sunboki

[sunboki]

⎯ marigold blume. ⟡ featuring lee minho

📻 : Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. small town! au, city boy minho! au, summer! au, dumb and dumber (let’s be honest here), enemies to lovers! au, friends to lovers! au, wetlands/marshland setting, fluff, barely any angst

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4-6k words

WARNINGS. cursing, reader lives with their grandma, reader is written as more feminine/referred to with she/her pronouns

AUG'S NOTES. it has been… what, two months since i’ve released a fic? unreal. although i’m sure aspects of this fic could be better (as for all my fics), i’m really proud of myself for finishing it while experiencing major writers block. thank you to everyone who’s been so patiently waiting :) i hope this fic gives justice to the anticipation<33

SYNOPSIS. Late July, and the mosquitoes have never been more infuriating. Every year you’re hauled down here, a place you count the days till leaving. “Here” being the wetlands: humid, swampy, and awful. But when a new appearance enters, a new someone appears, you begin to rethink that wish to leave.

or alternatively :

In which Lee Minho opens up your eyes to a life you’d been missing. One with him in it.

When a new person moves to Fenwood, there’s a few things that must be known.

No welcome party has ever been held.

The last thing you want is to be unfriendly.

One of which happens to have already been broken. 

“You new here?” You shout, latching the hooks to each crawfish trap and tossing it over the wooden canoe. 

“No,” He responds, not bothering to even look up from his spot crouched on the dock, staring down into the black hole of murky water below.

Waiting a moment, you glance up, scanning his model-like visage. Perfect nose, eyes, skin. His beauty sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Leave it to you to be the first in discovering Fenwood’s latest occupant.

“…Have you lived here—“

“No.”

Rising up from his spot—still not even sparing you a glance—he turns to walk away, leaving you to make sour faces behind his back. 

Who shoved a rod up his ass?

“Hey Grandma!” You shout, closing the squealing screen door and welcoming the mouth-watering smell of dinner.

A good distraction after that jerk, anyway.

Today hosted a good catch. Four, maybe five crawfish squabbling about in the pale blue bucket outside the residence. Rickety, and a bit dilapidated with typhoons dropping by on occasion. Torrential rains, age.

Meanwhile, your grandmother is busy focusing on scaling a trout, staunching the once delicious aroma with the stench of fish sliced by wrinkled, calloused fingers.

“Have you,” You use your index and thumb to pinch your nose closed. “Heard of anyone new movin’ here recently?”

She barks a laugh, skewing the fish’s head off in one swift motion, causing you to cringe back in disgust. 

“Movin’ here? Only a fool would do that. I ain’t heard nothin’ from town.”

Not wrong. Fenwood isn’t the most popular among moving destinations anyway.

Chewing your lip thoughtfully, you stand there, bouncing on your heels and devising the next step to uncovering that rude boy’s identity.

Your grandmother turns to you, a singular eyebrow raised.

“What? You saw somethin’?”

Quickly shaking your head as if to evade her pestering questions, you wordlessly rush up the stairs, grateful for the chance to breathe fresh air again within the safe confines of your room.

Alright. Now for the investigating.

Power-lines officially flicker out at midnight due to lack of the money the town can provide for twenty-four hour electricity, meaning your opportunity for info begins now.

And while someone’s occupied, you sneak into your grandfathers room, carefully tiptoe to the landline phone, fingers haphazardly dialing those long-since memorized numbers.

“Chris- Chris pick up-“

“…Hello?”

Christopher Bahng, more or less the town’s heartbreaker. He’s stupidly charming (or so he likes to think), earning the town grandma’s fawning coos on endless occasions and plenty of confessions whilst attending the sad excuse known as Fenwood’s high school. 

A hundred people, at most, with a rotting basketball hoop by the main entrance and a football team that hasn’t won a single game in six years. 

Chris brought a change to the losing streak last year, and since then, he’s been nothing short of Fenwood’s version of Ryan Gosling.

Honeyed tan skin, supernaturally blond hair that winds in messy curls covering his forehead, and a smile you’d like to feature in some sort of history book.

Also, in easier terms: your best friend. A boy who, despite his current popularity, once harbored a massive gap between his front teeth, with nerdy interests and an even nerdier pair of glasses exchanged for contacts a while back.

“Don’t tell me you’re already asleep. How old are you? Sixty?”

“Ah… Shuddap… just had the best nap..” He groggily replies, faint rustling of bedsheets resounding through the crackling line.

As much as he may be Fenwood’s heartbreaker, there wasn’t an ounce of shame between either of you. The fact you knew of the boy since his middle school years paved enough embarassing memories to become unaffected. 

“Get beauty rest another time, I need help figurin’ out something.”

“..Take out the cover and put the dish insid-“

“Not the microwave! A person!”

“Mm? Who?”

You groan avidly, brows knit. Time is of the essence, and it’s impertinent you at least get one piece of info before your grandma berates you for using the phone too long.

“Look, if I explain it, you’ll think I’ve got some crush. Which I don’t. But he’s got this-“

“Lee Minho? Great skin, looks real out of place? He just moved in next door, ‘says his Mom is gon’ be the new clinic doctor.”

“You’re kidding.”

A brisk chuckle is heard from the other end, low and littered with far too many voice cracks.

“That’s what I said too. He’s been the talk of the town since Mr. Kim saw his mom unloading the moving truck.”

Mr. Kim being the town’s loathed tax collector, that is.

“And what do you know about him?”

‘Him’ being this Lee Minho character.

Hanging onto every syllable he plans to enunciate, your ounce of consolation is quelled when the ringing of your grandmother’s voice beckons you down for dinner—instinctively slamming the landline down onto its stand and cutting off the call.

At least there’s a name. Lee Minho, belonging to the prick by the dockside.

It’s a start, for what it’s worth.

New title: Wet-cat prick.

Who knew your failure to gain information would end up fulfilled at some point?

Fulfilled, as in: walking into town only to see a wobbly, canoe-seated Minho ultimately tip over. 

Granted, any other day you would’ve laughed. A day when the person came to the surface, sputtering and cursing their disdain.

Though, on this day, said person doesn’t come up — leading to kicked off shoes and your once dry outfit drenched as you leap into the muddled water below and fish out the man, lugging his gasping form to nearby wooden planks.

“You never.. You never told me you couldn’t swim!” 

Heaving each word between laborious panting, the boy beside you collapses on warm panels, cheek smushed against the sun-heated dock below. 

“Didn’t think it was a requirement,” He manages, irritably long lashes dusting away water droplets, looking more like tantrum-exhausted toddler having thrown themselves onto the floor in protest than someone who just about drowned.

Laughing humorlessly, you slap his shoulder, annoyance visible in the pinch of your eyebrows he responds to with a grunt of his own irritation. 

Blinding summer sunlight overhead renders your eyesight less than able, but even then is it difficult ignore how pretty Minho is, with his pretty boy t-shirt clinging to his arms, his pretty boy hair sticky against his forehead.

Hah. As if. 

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Wringing your clothing and peering out at the now lingering canoe, it’s then a realization hits you, head whipping to Minho who utterly pales, face white as a sheet.

Just this morning you’d planned to check on Ms. Joo’s blue crab cages on the Northern shore point, noticing a rather peculiar disappearance of your canoe.

Well, frankly, a rather sketchy canoe with plenty of holes on the sides, old doodles from your youth in permanent marker, and a smell you told yourself wasn’t fish guts. 

But it worked, and that was good enough for you.

So then, why the hell is it right here?

“..Is that my canoe?”

Unfortunately for you and fortunately for the Wet-cat prick, an auntie stepped in before you could drown the boy yourself, your shared walk through the back streets to each other’s home solely to dry off in the sun (or so you told yourself). 

The squeak of wet shoes ring in your ears, tee glued to your skin sticky from a mixture of sweat and swamp-water—the stench likely nauseating. 

One thing about Minho? He pouts like a child. Stomping his feet, lagging a good five feet behind as if waiting for your pitying coo.

A coo you don’t allow the boy to delight in, alternatively crossing your arms firmly over your chest and beckoning a heavy sigh from over your shoulder in reply.

Big baby.

Brat.

Your list of insults could’ve gone on for at least two days straight, but the interruption of a cat from his front doorsteps results in such internal beration catching upon your tongue. 

Its tabby fur smooths over your calf, tail flicking in delight and ah, the cutie serves as a much-needed distraction from your previous frustration. 

Unbeknownst to you, a certain someone—not feline—had all but stopped in his tracks, eyes fixated on you as a child would some shiny piece of jewelry, fascinated and utterly awestruck. 

Since moving to Fenwood, Soonie had been last to warm up to anyone other than family, mewing his distaste each time the mailman drops by in the morning, leaping onto the nearest post to avoid passing children. 

And now he’s purring, paws propped upon the toe of your shoe, blissfully soaking up every stroke of your fingers atop his head. 

Frankly, Minho had found you more than irking. Nosy, stubborn, and most of all, bothersome. This little gnat buzzing across his nose, never seeming to cease.

So why does this closed off kitty of his feel so different? What’s so special about you?

A mere glance more spared your way and his attention then flickers to the cat in question, lifted brow with a miniature scoff of disdain announcing more than needs to be said aloud.

Traitor.

Soonie meets his glare, proceeding to twitch his tail and purr louder beneath your attention in retaliation. 

“Why.”

The question is more rhetoric than anything, his signature stare down currently targeting the cat lifted by the armpits into the air, hovering above the boy. 

Soonie meows, unimpressed.

“She’s not even that nice, y’know. Are you a masochist?” No nonsense, Minho speaks with utter seriousness when regarding his kitties, expression furrowed as if trying to catch the answer in those slit-pupils.

“No, she’s frustrating.”

Closing his eyes, you swim under his eyelids, face blooming in mind. 

Most distinctly does he envision your hand reaching for him when he began to sink—head this fuzzy, nearly dizzied blur as the oxygen slowly dissipated. A grounding force, that tight grasp of yours.

You’d give a firm handshake. 

Of the many stupid thoughts within his skull, this one beckons a humorless snort, cracking an eye open to stare accusingly at his furry companion as if he had placed the thought there. 

Minho closes his eyes again, trying aimlessly to discover just what was up with you, why his most trusted compadre found you remotely appealing. 

This time, he recalls that first breath of air upon being dragged to solid ground, unfocused pupils dilating in order to catch glimpses of your frame beside him. Flushed cheeks from the heat, droplets clinging to your skin. That captivating part of your lips, equally as breathless where your clothing stuck to your skin—

Springing up from where he’d once comfortably laid, he both scares the betrayer Soonie from his bed and effectively stains his cheeks a deep red, hand running over his face in exasperation. 

The childish groan that escapes the boy earns his mother’s click of the tongue from downstairs. 

Crap.

This isn’t good.

Sure, he may have been plagued with images of you the night before, but just what sin did he have to commit to begin hearing voices?

And no, not dirty images. 

Weirdo.

“Rise and shine, jerk! Swimming lessons start today!”

What is this, karma? For almost drowning? 

Wait.

That’s real.

For the second time in two days, Minho springs from bed as if a trumpet had been blown in his ear, rushing to the window and praying he’d merely hallucinated.

Lo and behold, you’re there, waving your hands like a wild person and calling him to the front yard at 7am, clad in pajamas and looking just about as conscious as he is right now.

This can’t be real. 

“Oh it’s real alright! C’mon! It’ll get too hot by noon!”

Convinced you’re either a psychic or your timing is impeccable, he’s sluggish in descending the stairwell, rethinking if drowning was the right choice after all.

“What the hell are you doing outside my house at the asscrack of dawn?” A very grumpy, very disagreeable Lee Minho demands, sleeping robe downright laughable if not for the unimpressed scowl tugging at his lips, silencing the snort you almost let out.

For now, he remains a safe, not-grabbing distance by the front door, a suitable boundary you never fail to cross upon grabbing his hand. 

Good handshake.

The words hit him like a train. A haunting, repetitive observation he wants to cave in on himself for remotely thinking, never even having said it aloud. Like a child. 

It’s not like it’s embarrassing, just.. stupid. And Minho’s pride has been tested far too many times to not take precautions.

In turn, a five minute walk (more like a parent dragging their tantrum-throwing infant) and your odd question on whether he had clothing on beneath his robe results in pausing at a trough.

Rather large in size and looking more like a torture device the longer you devilishly glance from him to it, in less than five seconds he feels his heart drop to the heels of his feet. 

“You’re not—“

“I said swimming lessons, didn’t I? It’s pretty lukewarm, y’know. I could’ve made it freezing cold.” 

Oh yeah. Real generous. 

Sticking out your tongue at him only prevails to make the boy more grumpy, hesitant to weigh his options on either running or complying.

Although the eyeball you’ve fixed him with tells the boy there’s only one option, and if removing his robe wasn’t the most painful thing he’d done in years, this would chart a new record. 

Well, correction, removing his robe and showing off the not-so-favorable paw print patterned boxers he dons, ears marveling an uncanny similarity to tomatoes the longer you gape.  

“That’s.. wow. Impressive.”

“Shut up.”

And so, the swimming lessons began. Or, however well swimming lessons go while holding the boy's hands, guiding him into a steady rhythm of kicking and paddling that sends his face burning hotter.

Humiliating doesn’t even cut it, and to be honest, he's secretly grateful you chose the morning to force him into this. 

That secret would be buried with him. That, and the stupid, stupid handshake thought. 

But then you laugh, and he feels quite like Soonie in the way his eyes flicker upwards as if given command, drawn to the happy sound instinctively. 

The curve of your lips, that special knit of your brow. 

The second spontaneous thing you’ve done today was reach into your bag and pull out matching ham sandwiches. That he doesn’t complain about, gnawing at the bread without complaint where the both of you sit on the curb. 

When your foot shifts and bumps against his, or the momentary glance and silent point to his cheek—wordlessly telling him about a crumb residing there.

For a minute, he understands his cat’s infatuation.

Only a minute.

“Hey! Prune!” You shout at his doorway, offered a few moments of no reply and your ceaseless shouting until the grumpy boy glowers at you from the porch, brows permanently furrowed, hair a mess, and looking far too appealing to have just woken up.

He sure likes that robe, huh? Second time in two days he’s had it on. 

Of course, your internal musing can only continue for so long until his voice breaks the teasing antics.

“..Who’s ‘prune’?” He grunts drowsily, bringing a hand to rub at his eyes.

