple gently, brushing his hair back. “You’re here now.”

He looked up at you with the softest gaze, tired but full of adoration. “Yeah. And I don’t wanna move for the next twelve hours.”

“Fine by me,” you whispered, resting your cheek on his head. “You, me, and the babies. That’s all we need.”

And with the hum of the heater, the steady rhythm of his breathing, and the soft purrs around you, the world outside disappeared — replaced by warmth, love, and the peaceful joy of being home.

[minhospuddin]

‎‧₊˚✧ 𝐵𝓁𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓈‎ ✧˚₊‧

-

The apartment was wrapped in that warm, quiet stillness only Sunday afternoons knew how to bring. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the breeze drift in, carrying the scent of summer grass and distant city hum. You were sunk deep into the couch cushions, one leg draped over the armrest, scrolling through your phone without truly seeing anything.

Then came the soft pad of bare feet on the wooden floor.

You looked up—and your breath caught.

Jeongin wandered out of the bedroom, still half-sleepy, hair a soft mess of waves that flopped over his forehead. His eyes were puffy and lidded, shirt clinging just slightly to his skin like it didn’t want to leave him. But what really stopped your heart was his shorts—that pale gray pair that always rode up just enough to show off those thick, sculpted thighs you secretly fantasized about when you couldn’t sleep.

And he had the nerve to stretch in the doorway, arms overhead, shirt lifting to show a sliver of toned stomach—completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

“Did you nap?” you asked, voice quiet and fond.

He nodded, rubbing at his eye, his voice gravelly and low. “Yeah. Felt good. ’S warm in the bedroom.”

He shuffled over and dropped down beside you, one knee pressed against your thigh, exuding sleep and skin and boyish comfort. You reached out lazily, fingers ghosting over the muscle of his thigh, unable to stop yourself.

“You do that on purpose,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

He tilted his head. “Do what?”

“These shorts. The thighs. You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Jeongin’s lips curled into that half-smile that always ruined you. “They’re just shorts, babe.”

You shook your head, sliding closer, climbing over him slowly like he was your personal piece of furniture. “No. They’re dangerous.”

He leaned back, giving you space as you straddled him lazily, your knees bracketing his hips. Your hands smoothed up his thighs, feeling the tension, the warmth, the strength. He was letting you explore, touch, take your time.

The moment was slow and full of quiet heat—his hands resting softly on your waist, your forehead pressing against his. You breathed in his scent—linen, sleep, a hint of skin.

“You’re so pretty,” you murmured, brushing your lips across his jaw. “So stupidly pretty.”

His breath hitched, barely. “You’re the one on top of me right now,” he whispered, laughing softly.

“Mhm.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, then lower, to his throat. “Because you make it impossible to behave.”

He tipped his head back, letting you kiss him wherever you wanted. “So don’t behave.”

You laughed into his skin, slow and content. Your hips pressed down slightly, rolling just enough to make him sigh.

“Just… let me take my time,” you whispered, voice low and reverent. “You look too good to rush.”

And he did. There, in the golden wash of afternoon sun, wrapped in sleep and comfort and you—he looked like something you wanted to worship slowly, over and over again.

[minhospuddin]

· · ─ ·𝙇𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙁𝙤𝙘𝙪𝙨· ─ · ·

The gym is dim, lit only by late afternoon sun spilling through the window. The room smells faintly of sweat, steel, and fabric softener. You hear the quiet thud of weighted movement—the steady rhythm of Chan’s reps—as you quietly push open the door.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

His back is to you, muscles taut, shirt sticking to his skin, sweat glistening over his neck and shoulders. The veins in his arms are visible, his jaw clenched as he pushes himself, breath slightly ragged. He’s in the zone—focused, disciplined, headphones on.

And yet, something in your chest aches.

You’ve been waiting all day. Craving him. Missing the way he holds you, kisses you, whispers soft things when you least expect them. Something in you is aching for his attention—for his hands, his voice, his warmth.

And right now, you need him.

You walk in silently, heart thudding, your fingers already sliding down the zipper of your hoodie. He finally hears your footsteps—glances over his shoulder—and does a double take when he sees you.

You’re already halfway across the room.

His headphones come off, and he sets the weights down carefully, wiping his hands on a towel.

“Hey, baby,” he says, smiling, chest rising with his breath. “What are you—”

He stops.

You’re pulling your hoodie off fully now, revealing the thin tank top underneath—and no bra. Your nipples press faintly through the fabric, and you’re flushed already, your eyes locked on his.

“I need you,” you whisper. “Right now.”

Chan freezes.

“Baby… I’m in the middle of—”

You step closer, slow, soft, fingers sliding down to the hem of your shirt.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

You lift the tank over your head, revealing bare skin, warm and wanting.

His eyes widen slightly, lips parting.

“I just…” you whisper, stepping between his legs where he sits now on the bench. “I missed you.”

Your shorts come next, sliding down inch by inch until you’re standing in front of him in just your underwear—barely covered, chest rising with every breath.

Chan is completely still, jaw tight, eyes dark with restraint.

“You’re not making this easy,” he mutters, voice low.

“I’m not trying to.”

You step closer, one knee coming to rest on the bench beside him, your arms wrapping gently around his sweaty shoulders. He still smells like fresh soap and body heat, his skin hot from exertion. His hands stay clenched at his sides, trying not to touch you.

“You’re going to ruin my focus,” he breathes, forehead pressed against your chest.

“Maybe you need a different kind of workout,” you tease, running your fingers through his curls.

He groans—deep, low—and finally lets his hands slide up your thighs, gripping your waist, fingers digging in as he looks up at you.

“You’re serious?” he whispers. “You really want me right here?”

You nod, straddling his lap, your bare skin brushing his soaked tank top.

“I want you to lose control a little,” you say softly, lips brushing his. “You’re always holding back.”

His grip tightens, and finally—finally—he crashes his lips into yours.

It’s messy, hot, desperate. His hands slide down your back, cupping your ass, pressing you harder into him. You can feel how ready he is, how much he’s been holding back.

“You drive me insane,” he gasps between kisses. “You know that, right?”

“Show me.”

He lifts you effortlessly, laying you back across the padded bench, his mouth exploring every inch of your skin—slow, worshipful, murmuring how beautiful you are, how soft, how warm.

“You came here looking like this?” he whispers, eyes roaming your bare chest. “Just for me?”

“Only for you.”

He kisses down your stomach, every touch tender, every breath filled with want—but never rough. He’s careful, controlled, until he’s finally inside you, your back arching off the bench, gasping his name like a prayer.

His forehead presses to yours as he thrusts slow and deep, voice breaking.

“I love you,” he whispers, over and over. “I love you, I love you—”

And when you both fall apart, trembling and breathless, he wraps his arms around you and refuses to let go, even as his chest heaves.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs into your neck, smiling. “But god… you feel like home.”