shineesbackbitches

[shineesbackbitches]

Pillow Talk

౨ৎ summary: “That’s so cute!”

Jeongin whirled to the side where you were leaning in to look at his keyboard, starry-eyed. He swallowed. He wanted to say the same of you. Instead, he said, “Huh?”

“Your sticker.” You clarified, delighted at the smiling cartoon fox one of his brothers had adhered to the left of his trackpad one of the times he’d let them borrow it. He should buy them a meal or something the next time he’s home, he thought absentmindedly.

“Thanks.” He blinked, then horrifically continued: “You too.”

౨ৎ pairing: Jeongin x Reader

౨ৎ genre: romance, college AU, fluff, crack, series, turned tables universe, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 5k

౨ৎ warnings: like, I don't even know what to say here, capitalism? university clubs, club sports, suicide mentioned but no suicide, lethal amounts of secondhand embarrassment, typical college headassery, Jeongin is mortified for the majority of this and he has every right to be, spicy make out but nothing crazy, every guy I write is a complete loser and this fic is no exception

౨ৎ author note: I'm going to be so for real right now and tell you that I am not kidding when I say that I live in constant fear that an idol will come across something I've written. Obviously not enough fear to stop me from doing it, but like, its still there. That said, if an idol were to see anything I've written, I hope to god it’s this lmao ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

“Please delete that,” Jeongin begs, voice muffled and mortified behind his hands. “Seriously, please delete that forever.”

He regrets the moment he committed to attend this cursed arts college, and he wishes he could travel back in time to rip his past self a new asshole for choosing to join the table tennis team for such a pathetic amount of scholarship money. Every single member had had the same strategy as him— they’re all athletic tragedies, so they chose the sport that no one gave a shit about. To reiterate: Jeongin attends an arts school, where athletes do not attend, so sports aren’t really a thing with the student body. He’s willing to bet all of his measly scholarship money that seventy-percent of the students don’t even know the university has a table tennis team.

… Meaning being part of the table tennis team with a bunch of losers is social suicide.

If Jeongin is being entirely honest, he has no social life outside of this ridiculous club. He fumbles every conversation, too awkward and nervous to contribute anything of substance at the right time, and his dating experience is a permanent flatline.

He is a loser. And his condition is terminal.

The downward angled selfie of him huffing and puffing his half-asleep ass to a class he had definitely been late to, wrinkled shirt and pillow lines stamped into his cheek, was blown up unnecessarily huge on Jisung’s shitty laptop— an ancient machine honest-to-god holding on with spite and a bumpy strip of duct tape. The image is not an inspiring indicator that his loser status is going to change any time soon.

Tears stream down Jisung’s reddened face from his uncontained peals of laughter. He looks like he’s about to spill out of his chair (Jeongin violently hopes to whatever being is out there listening that he does), and the rest of the crowd surrounding the laptop’s display isn’t faring much better.

“This isn’t even that bad!” Minho consoles(?) through his own giddy giggles, as Hyunjin takes it upon himself to scramble up to his knees from his crumpled position on the floor and click to the next atrocity.

Like with every action, Jisung’s barely passable excuse of a laptop lags for exactly two and a half seconds before an image of Jeongin, mouth open wide in what he is sure is mid-scream with one of those stupid, yellow, bug-eyed screeching chicken hats perched on his head completely violates his senses. The image has Comic Sans neon text scrawled on the side that, for some reason (but also somehow appropriately?), says “hello chicken.”

Everyone is grounded by the force of their own laughter, sans Jeongin himself, who wishes so badly in this moment to be a college dropout. Changbin’s squeaks of laughter grate on his eardrums, the star player of their pitiful team standing too close to him, uncaring of the negative, downright homicidal vibes emanating from Jeongin’s pores as they cycle through humiliating screenshots of unflattering Snapchat selfies and cryptid-esque sneak pictures of him just existing on campus. Then, Changbin’s laughter instantly morphs into indignant squawks of protest as the laptop hits the first of his series of unfortunate photocards.

“Ah, ah!” Jisung defends with wide eyes, frantically waving a hand out to Changbin to curb his yelling. “This is for the sake of the unit.” He says ‘the unit’ like it’s something sacred— an ideology.

“Fuck the unit,” Jeongin spits internally.

“Yeah, bro,” Seungmin defends immediately, infuriatingly laid back. “Do you wanna feast or not?”

Because that’s what this all boils down to.

Every university-sponsored club is permitted one weekend trip a semester that is mostly covered by university funding, so long as the club pays its dues on time at the beginning of the year. The budget, of course, isn’t all that substantial, but it’s nearly enough to rent a decently sized cabin that fits ten people (as long as two people are willing to share a pullout couch) for a long weekend. Like, technically, is the money supposed to be budgeted to cover the cost of traveling for tournaments?

Maybe!

But there are eight people on the team, and none of them are talented enough to make the cut for faraway competitions. Not a lot of people and zero talent means no supervision, so no one takes issue with the expenditure.

Plus, between Hyunjin’s artistic eye, Minho’s business-oriented mind, Jisung’s war crime of an embarrassing photo compilation, Felix’s trend analysis, Changbin’s access to the Adobe suite (for some reason), Chan’s organization skills, and Seungmin’s sheer fucking greed, their insultingly successful club expo booth was born.

Don’t misunderstand: all of the members of this club are completely hopeless losers, but for reasons that Jeongin will never comprehend, students go feral over their stupid collection of embarrassing merch every year without fail. The club expo is always scheduled for the second week of the year, just two weeks before the club fee deadline. It’s supposed to be an opportunity for extracurricular promotion, but the table tennis club is possessed by the spirit of capitalism, greed, and dreams of a lavish barbecue during their weekend getaway.

It’s a fundraiser, and one that has absolutely no business being as wildly lucrative as it is. Especially when their merch is some of the ugliest, most unhinged garbage Jisung can conceive of with their faces slapped on. Jeongin wishes that it stopped at the unflattering photocards— if only. No, they sold out all of the #1 Dad mugs with Chan’s vaguely concerned, pensive, somewhat traumatized, blank face stamped on the front within ten minutes. The pants patterned with Minho’s face mid-yawn are an abomination and an inexplicable hit every year without fail. The pillow covers with the picture of Seungmin with his cheeks puffed and hands curled into fists by his face screen-printed on sold out concerningly fast. Hyunjin has literally no association with Mexico, yet people are unironically patriotic about that flag with him sprawled facetiously sensually across it, boba straw bit between his teeth like it’s a fucking rose stem. Jeongin won’t even comment on the body pillows. Changbin’s merch is truly unspeakable. The sales from Jisung’s nonsense keychain featuring him glancing sensitively out a window and his bullshit quote, ”Once you skr skr, your perspective of life is always skee skee,” would have been enough to cover dinner all three nights on the last trip.

Honestly, Jeongin wants to call the police, but he doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is watch— horrified, traumatized, disillusioned, a little bit crying— as everyone crowds this year's psychotic batch of merch mockups on Jisung’s glitching screen (”Save me one of these!” Felix demands, delightedly pointing at something Jeongin doesn’t have enough courage to look at).

“Oh, these are going to do absolute numbers.” Minho snickers gleefully, the light from Jisung’s laptop glinting ominously in his eyes.

Jeongin figures he may as well call his social life’s time of death now.

He spends the entirety of the club expo cowering behind Hyunjin as best he can and pretending like he isn’t witnessing a tragedy in the form of a fundraiser. The line is endless, even with three pay stations set up. Felix, Jisung, and Hyunjin are their strongest soldiers, bravely managing the registers and the flood of questions from their customers (”Peru flag Minho hasn’t sold out yet, right?”). Meanwhile, Seungmin quietly slinks around the booth, taking note of what stock is depleting and marking off which items have completely sold out. He orders Chan, Changbin, and Minho to replenish items as they run low, and the three transport fresh boxes of merch as needed. The crowd ‘awes’ dejectedly, and Jeongin turns to see it’s because Seungmin just crossed out the last of their disproportionate dolls with their ugliest selfies printed on the face.

“Don’t worry!” Seungmin comforts, a wicked grin curling his lips. “There’s about five limited edition banana dolls left.”

Jeongin doesn’t even know what those are; he pales and occupies his mind by counting down the hours until his saving grace— the only thing preventing him from simply fizzling out of existence on the spot.

His fourth (fourth!) date with you.

It’s a miracle.

You share a single class with him— his favorite. Not because it’s particularly interesting or engaging, but because he made his first friend outside of the club there.

“That’s so cute!”

Jeongin whirled to the side where you were leaning in to look at his keyboard, starry-eyed. He swallowed. He wanted to say the same of you. Instead, he said, “Huh?”

“Your sticker.” You clarified, delighted at the smiling cartoon fox one of his brothers had adhered to the left of his trackpad one of the times he’d let them borrow it. He should buy them a meal or something the next time he’s home, he thought absentmindedly.

“Thanks.” He blinked, then horrifically continued: “You too.”

He panicked.

You giggled.

“I mean— I, uh-“ Jeongin fumbled spectacularly.

“I know what you mean.” You grinned, and Jeongin’s throat dried. You were so, so pretty, it was physically painful. He didn’t even know where to focus— your sparkling eyes reflecting the god-awful fluorescent overhead lights, your endearing smile that somehow made you even prettier (much to his devastation), or the casual tilt of your head as you glanced up to meet his startled gaze.

And then from there, somehow, he managed to foster an easy-going friendship with you that— by some divine blessing— turned into a date, then multiple dates. They all went well, even, and Jeongin is pathetically, hopelessly into you.

Like, so into you that he started blow-drying his hair before the class he shared with you, so it looks silky enough to come up under the search ‘boyfriend’ on Pinterest. He hasn’t even worn a beanie unless the weather actually called for it since he met you. If he thinks too long or hard about it, he probably would be concerned with how quickly he had become enamored with you, but then he thought about you, and all of the pieces of the puzzle fell into the right place.

How could he not become a loser in love when you’re charming, witty, considerate, cute, supremely out of his league, and still choosing to hang out with him?

And he has a stupid cartoon fox sticker to thank for it all.

Jeongin can’t differentiate whether or not he is living in a nightmare or a dream between the club expo and his date with you. Admittedly, he’d gotten astoundingly bold on your last date and held your hand for the first time (he had agonized over whether or not to reach for it on the walk home for the last twenty minutes of dinner, before remembering the time you told him he had ‘pretty’ hands while he was typing something in class) and then invited you over to his place for your next date before he had really thought about the implications of that setting. There are none, of course! His intentions are completely pure, like water straight from a fucking spring in mountains that have never even been traversed by the disgusting footsteps of man.