Cute.

“You, obviously,” You feign a scowl, crossing your arms. “I debated on saying prick, but I think your parents would recognize who I wanted to see if I said prune.”

His heavy sigh of a response earns your snicker, like a begrudging old man in a young body.

“What is that?”

“I told you this town was old. Also, why don’t you have a mesh screen in front of your door?” You grumble, crossing your arms as you stare down at the rotting wooden toolbox you grasp.

He mimics your crossed arms, expressive brows furrowing defensively.

“A what?”

“You’re hopeless,” You sigh, running a hand through sweat-stuck hair. “Leave the door unlocked, I’ll put one in for you. You’ll need it with the summer bugs.”

“..Huh?”

“Just say thanks, Minho. You’re welcome.”

“But I-“

“No. You’re welcome.” 

And in the span of fifteen seconds, Minho both hired someone and lost something akin to a miniature, one-sided argument. 

Oh, and his ego. He lost that too.

On your side of the story, you got booked for a plentiful four hours at the Lee residence and a free sandwich, a gift from his mother for your kindness whilst an angry prune sulked in the corner of the room (beside you), trying to telepathically communicate to his smitten mother to kick you out. 

To no avail. Evidently. Leaving the seventeen-year-old to eyeball your oddly skillful handiwork on the door, watching the strands of hair glue to your forehead from sweat, the determined poke of your tongue against your cheek.

When you ask for a screwdriver—philip’s or flat-head (he does know the difference)—and your eyes flicker up to him, gazing through your lashes. The diligent furrow in your brow, victorious smile upon completion. 

He swallows hard, a droplet of sweat slipping beneath his collar. 

Blame it on the heat. 

But when you offer him that tiny glance he catches just too late, it feels as if the summer has heated up even more.

Somewhere in the house, Soonie meows.

As much as you’d like to say your encounters were totally intentional and controllable, one would single out into a truth, and the other a lie.

Yes, you did intend to spy on the brunette a bit. But no, you didn’t anticipate the neighborhood library would be the place, nor that your hands would go reaching for the same book.

“Prune?”

“Y/N?”

The both of you exclaim in unison, eyes widened in confusion and alarm. He dons a loose t-shirt, baggy blue jeans drag at the floor, worn black converse peeking from the cuff. A casual outfit, you assume. That, and that he had a nap earlier—those brown eyes still a bit dazed where they search your face.

Cute.

Clearing your throat so loud it shocks even yourself, you’re left to bathe in both a realization and a silence far too frightening.

Number one, Lee Minho is not cute. Number two, he’s holding the book you want. Your book. 

“..I didn’t know you could read.”

Thanks, jackass.

Lee Minho is also a jackass. Not cute.

Then a stubborn strand of hair loops the wrong way, and you’re abandoned to fight an internal battle of deny and concede. Simultaneously warding off the itch to just reach, get close enough to catch a whiff of that petrichor, his smell. 

Wait- petrichor?

Never mind. 

“The book is mine.”

“Not if my hand was on it first,” He bites back, just as lethal.

Though, you must admit, spiteful is a pretty picture he paints—though his character still needs some work to fix the irritability factor.  

“You’re delusional.”

“All that sun has made your brain fried.”

Leaping for the book he clutches, your lucky index and thumb fasten around the aged cover, raising it to land a smack to his head before he grabs your wrist, the boy’s foot moving a bit too fast for his legs to catch up to before you both go toppling down.

“You little-“

“Gah! Your hand is on my butt! Get off!”

And… perhaps there was a root to getting kicked out of the library after all. 

Bruised bodies, no book. 

…

“You’re wearing full coverage clothes in the middle of July.” You mutter, more of a statement of both terror and awe than a question. 

Head to toe the boy’s covered, sun hat to match.

Terrifying.

“And?” He grumbles, cheek bruised, nose bloodied where your elbow had hit in the rush to get up from the library’s floor.

You don’t look much better, with black and blue kneecaps and sticky skin.

Oh the woes of walking home in the same direction.

“And? You’re insane.”

 “Third time you’ve said that today.”

“Choke.”

“You first.”

It’s quite funny how quickly someone becomes a staple.

To stick those multiple pieces of paper together, you can use an abundance of resources. Tape, paper clip. 

Though Minho likes to think the most reliable of the bunch is a staple. It’s hard getting rid of, but serves its purpose flawlessly.

A friend, and something you look for assiduously when gone awry. 

Minho also likes to think you’re quite similar to that staple. 

Hurts when you tread over top, but quite the reliable thing when prompted. 

Somewhat reliable.

Nevertheless exceptionally irritating, frustrating, and taxing to the years of patience he once believed he carried with grace. 

This first week in Fenwood had truly tested that statement.

So when he approaches your porch on that fateful Sunday afternoon, the grueling sunlight bathing his back in an orange glow, Minho becomes all too aware of the sweat building in his palms and dappling his forehead (Is he sweating too much?).

He opens his mouth to speak, scorning the empty water bottle crackling under his vice-like grip, supposedly responsible for quenching thirst; now raking his throat dry.

“Y/N-“

He starts, (too forward?) trying to recall the endless rehearsals in his dirty bathroom mirror, to Soonie. 

Because before he knew it, you’d become more than a pest. A staple. Someone he looks for in the crowd.

Minho thinks gaining that affinity might just be dangerous.

How bothersome. 

Your head peeking up where you read your book makes his heart pound, makes his self consciousness spike to a nearly unbearable degree.

Occupying the creaking rocking chair, he fixates on the repetitive swing of that one strand of hair as if hypnotized, the way it furls close to your forehead proof of the humidity. 

Cute. 

His eyes flit from you to the book, feeling quite like a child in search of some excuse for their troublemaking. 

He’d hate to admit the situation is exactly that.

“Prune?”

Oh to be called a wrinkled plum and for his heart to flutter. What sort of spell had you cast?

“What… What are you reading?”

‘Too boring, too boring!’ He internally shrieks, a shrill, high pitched sound of utter terror and disdain ricocheting through his skull.

First seconds and he’s already looping down into a point of no return with you as the first-hand witness to his self destruction.

“..An autobiography.. Why?” You narrow your eyes, rightfully suspicious. These past few weeks had been filled with nothing but jests and jeers, after all. 

Confused, now you’re confused.

Minho would like to scribble down in his occasional ‘opens-up-twice-a-year’ journal he’s learned you read autobiographies (at the expense of his pride and stupidity).

“..Just curious.” He shrugs, but it’s more like a desperate attempt to shake off the nervous tension making his rigid shoulders ache.

He both despises and respects your ruthless ability to render him speechless, useless. 

Yet your thoughtful stare solidifies the statement—and he doesn’t think his heart could slow down even if he tried stopping it.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump.

“Prune, if you’re here for me not letting you have the book, almost drowning you, or threatening you with a crawfish in your bed, I hate to tell you but I was a hundred percent seriou-“

“Are you free tomorrow?”

No, this time he wasn’t too boring, with a heartbeat rivaling the cry of cicadas squealing against water oak trees, the racket of drums his old neighbor, Han Jisung, used to beat upon. 

“..Are you asking me on a date?” (Straight to the point, huh?)

“Yes.”

He’d be a fool to deny it.

In a matter of seconds, just about every possible rejection coursed through his mind. Maybe you laugh at him, walk right inside and slam the door shut behind you to never talk to him agai—

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

And just when he was preparing to be let down, you surprise him again and again.

Minho likes to think this won’t be the last time that happens.

“Look, okay, I am an expert when it comes to these kinds of things.”

How asking you on a date ended up with Minho’s kitchen crowded with two men whose names he’d only learned hours after asking you out is beyond him, but to be honest, as long as some help is offered and advice is given, he’ll take what he can get.

Would he ever admit that? Hell no.

But the sweatiness of his palms and nervousness awaiting any voicemail is becoming concerning even for him, and right now, your friends (apparently), Han Jisung and Christopher Bahng (great, a guy with a sound effect for a last name) have come royally uninvited and very much enthusiastic.

Enough that Minho doesn’t think he could refuse them even if he tried.

“Taking girls on dates or making food? ‘Cause uh.. Ow!”

A sharp smack to the shoulder shuts Chris up simultaneously, busying his hands in wrapping ham and cheese sandwiches in saran wrap. 

“So..” Minho clicks his tongue, both an anxious tick and his way of gathering thoughts. “How did you two meet—“

“‘Knew each other when we were kids.”

“I tried to ask her out in middle scho—“

“He played guitar really badly at the school festival. I guess Y/N had a thing for bad guitar-players because-“ Snapping his fingers, the eldest of the three, Chris, snorts his laughter watching the pinkness of Han’s ears flood to his cheeks instead. 

“Friends ever since.”

And between Han���s mumbled: “that’s so not true” and the teasing tongue his friend sticks out at him in turn, he can’t help but feel his own lips crack into an unconscious grin, quietly dicing apples and melon.

The date he was taking you on in question? A picnic. 

Nice and simple, not too overwhelming. Right?

That’s what he told himself as a coping mechanism to not become overwhelmed despite the roaring doubts, worries. What if you had an allergy? What if you didn’t like it or the sandwiches got soggy or he looked like a dork? 

Minho wasn’t a usual control-freak, but he wanted to make this good. Or, y’know, whatever “good” is for both you and him. 

An explanation as to how the two got word of your date together has long since been abandoned in terms of explaining, but taking a look around—watching Chris load sodas into the corner of the basket, cool condensation dampening the gingham interior.

Or Han, currently trying to perfectly slice a strawberry and grape sando in half—he feels as if, for only a moment, things might go just fine. 

.

.

.

“Jisung, is that a penny in the pasta salad?”

In turn, one removed penny and remade pasta salad later and Minho is up and ready earlier than he thinks he’d ever been before—ensuring his pants aren’t too wrinkled, collar of his white undershirt peeking from the sweater’s neckline just enough. 

What are you wearing? He wonders to himself, doublechecking that the call he made just yesterday about the date being a picnic hadn’t been a dream after all.

The sleepy hum you gave in response after he woke you from your nap, his denial to admit how he’d pressed the phone closer to his face, seeking more your voice.

Is it too much? Another thought, that seed of insecurity worming into his heart. 

Regardless, by 11am sharp he forces himself from the confines of his self-inflicted torment, picnic basket in hand, worn-on-the-daily converse double knotted.

Then a whistle resounds, and all earlier nerves are instantly replaced with utmost exasperation as the boy stops in his tracks.

“Lookin’ good, lookin’ good, Min!”

Why they decided to use the nickname—“they” being none other than Chris and Han in the older boy’s 1967 Chevy Impala—was a matter he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around if he tried. 

His own personal cheering squad, and he doesn’t know if he should feel flattered or horrified.

At the moment, more of the latter.

“She’ll love it!” Han hollers, holding up two thumbs-up like his life depends on it before Chris clears his throat.

“But uh, just be good to her, ‘kay? Otherwise we’ll have to-“

The shooting gesture made with his hand works effortlessly in helping Minho realize his actual feelings.

Horrified. Just horrified.

Honking his horn, he swears he could’ve beat his kitties in a record for how quickly he bristled. 

“Just kidding! Go get ‘em, tiger!” 

Watching the two speed off like there’s no tomorrow, he’d like to think the murmured ‘kinda’ Chris mouthed after saying he was joking was a mere hallucination. 

Nonetheless, he knows better than to sidestep the guy with a gun sound effect as a last name. Or, frankly, you, for that matter. 

So with a deep breath and a frazzled wobble to his walk later, Minho shakes off all his earlier worries and pushes on, the image of you in mind helping narrowly dodge some unwanted apprehension. 

And holy shit were you an image.

All the worries, anxiety, fades away as if it were nothing at all the moment you lock eyes.

Minho swallows hard.

…

Do you know those scenes in cheesy high school movies where the love interest is surrounded by a whole bunch of sparkles and everything else fades away?

“Minho! Hey!” You shout, waving a hand from afar. In the middle of the field you stand, summer breeze whipping your hair every which way, that huge, positively stunning smile tugging at your cheeks.

Yeah. That cheesy scene is happening now. 

It takes every ounce of consciousness to keep the boy from letting his picnic basket slip right from his grasp, those honey-brown eyes the size of saucers.

When he started seeing you in a new light he couldn’t recall, but dammit.

It’s bad.

Jogging up to him doesn’t help, merely further constricting the airflow to his brain and increasing each deafening pound of his heartbeat.

Meanwhile, you look as if today is any regular day in the neighborhood, all cheery and anticipatory. 

The envy eats Minho alive. 

“Wow, look at you, all cute today.”

It’s incredible how you manage to appear so unbothered, either kindly ignoring or utterly oblivious to the burning heat coloring the boy pink upon fixing his collar, your surprisingly gentle touch smoothing out a few crinkles in the fabric, offering a scolding click of your tongue before stepping away.

“‘Found a good spot, c’mon!” 

You take his hand with ease while Minho had to work up the courage to call you a second time and make sure the timing was okay this morning. 

Staring at the back of your head as you lead, a single thought breaches the forefront of his mind. 

This is going to be the longest picnic of his life.

“You look nice though, really.”

Moving to Fenwood presented a whole lot of unfamiliar challenges. Navigating school, conversing with the locals, meeting you and dodging nagging threats left and right.

In this case, it’s you complimenting him that serves as a challenge, all too used to the usual calloused banter. 

“Thank you.”

So prim and proper, the reply comes out as. He wishes he never opened his mouth. 

Your giggle in return helps soothe his nerves, if only slightly, while reaching for another sandwich. Two Jarritos sodas cracked open, metallic caps resting on the picnic blanket. 

His is lime flavored, yours mango. Fitting, in its own, odd way.

Speaking your mind, you lean forward, foot haphazardly bumping into his in the process.

“Y’know, it fits.”

The tilt of his head urges you to continue, lips curving into a teasing smile solely reserved for him. No barriers, hesitation. Conversations you’ve come to adore purely for the honesty, ridiculousness.

“Lime flavor. ‘S like you, all sour.”

Then he gets in your face, something neither of you were prepared for.

“Thanks, sweetheart. ‘Can’t ever get a compliment without a remark after, hm?”

Sure, you would’ve liked to retort an equally sassy comeback, but the both of you are instead reduced to flustered messes thanks to the proximity, immediately swooping away from each other with constipated-looking expressions and tomato-red faces.

