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⨳ ❛𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓

❛ In which two disabled idols find comfort in each other’s arms.

𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠 + female reader ೯ ( 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 ) 2.1k

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Don’t mind me constantly changing the layouts of my published works, I’m just extremely indecisive, sorry! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Han deals with a lot of anxiety and depression, reader has fibromyalgia, constant mentions of being in pain, love-making, cussing, lots of angst, MDNI.

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 )

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⌗ O2┆ 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩

The sun shone generously as you strolled toward the end of your street, where your father's shop awaited. Its golden rays caressed your skin, adding a warm glow to this idyllic summer day. From a distance, you could see groups of friends and families spilling into the store, their animated conversations and broad smiles filling you with a sense of joy for them.

Despite your father’s frequent declarations that the shop's success was due to your own hard work, you found yourself at odds with his sentiment. The moment the entrance bells chimed their familiar greeting and you stepped inside, the atmosphere enveloped you like a refreshing breeze. The low murmur of customers mingled with the soft strains of background music, creating an ambiance that could only be attributed to the man whose dream it truly was.

Inside the shop, the air was cool compared to the summer warmth outside, but it did nothing to deter you from lingering by the side, marveling at the fruits of such a laborious dream. Dozens of plastic and wooden crates, brimming with a harmonious blend of vintage and contemporary vinyl records, were artfully arranged atop tables scattered throughout the store. These crates formed narrow, intimate aisles through which customers wove, searching for the perfect melody to match their mood.

The walls were adorned with posters of your father's beloved artists—rock legends from across the globe like Queen, AC/DC, ONE OK ROCK, and Day6, among others. Between these vibrant tributes, the empty spaces were filled with strands of fairy lights, their soft glow casting a warm, inviting radiance over the shop. This delicate lighting provided both charm and illumination to the otherwise windowless interior.

In truth, your father had transformed what was once a forsaken building, shrouded in the whispers of childhood ghost stories, into a uniquely enchanting haven. It was a space where one could easily retreat from the world, losing themselves amidst the music and the magic he had created.

After a few moments of searching, you finally spotted your father at the back of the shop, surrounded by a small group of men who appeared to be his contemporaries. They were engrossed in lively conversation, their laughter ringing out with genuine warmth and camaraderie. A surge of intense pride swelled in your chest, and a broad, uncontainable smile spread across your face as you watched him effortlessly shine in his element—a sight you had not been fortunate enough to witness until now.

The moment his gaze found yours, his entire demeanor transformed, lighting up with a joyful recognition. He gestured for you to join him, his movement inadvertently interrupting his animated conversation and drawing the attention of his companions to you. You couldn’t help but imagine he was regaling them with stories about you, a proud habit he had maintained since your childhood. Regardless of your recent achievements or lack thereof, he always found a way to weave your name into every conversation, eager to boast about his pride in you.

Your smile remained unwavering as you finally reached him, leaning against a table brimming with crates to momentarily rest, subtly masking your fatigue after offering polite bows to everyone. “Hello!” you greeted warmly.

“This is my daughter, Y/N, the one I’m always bragging about!” your father announced with evident pride.

Whether or not the men were aware of your profession, they masked their surprise with courteous bows in response to your father’s enthusiastic introduction. Despite the slight awkwardness you felt, your father remained blissfully oblivious, continuing to chat animatedly with his friends. He swiftly instructed you to stand behind the cashier as he wrapped up his conversation. You nodded dutifully, offering one final, graceful bow to the customers before following his directions.

Managing the checkout for the customers as they finalized their vinyl purchases proved to be surprisingly effortless, though they scarcely acknowledged you despite your efforts to radiate warmth and friendliness. The contrast between your public persona as Noctara and your everyday self was both amusing and stark, a reminder of how seldom you experienced the luxury of simply being yourself. It was intriguing to note how little recognition you garnered from those purchasing your own records.

Following Manager Jiho’s advice, you had deliberately dressed incognito. It was a rare treat to slip into your gray sweatpants, with a frayed hole at the knee that you stubbornly refused to discard, paired with a plain black crop top and white sneakers. You had exchanged your usual contact lenses for a pair of delicate, thin-framed glasses and gathered your hair into a casually messy high ponytail, accented by a red bandana tied in a small bow atop your head. A face mask completed your disguise, obscuring half of your face. Even with this modest ensemble, the thought of officially meeting these fans crossed your mind, though the idea of photos circulating online revealing your whereabouts was a chilling deterrent.

As the rush hour dwindled and the number of customers was reduced to a few stragglers, your father finally joined you behind the counter. He draped a warm, appreciative arm over your shoulders, his gratitude evident. You waved off his thanks with a soft smile, feeling a sense of contentment as the rhythmic tasks of the day provided a rare moment of tranquility for your weary mind.

As you wearily shifted from one foot to the other, your father gestured towards a tall stool tucked away beneath the counter. With a sigh of relief, you pulled it out and sank onto its comforting seat. The silence between you both was imbued with a gentle familiarity, yet it was clear that conversation was inevitable.

“Your mother mentioned the date,” he began, his tone imbued with a warmth that contrasted with the weariness you felt. “She’s been eagerly anticipating it since it was arranged.”

You couldn’t suppress a weary roll of your eyes and a scoff that escaped your lips. The unspoken truth about your mother’s unyielding determination was well-known to anyone who had crossed her path. “I can imagine.”

He paused, allowing the silence to stretch between you before continuing with a reflective tone. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, you know. Take your mother and me as a prime example—our parents arranged our first date, with all the supervision that implies.”