… But, if you’re interested in doing something that isn’t hand-holding or blushing, then Jeongin is so game for that too.

“Jeongin—”

He slightly detaches himself from Hyunjin’s back to turn and answer Minho’s saccharine call of his name.

The man is balancing three boxes of unopened merch, and his closed-lipped smile is murderous as he faux-affectionately croons, “Either help run this booth or call the emergency help line before I get my hands on you.”

He scrambles, now so inspired to take the top box from Minho’s stack, and flounders over to where Seungmin is so helpfully pointing. On his way over, he unintentionally makes eye contact with a square pillowcase of Chan’s head photoshopped (poorly) onto the wolf guy from Twilight’s shirtless body, and he fully trips and nearly face plants into the metal folding chair Felix had abandoned. There are more crimes in decorative pillowcase format folded neatly behind Twilight Wolf Man Chan. They are unspeakable.

Jeongin is going to pick out a nice final resting place for his social life.

He has no idea what on earth is wrong with him tonight, other than the fact that his peers are walking around with merch of varying degrees of humiliation, but that shouldn’t impact the coordination of his limbs.

Sure, he’s nervous. It’s the first time you’re in his space, and he’s terrified that something about his living arrangement is going to give away just how much of a loser he is (deep inside his subconscious, he knows that you are already very well aware of his terminal loserism, but he does not want to give you a reason to ditch him). He doesn’t have basic boy blue bedsheets (of course— not that he intends you to see them!), his cabinets are about as far from single man who has never cooked a day in his life as a college student can get, and he has real dishes and silverware laid out on the table for dinner.

In short: he’s doing his best, but he’s fumbling hard and fast.

So far, since you’ve been in his apartment, he’s dropped his phone twice, tripped over absolutely nothing thrice, run into his own furniture that has been placed exactly the same as the day he moved in, and keeps stumbling over his own words.

Jeongin’s a clumsy disaster— like, more clumsy than usual— and he knows that it’s impossible for you not to notice. The sweat trickles down his spine in a pattern that spells his failure, while the material of his shirt adheres to his back. He’s barely managed to make it through dinner; he cooked a crusted chicken with a lemon sauce and prepared a light salad as a side. He hopes it’s at least passable— his nerves made everything he put in his mouth taste like sand.

“Thank you for dinner.” You lean forward to rest your elbows on the table, an endeared smile curving your lips.

A chuckle that doesn’t sound quite right, too breathy and high-pitched to be his, fills the kitchen and he bashfully rubs the nape of his neck, eyes cast downward. “Of course. I hope it was okay.”

“It was wonderful.” Your eyes twinkle, weighted with something he isn’t sure how to interpret, and you take a small sip of your water. Jeongin watches the delicate movement of your throat, transfixed, as you swallow and gently place your glass back down, your index finger lightly tapping the side. “How should I thank you?”

Your seemingly casual question dries his mouth instantly, and he reaches for his own glass with trembling fingers, stammering, “Oh, uh. You don’t— don’t worry about it.”

And in all his elegance, Jeongin knocks his water over, the contents pooling out over the shitty, chipped tabletop.

“Oh dear.” With all the grace he does not possess tonight, you slip out of your chair with your napkin in hand, glide over to his side, and claim a new seat.

In Jeongin’s lap.

“Allow me.”

He doesn’t have a pulse. He’s dead. All his organs have turned to stone, and his blood solidified the moment he registered the heat of your body through the fabric of his pants. Then, he is violently resurrected— yoinked straight from his grave by the scruff of his neck— by the shift of your ass as you lean forward, righting his overturned glass and sweeping the puddle with the cheap napkin with your pretty hands. His breath hitches as you turn to face him, and he can feel his blood bubbling with a vengeance across his face and down his neck where your arms are languidly looped.

Jeongin is truly beside himself; he doesn’t know where to put his hands (Is the waist too scandalous? Are the shoulders too conservative? Is he out of his mind for even considering touching you?), nor does he understand why you are still interested in him. His large, quaking hands hover uncertainly at his sides, and before he can ask a single, tremulous question, you reposition yourself with an airy, delighted giggle so that you’re fully straddling his legs.

“How’s this?” You ask with a playful tilt of your head, and he swallows audibly, thickly, and bobs his head up and down a few times. “Thank you,” you say sweetly, and he opens his mouth to ask what for.

But why would Jeongin ask any questions about anything ever in this situation? He might not know anything ever again, and he’s okay with that, because your mouth is on his in a relaxed, sensual, and heated open-mouthed kiss, and that is all the information he requires. He knows the weight and press of your thighs against his, and the faint taste of strawberries from the salad on your tongue, and he has reached enlightenment.

Your hands untangle themselves from his dark hair momentarily, your lips never detaching from his in the process, and capture his wrists. It’s at that moment that he realizes his hands are still extended uselessly, and he accidentally whines pathetically into your mouth when you guide one hand to slide up the front of your shirt and the other to grip at the flesh of your ass through your jeans. Unconsciously, his long fingers squeeze over your back pocket, and he is rewarded with a breathy gasp and an agonizing roll of your hips. His vision whites out, but it doesn’t even matter because his fringe is flopping into his eyes anyway. Your skin is warm and soft under the palm of his hand, and his hand wanders of its own accord, carefully mapping the indents of your ribcage and stroking tentative lines with the pad of his thumb.

It’s all too intense of a make-out for the setting of his measly dinner table, he decides. He pulls back just enough to whimper a miserably winded, “bedroom,” with his pupils blown wide and his dark hair a tousled mess, and you immediately slip off his lap with your fingers curled into the front of his shirt near his chest so you can drag him along with you. He’s not an idiot, so he scrambles after you until his body is flattened against yours as much as possible, his big hands adhering to any part of you he can reach, grabbing, tracing, kneading, and his neck craning to connect his lips with yours. Then, Jeongin stumbles to lead you down the hallway to his bedroom— which is super difficult, by the way, when you’re making out with someone so arduously that you lose your sense of direction, depth, dignity, and all trace of decorum.

Seriously, Jeongin should be ashamed of the shaky, helpless sounds you’re pulling out of him. He didn’t even know he could make them until now. But your fingers are scraping up the back of his neck and into his hair in a way that shoots tingles down his spine, and he could cry when you tug impatiently at the roots. He is so focused on you, a literal angel sent to save him from his lifelong loser club membership that he just can’t seem to unsubscribe from, when he really needs to be conscious of his surroundings. With the way you’re both fumbling down the hall, bumping into furniture and stumbling over absolutely nothing, Jeongin fears something is bound to end up broken, be it an object or a bone. And fuck it— he knows the damn way to his bedroom, so Jeongin makes an executive decision and flattens both of his hands against your ass and signals you to leap with a solid smack. Your legs are instantly folded just above his hips, your kiss now near bruising as you angle your head to press deeper into him. This close, your light perfume is completely intoxicating, clouding his mind with a dreamy haze as he finally staggers through the threshold of his bedroom.

The veins in his forearms strain scrumptiously as he keeps you suspended while he flounders backwards towards his bed. His heels knock against the baseboard with a dull thunk, and you take advantage of the momentary pause to pull again at his disheveled locks, guiding him away from your lips just enough for you to peer at him through confident, coy eyes that glisten in the low light from the desk lamp he’d forgotten to switch off. Now he’s glad he left it on, because he’s able to appreciate your appearance in the dim yellow light.

Your face is flushed prettily, an ethereal glow to your skin, and your lips are obscenely swollen. Jeongin is probably in a similar state, his chest heaving and nerves completely overheated. In this moment, the only thing he can hear other than his blood pulsing in his ears, is the shared puffs of breath exchanged in the few inches between you.

You’re a dream, and Jeongin’s knees nearly buckle because you’re just so pretty and kind, but you grin and smooch him sweetly one more time and his dreams are coming true as he can’t help but smile into the kiss, thick indents adorning his cheeks in the process.

Then your kiss-plumped lips say, “Seo Changbin?”

And all Jeongin’s dreams turn to static as the cables connecting his brain to the rest of his body fucking fizzle out.

He’s betrayed— crushed even.

“Why are you saying another man’s name in my room?” He chokes out, utterly stricken with grief as tears embarrassingly burn his waterline. His knees finally do buckle, and he collapses at the foot of his bed, your thighs still straddling his lap while you bounce slightly from the sudden drop, your hands now braced on his shoulders.

But you’re blinking, dazed at something over his shoulder and he realizes that you’re staring at his bed. Slowly, Jeongin twists to peer over his shoulder, and his teammate’s enlarged, eternally smiling face is staring unyielding at him from his bed.

He startles, screams, and fumbles for the chain dangling from the ceiling fan above him to turn on the overhead lights, jostling you in the process. Your nails bite into the skin of his shoulders as you yelp, but not in the sexy way. The room is bathed in full light, and what it reveals is far worse than his teammate chilling in his room while he was about to engage in intercourse for, like, the first time ever.

It’s a demonic body pillow of his teammate, Seo Changbin.

“I— I—” He stammers, unable to turn away from the intruder, long fingers vigorously rubbing his eyes as if they were short-circuiting. That thing had somehow materialized before him like a cursed object in a horror movie. If this were a horror movie, it would be the last thing he saw before the screen cut to black, his final screams terrorizing the audience.

“Oh, wow,” You say softly, and Jeongin’s head whips back to face you, eyes wide in uncontained hysteria. “I didn’t know you were into stuff like that! Cool!”

You’re too kind with your understanding smile, he thinks, trying to help him play this tragedy off, but he needs you to know this is all a misunderstanding.

To that end, Jeongin frantically shakes his head in denial. “No! I’m not! I’ve never seen this before— I don’t know how it got here!”

Now that he thinks about it, Felix did mention needing to store some things at his place while he did something or other at his dorm— this was all his doing.

Jeongin is alarmingly red in the cheeks, ears, and all down his neck as he attempts to explain his way out of what has got to be the most traumatizing date of your life, but you silence him with your warm hands cupping his cheeks and a pacifying peck to his lips. “It’s okay! It’s super cute that you support your teammates like this.”

“I swear this isn’t me!” He agonizes, eyes pleading for you to believe him. “This isn’t who I am!” Jeongin laments, fully in tears for real now.