Why did I say that, why did I say that, why did I say that? Minho’s head swivels like a spinning top.

Did he just call me sweetheart? You internally panic, scorning the rapid thud of your heart, feeling ready to burst from your ribcage any minute now.

Luckily, thirty seconds and fervently stuffing strawberries in your mouth later, the tension seems to cool, resorting to idle chatter and slow breaths, savoring the intermittent breeze sweeping past. 

“I thought you were an entitled prick at first, you know.”

Always a catch.

Minho emits a pained grunt, lightly elbowing your side in retaliation thanks to the mouthful of sando he’d just taken. 

The same sando that, after waiting for the bright side to your words, you whine about wanting to take a bite of, simultaneously amusing and exasperating the secretly soft-hearted city boy who—after eyeing you suspiciously—extends the sweet treat.

“Real classy, huh,” Comes his singular mumble, brow cocking upon watching the downright shameless bite you devour, bits of whipped cream clinging to the corner of your lips. 

He hates how easy it is to adore that annoyed look he receives in turn, the urge to dip down and—

“Wanna kiss the mess off me?”

.

.

.

What.

A minute, maybe ten pass before he can even begin to think.

No, obviously not. Why would he ever want to—

Logistics betray him, he betrays himself. Because the longer he stares at your lips, the more his pupils dilate, his fingers curl into the picnic basket below.

A veil of privacy within the incoming darkness of night ease his worries about passerby, those eyes you’re fixing him with causing the blood to only grow louder in his eardrums. 

He’s an idiot.

And right now, he’s so in love.

It’s a small glance, a hasty flicker between your nose, eyes, lips. His lashes dust downwards, and he thanks the second-long distraction from your gaze to admit the truth. 

“God yes.”

Clumsily, oh so clumsy as he dips down, lips wrapping around your bottom lip, licking off the whipped cream residue prior to pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips and diving right back in. 

You taste like sugar, like the mango soda you’d taken a swig minutes ago and Minho thinks he may explode. 

Escalating, escalating. A mix of breath and lips and sighs.

Then your teeth hit each other and the both of you fizzle out like his own like flavored soda into laughter, far too embarrassed to bother with hiding away.

“Did you-“ You heave between fits of laughter. “Did you mean to do-“

“Can I kiss you s’more?”

Pathetic, he’s sure it looks like.

To you, Minho looks like a slice of heaven. He’s all flushed, collar a bit untidy given the way you’d hoisted him closer, lips puffy and swollen after just a few playful nips. 

Giving you those yearning eyes, all glossy and blown.

And right now, you’d be the biggest idiot in Fenwood to deny him.

Fingers looping around his chin, he all but groans when you press your lips to his once more.

If this is what the longest picnic of his life looks like, Minho doesn’t think he wants it to end. 

It’s not that you didn’t want to tell your grandma, just that—

“Shameless young’in’s, shameless!”

She paces back and forth, waving a hand around as if to enunciate her statement.

Of course, you try to ease the elderly woman from her daily frustrated tangent, to no avail.

“Walkin’ around the public library, ‘got all these lipstick marks on his neck! I’m tellin’ ya, it’s those city boys. All shameless!”

A pause, the hunched woman turning to you with a suspicious furrow of her brow.

“Say, didn’t you just come from the library?”

Shit.

FIC TAGLIST. @roseanne-yoon, @tirena1

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

⎯ marigold blume. ⟡ featuring lee minho

📻 : Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. small town! au, city boy minho! au, summer! au, dumb and dumber (let’s be honest here), enemies to lovers! au, friends to lovers! au, wetlands/marshland setting, fluff, barely any angst

WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4-6k words

WARNINGS. cursing, reader lives with their grandma, reader is written as more feminine/referred to with she/her pronouns

AUG'S NOTES. it has been… what, two months since i’ve released a fic? unreal. although i’m sure aspects of this fic could be better (as for all my fics), i’m really proud of myself for finishing it while experiencing major writers block. thank you to everyone who’s been so patiently waiting :) i hope this fic gives justice to the anticipation<33

SYNOPSIS. Late July, and the mosquitoes have never been more infuriating. Every year you’re hauled down here, a place you count the days till leaving. “Here” being the wetlands: humid, swampy, and awful. But when a new appearance enters, a new someone appears, you begin to rethink that wish to leave.

or alternatively :

In which Lee Minho opens up your eyes to a life you’d been missing. One with him in it.

When a new person moves to Fenwood, there’s a few things that must be known.

No welcome party has ever been held.

The last thing you want is to be unfriendly.

One of which happens to have already been broken. 

“You new here?” You shout, latching the hooks to each crawfish trap and tossing it over the wooden canoe. 

“No,” He responds, not bothering to even look up from his spot crouched on the dock, staring down into the black hole of murky water below.

Waiting a moment, you glance up, scanning his model-like visage. Perfect nose, eyes, skin. His beauty sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Leave it to you to be the first in discovering Fenwood’s latest occupant.

“…Have you lived here—“

“No.”

Rising up from his spot—still not even sparing you a glance—he turns to walk away, leaving you to make sour faces behind his back. 

Who shoved a rod up his ass?

“Hey Grandma!” You shout, closing the squealing screen door and welcoming the mouth-watering smell of dinner.

A good distraction after that jerk, anyway.

Today hosted a good catch. Four, maybe five crawfish squabbling about in the pale blue bucket outside the residence. Rickety, and a bit dilapidated with typhoons dropping by on occasion. Torrential rains, age.

Meanwhile, your grandmother is busy focusing on scaling a trout, staunching the once delicious aroma with the stench of fish sliced by wrinkled, calloused fingers.

“Have you,” You use your index and thumb to pinch your nose closed. “Heard of anyone new movin’ here recently?”

She barks a laugh, skewing the fish’s head off in one swift motion, causing you to cringe back in disgust. 

“Movin’ here? Only a fool would do that. I ain’t heard nothin’ from town.”

Not wrong. Fenwood isn’t the most popular among moving destinations anyway.

Chewing your lip thoughtfully, you stand there, bouncing on your heels and devising the next step to uncovering that rude boy’s identity.

Your grandmother turns to you, a singular eyebrow raised.

“What? You saw somethin’?”

Quickly shaking your head as if to evade her pestering questions, you wordlessly rush up the stairs, grateful for the chance to breathe fresh air again within the safe confines of your room.

Alright. Now for the investigating.

Power-lines officially flicker out at midnight due to lack of the money the town can provide for twenty-four hour electricity, meaning your opportunity for info begins now.

And while someone’s occupied, you sneak into your grandfathers room, carefully tiptoe to the landline phone, fingers haphazardly dialing those long-since memorized numbers.

“Chris- Chris pick up-“

“…Hello?”

Christopher Bahng, more or less the town’s heartbreaker. He’s stupidly charming (or so he likes to think), earning the town grandma’s fawning coos on endless occasions and plenty of confessions whilst attending the sad excuse known as Fenwood’s high school. 

A hundred people, at most, with a rotting basketball hoop by the main entrance and a football team that hasn’t won a single game in six years. 

Chris brought a change to the losing streak last year, and since then, he’s been nothing short of Fenwood’s version of Ryan Gosling.

Honeyed tan skin, supernaturally blond hair that winds in messy curls covering his forehead, and a smile you’d like to feature in some sort of history book.

Also, in easier terms: your best friend. A boy who, despite his current popularity, once harbored a massive gap between his front teeth, with nerdy interests and an even nerdier pair of glasses exchanged for contacts a while back.

“Don’t tell me you’re already asleep. How old are you? Sixty?”

“Ah… Shuddap… just had the best nap..” He groggily replies, faint rustling of bedsheets resounding through the crackling line.

As much as he may be Fenwood’s heartbreaker, there wasn’t an ounce of shame between either of you. The fact you knew of the boy since his middle school years paved enough embarassing memories to become unaffected. 

“Get beauty rest another time, I need help figurin’ out something.”

“..Take out the cover and put the dish insid-“

“Not the microwave! A person!”

“Mm? Who?”

You groan avidly, brows knit. Time is of the essence, and it’s impertinent you at least get one piece of info before your grandma berates you for using the phone too long.

“Look, if I explain it, you’ll think I’ve got some crush. Which I don’t. But he’s got this-“

“Lee Minho? Great skin, looks real out of place? He just moved in next door, ‘says his Mom is gon’ be the new clinic doctor.”

“You’re kidding.”

A brisk chuckle is heard from the other end, low and littered with far too many voice cracks.

“That’s what I said too. He’s been the talk of the town since Mr. Kim saw his mom unloading the moving truck.”

Mr. Kim being the town’s loathed tax collector, that is.

“And what do you know about him?”

‘Him’ being this Lee Minho character.

Hanging onto every syllable he plans to enunciate, your ounce of consolation is quelled when the ringing of your grandmother’s voice beckons you down for dinner—instinctively slamming the landline down onto its stand and cutting off the call.

At least there’s a name. Lee Minho, belonging to the prick by the dockside.

It’s a start, for what it’s worth.

New title: Wet-cat prick.

Who knew your failure to gain information would end up fulfilled at some point?

Fulfilled, as in: walking into town only to see a wobbly, canoe-seated Minho ultimately tip over. 

Granted, any other day you would’ve laughed. A day when the person came to the surface, sputtering and cursing their disdain.

Though, on this day, said person doesn’t come up — leading to kicked off shoes and your once dry outfit drenched as you leap into the muddled water below and fish out the man, lugging his gasping form to nearby wooden planks.

“You never.. You never told me you couldn’t swim!” 

Heaving each word between laborious panting, the boy beside you collapses on warm panels, cheek smushed against the sun-heated dock below. 

“Didn’t think it was a requirement,” He manages, irritably long lashes dusting away water droplets, looking more like tantrum-exhausted toddler having thrown themselves onto the floor in protest than someone who just about drowned.

Laughing humorlessly, you slap his shoulder, annoyance visible in the pinch of your eyebrows he responds to with a grunt of his own irritation. 

Blinding summer sunlight overhead renders your eyesight less than able, but even then is it difficult ignore how pretty Minho is, with his pretty boy t-shirt clinging to his arms, his pretty boy hair sticky against his forehead.

Hah. As if. 

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Wringing your clothing and peering out at the now lingering canoe, it’s then a realization hits you, head whipping to Minho who utterly pales, face white as a sheet.

Just this morning you’d planned to check on Ms. Joo’s blue crab cages on the Northern shore point, noticing a rather peculiar disappearance of your canoe.

Well, frankly, a rather sketchy canoe with plenty of holes on the sides, old doodles from your youth in permanent marker, and a smell you told yourself wasn’t fish guts. 

But it worked, and that was good enough for you.

So then, why the hell is it right here?

“..Is that my canoe?”

Unfortunately for you and fortunately for the Wet-cat prick, an auntie stepped in before you could drown the boy yourself, your shared walk through the back streets to each other’s home solely to dry off in the sun (or so you told yourself). 

The squeak of wet shoes ring in your ears, tee glued to your skin sticky from a mixture of sweat and swamp-water—the stench likely nauseating. 

One thing about Minho? He pouts like a child. Stomping his feet, lagging a good five feet behind as if waiting for your pitying coo.

A coo you don’t allow the boy to delight in, alternatively crossing your arms firmly over your chest and beckoning a heavy sigh from over your shoulder in reply.

Big baby.

Brat.

Your list of insults could’ve gone on for at least two days straight, but the interruption of a cat from his front doorsteps results in such internal beration catching upon your tongue. 

Its tabby fur smooths over your calf, tail flicking in delight and ah, the cutie serves as a much-needed distraction from your previous frustration. 

Unbeknownst to you, a certain someone—not feline—had all but stopped in his tracks, eyes fixated on you as a child would some shiny piece of jewelry, fascinated and utterly awestruck. 

Since moving to Fenwood, Soonie had been last to warm up to anyone other than family, mewing his distaste each time the mailman drops by in the morning, leaping onto the nearest post to avoid passing children. 

And now he’s purring, paws propped upon the toe of your shoe, blissfully soaking up every stroke of your fingers atop his head. 

Frankly, Minho had found you more than irking. Nosy, stubborn, and most of all, bothersome. This little gnat buzzing across his nose, never seeming to cease.

So why does this closed off kitty of his feel so different? What’s so special about you?

A mere glance more spared your way and his attention then flickers to the cat in question, lifted brow with a miniature scoff of disdain announcing more than needs to be said aloud.

Traitor.

Soonie meets his glare, proceeding to twitch his tail and purr louder beneath your attention in retaliation. 

“Why.”

The question is more rhetoric than anything, his signature stare down currently targeting the cat lifted by the armpits into the air, hovering above the boy. 

Soonie meows, unimpressed.

“She’s not even that nice, y’know. Are you a masochist?” No nonsense, Minho speaks with utter seriousness when regarding his kitties, expression furrowed as if trying to catch the answer in those slit-pupils.

“No, she’s frustrating.”

Closing his eyes, you swim under his eyelids, face blooming in mind. 

Most distinctly does he envision your hand reaching for him when he began to sink—head this fuzzy, nearly dizzied blur as the oxygen slowly dissipated. A grounding force, that tight grasp of yours.

You’d give a firm handshake. 

Of the many stupid thoughts within his skull, this one beckons a humorless snort, cracking an eye open to stare accusingly at his furry companion as if he had placed the thought there. 

Minho closes his eyes again, trying aimlessly to discover just what was up with you, why his most trusted compadre found you remotely appealing. 

This time, he recalls that first breath of air upon being dragged to solid ground, unfocused pupils dilating in order to catch glimpses of your frame beside him. Flushed cheeks from the heat, droplets clinging to your skin. That captivating part of your lips, equally as breathless where your clothing stuck to your skin—

Springing up from where he’d once comfortably laid, he both scares the betrayer Soonie from his bed and effectively stains his cheeks a deep red, hand running over his face in exasperation. 

The childish groan that escapes the boy earns his mother’s click of the tongue from downstairs. 

Crap.

This isn’t good.

Sure, he may have been plagued with images of you the night before, but just what sin did he have to commit to begin hearing voices?

And no, not dirty images. 

Weirdo.

“Rise and shine, jerk! Swimming lessons start today!”

What is this, karma? For almost drowning? 

Wait.

That’s real.

For the second time in two days, Minho springs from bed as if a trumpet had been blown in his ear, rushing to the window and praying he’d merely hallucinated.