A flicker of curiosity prompted you to ask, “And were you happy about it back then?”

A warm, nostalgic chuckle escaped him, and his eyes seemed to drift back through the corridors of time. “Oh, not at all. I cherished my freedom as a single man with great fervor. Yet, I grew to be immensely grateful to my parents once I met your mother. She’s the reason I look forward to each new day.”

Your father’s unwavering devotion to your mother was a daily reminder of their profound bond. His love for her was ever-present, expressed in countless small gestures and heartfelt words. Their enduring love was a beacon, a once-in-a-lifetime romance that left you both in awe and a bit wistful. The idea of finding such a rare and beautiful connection felt like a distant dream, a cherished possibility that seemed almost beyond reach.

Their love story had been woven into the fabric of your childhood, recounted so often it had become a cherished refrain. While you held its every detail close to your heart, there were times you longed for a change of topic. “How’s Siwoo? The last I heard, his wife had welcomed a new baby a few months ago.” It was a humble attempt to shift the conversation, but it proved effective.

A contented sigh escaped your father’s lips, his eyes shimmering with paternal pride. “Ah, he’s thriving, from all accounts. It seems to be the only subject your mother is keen to discuss, aside from your own growing success.”

A soft laugh bubbled from you. It wasn’t surprising that Siwoo, with his naturally gentle and nurturing spirit, was flourishing as a father. It brought you immense joy to see him building a loving family, his partner described as his equal, creating a life together that seemed as perfect as it was fulfilling.

A moment of silence lingered between you, each lost in thought. “How’s work?” he eventually inquired.

“It’s hectic,” you sighed, the weariness evident in your voice. “I don’t get nearly as much rest as I need given my condition, but there’s a profound satisfaction in sharing my work as I do.”

You noticed the delicate way he sidestepped the mention of your condition, his gaze steady and sincere as he said, “I can’t express how happy it makes me to see your dreams come true.”

Though his words were meant to be a balm for your spirit, a pang of unspoken longing lingered within you. The ache wasn’t from a lack of his affection, but from the quiet yearning for your parents to fully grasp the weight of your daily battles. It mattered little that the doctors they consulted had dismissed your pain as inconsequential; the sting of their disbelief and the chasm it had created between you and them was deep and enduring. You doubted that sharing your diagnosis would bridge that gap, so you chose silence instead, letting the quiet sorrow settle over you like a heavy mist.

You arrived at the charming café nestled around the corner well before the agreed-upon time, eager to claim a quiet corner for your date. The delicate warmth of the summer evening contrasted with the crisp chill of the café's interior, where you sought solace. Your recent struggles with mobility made the prospect of remaining seated in one spot particularly appealing, and you aimed to make the evening as comfortable as possible. You carefully selected a secluded table in a cozy nook, shielded from prying eyes by a curtain of softly glowing fairy lights, craving the intimacy of privacy.

Settling into your seat, you gazed around the café, letting your curiosity about your date’s identity swirl through your thoughts. The idea of meeting another idol sparked a flicker of intrigue, despite your condition limiting your social interactions. You mentally cycled through a list of Korean celebrities you knew or had encountered in the past, only to realize how brief it was—an echo of your increasingly reclusive lifestyle.

As the minutes slipped by, the café’s atmosphere hummed with a gentle blend of murmured conversations and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Finally, a waiter approached, accompanied by a young man whose presence was unmistakably magnetic. Han Jisung from Stray Kids. Your heart fluttered at the sight of him, recognizing him from various awards shows. His shy smile, revealed only after he removed his mask, was a charming contrast to his already striking appearance.

“Hello,” you greeted softly, your smile a beacon of warmth and friendliness.

Jisung’s eyes widened with a touch of surprise, and he returned your smile with genuine warmth. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness.

“You look really nice,” you replied, striving to dispel the tension with a sincere compliment.

His cheeks flushed a delicate pink. “Thank you. You look beautiful,” he responded, his voice soft and earnest.

Despite your polite exchanges, the conversation struggled to gain momentum, quickly falling into an awkward silence. You both made several attempts at small talk throughout the evening, but the words stumbled, failing to bridge the gap of unfamiliarity. The discomfort from the café’s rigid seats amplified your back pain, making it difficult for you to muster any flirty or charming banter. Your attempt to ask about Stray Kids’ latest album emerged as a hurried, awkward query that felt more suited to a scripted interview.

As the evening stretched on, the pain in your back became increasingly unbearable. You decided it was time to leave. With a sense of reluctance, you informed Jisung of your departure, noticing the disappointment that flickered across his face. He rose from his seat, an unspoken offer of support lingering in his stance. Although his presence was a reminder of your need for assistance, you were grateful for his kindness.

Outside, your driver waited, the car pulling up smoothly as soon as he saw you approach. You turned back to Jisung, offering a final, heartfelt smile. “It was wonderful meeting you,” you said, your voice tinged with genuine appreciation before you climbed into the car, which whisked you away into the night.

As soon as you disappeared from view, the same attentive waiter who had been serving them all evening hurried after you, clutching your collapsible cane. He handed it to Jisung, who looked at the cane with a puzzled expression.

Jisung’s brow furrowed in confusion as he examined the cane. He pulled out his phone, his mind racing with thoughts on how to return the forgotten item to you. He sent a quick text to his mother, seeking her advice on how to get in touch with you to ensure the cane found its way back into your hands.

posted: 07 • 23 • 2024

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Series taglist: @jisunglyricist @mitchii @skzstan12345 (Comment down below to be added!)

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