This is it, he thinks.

You’re going to figure out a way to nicely excuse yourself from this dreadful excuse for a date, then avoid him forever, never sit anywhere near him in class again, and he’ll never get to talk to you again and he’s going to be miserable for forever.

“It belongs to a friend!” He desperately tries, hands clenching the material of your shirt at your sides into his fists, but you just smile and agree easily, “Sure, sweetie” all while swiping his tears away with the pads of your fingertips.

You are a merciful goddess sent from heaven to save his pathetic loser ass, Jeongin confirms when you invite him to your place within the next few days, kindly suggesting that he take a couple days to settle his nerves.

How had Jeongin survived this far?

He is still fighting his residual mortification three days later as he enters your apartment, his ears glowing a vibrant scarlet that never quite fully dissipated from that evening. But blessedly, you still smile just as affectionately at him as before, lacing your fingers through his and leading him down the hallway to your room.

Your apartment has personality, he notes as he glances around as subtly as possible in an attempt to make his invasiveness non-intrusive. There are cute prints displayed in simple frames hung up on the walls, some colorful decorative pillows lying about the common area, and a few plants dotted near the windows. It’s cozy— relaxing even— and it smells clean and warm like laundry detergent. Jeongin can picture you spending your time outside of class curled up on the couch with a pillow settled in your lap, or sitting at the table poring over classwork on your laptop. It just now registers in his brain that he is in your space, a place he never thought he would be. His cheeks traitorously scald at the thought, and he inhales deeply to steady his tripping heartbeat.

You pause outside the door at the end of the hallway where your name is spelled out in neat bubble letters on a little plaque. With your delicate fingers wrapped around the handle, you turn to face him, and Jeongin is struck again with how agonizingly cute you are, with bright, kind eyes, the sweetest smile that rounds the apples of your cheeks, and the endearing way you sway to lean against the door. You’re literally perfect, he thinks, his heart swelling so full it throbs painfully against his chest.

You swing the door open and gently tug him through the threshold, padding backwards. Jeongin fights the unwelcome sense of deja vu from the other night in his apartment when he had carried you into his room— this is his moment of redemption.

His eyes flit around your room for the first time, and Jeongin’s soul evaporates right out of his ears on the spot.

Staring back at him is, like, damn near every single one of his cursed merch items.

All of it.

Decorative pillows are displayed on your bed, featuring a stupid selfie he took wearing an even stupider pair of sunglasses and a ridiculous cartoon bird with nearly identical sunglasses, expressions mirroring each other. His face pales at the photocard laminated and decorated with stickers propped up on your nightstand, where he is mid-lunge (or possibly attempting a split?), wearing a weird sequinned pair of pants he found stashed at the back of Hyunjin’s closet, his mouth wide in anguish and regret. Beside it is a sinister book reminiscent of a scrapbook, and he fears its contents would drag his conscious straight to hell with expedited, first class shipping. Even the shitty rag doll with questionable origins is sitting ominously on your bookshelf, the low-quality Snapchat selfie taken from a downward angle mid-bite of spaghetti cropped into the oddly-shaped head. Entirely against his will, he discovers what the banana dolls Seungmin had mentioned were, and immediately control-alt-deletes that bit of information from his brain (Why does it have arms?).

He’s speechless. Jeongin wants to melt into the floor, he’s so embarrassed. He physically can’t face you; his hands slip out of your grasp to slap over his face to shield himself from the shame burning him from inside, but it’s so bad, he also can’t look away from it, and he peeks through the cracks of his fingers.

You’re delighted, watching his eyes avert away from one corner of the room, only to widen in horror as they land on another landmine of humiliating merch. Right now, they’re occupied by his blurry slut-drop printed on Mexico’s flag hanging patriotically on your wall. He is pale.

“Why?!” He chokes out, unable to tear his gaze away from what may as well be the scene of his murder— or at least his dignity’s.

You giggle, and Jeongin’s heart still flutters traitorously at the sound. “You did this!”

He groans up at the ceiling, his eyes squeezed shut, and his shoulders drooping in mortification.

“No!” Jeongin laments. “Han Jisung did this! He did all of this!”

౨ৎMasterlist

[shineesbackbitches]

౨ৎ author note: I feel like this round speaks for itself. Obviously, I was in a moment 𖹭

Hung Up ⊹ Part 2

౨ৎ summary: “You’re fine, Honey,“ Seungmin murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

[shineesbackbitches]

© mrjswwc | do not edit and/or crop logo

[shineesbackbitches]

oh my god… currently trying to piece together coherent thoughts after reading the absolute god tier fic that is hung up. the intoxicating chemical cocktail my brain was experiencing while reading your writing… insane. like drugs. the seungmin characterization was so so so good and I told myself I was going to read it little by little to really savor it but the miscommunication fueled drama was so addictive that I couldn’t stop reading. thank you for this masterpiece!!!!

Me? My writing?? God tier???🥺 Bestie I am in shambles you are so sweet🥰 Hung Up and I were ✨ops✨ for the past two months, so I am elated that you enjoyed it and our silly, down bad with loseritis husband, Seungmin so much!!! There will be a bonus at some point with these two (and possibly a Minho spin-off!!!), so we all have a little more time with our Hung Up couple :D

Thank you so much again for leaving such a kind message🥺 It really helps inspire me to not slam dunk a story into the ocean when I know other people are into it! I hope you enjoy our August fic drop scheduled for the 22nd (I'm sure everyone knows what fandom)!!!😘🩷

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

Hung Up

౨ৎ summary: “You’re fine, Honey," Seungmin murmured. "I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

౨ৎ pairing: Seungmin x Reader

౨ৎ genre: married AU, angst, smut, series, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 13k

౨ৎ warnings: Reader thinks Seungmin is trying to kill her, misunderstandings, kind of a When the Phone Rings AU but like also not really, accusations of infidelity (there is none), attempted murder, planning murder, brief mentions of injuries and death, confident Reader (as she should!), social events again, discussion of divorce, oral (fem receiving), Minho bullying Seungmin for the sake of the unit

౨ৎ author note: look who tf came through once again! Me, myself, and I! (my editor. my editor came through.) Happy end of the month besties! I had a two week vacation where I took a chainsaw to this part because the writing was just not writing and then I decided to never look at it again. I'll post my chapter two comments in the middle of the month and possibly write a bonus at some point once I can stand to look at the document for Hung Up again! Thank you all for waiting for this last part! Enjoy! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

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The universe seemed to be on Lee Minho’s side, because not even a week later, Seungmin’s office was hosting a dinner at an upscale restaurant for all employees and their significant others. It was one of those ‘optional but we’ll never forget it if you don't show up’ events, and Seungmin’s eyes drooped under the weight of the exhaustion of it all as he relayed the details. If he wasn't actively praying for your demise, you’d probably feel the slightest shred of empathy for the deep bruises marking his under eyes. You really couldn’t recall a time when he’d looked as beaten down as this, and you had to give yourself credit where credit was due.

That picture of your underwear drawer you had sent to him was diabolical work. But by now, you had no other option than to target his pride, and what better way to instigate a divorce than by insinuating his wife was being intimate with someone else? The burner phone had nearly combusted with Seungmin’s relentless calling, then vibrated right out of your hands with the rapid-fire barrage of messages he sent. The rage had been visceral— glacial, even.

He’d cursed your existence, demanded you prepare well for the few remaining hours you had left on earth, and threatened— then promised— to eradicate your entire family lineage. Of course, this was all directed at your burner identity. He'd never be this outwardly hostile to you, too committed to his game of playing the fond husband.

Now, as Seungmin leaned against the doorframe of your room, you noted the typical intense edge to his inky gaze was missing as he followed your every move while you settled down for the evening. Instead, the contours were melancholic, slumping with the corners of his mouth and the rest of his bones under his loose-fitting black t-shirt. He couldn't seem to resist letting his attention flick over to your underwear drawer every so often, his sullen expression amplifying every time he did.

“They’re so obsessed with us, they can’t go a week without spending a magical, romantic, intimate night without us.” You teased, casting a playfully sultry look over your shoulder at Seungmin. His expression remained stiff, troubled as he swallowed.

You had already slipped into a long-sleeved black sleep shirt and had fixed your hair for sleep. Your skincare had absorbed, a supple sheen spread evenly over your face and down your neck, glowing under the dimmed light of your bedside lamp. Perhaps it was a little vindictive of you, but you floated over to the chest of drawers he was so fixated on, perching on top. In your peripheral vision, you reveled in the tension curling his fingers into fists as you crossed one leg over the other. You slipped your fingers into the top of your long sock that hugged the flesh just above your knee with the intent to slip it off. The wide neck of your shirt slid off one of your shoulders. Before you could push the fabric below your knee, Seungmin crossed the space between you in long strides and settled on his knees before you. One of his large hands halted your movement, the other bracing itself on the ledge of the dresser. His jaw clenched, the tension in his high cheekbones severe as his lips pursed into a thin line.

For a moment, with the angle of his head, you thought Seungmin was staring at your legs, but then you followed his line of vision to the middle drawer— your underwear drawer. Upon closer inspection, you noted that his waterline and the tip of his nose were stained an irritated shade of dusty pink. Your eyes trailed from the gentle curve of his nose bridge to his pronounced cupid bow that ever so slightly trembled. Kind of pathetic. Unfortunately, he was also kind of hot when he was troubled.

Seungmin’s glossy, tormented eyes flickered up to your face, again searching for something.

You betrayed nothing.

A shaky exhale filled the silence and he moved your hand to rest at your side. Then, he slipped his long fingers into the edge of your sock and slowly, gently peeled it down your leg. Once the sock was removed, he gingerly flattened his lips into your skin just below your knee, heat blossoming under his touch. His large hand cradled the back of your calf, his thumb rubbing rhythmic lines as he unfolded your legs. Seungmin tugged your other sock off with the same attentive care, another kiss planted to your knee. Your chest constricted traitorously when he angled his cheek to relax against your inner leg, and you were grateful to already be seated as his humid breath whispered up your thigh.

You knew you’d have crumbled under his sleek, devoted, watery gaze, his pupils blown wide and all-consuming. You’d have allowed him to pull you into the dark currents with no concerns about ever resurfacing.

Carefully, languidly, you lifted a hand and swept your fingers through his short, dark hair. Your nails lightly scraped against his scalp, his eyes fluttering closed and a shiver vibrating through his kneeling form. He shifted his cheek to apply more pressure into your overheated inner thigh and sighed blissfully, like he would have been content to just melt into you this way.