Lo and behold, you’re there, waving your hands like a wild person and calling him to the front yard at 7am, clad in pajamas and looking just about as conscious as he is right now.

This can’t be real. 

“Oh it’s real alright! C’mon! It’ll get too hot by noon!”

Convinced you’re either a psychic or your timing is impeccable, he’s sluggish in descending the stairwell, rethinking if drowning was the right choice after all.

“What the hell are you doing outside my house at the asscrack of dawn?” A very grumpy, very disagreeable Lee Minho demands, sleeping robe downright laughable if not for the unimpressed scowl tugging at his lips, silencing the snort you almost let out.

For now, he remains a safe, not-grabbing distance by the front door, a suitable boundary you never fail to cross upon grabbing his hand. 

Good handshake.

The words hit him like a train. A haunting, repetitive observation he wants to cave in on himself for remotely thinking, never even having said it aloud. Like a child. 

It’s not like it’s embarrassing, just.. stupid. And Minho’s pride has been tested far too many times to not take precautions.

In turn, a five minute walk (more like a parent dragging their tantrum-throwing infant) and your odd question on whether he had clothing on beneath his robe results in pausing at a trough.

Rather large in size and looking more like a torture device the longer you devilishly glance from him to it, in less than five seconds he feels his heart drop to the heels of his feet. 

“You’re not—“

“I said swimming lessons, didn’t I? It’s pretty lukewarm, y’know. I could’ve made it freezing cold.” 

Oh yeah. Real generous. 

Sticking out your tongue at him only prevails to make the boy more grumpy, hesitant to weigh his options on either running or complying.

Although the eyeball you’ve fixed him with tells the boy there’s only one option, and if removing his robe wasn’t the most painful thing he’d done in years, this would chart a new record. 

Well, correction, removing his robe and showing off the not-so-favorable paw print patterned boxers he dons, ears marveling an uncanny similarity to tomatoes the longer you gape.  

“That’s.. wow. Impressive.”

“Shut up.”

And so, the swimming lessons began. Or, however well swimming lessons go while holding the boy's hands, guiding him into a steady rhythm of kicking and paddling that sends his face burning hotter.

Humiliating doesn’t even cut it, and to be honest, he's secretly grateful you chose the morning to force him into this. 

That secret would be buried with him. That, and the stupid, stupid handshake thought. 

But then you laugh, and he feels quite like Soonie in the way his eyes flicker upwards as if given command, drawn to the happy sound instinctively. 

The curve of your lips, that special knit of your brow. 

The second spontaneous thing you’ve done today was reach into your bag and pull out matching ham sandwiches. That he doesn’t complain about, gnawing at the bread without complaint where the both of you sit on the curb. 

When your foot shifts and bumps against his, or the momentary glance and silent point to his cheek—wordlessly telling him about a crumb residing there.

For a minute, he understands his cat’s infatuation.

Only a minute.

“Hey! Prune!” You shout at his doorway, offered a few moments of no reply and your ceaseless shouting until the grumpy boy glowers at you from the porch, brows permanently furrowed, hair a mess, and looking far too appealing to have just woken up.

He sure likes that robe, huh? Second time in two days he’s had it on. 

Of course, your internal musing can only continue for so long until his voice breaks the teasing antics.

“..Who’s ‘prune’?” He grunts drowsily, bringing a hand to rub at his eyes.

Cute.

“You, obviously,” You feign a scowl, crossing your arms. “I debated on saying prick, but I think your parents would recognize who I wanted to see if I said prune.”

His heavy sigh of a response earns your snicker, like a begrudging old man in a young body.

“What is that?”

“I told you this town was old. Also, why don’t you have a mesh screen in front of your door?” You grumble, crossing your arms as you stare down at the rotting wooden toolbox you grasp.

He mimics your crossed arms, expressive brows furrowing defensively.

“A what?”

“You’re hopeless,” You sigh, running a hand through sweat-stuck hair. “Leave the door unlocked, I’ll put one in for you. You’ll need it with the summer bugs.”

“..Huh?”

“Just say thanks, Minho. You’re welcome.”

“But I-“

“No. You’re welcome.” 

And in the span of fifteen seconds, Minho both hired someone and lost something akin to a miniature, one-sided argument. 

Oh, and his ego. He lost that too.

On your side of the story, you got booked for a plentiful four hours at the Lee residence and a free sandwich, a gift from his mother for your kindness whilst an angry prune sulked in the corner of the room (beside you), trying to telepathically communicate to his smitten mother to kick you out. 

To no avail. Evidently. Leaving the seventeen-year-old to eyeball your oddly skillful handiwork on the door, watching the strands of hair glue to your forehead from sweat, the determined poke of your tongue against your cheek.

When you ask for a screwdriver—philip’s or flat-head (he does know the difference)—and your eyes flicker up to him, gazing through your lashes. The diligent furrow in your brow, victorious smile upon completion. 

He swallows hard, a droplet of sweat slipping beneath his collar. 

Blame it on the heat. 

But when you offer him that tiny glance he catches just too late, it feels as if the summer has heated up even more.

Somewhere in the house, Soonie meows.

As much as you’d like to say your encounters were totally intentional and controllable, one would single out into a truth, and the other a lie.

Yes, you did intend to spy on the brunette a bit. But no, you didn’t anticipate the neighborhood library would be the place, nor that your hands would go reaching for the same book.

“Prune?”

“Y/N?”

The both of you exclaim in unison, eyes widened in confusion and alarm. He dons a loose t-shirt, baggy blue jeans drag at the floor, worn black converse peeking from the cuff. A casual outfit, you assume. That, and that he had a nap earlier—those brown eyes still a bit dazed where they search your face.

Cute.

Clearing your throat so loud it shocks even yourself, you’re left to bathe in both a realization and a silence far too frightening.

Number one, Lee Minho is not cute. Number two, he’s holding the book you want. Your book. 

“..I didn’t know you could read.”

Thanks, jackass.

Lee Minho is also a jackass. Not cute.

Then a stubborn strand of hair loops the wrong way, and you’re abandoned to fight an internal battle of deny and concede. Simultaneously warding off the itch to just reach, get close enough to catch a whiff of that petrichor, his smell. 

Wait- petrichor?

Never mind. 

“The book is mine.”

“Not if my hand was on it first,” He bites back, just as lethal.

Though, you must admit, spiteful is a pretty picture he paints—though his character still needs some work to fix the irritability factor.  

“You’re delusional.”

“All that sun has made your brain fried.”

Leaping for the book he clutches, your lucky index and thumb fasten around the aged cover, raising it to land a smack to his head before he grabs your wrist, the boy’s foot moving a bit too fast for his legs to catch up to before you both go toppling down.

“You little-“

“Gah! Your hand is on my butt! Get off!”

And… perhaps there was a root to getting kicked out of the library after all. 

Bruised bodies, no book. 

…

“You’re wearing full coverage clothes in the middle of July.” You mutter, more of a statement of both terror and awe than a question. 

Head to toe the boy’s covered, sun hat to match.

Terrifying.

“And?” He grumbles, cheek bruised, nose bloodied where your elbow had hit in the rush to get up from the library’s floor.

You don’t look much better, with black and blue kneecaps and sticky skin.

Oh the woes of walking home in the same direction.

“And? You’re insane.”

 “Third time you’ve said that today.”

“Choke.”

“You first.”

It’s quite funny how quickly someone becomes a staple.

To stick those multiple pieces of paper together, you can use an abundance of resources. Tape, paper clip. 

Though Minho likes to think the most reliable of the bunch is a staple. It’s hard getting rid of, but serves its purpose flawlessly.

A friend, and something you look for assiduously when gone awry. 

Minho also likes to think you’re quite similar to that staple. 

Hurts when you tread over top, but quite the reliable thing when prompted. 

Somewhat reliable.

Nevertheless exceptionally irritating, frustrating, and taxing to the years of patience he once believed he carried with grace. 

This first week in Fenwood had truly tested that statement.

So when he approaches your porch on that fateful Sunday afternoon, the grueling sunlight bathing his back in an orange glow, Minho becomes all too aware of the sweat building in his palms and dappling his forehead (Is he sweating too much?).

He opens his mouth to speak, scorning the empty water bottle crackling under his vice-like grip, supposedly responsible for quenching thirst; now raking his throat dry.

“Y/N-“

He starts, (too forward?) trying to recall the endless rehearsals in his dirty bathroom mirror, to Soonie. 

Because before he knew it, you’d become more than a pest. A staple. Someone he looks for in the crowd.

Minho thinks gaining that affinity might just be dangerous.

How bothersome. 

Your head peeking up where you read your book makes his heart pound, makes his self consciousness spike to a nearly unbearable degree.

Occupying the creaking rocking chair, he fixates on the repetitive swing of that one strand of hair as if hypnotized, the way it furls close to your forehead proof of the humidity. 

Cute. 

His eyes flit from you to the book, feeling quite like a child in search of some excuse for their troublemaking. 

He’d hate to admit the situation is exactly that.

“Prune?”

Oh to be called a wrinkled plum and for his heart to flutter. What sort of spell had you cast?

“What… What are you reading?”

‘Too boring, too boring!’ He internally shrieks, a shrill, high pitched sound of utter terror and disdain ricocheting through his skull.

First seconds and he’s already looping down into a point of no return with you as the first-hand witness to his self destruction.

“..An autobiography.. Why?” You narrow your eyes, rightfully suspicious. These past few weeks had been filled with nothing but jests and jeers, after all. 

Confused, now you’re confused.

Minho would like to scribble down in his occasional ‘opens-up-twice-a-year’ journal he’s learned you read autobiographies (at the expense of his pride and stupidity).

“..Just curious.” He shrugs, but it’s more like a desperate attempt to shake off the nervous tension making his rigid shoulders ache.

He both despises and respects your ruthless ability to render him speechless, useless. 

Yet your thoughtful stare solidifies the statement—and he doesn’t think his heart could slow down even if he tried stopping it.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump.

“Prune, if you’re here for me not letting you have the book, almost drowning you, or threatening you with a crawfish in your bed, I hate to tell you but I was a hundred percent seriou-“

“Are you free tomorrow?”

No, this time he wasn’t too boring, with a heartbeat rivaling the cry of cicadas squealing against water oak trees, the racket of drums his old neighbor, Han Jisung, used to beat upon. 

“..Are you asking me on a date?” (Straight to the point, huh?)

“Yes.”

He’d be a fool to deny it.

In a matter of seconds, just about every possible rejection coursed through his mind. Maybe you laugh at him, walk right inside and slam the door shut behind you to never talk to him agai—

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

And just when he was preparing to be let down, you surprise him again and again.

Minho likes to think this won’t be the last time that happens.

“Look, okay, I am an expert when it comes to these kinds of things.”

How asking you on a date ended up with Minho’s kitchen crowded with two men whose names he’d only learned hours after asking you out is beyond him, but to be honest, as long as some help is offered and advice is given, he’ll take what he can get.

Would he ever admit that? Hell no.

But the sweatiness of his palms and nervousness awaiting any voicemail is becoming concerning even for him, and right now, your friends (apparently), Han Jisung and Christopher Bahng (great, a guy with a sound effect for a last name) have come royally uninvited and very much enthusiastic.

Enough that Minho doesn’t think he could refuse them even if he tried.

“Taking girls on dates or making food? ‘Cause uh.. Ow!”

A sharp smack to the shoulder shuts Chris up simultaneously, busying his hands in wrapping ham and cheese sandwiches in saran wrap. 

“So..” Minho clicks his tongue, both an anxious tick and his way of gathering thoughts. “How did you two meet—“

“‘Knew each other when we were kids.”

“I tried to ask her out in middle scho—“

“He played guitar really badly at the school festival. I guess Y/N had a thing for bad guitar-players because-“ Snapping his fingers, the eldest of the three, Chris, snorts his laughter watching the pinkness of Han’s ears flood to his cheeks instead. 

“Friends ever since.”

And between Han’s mumbled: “that’s so not true” and the teasing tongue his friend sticks out at him in turn, he can’t help but feel his own lips crack into an unconscious grin, quietly dicing apples and melon.

The date he was taking you on in question? A picnic. 

Nice and simple, not too overwhelming. Right?

That’s what he told himself as a coping mechanism to not become overwhelmed despite the roaring doubts, worries. What if you had an allergy? What if you didn’t like it or the sandwiches got soggy or he looked like a dork? 

Minho wasn’t a usual control-freak, but he wanted to make this good. Or, y’know, whatever “good” is for both you and him. 

An explanation as to how the two got word of your date together has long since been abandoned in terms of explaining, but taking a look around—watching Chris load sodas into the corner of the basket, cool condensation dampening the gingham interior.

Or Han, currently trying to perfectly slice a strawberry and grape sando in half—he feels as if, for only a moment, things might go just fine. 

.

.

.

“Jisung, is that a penny in the pasta salad?”

In turn, one removed penny and remade pasta salad later and Minho is up and ready earlier than he thinks he’d ever been before—ensuring his pants aren’t too wrinkled, collar of his white undershirt peeking from the sweater’s neckline just enough. 

What are you wearing? He wonders to himself, doublechecking that the call he made just yesterday about the date being a picnic hadn’t been a dream after all.

The sleepy hum you gave in response after he woke you from your nap, his denial to admit how he’d pressed the phone closer to his face, seeking more your voice.

Is it too much? Another thought, that seed of insecurity worming into his heart. 

Regardless, by 11am sharp he forces himself from the confines of his self-inflicted torment, picnic basket in hand, worn-on-the-daily converse double knotted.

Then a whistle resounds, and all earlier nerves are instantly replaced with utmost exasperation as the boy stops in his tracks.

“Lookin’ good, lookin’ good, Min!”

Why they decided to use the nickname—“they” being none other than Chris and Han in the older boy’s 1967 Chevy Impala—was a matter he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around if he tried. 

His own personal cheering squad, and he doesn’t know if he should feel flattered or horrified.

At the moment, more of the latter.

“She’ll love it!” Han hollers, holding up two thumbs-up like his life depends on it before Chris clears his throat.

“But uh, just be good to her, ‘kay? Otherwise we’ll have to-“

The shooting gesture made with his hand works effortlessly in helping Minho realize his actual feelings.

Horrified. Just horrified.

Honking his horn, he swears he could’ve beat his kitties in a record for how quickly he bristled. 

“Just kidding! Go get ‘em, tiger!” 

Watching the two speed off like there’s no tomorrow, he’d like to think the murmured ‘kinda’ Chris mouthed after saying he was joking was a mere hallucination. 

Nonetheless, he knows better than to sidestep the guy with a gun sound effect as a last name. Or, frankly, you, for that matter. 

So with a deep breath and a frazzled wobble to his walk later, Minho shakes off all his earlier worries and pushes on, the image of you in mind helping narrowly dodge some unwanted apprehension. 

And holy shit were you an image.

All the worries, anxiety, fades away as if it were nothing at all the moment you lock eyes.

Minho swallows hard.

…

Do you know those scenes in cheesy high school movies where the love interest is surrounded by a whole bunch of sparkles and everything else fades away?

“Minho! Hey!” You shout, waving a hand from afar. In the middle of the field you stand, summer breeze whipping your hair every which way, that huge, positively stunning smile tugging at your cheeks.

Yeah. That cheesy scene is happening now. 

It takes every ounce of consciousness to keep the boy from letting his picnic basket slip right from his grasp, those honey-brown eyes the size of saucers.

When he started seeing you in a new light he couldn’t recall, but dammit.

It’s bad.

Jogging up to him doesn’t help, merely further constricting the airflow to his brain and increasing each deafening pound of his heartbeat.

Meanwhile, you look as if today is any regular day in the neighborhood, all cheery and anticipatory. 

The envy eats Minho alive. 

“Wow, look at you, all cute today.”

It’s incredible how you manage to appear so unbothered, either kindly ignoring or utterly oblivious to the burning heat coloring the boy pink upon fixing his collar, your surprisingly gentle touch smoothing out a few crinkles in the fabric, offering a scolding click of your tongue before stepping away.

“‘Found a good spot, c’mon!” 

You take his hand with ease while Minho had to work up the courage to call you a second time and make sure the timing was okay this morning. 

Staring at the back of your head as you lead, a single thought breaches the forefront of his mind. 

This is going to be the longest picnic of his life.

“You look nice though, really.”

Moving to Fenwood presented a whole lot of unfamiliar challenges. Navigating school, conversing with the locals, meeting you and dodging nagging threats left and right.

In this case, it’s you complimenting him that serves as a challenge, all too used to the usual calloused banter. 

“Thank you.”

So prim and proper, the reply comes out as. He wishes he never opened his mouth. 

Your giggle in return helps soothe his nerves, if only slightly, while reaching for another sandwich. Two Jarritos sodas cracked open, metallic caps resting on the picnic blanket. 

His is lime flavored, yours mango. Fitting, in its own, odd way.

Speaking your mind, you lean forward, foot haphazardly bumping into his in the process.

“Y’know, it fits.”

The tilt of his head urges you to continue, lips curving into a teasing smile solely reserved for him. No barriers, hesitation. Conversations you’ve come to adore purely for the honesty, ridiculousness.

“Lime flavor. ‘S like you, all sour.”

Then he gets in your face, something neither of you were prepared for.

“Thanks, sweetheart. ‘Can’t ever get a compliment without a remark after, hm?”

Sure, you would’ve liked to retort an equally sassy comeback, but the both of you are instead reduced to flustered messes thanks to the proximity, immediately swooping away from each other with constipated-looking expressions and tomato-red faces.

Why did I say that, why did I say that, why did I say that? Minho’s head swivels like a spinning top.

Did he just call me sweetheart? You internally panic, scorning the rapid thud of your heart, feeling ready to burst from your ribcage any minute now.

Luckily, thirty seconds and fervently stuffing strawberries in your mouth later, the tension seems to cool, resorting to idle chatter and slow breaths, savoring the intermittent breeze sweeping past. 

“I thought you were an entitled prick at first, you know.”

Always a catch.

Minho emits a pained grunt, lightly elbowing your side in retaliation thanks to the mouthful of sando he’d just taken. 

The same sando that, after waiting for the bright side to your words, you whine about wanting to take a bite of, simultaneously amusing and exasperating the secretly soft-hearted city boy who—after eyeing you suspiciously—extends the sweet treat.

“Real classy, huh,” Comes his singular mumble, brow cocking upon watching the downright shameless bite you devour, bits of whipped cream clinging to the corner of your lips. 

He hates how easy it is to adore that annoyed look he receives in turn, the urge to dip down and—

“Wanna kiss the mess off me?”

.

.

.

What.

A minute, maybe ten pass before he can even begin to think.

No, obviously not. Why would he ever want to—

Logistics betray him, he betrays himself. Because the longer he stares at your lips, the more his pupils dilate, his fingers curl into the picnic basket below.

A veil of privacy within the incoming darkness of night ease his worries about passerby, those eyes you’re fixing him with causing the blood to only grow louder in his eardrums. 

He’s an idiot.

And right now, he’s so in love.

It’s a small glance, a hasty flicker between your nose, eyes, lips. His lashes dust downwards, and he thanks the second-long distraction from your gaze to admit the truth. 

“God yes.”

Clumsily, oh so clumsy as he dips down, lips wrapping around your bottom lip, licking off the whipped cream residue prior to pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips and diving right back in. 

You taste like sugar, like the mango soda you’d taken a swig minutes ago and Minho thinks he may explode. 

Escalating, escalating. A mix of breath and lips and sighs.

Then your teeth hit each other and the both of you fizzle out like his own like flavored soda into laughter, far too embarrassed to bother with hiding away.

“Did you-“ You heave between fits of laughter. “Did you mean to do-“

“Can I kiss you s’more?”

Pathetic, he’s sure it looks like.

To you, Minho looks like a slice of heaven. He’s all flushed, collar a bit untidy given the way you’d hoisted him closer, lips puffy and swollen after just a few playful nips. 

Giving you those yearning eyes, all glossy and blown.

And right now, you’d be the biggest idiot in Fenwood to deny him.

Fingers looping around his chin, he all but groans when you press your lips to his once more.

If this is what the longest picnic of his life looks like, Minho doesn’t think he wants it to end. 

It’s not that you didn’t want to tell your grandma, just that—

“Shameless young’in’s, shameless!”

She paces back and forth, waving a hand around as if to enunciate her statement.

Of course, you try to ease the elderly woman from her daily frustrated tangent, to no avail.

“Walkin’ around the public library, ‘got all these lipstick marks on his neck! I’m tellin’ ya, it’s those city boys. All shameless!”

A pause, the hunched woman turning to you with a suspicious furrow of her brow.

“Say, didn’t you just come from the library?”

Shit.

FIC TAGLIST. @roseanne-yoon, @tirena1

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

⎯ marigold blume. ⟡ featuring lee minho

📻 : Lee Minho x implied! fem. reader

TROPE. small town! au, city boy minho! au, summer! au, dumb and dumber (let’s be honest here), enemies to lovers! au, friends to lovers! au, wetlands/marshland setting, fluff, barely any angst

WORD COUNT. 6.2k words ☆ 25min read

WARNINGS. cursing, reader lives with their grandma, reader is written as more feminine/referred to with she/her pronouns

AUG'S NOTES. it has been… what, two months since i’ve released a fic? unreal. although i’m sure aspects of this fic could be better (as for all my fics), i’m really proud of myself for finishing it while experiencing major writers block. thank you to everyone who’s been so patiently waiting :) i hope this fic gives justice to the anticipation<33

SYNOPSIS. Late July, and the mosquitoes have never been more infuriating. Every year you’re hauled down here, a place you count the days till leaving. “Here” being the wetlands: humid, swampy, and awful. But when a new appearance enters, a new someone appears, you begin to rethink that wish to leave.

or alternatively :

In which Lee Minho opens up your eyes to a life you’d been missing. One with him in it.

When a new person moves to Fenwood, there’s a few things that must be known.

No welcome party has ever been held.

The last thing you want is to be unfriendly.

One of which happens to have already been broken. 

“You new here?” You shout, latching the hooks to each crawfish trap and tossing it over the wooden canoe. 

“No,” He responds, not bothering to even look up from his spot crouched on the dock, staring down into the black hole of murky water below.

Waiting a moment, you glance up, scanning his model-like visage. Perfect nose, eyes, skin. His beauty sticks out like a sore thumb. 

Leave it to you to be the first in discovering Fenwood’s latest occupant.

“…Have you lived here—“

“No.”

Rising up from his spot—still not even sparing you a glance—he turns to walk away, leaving you to make sour faces behind his back. 

Who shoved a rod up his ass?

“Hey Grandma!” You shout, closing the squealing screen door and welcoming the mouth-watering smell of dinner.

A good distraction after that jerk, anyway.

Today hosted a good catch. Four, maybe five crawfish squabbling about in the pale blue bucket outside the residence. Rickety, and a bit dilapidated with typhoons dropping by on occasion. Torrential rains, age.

Meanwhile, your grandmother is busy focusing on scaling a trout, staunching the once delicious aroma with the stench of fish sliced by wrinkled, calloused fingers.

“Have you,” You use your index and thumb to pinch your nose closed. “Heard of anyone new movin’ here recently?”

She barks a laugh, skewing the fish’s head off in one swift motion, causing you to cringe back in disgust. 

“Movin’ here? Only a fool would do that. I ain’t heard nothin’ from town.”

Not wrong. Fenwood isn’t the most popular among moving destinations anyway.

Chewing your lip thoughtfully, you stand there, bouncing on your heels and devising the next step to uncovering that rude boy’s identity.

Your grandmother turns to you, a singular eyebrow raised.

“What? You saw somethin’?”

Quickly shaking your head as if to evade her pestering questions, you wordlessly rush up the stairs, grateful for the chance to breathe fresh air again within the safe confines of your room.

Alright. Now for the investigating.

Power-lines officially flicker out at midnight due to lack of the money the town can provide for twenty-four hour electricity, meaning your opportunity for info begins now.

And while someone’s occupied, you sneak into your grandfathers room, carefully tiptoe to the landline phone, fingers haphazardly dialing those long-since memorized numbers.

“Chris- Chris pick up-“

“…Hello?”

Christopher Bahng, more or less the town’s heartbreaker. He’s stupidly charming (or so he likes to think), earning the town grandma’s fawning coos on endless occasions and plenty of confessions whilst attending the sad excuse known as Fenwood’s high school. 

A hundred people, at most, with a rotting basketball hoop by the main entrance and a football team that hasn’t won a single game in six years. 

Chris brought a change to the losing streak last year, and since then, he’s been nothing short of Fenwood’s version of Ryan Gosling.

Honeyed tan skin, supernaturally blond hair that winds in messy curls covering his forehead, and a smile you’d like to feature in some sort of history book.

Also, in easier terms: your best friend. A boy who, despite his current popularity, once harbored a massive gap between his front teeth, with nerdy interests and an even nerdier pair of glasses exchanged for contacts a while back.

“Don’t tell me you’re already asleep. How old are you? Sixty?”

“Ah… Shuddap… just had the best nap..” He groggily replies, faint rustling of bedsheets resounding through the crackling line.

As much as he may be Fenwood’s heartbreaker, there wasn’t an ounce of shame between either of you. The fact you knew of the boy since his middle school years paved enough embarassing memories to become unaffected. 

“Get beauty rest another time, I need help figurin’ out something.”

“..Take out the cover and put the dish insid-“

“Not the microwave! A person!”

“Mm? Who?”

You groan avidly, brows knit. Time is of the essence, and it’s impertinent you at least get one piece of info before your grandma berates you for using the phone too long.

“Look, if I explain it, you’ll think I’ve got some crush. Which I don’t. But he’s got this-“

“Lee Minho? Great skin, looks real out of place? He just moved in next door, ‘says his Mom is gon’ be the new clinic doctor.”

“You’re kidding.”

A brisk chuckle is heard from the other end, low and littered with far too many voice cracks.

“That’s what I said too. He’s been the talk of the town since Mr. Kim saw his mom unloading the moving truck.”

Mr. Kim being the town’s loathed tax collector, that is.

“And what do you know about him?”

‘Him’ being this Lee Minho character.

Hanging onto every syllable he plans to enunciate, your ounce of consolation is quelled when the ringing of your grandmother’s voice beckons you down for dinner—instinctively slamming the landline down onto its stand and cutting off the call.

At least there’s a name. Lee Minho, belonging to the prick by the dockside.

It’s a start, for what it’s worth.

New title: Wet-cat prick.

Who knew your failure to gain information would end up fulfilled at some point?

Fulfilled, as in: walking into town only to see a wobbly, canoe-seated Minho ultimately tip over. 

Granted, any other day you would’ve laughed. A day when the person came to the surface, sputtering and cursing their disdain.

Though, on this day, said person doesn’t come up — leading to kicked off shoes and your once dry outfit drenched as you leap into the muddled water below and fish out the man, lugging his gasping form to nearby wooden planks.

“You never.. You never told me you couldn’t swim!” 

Heaving each word between laborious panting, the boy beside you collapses on warm panels, cheek smushed against the sun-heated dock below. 

“Didn’t think it was a requirement,” He manages, irritably long lashes dusting away water droplets, looking more like tantrum-exhausted toddler having thrown themselves onto the floor in protest than someone who just about drowned.

Laughing humorlessly, you slap his shoulder, annoyance visible in the pinch of your eyebrows he responds to with a grunt of his own irritation. 

Blinding summer sunlight overhead renders your eyesight less than able, but even then is it difficult ignore how pretty Minho is, with his pretty boy t-shirt clinging to his arms, his pretty boy hair sticky against his forehead.

Hah. As if. 

“Then you’re an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Wringing your clothing and peering out at the now lingering canoe, it’s then a realization hits you, head whipping to Minho who utterly pales, face white as a sheet.

Just this morning you’d planned to check on Ms. Joo’s blue crab cages on the Northern shore point, noticing a rather peculiar disappearance of your canoe.

Well, frankly, a rather sketchy canoe with plenty of holes on the sides, old doodles from your youth in permanent marker, and a smell you told yourself wasn’t fish guts. 

But it worked, and that was good enough for you.

So then, why the hell is it right here?

“..Is that my canoe?”

Unfortunately for you and fortunately for the Wet-cat prick, an auntie stepped in before you could drown the boy yourself, your shared walk through the back streets to each other’s home solely to dry off in the sun (or so you told yourself). 

The squeak of wet shoes ring in your ears, tee glued to your skin sticky from a mixture of sweat and swamp-water—the stench likely nauseating. 