He was so infuriatingly convincing.

Like, so infuriatingly convincing that an entire forty-eight hours later, you were still thinking about him kneeling loyally between your knees while at the extravagant company dinner. Seungmin’s office hadn’t cheaped-out either, booking an upscale steakhouse located right up against a river.

Seungmin sat beside you, still in his standard work suit, indifferent but contributing to the conversation nonetheless to appear engaged. The appetizers weren't out yet, and you already wanted to be excused from the gathering. You were already regretting wearing a classy, just-teasing-the-line-of-scandalous, mid-thigh-length black dress that left hardly anything to the imagination. Not because you didn't look drop-dead stunning (of course you did), but because you had been seated on the upstairs balcony. At night. Right next to a river.

It was fucking freezing, and not even your shamefully heated recollection of that charged moment with Seungmin was enough to curb your shudders. Worse, you were still so bored.

That was until the vacant seat next to you was occupied by one fashionably late Lee Minho. Well, not really fashionably— like everyone else, he was still dressed in his work suit, but then again, he could afford to be basic with his blessing of a face. The gleam in his eyes was positively wicked when he spotted the empty seat beside you as he stepped onto the balcony. You wiggled your fingers sardonically at him, and his face split into a ferocious grin as he neared.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice was as gentle as you remembered, and his wide eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Not at all,” You smiled genuinely, batting your lashes. Then, just to toy with him: “So lovely to see you again, Mingyu.”

His chuckles erupted from deep inside his chest, high-pitched and giddy at your teasing as he slipped into his seat. He leaned closer to you and joked, “Please, as if you could ever forget this handsome face for a fourteenth time.”

You were about to giggle and continue the banter, but your chair was abruptly yanked in the opposite direction, the legs of your chair screeching obnoxiously against the ground. Your head whipped to stare at the offender who just gained the attention of every pair of eyes at the table with the grating noise, and you came nearly nose-to-nose with your husband.

Seungmin’s expression was schooled into something neutral, and he was already playing the incident off by shrugging his suit jacket down his wide shoulders. He wrapped the heavy material around your back, pulling it snugly over your chest. His residual body heat seeped into your skin, and his fresh, pleasantly spiced, expensive cologne lightly tickled your nose.

“Better?” He murmured, but he was using that tart tone that he always addressed you with in public— the one that unsettled your stomach and extinguished your appetite— and you knew he was making a statement instead of asking a question. At this point, the others were appeased by Seungmin’s contrastingly stony doting and returned to their conversation. Seungmin took this moment to glower something ferocious over your head at his officemate, all sharp angles and cutting undertones.

If you could have stalked over to the railing and tossed his jacket over with a flick of your wrist, you absolutely would have without hesitation. He didn't want you, but he couldn't stomach the concept of you happy with someone else, was that it? That was the only thing that made sense with how uncooperative he was being about the divorce. Not that you viewed Minho in that light at all— he was just a silly guy whose elite sense of humor meshed well with yours. In an effort to not cause a scene, you flashed him a tense smile before turning back to chat with Minho. You caught the man wiggling an unserious, challenging brow at your husband, and could not find it in you to contain a giggle.

“Did I miss anything important?” He inquired, though the smirk quirking one corner of his mouth up indicated that he already knew the answer.

“Don’t worry, the appetizers aren’t even out yet.” You divulged with a wink.

“Gosh,” Minho sighed with a faux disappointed shake of his head. “I should have left the office ten minutes later, then.”

Tongue in cheek, you pouted your bottom lip, “Oh, god no. I wouldn’t have lasted any longer without my entertainment for the evening.”

As quietly as he could, Minho chuckled. “Is that what I’m here for? To be your entertainment?”

Your quip died before your lips could even form the first syllable, as Seungmin’s large palm latched onto you a little above your knee (right where his sultry breath had smoothed over your skin that night, your mind unhelpfully supplied). He wasn’t rough; the touch was more of a weight, but it was unwelcome nonetheless. The action was concealed by the table, but still frowned-upon in a casual-professional setting. Pressure built up behind your brow until it pulsed with a vengeance against the bone.

You were too good to be putting up with his ridiculous double standards. What happened to not getting too close in public? Did he seriously expect you to just sit there and be jovial at every obnoxious outing? There was absolutely no justification for this marriage, and the back-and-forth game Seungmin played between house and ignoring you entirely was insulting to your time and intelligence. He couldn’t even make up his own mind about getting a divorce, and you were going out of your way to make it up for him, but he still wouldn’t budge.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you tried to ground yourself, extinguish the sparks of your rage before they festered into flames, but the throbbing behind your eyes was too severe. You excused yourself from the table, slipping out from under Seungmin’s hand. You avoided Seungmin’s intense eyes following your figure and Minho’s concerned frown as you slung your purse over your shoulder and strode inside the restaurant. The bathroom was, of course, at the end of a long hallway that was tucked back away from the guest seating. Whatever air freshener they were using inside the women’s bathroom was far too potent, the assault of the scent of pine enough to trigger allergies you didn’t even have. As you glanced at your face in the mirror above the sink, that was the conclusion you come to as to why the sensitive skin around your lashes and the tip of your nose look irritated— that stupid pine diffuser and how unbearably cold it was tonight.

You turned your back to the mirror, resting your tailbone against the dark counter, and retrieved the burner from the depths of your purse. The chat log opened, displaying the thread of intimidating messages exchanged with Seungmin. You typed, the white light emitting from the screen only exacerbating your headache. Your message was simple, final.

Time’s up.

Once sent, you tossed the phone back into your purse, snapping the clasp closed, and readjusted the strap over your shoulder. You couldn’t go back out to the balcony yet, too aggravated to sit at that table again so soon with the only reward being an overpriced, mid steak, but you weren’t going to hide in the restroom either. A fucking drink was your best play at the moment.

With every intention of making yourself comfortable at the bar located in a temperature-controlled room for at least the next twenty minutes, you pushed the door to the bathroom open and stepped out. The door swung shut behind you with an ominous creak, and you only made it three paces before you came face to face with Seungmin again in an isolated hallway. You were far enough away from other people for the unease curling rapidly in your stomach to make you reconsider that drink.

Had Seungmin followed you? He had obviously moved quickly since you were in the restroom for less than ten minutes. He looked oddly pale, and the color drained out of his face contrasted starkly with his deep, dark eyes. They were stiff, stony even, as they scanned you up and down, then shifted around the deserted hallway before settling back on your face.

“What is it?” You asked, your arms folding in front of you. The corners of his mouth were drawn tight into a frown, and when you allowed your eyes to flick over his tense form, you noticed his cell phone clenched unforgivingly in his fist (if, for a brief moment, you thought you could make out a knife that promised no mercy instead of the phone, then that was your business). Seungmin was trying to study you again, like he always seemed to be, and you wished you knew what it was that he was looking for. Yet again, he didn’t find it, and he speared his trembling hand through his cropped hair, defeated and irked. He dropped his phone into the pocket of his slacks, lips twitching like he wanted to speak, but couldn’t force the words out. A slight crease formed between his dark brows, and Seungmin finally, shakily, uttered, “Are you having an affair?”

What the hell.

Kim Seungmin’s brain was fucking incoherent.

Your animosity festered to its peak capacity at a rate so fast, you ignored the dread weighing in the pit of your stomach resulting from being alone in this hallway with him. You could feel your own eyes morph into something fierce and lethal, splitting clean through his question and his nerve. You brushed past him, heels clicking violently against the tile, unwilling to dignify his asinine accusation with a response or even look at him. You make it another few strides when Seungmin’s large hand landed on your elbow, still covered by his suit jacket heavily draped over your shoulders. It was uncomfortable.

“Let’s just go back to—” He began, but you’d heard more than enough from him. With a flourish, you wrenched your arm away from his touch, glaring ahead with your nose held high as you stalked out towards the reception area. Seungmin was right behind you, but you ignored his calls for you to “hold on” and “wait.”

You burst through the glass front door, letting it slam shut behind you. The iciness of the night air rolling off the river was sobering, and you inhaled the crisp breeze; it stung your lungs, doing little to curb the heat of your temper. The sidewalk outside the restaurant bracketed a narrow road, not even wide enough for a car to drive by— it was isolated. A metal railing blocked off a drop of a couple of feet down to the dark, frigid water on the opposite sidewalk. You hadn’t had anywhere near enough time to emotionally cool off, though, when Seungmin shoved through the door and your attempt to protect your few remnants of peace. He found you immediately, rushing to you before you could evade him further.

Both of his hands curled around your upper arms, his body heat searing through his jacket. Seungmin’s eyes were a bit wild, pupils trembling and brightened by the restaurant’s fluorescent sign floating above. It stained his now rumpled hair that flopped a few centimeters above his pinched brows with bright, unnatural hues. There was a faint sheen glazed across his high cheekbones, an unusual appearance in the cold.

“Honey—” He tried, and you immediately recoiled at his low, nasal tone on instinct, your purse slipping off your shoulder and into the crook of your elbow in the process. All you heard was an irritating screech of metal against metal at the pet name and his voice. It felt excruciating against your teeth, the vibrations unpleasant.

“I hate it when you call me that.” You bit out, and he was momentarily taken aback, lips slightly parted and downturned.

“It’s cold. Let’s go inside and—” But Seungmin was still pressing, and still delusional if he thought you were going to sit at that table while he dismissed you and your marital issues any longer. You hadn’t wiggled out of his hold yet, but you were trying, and you could see the frustration mounting in the deepening lines of his face.

“Enough,” You said, and it comes out unsettlingly calm.

Seungmin blinked rapidly, and he was frantically trying to read your face like you were the one who wasn’t making sense. The gears crunch like they were never designed to be compatible parts to begin with, creaking and groaning defiantly. He gave up. Seungmin’s hands rubbed up and down your arms, a gesture that appeared comforting to onlookers, but you feared the moment his fingers would claw into you, nails biting into skin until it broke, the façade giving way to his true intentions.

“Just tell me what’s wrong.” The insistence frayed the last wires of your brain-to-mouth filter, and one of Seungmin’s hands released your arm to cradle your cheek, thumb swiping back and forth in a rhythm that made you feel seasick— then many things happened all at once.