One thing about Minho? He pouts like a child. Stomping his feet, lagging a good five feet behind as if waiting for your pitying coo.

A coo you don’t allow the boy to delight in, alternatively crossing your arms firmly over your chest and beckoning a heavy sigh from over your shoulder in reply.

Big baby.

Brat.

Your list of insults could’ve gone on for at least two days straight, but the interruption of a cat from his front doorsteps results in such internal beration catching upon your tongue. 

Its tabby fur smooths over your calf, tail flicking in delight and ah, the cutie serves as a much-needed distraction from your previous frustration. 

Unbeknownst to you, a certain someone—not feline—had all but stopped in his tracks, eyes fixated on you as a child would some shiny piece of jewelry, fascinated and utterly awestruck. 

Since moving to Fenwood, Soonie had been last to warm up to anyone other than family, mewing his distaste each time the mailman drops by in the morning, leaping onto the nearest post to avoid passing children. 

And now he’s purring, paws propped upon the toe of your shoe, blissfully soaking up every stroke of your fingers atop his head. 

Frankly, Minho had found you more than irking. Nosy, stubborn, and most of all, bothersome. This little gnat buzzing across his nose, never seeming to cease.

So why does this closed off kitty of his feel so different? What’s so special about you?

A mere glance more spared your way and his attention then flickers to the cat in question, lifted brow with a miniature scoff of disdain announcing more than needs to be said aloud.

Traitor.

Soonie meets his glare, proceeding to twitch his tail and purr louder beneath your attention in retaliation. 

“Why.”

The question is more rhetoric than anything, his signature stare down currently targeting the cat lifted by the armpits into the air, hovering above the boy. 

Soonie meows, unimpressed.

“She’s not even that nice, y’know. Are you a masochist?” No nonsense, Minho speaks with utter seriousness when regarding his kitties, expression furrowed as if trying to catch the answer in those slit-pupils.

“No, she’s frustrating.”

Closing his eyes, you swim under his eyelids, face blooming in mind. 

Most distinctly does he envision your hand reaching for him when he began to sink—head this fuzzy, nearly dizzied blur as the oxygen slowly dissipated. A grounding force, that tight grasp of yours.

You’d give a firm handshake. 

Of the many stupid thoughts within his skull, this one beckons a humorless snort, cracking an eye open to stare accusingly at his furry companion as if he had placed the thought there. 

Minho closes his eyes again, trying aimlessly to discover just what was up with you, why his most trusted compadre found you remotely appealing. 

This time, he recalls that first breath of air upon being dragged to solid ground, unfocused pupils dilating in order to catch glimpses of your frame beside him. Flushed cheeks from the heat, droplets clinging to your skin. That captivating part of your lips, equally as breathless where your clothing stuck to your skin—

Springing up from where he’d once comfortably laid, he both scares the betrayer Soonie from his bed and effectively stains his cheeks a deep red, hand running over his face in exasperation. 

The childish groan that escapes the boy earns his mother’s click of the tongue from downstairs. 

Crap.

This isn’t good.

Sure, he may have been plagued with images of you the night before, but just what sin did he have to commit to begin hearing voices?

And no, not dirty images. 

Weirdo.

“Rise and shine, jerk! Swimming lessons start today!”

What is this, karma? For almost drowning? 

Wait.

That’s real.

For the second time in two days, Minho springs from bed as if a trumpet had been blown in his ear, rushing to the window and praying he’d merely hallucinated.

Lo and behold, you’re there, waving your hands like a wild person and calling him to the front yard at 7am, clad in pajamas and looking just about as conscious as he is right now.

This can’t be real. 

“Oh it’s real alright! C’mon! It’ll get too hot by noon!”

Convinced you’re either a psychic or your timing is impeccable, he’s sluggish in descending the stairwell, rethinking if drowning was the right choice after all.

“What the hell are you doing outside my house at the asscrack of dawn?” A very grumpy, very disagreeable Lee Minho demands, sleeping robe downright laughable if not for the unimpressed scowl tugging at his lips, silencing the snort you almost let out.

For now, he remains a safe, not-grabbing distance by the front door, a suitable boundary you never fail to cross upon grabbing his hand. 

Good handshake.

The words hit him like a train. A haunting, repetitive observation he wants to cave in on himself for remotely thinking, never even having said it aloud. Like a child. 

It’s not like it’s embarrassing, just.. stupid. And Minho’s pride has been tested far too many times to not take precautions.

In turn, a five minute walk (more like a parent dragging their tantrum-throwing infant) and your odd question on whether he had clothing on beneath his robe results in pausing at a trough.

Rather large in size and looking more like a torture device the longer you devilishly glance from him to it, in less than five seconds he feels his heart drop to the heels of his feet. 

“You’re not—“

“I said swimming lessons, didn’t I? It’s pretty lukewarm, y’know. I could’ve made it freezing cold.” 

Oh yeah. Real generous. 

Sticking out your tongue at him only prevails to make the boy more grumpy, hesitant to weigh his options on either running or complying.

Although the eyeball you’ve fixed him with tells the boy there’s only one option, and if removing his robe wasn’t the most painful thing he’d done in years, this would chart a new record. 

Well, correction, removing his robe and showing off the not-so-favorable paw print patterned boxers he dons, ears marveling an uncanny similarity to tomatoes the longer you gape.  

“That’s.. wow. Impressive.”

“Shut up.”

And so, the swimming lessons began. Or, however well swimming lessons go while holding the boy's hands, guiding him into a steady rhythm of kicking and paddling that sends his face burning hotter.

Humiliating doesn’t even cut it, and to be honest, he's secretly grateful you chose the morning to force him into this. 

That secret would be buried with him. That, and the stupid, stupid handshake thought. 

But then you laugh, and he feels quite like Soonie in the way his eyes flicker upwards as if given command, drawn to the happy sound instinctively. 

The curve of your lips, that special knit of your brow. 

The second spontaneous thing you’ve done today was reach into your bag and pull out matching ham sandwiches. That he doesn’t complain about, gnawing at the bread without complaint where the both of you sit on the curb. 

When your foot shifts and bumps against his, or the momentary glance and silent point to his cheek—wordlessly telling him about a crumb residing there.

For a minute, he understands his cat’s infatuation.

Only a minute.

“Hey! Prune!” You shout at his doorway, offered a few moments of no reply and your ceaseless shouting until the grumpy boy glowers at you from the porch, brows permanently furrowed, hair a mess, and looking far too appealing to have just woken up.

He sure likes that robe, huh? Second time in two days he’s had it on. 

Of course, your internal musing can only continue for so long until his voice breaks the teasing antics.

“..Who’s ‘prune’?” He grunts drowsily, bringing a hand to rub at his eyes.

Cute.

“You, obviously,” You feign a scowl, crossing your arms. “I debated on saying prick, but I think your parents would recognize who I wanted to see if I said prune.”

His heavy sigh of a response earns your snicker, like a begrudging old man in a young body.

“What is that?”

“I told you this town was old. Also, why don’t you have a mesh screen in front of your door?” You grumble, crossing your arms as you stare down at the rotting wooden toolbox you grasp.

He mimics your crossed arms, expressive brows furrowing defensively.

“A what?”

“You’re hopeless,” You sigh, running a hand through sweat-stuck hair. “Leave the door unlocked, I’ll put one in for you. You’ll need it with the summer bugs.”

“..Huh?”

“Just say thanks, Minho. You’re welcome.”

“But I-“

“No. You’re welcome.” 

And in the span of fifteen seconds, Minho both hired someone and lost something akin to a miniature, one-sided argument. 

Oh, and his ego. He lost that too.

On your side of the story, you got booked for a plentiful four hours at the Lee residence and a free sandwich, a gift from his mother for your kindness whilst an angry prune sulked in the corner of the room (beside you), trying to telepathically communicate to his smitten mother to kick you out. 

To no avail. Evidently. Leaving the seventeen-year-old to eyeball your oddly skillful handiwork on the door, watching the strands of hair glue to your forehead from sweat, the determined poke of your tongue against your cheek.

When you ask for a screwdriver—philip’s or flat-head (he does know the difference)—and your eyes flicker up to him, gazing through your lashes. The diligent furrow in your brow, victorious smile upon completion. 

He swallows hard, a droplet of sweat slipping beneath his collar. 

Blame it on the heat. 

But when you offer him that tiny glance he catches just too late, it feels as if the summer has heated up even more.

Somewhere in the house, Soonie meows.

As much as you’d like to say your encounters were totally intentional and controllable, one would single out into a truth, and the other a lie.

Yes, you did intend to spy on the brunette a bit. But no, you didn’t anticipate the neighborhood library would be the place, nor that your hands would go reaching for the same book.

“Prune?”

“Y/N?”

The both of you exclaim in unison, eyes widened in confusion and alarm. He dons a loose t-shirt, baggy blue jeans drag at the floor, worn black converse peeking from the cuff. A casual outfit, you assume. That, and that he had a nap earlier—those brown eyes still a bit dazed where they search your face.

Cute.

Clearing your throat so loud it shocks even yourself, you’re left to bathe in both a realization and a silence far too frightening.

Number one, Lee Minho is not cute. Number two, he’s holding the book you want. Your book. 

“..I didn’t know you could read.”

Thanks, jackass.

Lee Minho is also a jackass. Not cute.

Then a stubborn strand of hair loops the wrong way, and you’re abandoned to fight an internal battle of deny and concede. Simultaneously warding off the itch to just reach, get close enough to catch a whiff of that petrichor, his smell. 

Wait- petrichor?

Never mind. 

“The book is mine.”

“Not if my hand was on it first,” He bites back, just as lethal.

Though, you must admit, spiteful is a pretty picture he paints—though his character still needs some work to fix the irritability factor.  

“You’re delusional.”

“All that sun has made your brain fried.”

Leaping for the book he clutches, your lucky index and thumb fasten around the aged cover, raising it to land a smack to his head before he grabs your wrist, the boy’s foot moving a bit too fast for his legs to catch up to before you both go toppling down.

“You little-“

“Gah! Your hand is on my butt! Get off!”

And… perhaps there was a root to getting kicked out of the library after all. 

Bruised bodies, no book. 

…

“You’re wearing full coverage clothes in the middle of July.” You mutter, more of a statement of both terror and awe than a question. 

Head to toe the boy’s covered, sun hat to match.

Terrifying.

“And?” He grumbles, cheek bruised, nose bloodied where your elbow had hit in the rush to get up from the library’s floor.

You don’t look much better, with black and blue kneecaps and sticky skin.

Oh the woes of walking home in the same direction.

“And? You’re insane.”

 “Third time you’ve said that today.”

“Choke.”

“You first.”

It’s quite funny how quickly someone becomes a staple.

To stick those multiple pieces of paper together, you can use an abundance of resources. Tape, paper clip. 

Though Minho likes to think the most reliable of the bunch is a staple. It’s hard getting rid of, but serves its purpose flawlessly.

A friend, and something you look for assiduously when gone awry. 

Minho also likes to think you’re quite similar to that staple. 

Hurts when you tread over top, but quite the reliable thing when prompted. 

Somewhat reliable.

Nevertheless exceptionally irritating, frustrating, and taxing to the years of patience he once believed he carried with grace. 

This first week in Fenwood had truly tested that statement.

So when he approaches your porch on that fateful Sunday afternoon, the grueling sunlight bathing his back in an orange glow, Minho becomes all too aware of the sweat building in his palms and dappling his forehead (Is he sweating too much?).

He opens his mouth to speak, scorning the empty water bottle crackling under his vice-like grip, supposedly responsible for quenching thirst; now raking his throat dry.

“Y/N-“

He starts, (too forward?) trying to recall the endless rehearsals in his dirty bathroom mirror, to Soonie. 

Because before he knew it, you’d become more than a pest. A staple. Someone he looks for in the crowd.

Minho thinks gaining that affinity might just be dangerous.

How bothersome. 

Your head peeking up where you read your book makes his heart pound, makes his self consciousness spike to a nearly unbearable degree.

Occupying the creaking rocking chair, he fixates on the repetitive swing of that one strand of hair as if hypnotized, the way it furls close to your forehead proof of the humidity. 

Cute. 

His eyes flit from you to the book, feeling quite like a child in search of some excuse for their troublemaking. 

He’d hate to admit the situation is exactly that.

“Prune?”

Oh to be called a wrinkled plum and for his heart to flutter. What sort of spell had you cast?

“What… What are you reading?”

‘Too boring, too boring!’ He internally shrieks, a shrill, high pitched sound of utter terror and disdain ricocheting through his skull.

First seconds and he’s already looping down into a point of no return with you as the first-hand witness to his self destruction.

“..An autobiography.. Why?” You narrow your eyes, rightfully suspicious. These past few weeks had been filled with nothing but jests and jeers, after all. 

Confused, now you’re confused.

Minho would like to scribble down in his occasional ‘opens-up-twice-a-year’ journal he’s learned you read autobiographies (at the expense of his pride and stupidity).

“..Just curious.” He shrugs, but it’s more like a desperate attempt to shake off the nervous tension making his rigid shoulders ache.

He both despises and respects your ruthless ability to render him speechless, useless. 

Yet your thoughtful stare solidifies the statement—and he doesn’t think his heart could slow down even if he tried stopping it.

Thump. 

Thump. 

Thump.

“Prune, if you’re here for me not letting you have the book, almost drowning you, or threatening you with a crawfish in your bed, I hate to tell you but I was a hundred percent seriou-“

“Are you free tomorrow?”

No, this time he wasn’t too boring, with a heartbeat rivaling the cry of cicadas squealing against water oak trees, the racket of drums his old neighbor, Han Jisung, used to beat upon. 

“..Are you asking me on a date?” (Straight to the point, huh?)

“Yes.”

He’d be a fool to deny it.

In a matter of seconds, just about every possible rejection coursed through his mind. Maybe you laugh at him, walk right inside and slam the door shut behind you to never talk to him agai—

“Okay, what do you wanna do?”

And just when he was preparing to be let down, you surprise him again and again.

Minho likes to think this won’t be the last time that happens.

“Look, okay, I am an expert when it comes to these kinds of things.”

How asking you on a date ended up with Minho’s kitchen crowded with two men whose names he’d only learned hours after asking you out is beyond him, but to be honest, as long as some help is offered and advice is given, he’ll take what he can get.

Would he ever admit that? Hell no.

But the sweatiness of his palms and nervousness awaiting any voicemail is becoming concerning even for him, and right now, your friends (apparently), Han Jisung and Christopher Bahng (great, a guy with a sound effect for a last name) have come royally uninvited and very much enthusiastic.

Enough that Minho doesn’t think he could refuse them even if he tried.

“Taking girls on dates or making food? ‘Cause uh.. Ow!”

A sharp smack to the shoulder shuts Chris up simultaneously, busying his hands in wrapping ham and cheese sandwiches in saran wrap. 

“So..” Minho clicks his tongue, both an anxious tick and his way of gathering thoughts. “How did you two meet—“

“‘Knew each other when we were kids.”

“I tried to ask her out in middle scho—“

“He played guitar really badly at the school festival. I guess Y/N had a thing for bad guitar-players because-“ Snapping his fingers, the eldest of the three, Chris, snorts his laughter watching the pinkness of Han’s ears flood to his cheeks instead. 

“Friends ever since.”

And between Han’s mumbled: “that’s so not true” and the teasing tongue his friend sticks out at him in turn, he can’t help but feel his own lips crack into an unconscious grin, quietly dicing apples and melon.

The date he was taking you on in question? A picnic. 

Nice and simple, not too overwhelming. Right?

That’s what he told himself as a coping mechanism to not become overwhelmed despite the roaring doubts, worries. What if you had an allergy? What if you didn’t like it or the sandwiches got soggy or he looked like a dork? 

Minho wasn’t a usual control-freak, but he wanted to make this good. Or, y’know, whatever “good” is for both you and him. 

An explanation as to how the two got word of your date together has long since been abandoned in terms of explaining, but taking a look around—watching Chris load sodas into the corner of the basket, cool condensation dampening the gingham interior.

Or Han, currently trying to perfectly slice a strawberry and grape sando in half—he feels as if, for only a moment, things might go just fine. 

.

.

.

“Jisung, is that a penny in the pasta salad?”

In turn, one removed penny and remade pasta salad later and Minho is up and ready earlier than he thinks he’d ever been before—ensuring his pants aren’t too wrinkled, collar of his white undershirt peeking from the sweater’s neckline just enough. 

What are you wearing? He wonders to himself, doublechecking that the call he made just yesterday about the date being a picnic hadn’t been a dream after all.

The sleepy hum you gave in response after he woke you from your nap, his denial to admit how he’d pressed the phone closer to his face, seeking more your voice.

Is it too much? Another thought, that seed of insecurity worming into his heart. 

Regardless, by 11am sharp he forces himself from the confines of his self-inflicted torment, picnic basket in hand, worn-on-the-daily converse double knotted.

Then a whistle resounds, and all earlier nerves are instantly replaced with utmost exasperation as the boy stops in his tracks.

“Lookin’ good, lookin’ good, Min!”

Why they decided to use the nickname—“they” being none other than Chris and Han in the older boy’s 1967 Chevy Impala—was a matter he wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around if he tried. 

His own personal cheering squad, and he doesn’t know if he should feel flattered or horrified.

At the moment, more of the latter.

“She’ll love it!” Han hollers, holding up two thumbs-up like his life depends on it before Chris clears his throat.

“But uh, just be good to her, ‘kay? Otherwise we’ll have to-“

The shooting gesture made with his hand works effortlessly in helping Minho realize his actual feelings.

Horrified. Just horrified.

Honking his horn, he swears he could’ve beat his kitties in a record for how quickly he bristled. 

“Just kidding! Go get ‘em, tiger!” 

Watching the two speed off like there’s no tomorrow, he’d like to think the murmured ‘kinda’ Chris mouthed after saying he was joking was a mere hallucination. 

Nonetheless, he knows better than to sidestep the guy with a gun sound effect as a last name. Or, frankly, you, for that matter. 

So with a deep breath and a frazzled wobble to his walk later, Minho shakes off all his earlier worries and pushes on, the image of you in mind helping narrowly dodge some unwanted apprehension. 

And holy shit were you an image.

All the worries, anxiety, fades away as if it were nothing at all the moment you lock eyes.

Minho swallows hard.

…

Do you know those scenes in cheesy high school movies where the love interest is surrounded by a whole bunch of sparkles and everything else fades away?

“Minho! Hey!” You shout, waving a hand from afar. In the middle of the field you stand, summer breeze whipping your hair every which way, that huge, positively stunning smile tugging at your cheeks.

Yeah. That cheesy scene is happening now. 

It takes every ounce of consciousness to keep the boy from letting his picnic basket slip right from his grasp, those honey-brown eyes the size of saucers.

When he started seeing you in a new light he couldn’t recall, but dammit.

It’s bad.

Jogging up to him doesn’t help, merely further constricting the airflow to his brain and increasing each deafening pound of his heartbeat.

Meanwhile, you look as if today is any regular day in the neighborhood, all cheery and anticipatory. 

The envy eats Minho alive. 

“Wow, look at you, all cute today.”

It’s incredible how you manage to appear so unbothered, either kindly ignoring or utterly oblivious to the burning heat coloring the boy pink upon fixing his collar, your surprisingly gentle touch smoothing out a few crinkles in the fabric, offering a scolding click of your tongue before stepping away.

“‘Found a good spot, c’mon!” 

You take his hand with ease while Minho had to work up the courage to call you a second time and make sure the timing was okay this morning. 

Staring at the back of your head as you lead, a single thought breaches the forefront of his mind. 

This is going to be the longest picnic of his life.

“You look nice though, really.”

Moving to Fenwood presented a whole lot of unfamiliar challenges. Navigating school, conversing with the locals, meeting you and dodging nagging threats left and right.

In this case, it’s you complimenting him that serves as a challenge, all too used to the usual calloused banter. 

“Thank you.”

So prim and proper, the reply comes out as. He wishes he never opened his mouth. 

Your giggle in return helps soothe his nerves, if only slightly, while reaching for another sandwich. Two Jarritos sodas cracked open, metallic caps resting on the picnic blanket. 

His is lime flavored, yours mango. Fitting, in its own, odd way.

Speaking your mind, you lean forward, foot haphazardly bumping into his in the process.

“Y’know, it fits.”

The tilt of his head urges you to continue, lips curving into a teasing smile solely reserved for him. No barriers, hesitation. Conversations you’ve come to adore purely for the honesty, ridiculousness.

“Lime flavor. ‘S like you, all sour.”

Then he gets in your face, something neither of you were prepared for.

“Thanks, sweetheart. ‘Can’t ever get a compliment without a remark after, hm?”

Sure, you would’ve liked to retort an equally sassy comeback, but the both of you are instead reduced to flustered messes thanks to the proximity, immediately swooping away from each other with constipated-looking expressions and tomato-red faces.

Why did I say that, why did I say that, why did I say that? Minho’s head swivels like a spinning top.

Did he just call me sweetheart? You internally panic, scorning the rapid thud of your heart, feeling ready to burst from your ribcage any minute now.

Luckily, thirty seconds and fervently stuffing strawberries in your mouth later, the tension seems to cool, resorting to idle chatter and slow breaths, savoring the intermittent breeze sweeping past. 

“I thought you were an entitled prick at first, you know.”

Always a catch.

Minho emits a pained grunt, lightly elbowing your side in retaliation thanks to the mouthful of sando he’d just taken. 

The same sando that, after waiting for the bright side to your words, you whine about wanting to take a bite of, simultaneously amusing and exasperating the secretly soft-hearted city boy who—after eyeing you suspiciously—extends the sweet treat.

“Real classy, huh,” Comes his singular mumble, brow cocking upon watching the downright shameless bite you devour, bits of whipped cream clinging to the corner of your lips. 

He hates how easy it is to adore that annoyed look he receives in turn, the urge to dip down and—

“Wanna kiss the mess off me?”

.

.

.

What.

A minute, maybe ten pass before he can even begin to think.

No, obviously not. Why would he ever want to—

Logistics betray him, he betrays himself. Because the longer he stares at your lips, the more his pupils dilate, his fingers curl into the picnic basket below.

A veil of privacy within the incoming darkness of night ease his worries about passerby, those eyes you’re fixing him with causing the blood to only grow louder in his eardrums. 

He’s an idiot.

And right now, he’s so in love.

It’s a small glance, a hasty flicker between your nose, eyes, lips. His lashes dust downwards, and he thanks the second-long distraction from your gaze to admit the truth. 

“God yes.”

Clumsily, oh so clumsy as he dips down, lips wrapping around your bottom lip, licking off the whipped cream residue prior to pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips and diving right back in. 

You taste like sugar, like the mango soda you’d taken a swig minutes ago and Minho thinks he may explode. 

Escalating, escalating. A mix of breath and lips and sighs.

Then your teeth hit each other and the both of you fizzle out like his own like flavored soda into laughter, far too embarrassed to bother with hiding away.

“Did you-“ You heave between fits of laughter. “Did you mean to do-“

“Can I kiss you s’more?”

Pathetic, he’s sure it looks like.

To you, Minho looks like a slice of heaven. He’s all flushed, collar a bit untidy given the way you’d hoisted him closer, lips puffy and swollen after just a few playful nips. 

Giving you those yearning eyes, all glossy and blown.

And right now, you’d be the biggest idiot in Fenwood to deny him.

Fingers looping around his chin, he all but groans when you press your lips to his once more.

If this is what the longest picnic of his life looks like, Minho doesn’t think he wants it to end. 

It’s not that you didn’t want to tell your grandma, just that—

“Shameless young’in’s, shameless!”

She paces back and forth, waving a hand around as if to enunciate her statement.

Of course, you try to ease the elderly woman from her daily frustrated tangent, to no avail.

“Walkin’ around the public library, ‘got all these lipstick marks on his neck! I’m tellin’ ya, it’s those city boys. All shameless!”

A pause, the hunched woman turning to you with a suspicious furrow of her brow.

“Say, didn’t you just come from the library?”

Shit.

FIC TAGLIST. @roseanne-yoon, @tirena1

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

i’m alive!! trust! took some time to myself :))

[sunboki]

little drabble from something cute i saw on the train. trying to get out of writing block..

high school boyfie! chan who, after those long days of cramming and exam review takes the metro home with you. A routine of a sort, starting with meeting each other in the eighth car and going home together in the eighth car.

The station is packed, with people roaming left and right like buzzing flies, off to attend to whatever matter is of importance. It’s nothing new, but at 9pm the feeling sinks to the bottom of your feet.

Of course, Chan notices. Notices the fatigue weighing down your steps, the disagreeing knit of your brow when the both of you are shoved into the car, packed between grumbling bodies and salarymen alike.

His hand curls into yours instinctively, fingers intertwining where you’re beckoned behind him against a small alcove, gaze fixed on the back of his head as the intercom recites the next stop.

Like this, he shows that he cares. This is how he loves.

Holding hands through bustling crowds, the extra drink he “accidentally” bought from the vending machine that he drops by your classroom. Long hours even after he’s done studying that he simply stays at the cafe, watching, listening, pitching in conversation.

Subtle, bur crucial.

And tender in the way his own tense shoulders slump when you rest your head against his back, cheek mushed into the soft of his uniform, the signature scent of his cologne. The small curl of your fingers into his sleeve, held close as station after station passes by.

A silent reassurance amid the panic.

I’ll stay. Always.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

little drabble from something cute i saw on the train. trying to get out of writing block..

high school boyfie! chan who, after those long days of cramming and exam review takes the metro home with you. A routine of a sort, starting with meeting each other in the eighth car and going home together in the eighth car.

The station is packed, with people roaming left and right like buzzing flies, off to attend to whatever matter is of importance. It’s nothing new, but at 9pm the feeling sinks to the bottom of your feet.

Of course, Chan notices. Notices the fatigue weighing down your steps, the disagreeing knit of your brow when the both of you are shoved into the car, packed between grumbling bodies and salarymen alike.

His hand curls into yours instinctively, fingers intertwining where you’re beckoned behind him against a small alcove, gaze fixed on the back of his head as the intercom recites the next stop.

Like this, he shows that he cares. This is how he loves.

Holding hands through bustling crowds, the extra drink he “accidentally” bought from the vending machine that he drops by your classroom. Long hours even after he’s done studying that he simply stays at the cafe, watching, listening, pitching in conversation.

Subtle, bur crucial.

And tender in the way his own tense shoulders slump when you rest your head against his back, cheek mushed into the soft of his uniform, the signature scent of his cologne. The small curl of your fingers into his sleeve, held close as station after station passes by.

A silent reassurance amid the panic.

I’ll stay. Always.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

little drabble from something cute i saw on the train. trying to get out of writing block..

high school boyfie! chan who, after those long days of cramming and exam review takes the metro home with you. A routine of a sort, starting with meeting each other in the eighth car and going home together in the eighth car.

The station is packed, with people roaming left and right like buzzing flies, off to attend to whatever matter is of importance. It’s nothing new, but at 9pm the feeling sinks to the bottom of your feet.

Of course, Chan notices. Notices the fatigue weighing down your steps, the disagreeing knit of your brow when the both of you are shoved into the car, packed between grumbling bodies and salarymen alike.

His hand curls into yours instinctively, fingers intertwining where you’re beckoned behind him against a small alcove, gaze fixed on the back of his head as the intercom recites the next stop.

Like this, he shows that he cares. This is how he loves.

Holding hands through bustling crowds, the extra drink he “accidentally” bought from the vending machine that he drops by your classroom. Long hours even after he’s done studying that he simply stays at the cafe, watching, listening, pitching in conversation.

Subtle, bur crucial.

And tender in the way his own tense shoulders slump when you rest your head against his back, cheek mushed into the soft of his uniform, the signature scent of his cologne. The small curl of your fingers into his sleeve, held close as station after station passes by.

A silent reassurance amid the panic.

I’ll stay. Always.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

little drabble from something cute i saw on the train. trying to get out of writing block..

high school boyfie! chan who, after those long days of cramming and exam review takes the metro home with you. A routine of a sort, starting with meeting each other in the eighth car and going home together in the eighth car.

The station is packed, with people roaming left and right like buzzing flies, off to attend to whatever matter is of importance. It’s nothing new, but at 9pm the feeling sinks to the bottom of your feet.

Of course, Chan notices. Notices the fatigue weighing down your steps, the disagreeing knit of your brow when the both of you are shoved into the car, packed between grumbling bodies and salarymen alike.