The aggravation prickled at your lash line, and you flicked your eyes heavenward to both release that feeling and prevent it from manifesting in angry tears.

You saw the neon sign above you sway precariously, and thought that the water in your eyes must be distorting your vision, until— with a final echoing crack and an unnerving series of pops— it plummeted.

“Move!”

Before you could react, Minho threw himself into both of you, slamming all three of you into the unforgiving concrete road. Seungmin took the brunt of the landing, coiling around as much of you as he could, his arm absorbing most of the impact for your head. The glass and plastic rained over Minho, who piled over the top of both of you as best as he could. The three of you lay toppled over in the narrow street in a disorienting heap of limbs and expletives.

Minho was upright first, gingerly stumbling to his feet and attempting to avoid the eruption of what used to be the restaurant sign shattered all around you. A few minor cuts littered his face and hands, and he shook his head to rid his hair of the sign fragments— it was a fluffed-up mess. You and Seungmin were in similar states with no serious injuries, but both of you had been significantly less caught in the downpour of glass and plastic. Seungmin bled from a couple of thin nicks across his cheekbone and nose bridge, but otherwise seemed uninjured.

Minho muttered out curses at the unsalvageable state of his work clothes, whining something along the lines of, “motherfucker just has to fuck with my bag— have to buy another fuck ass suit—”

You shifted to brace a hand on the ground and shove your way to your feet, but Seungmin hauled you up before your fingers could graze the road. Big hands were on you again as Seungmin’s wide eyes checked you for any life-threatening injuries, demanding to know if you were hurt.

You surveyed the destruction around you, baffled.

“Oh my god,” You gasped, your chest heaving a bit as you took in the newly formed cracks in the sidewalk where you and Seungmin had just stood. “Minho, you deserve a raise.”

“Don’t I fucking know it.” The man in question grunted, his suit jacket held at arm's length before him with his nose crinkled in distaste. “Your stupid guard dog of a husband gets fucking tunnel vision every time something involves you.” He turns on Seungmin, a manic glint in his wide eyes, “Yah! How the fuck did you not hear that giant ass sign?! If it weren’t for me, you guys would be dead as hell! You should be better to me!” All of Minho’s soft tone was overtaken by something guttural you hadn’t heard until now.

Seungmin turned and cut off Minho’s complaints, instead drilling questions into him about what happened, what he saw, who he saw…

What a fucking mess.

While Seungmin interrogated Minho, you glanced around in search of your no-doubt scratched-up purse, finding it sprawled out a few feet in front of you; the clasp had popped open in the tackle, the contents spilling out on the concrete. The pounding in your chest ceased, and you rushed over to gather your belongings, your heart now lodged in your throat.

Lip gloss, wallet, car keys, your cell, a hair tie, a pack of gum, two more hair ties— where the fuck was the burner? Your hands trembled, your movements becoming frantic as your eyes darted around the wreckage. Seungmin and Minho were still occupied with their own conversation, Seungmin with his phone now held up to his ear. The burner was nowhere to be seen on the road. That left…

You peered over the railing overlooking the river, your hands turning white against the chipped metal paint to no avail; the water was black.

It was gone.

Further down the road, you discovered stairs leading closer to the river. Ignoring the ache settling into the side you’d landed on, you darted over to the top landing, clutch in hand and everything else out of mind. You didn’t know how deep the water was, but technology was so advanced— there was totally a possibility that the burner was one of those like, water-resistant up to five feet phones— or was time the important factor? Super wishful thinking on your part, but you’d never know until you knew. You hurried down the concrete steps and over to the grassy riverside, your heels scratching against pavement, and carelessly tossed your purse to your feet (just as you’d anticipated, the road had left its mark on the leather, so no reason to be gentle now). Your heels were the next item discarded, kicked off to tumble next to your bag. The grass was so cold it felt damp beneath the bottom of your feet, and goosebumps shivered up your legs. They appeared on your arms once you shed Seungmin’s suit jacket as well.

But as you peered into the unyielding, dark water, you knew it was a lost cause. Then, you were whirled around to look into Seungmin’s eyes that mirrored the river, though the currents in his eyes were far more volatile— also a lost cause.

“Quit fucking running off!” He seethed, and it was the only time you could recall ever inspiring an emotional outburst from him to this degree. It was a far cry from his typical frigid indifference— his temperament was borderline volcanic. He trembled as he erupted, yanking his jacket over your own quivering form again with unsteady hands. “Some motherfucker just tried to drop a sign on you, and—”

Your jaw was clenched so tightly, you didn’t know how you bit out your lethal retort back at him. “And whose fault is that, Seungmin?”

And with that, his rampage subdued like you’d dunked his head under the river water. The tension coiled tight enough to snap in his limbs unwound and dissipated, and he slumped. Seungmin couldn’t even stand to look at you, his head falling forward to stare down at your bare feet like he had a conscience.

Now he had the gall to pretend to be ashamed? Or was he just disappointed that you knew? You were so, so tired.

Silently, he gathered your abandoned purse and your heels, slinging the clutch onto his shoulder. It was like a replay of the gala; he squatted to slip your shoes back on, one knee lowering into the dewy grass, then heaved an exhausted sigh that seemed to emanate from his very soul upon discovering your feet were wet, blades of grass stubbornly adhered to your skin.

“Are you fucking stupid?!” Minho’s edged voice called from the sidewalk behind you. “Some jackass just tried to kill you—” Minho was cut off by Seungmin launching your heels at him without turning around. With your purse still secured on his shoulder and a surly glower pulling the corners of his lips down, Seungmin heaved you up off the ground and into his hold. Even the weightlessness in your stomach from Seungmin’s steps felt like lead— like you were going to be sick. As he curtly passed Minho, you peered over Seungmin’s shoulder apologetically, only for Minho to mime chucking your heels at the back of your husband’s head. You allowed him a faint, queasy smile, then pled for assistance with glassy eyes that he tragically misinterpreted.

“Just go home,” Minho groaned, gesturing vaguely with your heels in one hand, but taking pity on you nonetheless. “I’ll handle the police report.”

Despite your efforts to remain at the scene of the literal crime, you ended up in the passenger seat of Seungmin’s car for a very tense, uncomfortable drive home. The roads seemed to stretch like the thick silence. You couldn’t help glancing over a few times to try and read his expression, but his downturned lips and exhausted, droopy eyes were difficult to decipher. Seungmin’s Adam’s apple bobbed with each rough swallow, and he made no attempt to speak and dislodge whatever words were obviously stuck in his throat.

Part of you appreciated his careful, languid driving— otherwise, you risked the very real possibility of spilling the contents of your empty stomach onto the leather seat of his car. The ache from the impact with the concrete had settled into your bones by now, throbbing every time you shifted in your seat. However, it was currently the least important thing on your long list of concerns. Topping the list was the increasing likelihood that Seungmin was going to take care of you himself now that he knew that you were on to his scheme to become a widower. You knew better than to think that Seungmin would continue to play the ignorant, doting husband after this one. Something was about to happen— you could feel it pulsing with each piercing throb in your sore bones, and you knew that it was alive in Seungmin too.

The tense silence persisted as you arrived home. As Seungmin slipped out of the car and rounded the front, you pushed the door to your side open. He caught it and steadied it, then stepped into your path to exit the vehicle. Apprehensively, you peered at his face, but it was still devoid of any tells that would indicate his motives. Against your will, the nausea looming in the pit of your stomach spread to the back of your throat. Your fingers twitched against the side of the leather seat as you fought the sickness away. An overwhelming heat diffused into your skin as Seungmin leaned over you once more and slipped his arms around your back and under the bend of your knees. If he noticed the quivers vibrating from your hands to your shoulders as you secured your arms around his neck, Seungmin remained silent.

He set you down once you passed the threshold of the front door, and you immediately buried your feet into your house slippers, more than appreciative of the cushion they provided to your aching side. It wasn’t until you entered the living room together, Seungmin trailing behind you, that either of you spoke.

“I need to talk to you about something.” His low voice set off a shudder down your spine. Before you turned to face him, you inhaled a steadying breath.

Neither of you was oblivious to your circumstances or each other’s awareness at this point— all that was left to do was tear the rest of the bandage off and discover the ugly, ragged wound bleeding beneath.

“I’m listening.” You pivoted, expression strategically neutral as you briefly paused at the already clotted blood dotting his nose bridge and cheekbone. He shifted his weight to one leg, clenching and unclenching his fingers into tight fists as you waited for him to admit it all.

Seungmin swallowed, then sighed, then speared his fingers through his rumpled, cropped hair. Finally, he spoke: “Recently, a case— well, a defendant has gotten out of hand. He’s been threatening violence.”

That makes two of you.

Seungmin scanned your face for a reaction to this information, dark eyes darting around for the first indication of an emotion. There wasn’t one. The corners of his mouth twitched, and he continued slowly as if clarifying his previous statement, “The threats are directed at you.”

He waited again, nerves tense, anticipating something from you in response, whether fear, anger, or all of the above. What Seungmin had not anticipated were giggles. Like, the kind you tried to contain while you were in quiet, public areas. He watched, perturbed, as your hands clamped over your lips and nose and your shoulders shook. His brows furrowed, and abruptly, he was concerned that he might not have cushioned your head well enough during the fall earlier.

You gasped for breath. “You really—” Another burst of giggles, and you angled your head away from him. “God, you—” A deep sigh as you reeled yourself together to stare into his vaguely uneasy eyes. “You’re really gonna run with this, huh?”

The wry curl of your lips and the firm glint in your eyes made something twist in Seungmin’s chest. Were you just in denial of your situation after the trauma of someone trying to drop a thirty-pound neon sign on you? Like, he really couldn’t fault you for it, but reality was the only place where you could problem solve on this one.

“Go ahead and craft your own reality, I guess,” You sighed.

He could never in any timeline have predicted the next words out of your mouth.

“But I know you’re trying to kill me, honey.” You maintained a steady voice, nearly slipping into customer service territory with how saccharine your delivery was.

Seungmin blinked rapidly, as if you’d just switched to a whole new language mid-conversation. His eyes were wide, nearly crazed, and his mouth pressed into a firm line, like he couldn't decide if it was you or him who had lost the plot.

Meanwhile, you were on a streak today for inciting the most authentic emotion you had ever seen from him. You couldn’t decide if it was an accomplishment or another indication of your pitiful relationship whose structural integrity, at this point, you couldn’t help but compare to that of a wet paper towel— disintegrating and only adept at making messes worse.