His hand curls into yours instinctively, fingers intertwining where you’re beckoned behind him against a small alcove, gaze fixed on the back of his head as the intercom recites the next stop.

Like this, he shows that he cares. This is how he loves.

Holding hands through bustling crowds, the extra drink he “accidentally” bought from the vending machine that he drops by your classroom. Long hours even after he’s done studying that he simply stays at the cafe, watching, listening, pitching in conversation.

Subtle, bur crucial.

And tender in the way his own tense shoulders slump when you rest your head against his back, cheek mushed into the soft of his uniform, the signature scent of his cologne. The small curl of your fingers into his sleeve, held close as station after station passes by.

A silent reassurance amid the panic.

I’ll stay. Always.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

— 'MISSED YOU.

Christopher Bahng! x fem. reader

TROPE. so so fluffy, suggestive ending, mentions of sex

AUG'S NOTES. more of The Gunsman! Chris from “Korea’s Most Wanted” bc i know he’s a secret softie and deserves much love<3

Chris who, despite your continuous reprimanding, never complains when you scold his careless cuts and scratches.

From the moment he enters the doorway and pulls off the black vest tightly hugging his figure you’re all over him, checking every bare inch of skin for wounds.

And of course, your husband obliges, standing still whilst you poke and prod like his own personal doctor.

It’s not until your panicked checking is over that he gets the chance to actually see you, the chance to wrap you up his arms and lift you right up onto the countertop to admire that pretty face of yours.

Such a juxtaposition to his career with how gently he treats you, how soft and saccharine his kiss is to your cheek, then your forehead and back down to your lips—staying there for just a few minutes longer. Savoring.

“No,” you state rather firmly, grabbing his tie and dragging him in again. Clad in a tight white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

How could anyone resist when he was looking like that?

“No?” He chuckles, his angle looking up at you from your position on the counter allowing you to adore those cocoa brown eyes—unfairly cute as they blink, surveying your face, your lips.

Apparently it’s his turn to get his fair share, and you’re pulled into a passionate, too chaste kiss quickly replaced with the attention he gives to your neck, littering up your jawline.

“Missed you.” He’d whisper between pants, your hands finding purchase looping around his shoulders while he leaves marks on what, after the many wild moments in the bedroom, is his.

“Missed me?” You echo just as he’d done earlier with a grin, and by the time he’s ended up at your clavicle does he nod, head thumping there, right above your heart with an exasperated sigh.

Waiting in case he moves, your fingers carefully pry themselves from his shirt’s seams, retreating to lift his chin.

My word. The man who just left multiple hickeys on your neck has baby-cow eyes, literally baby-cow eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, tone leached in exhaustion.

Your brows knit confusedly, concern crossing your expression.

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry, baby?”

He presses himself further into your touch, exhaling deeply.

“I work all the time, and when I come home I don’t even have the energy to satisfy you. And you take care of me and everything.”

This is the man that’s job requires violence?

“Chris, look at me.”

He complies instantly, and you find yourself melting even more.

“Yes, sex is great, but we don’t need to have sex to satisfy me. I love you, and I love to take care of you, and that’s what satisfies me. I don’t need something in return, alright?”

Carefully combing through his partially sweaty tresses, he takes a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips, then leaving a soft peck upon your nose before hoisting you up, an action that earns a surprised gasp.

“Guess I got some energy back, huh.” He giggles, and your playful slap after the soft smack he gives to your ass is returned with an even louder giggle on the way to the bedroom.

“Chris!”

“What? It’s my turn to return the favor.”

“Chris- yah!”

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

— 'MISSED YOU.

Christopher Bahng! x fem. reader

TROPE. so so fluffy, suggestive ending, mentions of sex

AUG'S NOTES. more of The Gunsman! Chris from “Korea’s Most Wanted” bc i know he’s a secret softie and deserves much love<3

Chris who, despite your continuous reprimanding, never complains when you scold his careless cuts and scratches.

From the moment he enters the doorway and pulls off the black vest tightly hugging his figure you’re all over him, checking every bare inch of skin for wounds.

And of course, your husband obliges, standing still whilst you poke and prod like his own personal doctor.

It’s not until your panicked checking is over that he gets the chance to actually see you, the chance to wrap you up his arms and lift you right up onto the countertop to admire that pretty face of yours.

Such a juxtaposition to his career with how gently he treats you, how soft and saccharine his kiss is to your cheek, then your forehead and back down to your lips—staying there for just a few minutes longer. Savoring.

“No,” you state rather firmly, grabbing his tie and dragging him in again. Clad in a tight white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

How could anyone resist when he was looking like that?

“No?” He chuckles, his angle looking up at you from your position on the counter allowing you to adore those cocoa brown eyes—unfairly cute as they blink, surveying your face, your lips.

Apparently it’s his turn to get his fair share, and you’re pulled into a passionate, too chaste kiss quickly replaced with the attention he gives to your neck, littering up your jawline.

“Missed you.” He’d whisper between pants, your hands finding purchase looping around his shoulders while he leaves marks on what, after the many wild moments in the bedroom, is his.

“Missed me?” You echo just as he’d done earlier with a grin, and by the time he’s ended up at your clavicle does he nod, head thumping there, right above your heart with an exasperated sigh.

Waiting in case he moves, your fingers carefully pry themselves from his shirt’s seams, retreating to lift his chin.

My word. The man who just left multiple hickeys on your neck has baby-cow eyes, literally baby-cow eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, tone leached in exhaustion.

Your brows knit confusedly, concern crossing your expression.

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry, baby?”

He presses himself further into your touch, exhaling deeply.

“I work all the time, and when I come home I don’t even have the energy to satisfy you. And you take care of me and everything.”

This is the man that’s job requires violence?

“Chris, look at me.”

He complies instantly, and you find yourself melting even more.

“Yes, sex is great, but we don’t need to have sex to satisfy me. I love you, and I love to take care of you, and that’s what satisfies me. I don’t need something in return, alright?”

Carefully combing through his partially sweaty tresses, he takes a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips, then leaving a soft peck upon your nose before hoisting you up, an action that earns a surprised gasp.

“Guess I got some energy back, huh.” He giggles, and your playful slap after the soft smack he gives to your ass is returned with an even louder giggle on the way to the bedroom.

“Chris!”

“What? It’s my turn to return the favor.”

“Chris- yah!”

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

writing mimo as this princess dynamic watching in awe while reader is fixing his door is pulling me from this rut of sadness 🙂‍↕️

[sunboki]

cried so much in these past three days i don’t even feel like myself anymore . sorry everyone, i’m enduring a hard period right now , i’ll get through this with time :)

[sunboki]

— 'MISSED YOU.

Christopher Bahng! x fem. reader

TROPE. so so fluffy, suggestive ending, mentions of sex

AUG'S NOTES. more of The Gunsman! Chris from “Korea’s Most Wanted” bc i know he’s a secret softie and deserves much love<3

Chris who, despite your continuous reprimanding, never complains when you scold his careless cuts and scratches.

From the moment he enters the doorway and pulls off the black vest tightly hugging his figure you’re all over him, checking every bare inch of skin for wounds.

And of course, your husband obliges, standing still whilst you poke and prod like his own personal doctor.

It’s not until your panicked checking is over that he gets the chance to actually see you, the chance to wrap you up his arms and lift you right up onto the countertop to admire that pretty face of yours.

Such a juxtaposition to his career with how gently he treats you, how soft and saccharine his kiss is to your cheek, then your forehead and back down to your lips—staying there for just a few minutes longer. Savoring.

“No,” you state rather firmly, grabbing his tie and dragging him in again. Clad in a tight white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

How could anyone resist when he was looking like that?

“No?” He chuckles, his angle looking up at you from your position on the counter allowing you to adore those cocoa brown eyes—unfairly cute as they blink, surveying your face, your lips.

Apparently it’s his turn to get his fair share, and you’re pulled into a passionate, too chaste kiss quickly replaced with the attention he gives to your neck, littering up your jawline.

“Missed you.” He’d whisper between pants, your hands finding purchase looping around his shoulders while he leaves marks on what, after the many wild moments in the bedroom, is his.

“Missed me?” You echo just as he’d done earlier with a grin, and by the time he’s ended up at your clavicle does he nod, head thumping there, right above your heart with an exasperated sigh.

Waiting in case he moves, your fingers carefully pry themselves from his shirt’s seams, retreating to lift his chin.

My word. The man who just left multiple hickeys on your neck has baby-cow eyes, literally baby-cow eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, tone leached in exhaustion.

Your brows knit confusedly, concern crossing your expression.

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry, baby?”

He presses himself further into your touch, exhaling deeply.

“I work all the time, and when I come home I don’t even have the energy to satisfy you. And you take care of me and everything.”

This is the man that’s job requires violence?

“Chris, look at me.”

He complies instantly, and you find yourself melting even more.

“Yes, sex is great, but we don’t need to have sex to satisfy me. I love you, and I love to take care of you, and that’s what satisfies me. I don’t need something in return, alright?”

Carefully combing through his partially sweaty tresses, he takes a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips, then leaving a soft peck upon your nose before hoisting you up, an action that earns a surprised gasp.

“Guess I got some energy back, huh.” He giggles, and your playful slap after the soft smack he gives to your ass is returned with an even louder giggle on the way to the bedroom.

“Chris!”

“What? It’s my turn to return the favor.”

“Chris- yah!”

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

— 'MISSED YOU.

Christopher Bahng! x fem. reader

TROPE. so so fluffy, suggestive ending, mentions of sex

AUG'S NOTES. more of The Gunsman! Chris from “Korea’s Most Wanted” bc i know he’s a secret softie and deserves much love<3

Chris who, despite your continuous reprimanding, never complains when you scold his careless cuts and scratches.

From the moment he enters the doorway and pulls off the black vest tightly hugging his figure you’re all over him, checking every bare inch of skin for wounds.

And of course, your husband obliges, standing still whilst you poke and prod like his own personal doctor.

It’s not until your panicked checking is over that he gets the chance to actually see you, the chance to wrap you up his arms and lift you right up onto the countertop to admire that pretty face of yours.

Such a juxtaposition to his career with how gently he treats you, how soft and saccharine his kiss is to your cheek, then your forehead and back down to your lips—staying there for just a few minutes longer. Savoring.

“No,” you state rather firmly, grabbing his tie and dragging him in again. Clad in a tight white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

How could anyone resist when he was looking like that?

“No?” He chuckles, his angle looking up at you from your position on the counter allowing you to adore those cocoa brown eyes—unfairly cute as they blink, surveying your face, your lips.

Apparently it’s his turn to get his fair share, and you’re pulled into a passionate, too chaste kiss quickly replaced with the attention he gives to your neck, littering up your jawline.

“Missed you.” He’d whisper between pants, your hands finding purchase looping around his shoulders while he leaves marks on what, after the many wild moments in the bedroom, is his.

“Missed me?” You echo just as he’d done earlier with a grin, and by the time he’s ended up at your clavicle does he nod, head thumping there, right above your heart with an exasperated sigh.

Waiting in case he moves, your fingers carefully pry themselves from his shirt’s seams, retreating to lift his chin.

My word. The man who just left multiple hickeys on your neck has baby-cow eyes, literally baby-cow eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, tone leached in exhaustion.

Your brows knit confusedly, concern crossing your expression.

“Sorry? Why would you be sorry, baby?”

He presses himself further into your touch, exhaling deeply.

“I work all the time, and when I come home I don’t even have the energy to satisfy you. And you take care of me and everything.”

This is the man that’s job requires violence?

“Chris, look at me.”

He complies instantly, and you find yourself melting even more.

“Yes, sex is great, but we don’t need to have sex to satisfy me. I love you, and I love to take care of you, and that’s what satisfies me. I don’t need something in return, alright?”

Carefully combing through his partially sweaty tresses, he takes a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips, then leaving a soft peck upon your nose before hoisting you up, an action that earns a surprised gasp.

“Guess I got some energy back, huh.” He giggles, and your playful slap after the soft smack he gives to your ass is returned with an even louder giggle on the way to the bedroom.

“Chris!”

“What? It’s my turn to return the favor.”

“Chris- yah!”

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

mmmh you bet i’m writing a fic to this song

[sunboki]

husband mimo has been… mmmrrgh. yeah.

husband! minho who, after a truly, honestly very wholesome night of nothing but kisses and cuddling—totally not with the entirety of his collarbones and shoulder littered in love bites, oh no—cooking up breakfast in the morning after.

husband! minho who, even after a frivolous night prior makes it his mission to prepare a meal to deliver to you in bed, oftentimes scolding the kitties scurrying about to be quiet.

husband! minho that curses under his breath in surprise after feeling your arms wrap around his waist from behind, lightly swatting at your hand with the spatula. (predictably, he melts when you rest your head against his back).

husband! minho that loves when you act as his little taste-tester. cookie batter that he brings to your lips, oh so focused listening to your feedback. the same goes for any recipe. dinner, lunches, soup or pasta. it goes a little bit like this:

“More sugar?” Minho mumbles, gaze trained on your face like his life depends on it, watching every little twitch as if scouring a book for that certain page. Like second instinct does he clock the pinch of your brow, already measuring more sugar before you can even give him the go-ahead.

husband! minho that, despite the teasing he’d receive from his members, loves to prop you on the counter and give you those occasional kisses. not as handsy and routine as chan, but more sporadic, savory. not as many chaste pecks, but more slow, coffee-tasting kisses where his palms cradle your cheeks.

husband! minho who, without fail, ends up as mushy as his last failed batch of cookies (that happened a year ago, he’d argue) when you kiss him. as mentioned above, he melts. melts into warm hums and soft giggles in tandem with yours, skin smelling like petrichor and a mixture of your own scent after snuggling up close throughout the night.

husband! minho who knows that familiar clumsy rhythm of his little girl’s footsteps to turn around just in time for her wide, excited eyes to connect with his, the two melding into a chorus of shared laughter they both try to muffle in favor of keeping you asleep. sometimes it works, other times you walk into the kitchen half-conscious, witnessing a rather chaotic display of determination in which your husband and daughter try to teach Soonie how to point to the correct ingredients they name.

it was worth the effort, that’s all you’re going to say.

sunboki, may 2022 ©

[sunboki]

just watched the last of us and it is CRAZY how i chose the exact same concept of fungal virus/cordyceps for “hellion inn”without having a clue about the series beforehand