If someone had asked Kim Seungmin how well he knew his wife, he’d have confidently answered that he could recognize your voice in outer space— your verbal ticks, cadence, and the distinct breathy enunciation of specific syllables— with how he’d trained his ear to pick out your tones in an overcrowded room, lack of air particles be damned. He could determine the moment when you entered a room, even with his sinuses severely clogged in the spring months when his allergies acted up, because he knew the scent of your preferred laundry detergent, shampoo, and perfume down to the base notes. Even if his taste buds stopped regenerating, Seungmin would still be able to discern the addictive light cream flavor of your favorite lip balm— the one you constantly carried in your purse was the same one you’d worn on your wedding day. A hundred layers of fabric wouldn’t be enough of a barrier preventing him from distinguishing the exact shape, press, and warmth of your hands, or the curve of your cheeks, or the space his hands covered of the small of your back.

He knew you as well as anyone could— through observation.

But evidently, Kim Seungmin had never known what the fuck his wife was thinking.

“I’m what?” He demanded, body going rigid and brows furrowing as a baffled huff blustered past his lips.

“Let me know when you have a dead body.” You mimicked in a moody, low tone, nailing the delivery exactly the way he had drawled it into the phone that night.

Every nerve in his body lit aflame as you parroted the phrase back to him. It singed all the way to his fingertips. They twitched. His blood was frozen.

Oh, no. Yeah, okay, that sounded like really, really bad. Definitely damning. He shook his head a couple of times to clear out the disbelief clogging his brain from the rest of his nerves. Seungmin couldn’t comprehend that this whole time you’d thought that he had been trying to kill you; he wasn’t even really sure how long that even was. He could read the impassive expression pasted onto your features that displayed ‘The ruse is up, buddy,’ and he was so, so furious that it had escalated to this, and it was all on him and his inability to just be upfront with you about the unfortunate hazards of his job. He had miscalculated spectacularly, and the worst part?

Minho had just forced him into an unwilling, unresponsive heart-to-heart about this over lunch this week.

“Hey,” As usual, Seungmin had ignored his officemate in favor of his paperwork, until Minho resorted to relentlessly kicking his chair and whining incessantly. “Hey! Snail— lunch.”

“Nah,” Seungmin declined.

“Jjigae,” Minho bribed.

And then, before he’d been able to comprehend that he’d fallen victim to the tangy, acidic seduction of stew, the Seungmin and Minho sat across from each other at the table, ties rotated around their necks to hang down their backs, steaming bowls set before them.

That was when Minho had brazenly broached the subject:

“So, you’re like, not husband goals.”

Seungmin had dipped his spoon into the broth, watching the tofu and pork swirl around, terminally uninterested in Minho’s meddling. He’d countered immediately: “What do you know? You don’t live in our house.”

Minho’s eyes had widened, an incredulous huff cutting through the steam curling from his meal. “Yeah, I don’t need to cohabitate with you to know that it’s that bad, my lovely little office atrocity.” He’d grimaced, nose scrunching. “If you treated me like that in public, I’d divorce your ass instantly*.” His the last word had hissed from his lips, and it sizzled obnoxiously in Seungmin’s eardrum.*

“We’re not looking for a third. Mind your business.” Seungmin had drawled, the severe downward angle of the corners of his lips an indicator that his patience was rapidly draining.

Unfortunately for him, this was something Lee Minho had never cared about before, and he would not be turning over a new leaf today. The man braced his elbows on the table, like anything that was about to come out of his mouth was valuable enough to warrant elbow-bracing.

“First off— throuple my ass. I’d just steal her.” Minho raised his index finger, pointedly ignoring the predatory heat emitting from Seungmin’s sharpened glare and the tension stiffening his high cheekbones. Fearless, he continued, extending his middle finger: “Second off— if I can see it, everyone else can too.”

Seungmin’s frown had deepened impossibly further.

The thing was, Seungmin had known he’d won by marrying you. You’re the entire package and everything more— gorgeous, intelligent, and generally a joy to be around. He was painfully aware of that fact, as well as the throat-tightening truth that had it not been for ancestral meddling, you would have never even spared him a glance. Despite not really earning the privilege of being your husband, he still took his role seriously: it was an honor to be your partner in any capacity, and he prioritized your safety and happiness, even if it aggravated him to have to keep his distance in public.

“I don’t like it either, but the less attention I draw to her in public, the less likely it is that she’s targeted.” He’d swallowed his first spoonful of stew, and it was good— comforting, piquant— but something was off. He’d known instantly that the sugar had accidentally been left out— only a small amount was sprinkled in, but it made a world of difference in the flavor of the broth. Seungmin sighed, “You know, in theory.”

He’d rested his spoon down along the edge of the drip plate and tiredly pressed his thumb and index fingers just below his brow bone. The threats had all gotten way too out of hand lately, and Seungmin knew exactly who to blame.

All he’d done was enforce the fucking law— which was, you know, his job— and some rich fucker who thought he was above it all was delusional enough to try and just pay Seungmin off to evade the consequences of his own actions. Obviously, Seungmin could not, in fact, just be paid off. The migraine-inducing man had learned an expensive lesson, and he’d decided to make it Seungmin’s problem by sending him threats via mail, phone calls, texts, and emails. It was one thing to inconvenience him by flooding his inboxes, it was another to direct the threatening messages toward his wife. He should have just minded his business and spent his time evading taxes rather than earning the top spot on Seungmin’s shit list.

Because now Seungmin was going to get this stupid fucker.

But before he could follow that thread further, Minho grilled him again. “And your wife is in on this brilliant theory?”

Seungmin’s blank face and refusal to comment on the matter had spoken volumes, dark, droopy eyes dodging his officemate’s judgment as he picked his spoon back up and returned to his lunch.

Minho had groaned, his head flopping back so he could air his frustration out to the ceiling. Then, he’d donned his professional mannerisms, back straight and eyes shining as he addressed Seungmin. “Perfect people— like me and your wife— need to be worshiped in a relationship,” He explained. To whom, he hadn’t known, because Seungmin had buried face down in his kimchi jjigae, cheeks puffed out with a mouthful of stew-soaked rice.

“Y’know what? Whatever.” He’d shrugged and reclined back into the wooden chair. “I don’t know how your marriage has lasted this long.” The rest of the lunch had been silent. Only the soft clinks of metal utensils scraping the sides of bowls and the creaking of Minho’s chair had filled the restaurant.

Eventually, Minho had finished his meal, and he stood from the table, stretching and grunting as his shoulder cracked.

“See you back at the office.”

“You’re my senior, aren’t you going to pay?” Seungmin had blinked, attention more fixated on Minho in this moment than during any other part of their mostly one-sided conversation.

Minho had simply adjusted the lapels on his jacket, unmoved by Seungmin’s appeal. “Oh, I’m your senior, am I? You’re the problem. Fix it. Thanks for the meal.”

And then he was gone, his parting gift a lunch bill for Seungmin to cover.

Okay, he could fix this.

Seungmin’s eyes briefly flickered to the picture of the two of you on your wedding day hanging a few feet away, and swallowed thickly, his prominent Cupid’s bow trembling from the adrenaline unfreezing his blood stream.

Before he could stop himself, Seungmin’s twitching fingers rested against your cheeks like he could somehow transfer his thoughts into your head through his touch.

You shifted to evade his touch, flinching a bit, a frown weighing the corners of your lips down, but he stepped closer so you had nowhere to look except his eyes. He filled his gaze with as much sincerity as he could muster so you would believe the words coming out of his mouth.

“Honey,” He began, never once blinking, not giving you the chance to doubt his honesty by breaking eye contact. “Honey, you just put the fear of god into me back there, okay? I’ve— that—” Seungmin cut himself off with a wince, his own stream of consciousness jumbling his thoughts. “Let’s rewind. That call was real?” The fear of god he’d just mentioned returned in full, and his lips quivered. He could still hear the glass and metal pieces shattering and shrieking against the pavement, reverberating on a loop that spiked his heart rate at each shrill initial collision. The tremors in his fingers remained just as constant.

You thought he was going for a whole fucking Oscar. Unmoved and fresh out of patience, your hands reached up to bat his off of your face, but his grip on your cheeks strengthened, still careful not to hurt you.

“How did you get away?” His eyes flickered from your face to your hands down your body and back up to your eyes as if he’d find the answers there.

It was your turn to blink in disbelief. You scoffed, “Are you fucking kidding?” Like some amateur criminals could possibly stand a chance at out-crazying you. Seungmin had zero confidence in your ability to handle your damn self. That figured, since he’d underestimated you this entire time. There was no way he could comprehend it, even if you explained. Clearly, he didn't know shit about what you were capable of.

No worries, honey. The guy held a knife to my neck from the back seat, so I disabled the rear airbags and drove into the barrier. Easy, breezy, beautiful, Covergirl!

You wiggled free from his hold, and Seungmin instead grasped your hands, still trying to keep you near him long enough to clear up the mess he had made. He rushed to voice the next thought searing into his tongue against his better judgment.

“You wanted a divorce because you thought I was trying to kill you, yes?” His eyes morphed out of their steely lines and drooped into a sorrowful appearance you hardly recognized. You’d seen him weighed down and bruised with exhaustion, but the glassy grief was uncharted waters.

“Yeah, that’s one of the reasons.” You easily admitted, and Seungmin was struck with the bitter reality that there was so much more he had to fix about your relationship than he initially thought. It wasn't too late; he willed the thought repeatedly like he could force it to become the truth.

“Why?” He whispered, gently squeezing your hands in his and bracing himself for the ache to burrow its way into his chest and shred its claws into his arteries. He needed to listen— to understand— even if it cost him everything he thought he knew about your relationship.

“It’s humiliating.” You answered, and Seungmin could never have prepared for the way his lungs sunk in on themselves like they were mere moments away from crumbling into nothing. His waterline swam with irritation.

“Being my wife?” He choked out like the syllables were weighted, knowing the confirmation would finish him off for good. Seungmin couldn’t even bring himself to look at you, his eyes squeezing shut like it could protect him, like he could stop himself from imploding at the truth.

“Yeah, you don’t even hide that you don’t like me, and literally everyone knows.” You were frustrated and tired, and you couldn’t stop yourself from whining. “Just divorce me already!”

Seungmin’s eyes snapped open, and the steel contours had returned. “No.” He refused, clutching your hands up to flatten against his chest where his heart hammered like it was trying to force its way out of his shriveling lungs. Seungmin wished the organ could extract itself and reside permanently in your careful palms; he was sure it would flourish if he could just pass it to you, let you see it unobscured as it pulsed within your hold. “I never said I don’t like you, n—” “— You didn't have to say it!” You interrupted, but Seungmin didn’t even entertain your asinine line of thought and continued, tone firm, insistent.

“— No one else knows shit about how I feel about you, and I have been trying to do the opposite of killing you.” He persisted, and you must have sensed something earnest in his words, or maybe in his heart pounding in your hands, because you didn't try to wrench away from him again.

Instead, you quietly replied: “I don’t know how you feel about me either.”

And Seungmin could finally breathe again. Because he could fix that.

“My love,” The words left his mouth like an oath, a promise, and his heart palpitated in time with them, the organ pumping them out consistently, repeatedly, so that it could declare your place in his chest and its place in your hands to ensure you never forget or doubt it. One of his warm hands reached to cradle your cheek again, thumb swiping soothingly while he dropped his forehead to rest against yours.

“My love.” He repeated, and how could he not mean it? “Let me show you.”

And just like that, you moved to retreat again, eyes narrowed and lips sulking. “You are not going to fix this with sex.”

Seungmin didn’t allow any more misunderstandings to forge distance between you. Large, warm, scratched hands kept you near him, one resting on your back and another gently brushing your hair away so he could lowly murmur into your ear. “As if.” His bottom lip grazed your lobe, the warmth traveling down your spine. “I’m going to worship you, my love.” And then Seungmin punctuated his promise by pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear.

Your knees lost feeling, and Seungmin pulled away slightly to meet your eyes, his own brimming with that overwhelming affection that you had begun to suspect might not have been an act this entire time. “Can I do that?” He asked, his fingers at your back rubbing leisurely at your spine. You wished his stupid suit jacket wasn’t still draped over your shoulders. “Am I allowed to worship you? I haven’t done a good job of that, huh?”

Steadily, you exhaled through your nose and rested your eyes. “No, you haven’t.” Then, your eyes reopened, clear, steely, and addressed him: “Do better.”

Seungmin didn’t wait. He didn’t need further instruction. He gathered you in his arms— and with how often Seungmin had done this lately, it might be a petty indication that despite his occupation as a prosecutor, he was still strong enough to lift you— and carried you down the hallway to your room with long, purposeful strides.

Once you were past the threshold of the bathroom door, Seungmin deposited you on the counter, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before moving over to the bathtub. With his back to you, he turned the tap on, carefully twisting the lever to a comfortable, warm temperature. As he checked the water gushing against the porcelain, the thundering sound filling the resolute silence between you, you observed the slope of his wide shoulders beneath his shirt.

The once crisp, white dress shirt had grime from the road smeared into the fabric. His dress slacks, while dark, weren’t faring much better, with little tears littered down the pant leg. You hadn’t looked yet, but you figured his suit jacket was in a similar state. You curled the edge of the silky lapel in your fingers, eyes following Seungmin’s movements as he scanned through your bath accoutrements until he selected a lavender chamomile bath salt. Long, nimble fingers unscrewed the lid, and Seungmin sprinkled a liberal amount near the stream of water, swishing it around with his hand until it bubbled. He flicked his wrist a few times to shake off the water droplets and patted the rest off with a towel.

You’d been searching for the malicious intentions behind his every word, twitch, and gaze for the past month, so the dissonance clouding your trust from his actions was thick and syrupy, like honey. Logically, you knew that Seungmin had had ample opportunity to kill you tonight— there was no reason to hold back once in the privacy of the living room— but logic did nothing to quiet your intuition warning you that a crime would be easiest to clean in the bathtub. Something a little louder— more persistent— urged you to trust him, reasoning that for all his clumsy shortcomings and questionable behaviors, he’d instinctively shielded you and, admittedly, prevented a horrific death tonight. Perhaps a little credit was due. Plus, it would take a different kind of steel-nerved scoundrel to stand beneath a death trap of his own making, and watching your husband search for the exact spot to return your bath salt with wide, overwhelmed eyes like he was in a non-alphabetized spice aisle at the grocery store led you to deem him lacking in that particular area.

Seungmin returned, resting a hand just above your knee; it was the same touch that had irritated you at the restaurant, setting off the wrong kind of sparks, but this time, it registered as attentive instead of surveilling. Pleasantly floral steam swirled between you, not overpowering, but soothing. The rushing water from the tap matched the current of your pulse.

“I’ll be right back,” He said, and disappeared into your room, returning moments later with a change of sleepwear, fresh underwear, and your hairbrush from your vanity, all in a neat stack. Seungmin set it on the counter next to you and stepped into the space where your knees are parted on the edge of the counter. It was again reminiscent of the night Seungmin had knelt there, his steady puffs of breath diffusing sensually up your thighs. The suit jacket was carefully lifted off your shoulders, and tossed into a heap on the tile in the corner. You let the house shoes slip off your feet, hitting the rug with a soft thud. Slowly, Seungmin looped his arms around you and pulled you into him, resting one palm on your lower back and the other on your shoulder. The gentle slope of his nose skimmed the side of your neck, and every soft exhale kissed your skin.

Seungmin waited, just breathing with you, until you loosely wound your arms around his neck and rested your chin on his shoulder. He trailed his hand from your shoulder to the zipper at the top of your dress, leaving a warm path in its wake. The zipper glided down easily, and Seungmin retreated out of your hold.

His back was to you again as he shut the water off. You hopped down from the counter and slipped out of your dress and underwear, dropping them to join Seungmin’s discarded suit jacket. While you weren’t particularly shy about stripping with him in the room— after all, you had nothing to be ashamed of— the courtesy of his turning away to respect your privacy was still appreciated, despite being the bare minimum.

You padded over to the bath as Seungmin sat down on the ledge of the tub. A short spill of water droplets dripped from the faucet into the bath. Seungmin peered up at you, his gaze firmly set on your face, and he offered you his hand. Just like that. You’d been completely hellbent on forcing his hand for the past month— so much so that you’d overlooked the steady, sincere palm he’d offered you all along.

Carefully, you slipped your hand into his and he applied a light pressure, squeezing to offer stability as you settled into the warm, fragrant bathwater. Your eyes fluttered closed and your muscles went slack, the water soothing the ache stinging in your bones from the fall and the tension tangling your nerves into a jumbled nest.

“Okay,” Seungmin began, voice low and soft, like he’s trying not to burst the comfortable atmosphere, fragile like a soap bubble. “Let's start from the beginning.” He soaked a washcloth in the steaming water and lathered a liberal squeeze of your body wash into the fabric until suds puffed up between his fingers. “I have zero desire to divorce you, and I definitely don’t want you dead.”

You stared at him, internalizing his words, watching as he gently pulled your arm from the water and buffed your skin with the soapy washcloth. He was vigilant of the superficial scrapes on your skin, diligently avoiding applying too much pressure on the mostly dried blood. The light, floral lavender and chamomile scent must have softened your once-unyielding skepticism, because you questioned him evenly as you slipped further into the water, letting it lap easily at your collarbones. It was soothing, oddly providing a layer of bubbly comfort as the froth from the bath salt steadily fizzed at each miniscule movement. “Why not divorce me if you aren’t happy in this marriage?”

Seungmin inhaled deeply, disappointedly, but still methodically worked calming circles with the washcloth. His eyes, ever-wilting from exhaustion, withered further, dark pupils dulling with the understanding that he’d essentially made himself a stranger to you in this relationship.

“I made you think I didn’t want this marriage because of the way I treated you in public.” He summarized, tone intentionally neutral, yet still dreary at the wrecked state of your marriage due to his lapse in judgement.

The statement was true, painfully so, and you nodded.

His lips pulled down into a frown, his shoulders sagging with it. Seungmin’s expression only grew more overcast as he took the same logical (and inaccurate) journey you did, pouring over the events of the past month, each detail from your vantage point further incriminating. “And the phone call…” He trailed off, eyes squeezing closed in a wince.

“Yeah,” You affirmed quietly, lips flattened. At this point, your head was lolled to the side, relaxed yet concentrated on him— on guard or simply observant, he wasn’t sure.

In all honesty, he would have reached the same conclusion you did in this situation, but he could have never pulled off the performance you’d managed— interacting with him like everything was normal— like cohabitating with someone who was actively trying to carry out your demise wasn’t the most intense stakes role play Seungmin could fathom. And he discovered that your bones were made of sturdier material than you let on: you were infallible, yet still light enough to glide through life like you weren’t enduring a storm that would rupture anyone else’s foundation. It was a careful, elegant balance you maintained, and Seungmin only wished that he hadn’t been the choppy tide working against you.

He switched to your other arm, leaning in closer for better access. As he settled near your face, you took in the sheen of his skin, no longer dewy out of exertion, but from the floral scented steam wafting in the bathroom. It clung to his cheekbones and forehead, and softened his features in a way you hadn’t been able to recognize for a while.

Colorfully (and vaguely homicidally), Seungmin filled you in on the rich, tragically stupid defendant who had evidently had it out for you as of late. From the description that Seungmin provided, he seemed exactly like the type of asshole to hire a shitty hitman. By the time he was done painting his monstrous portrait of the guy, he was halfway done washing your legs, massaging the soap methodically as he spoke. The bubble bath had mostly fizzled out, leaving behind dreamy lilac-tinted remnants. Seungmin’s brows were furrowed, that devastatingly attractive crease in his forehead making a reappearance, and his words were clipped and as sour as ever.

It was this moment when you recognized that you’d never been on the receiving end of his truly acidic, resentful wrath— no, Seungmin was only tart with you in public. On the surface, he was stinging enough to dull your taste buds, to prevent you from ever coming back for another taste, but it masked the underlying sweetness he so desperately tried to veil. It was the syrupy sweet side of him that only came up for air at home, the part of him that craved near-constant contact with you, that was content to sit quietly with you each evening and work soothing circles into your legs with his nimble fingers that had leafed through paperwork all day. The part of him that seemed to cling and hover near you all night, basking in your attention and pressing tender kisses into whatever skin he had access to at every opportunity.

You wanted to laugh. Instead, you revealed your hand to him.

“It’s almost impressive how bad he is at everything.” You hummed thoughtfully and twisted to face him fully, cooperatively bending your leg for him in the process.

Seungmin listened attentively as you recounted the (obviously unsuccessful) attempt on your life. His jaw clenched when you mentioned the knife, and his cheekbones appeared so painfully angular, taut against his skin, you feared the pressure might reopen his cut. However, the satisfaction of the poorly suppressed mortification in the raging waters of Seungmin’s eyes at the intentional crash was admittedly so sweet; you nearly felt bad about it, but nothing was going to stop you from appreciating the little joys you found in your traumatic experience, guilty pleasures and all.

By now, the steam curling in the bathroom had dissipated, but Seungmin’s troubles had not. He carefully lowered your leg back into the cooling water and abandoned the washcloth on the side of the tub. Wordlessly, he fished out your hand again, clutching it in both of his; his hold was warmer, more gentle than the bath water. Seungmin stamped a tender, apologetic kiss onto your knuckles. With his head angled so his breath puffed against the back of your hand, he peered at you through creased brows and remorseful, dusty pink-rimmed eyes. The weight of his gaze thickened the air in the room more than the humidity ever did.

“I’m sorry,” He started, lightly squeezing your hand. “I didn’t want to scare you, so I didn’t say anything, but obviously that fucking backfired.” He huffed out a self-deprecating rush of air from his nose— the kind that wasn’t really a laugh. “I never meant to make you feel unloved in public, I just thought it would be safer for you to not be seen with me.” Another kiss to your knuckles before he concluded: “All of this is my fault.”

He was pitiful.

You sighed, pouting lightly at him and straightening up to lean closer to the edge of the tub where he was seated. The tinted water sloshed lightly as you moved, lapping against the porcelain before retreating in little ripples. You supposed it was only fair of you to come clean now too. Settling your chin down on Seungmin’s thigh— that tensed as you made contact— you peered up at him knowingly and admitted, “Not all of it.”

Immediately, Seungmin’s mouth opened to protest, to take accountability for it all, but you cut him off, stating evenly, “I took the burner and used it to threaten you too.”

Seungmin went completely rigid, mouth clamping shut, processing. He was about to be furious. He looked at you with gaping, disbelieving, possibly betrayed eyes, and you knew he was reccounting every threat, every malicious message with the knowledge that his wife had been the person on the other end. Seungmin would walk out of your bathroom, out of your room, and file for divorce. You waited for the sharp transformation of the contours of his eyes, the hardening of his stare, and the darkest parts of his pupils to freeze you out permanently.

“Clever.”

Unexpectedly, his lips curled into a boyish, undeniably amused smirk, and he cupped his hand under your chin, gently lifting it off of his leg and stroking it a few times with the pad of his thumb. “But still a losing battle.”

He stood then— mood suspiciously cheery based on the roundness of his cheeks and the squareness of his shoulders— and unfolded your fluffy towel for you, draping it over his arm. Seungmin stretched out his palm for you, a foolishly charmed smile curling his lips.

You blinked up at him and his offered hand warily before holding onto it and rising out of the tub, the water flooding down your body to drizzle steadily back into the bath. “You’re not mad?” You demanded, head tilted challengingly, but Seungmin only wrapped you in the towel until you were snug and protected from post-bath goosebumps.

His dark eyes glistened as he brushed his hands up and down the part of the towel cloaking your arms, the friction slightly heating the material. “I’m more relieved that our home security system is functional and someone isn’t actually able to bypass it. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to figure out how someone was breaking in without tripping it.” His grin was positively radiant, and he held himself like he just stripped himself of his work attire after a miserable night of overtime, posture finally blessedly relaxed and unburdened. “This is great news!”

Elated, Seungmin cradled your cheek in his large palm and pressed his lips to your forehead. Your eyes fluttered closed under the warmth of his kiss, and he drew back just slightly to murmur, “Now that I know that bit of information, all bets are off for this fucker.”

Hm. Your husband didn’t pry into the details of your attacker’s instant (and permanent) karma in the crash, and you decided to graciously extend the same courtesy about his pest. After all, reciprocity is the foundation of a healthy relationship.

And plausible deniability.

“What’s this guy even pressed about?” You complained instead, allowing your irritation to bite into your words.

Seungmin, now shuffling the towel about to dry the rest of you, lingered close by so you can inhale his mostly faded, fresh cologne and his scent, familiar and comforting like soft linen. “He’s throwing an adult tantrum about me not taking his pathetic bribe. Probably hurt his pride more than anything else. Embarrassing.” You could hear the eye roll in the delivery of that information, but more importantly, you felt a particularly devastating throb in your lower stomach that threatened to melt your kneecaps.

‘A man.’ Your pulse thrummed, rushing hot and loud, and you couldn’t have agreed more.

Crushing billionaires’ slimy little unpalatable egos was a valiant act of public service, a truly unselfish gift, as honorable a contribution to society as one can make, the purest form of noblesse oblige, and your husband just did that— mercilessly, no less.

“That’s so sexy of you.” You exhaled dreamily, fluttering your lashes open to peer at him with infatuated eyes and an airy smile that promised everything sweet, spicy, and unapologetically indecent.

The towel slipped from between Seungmin’s fingers, and his eyes widened comically. It crumbled in a heap at your feet just as Seungmin was spluttering an eloquent, “Huh?”

“I said,” You stepped over the dampened towel (it was useless anyway now that you were a different kind of wet) eliminating the respectful distance between you and instead claiming it. “That’s so sexy of you.” Your chest flattened against his, bare skin against rumpled dress shirt, and vaguely, you were concerned about the way you felt his chest stutter and then still. Seungmin was beside himself— not for the first time that night— completely baffled by your abrupt shift in tone. He was lost, you could tell; he had no idea how he’d gotten into this exact situation despite it being the consequences of his own unintentionally, heinously core-clenching actions.

You never really showed him interest like this.

“Didn’t you say we weren’t going to fix this with sex?” Seungmin’s brows raised in question, not objecting, but definitely reviewing his notes from the evening nonetheless.

You’d made an executive decision and amended the conditions of the ceasefire, as it were. Circumstances had changed since then and thus your parameters shifted accordingly.

“Didn’t you say you were going to worship me?” You challenged, voice saccharine and expression coy. His eyes, as dark and deep as water at midnight, overflowed with a devotion you hadn’t allowed yourself to entertain the thought of being genuine until now. The bathmat slipped out from below you in an instant, and with it came that weightless swooping sensation in your stomach, only this time, it left you an exhilarating kind of breathless.

Seungmin was unquestionably addressing your perception of his lack of strength by gathering you yet again into his uncharacteristically stable hold. There was a proud, borderline arrogant twinkle in his eyes that said, “Still think I can’t carry you?” and a lopsided, lovesick grin on his lips as he swiftly turned on his heel and carried you out of the bathroom. The drop in temperature compelled you to wind your arms around his neck you so you could burrow closer into the steady warmth of his neck. You felt his cutting intake of breath when the cold tip of your nose brushed the sensitive skin of his neck, his fingers clamping tighter into your skin.

Seungmin was maybe a few steps away from the bed when his attention was briefly stolen by the chest of drawers placed unassumingly against the wall— specifically, your underwear drawer.

Whoops!

The rigid pull of his bones and the tension mounting in his jaw necessitated you stretching up to issue a comforting smooch onto his cheek and, like a siren call, Seungmin turned back to your innocently fluttering lashes. That’s right, you’ve never ever done anything wrong, they insisted. Dark pupils blown wide flickered down to your lips, just for a moment, and then they focused back on yours, charged with something inescapable, thick, and sticky. Detour averted, you think as he padded the rest of the way to the bed.

“You’ve got jokes,” He acquiesced, his low drawl wry against the shell of your ear enough to make you squeeze your thighs together. “I’ll give you that.”

“Just that?” You pouted, blatantly provoking him with your faux dissatisfaction.

Subsequently, he settled you down at the foot of your plush bed with a confident simper, the pads of his fingertips intentionally draping along the sides of your thighs, raising goosebumps in their wake. While your skin was cold, your insides were boiling impatiently in your chest, ears, and core, threatening to bubble over completely. Seungmin leaned onto your bed, bracing a knee near the edge, holding your gaze with dark, watery eyes that you thought were so clear you could finally see through them, coaxing your upper body back into the comforter. When your back was finally cushioned, he slanted his lips over yours like a confession, honest, open, and trusting. You dragged your nails into his rumpled, short hair, lightly scratching at his scalp in reception and reward. He groaned a bit into your mouth, brows crinkled as he slightly pulled back, just his blissed out expression and his broad shoulders— tragically still clothed— in your field of vision.

Not clothed for long, you decided, abandoning your purchase in Seungmin’s hair in favor of tugging expectantly at the offending article of clothing between pinched fingers.

“Alright,” He chuckled, lips pulled up into a boyish, bemused grin that accentuated the apples of his cheeks as he straightened and yanked the buttons free one by one. “As you wish.”

Each undone button revealed a bit more skin— the peak of his collarbones, a peek at the expanse of his chest, until finally the last button fell loose and his dress shirt parted like curtains to reveal a much more defined torso than you ever expected. You bent a leg up to your chest, then extended it to flatten the sole of your foot against his firm chest and the delicate curve of his collarbone. He watched you with sultry eyes and a quirked brow as you languidly trailed your foot down his torso, feeling each hitch in his breath whenever your toes lightly brushed something sensitive— his nipple, the dip just below his ribcage, the skin just above the waistline of his pants. Seungmin was sturdy and toned, with evident contours etched along the sides of his stomach tracing down the firm plane and disappearing behind his slacks. He hissed through his teeth, brows furrowing instantly when your toes skimmed the edge of his pants, hand reflexively snatching your ankle to still your movement and jolting you out of your exploration.

“Huh?” You blinked like you were trying to recalibrate your eyes, like a system reboot was something they could do. Because why did your husband have the core of a fucking super soldier?

Seungmin lifted your leg, and warm wisps of his breath fanned out against the side of your foot as he lightly scoffed at your false assumptions. His lips ghosted along the inner curve of your foot, hot and soft and punishing. Then, you nearly jostled out of his hold with a startled squeak of “Seungmin!” as his lower lip unexpectedly dragged up the side of your big toe. Evidently satisfied with your reaction, Seungmin carefully lowered your leg to rest on the bed with an amused smirk. You squeezed your eyes shut to gather yourself, making out the ripple of fabric as he flung the ruined dress shirt somewhere in your room, but you were still too invested in the mystery of his well-maintained physique and his cruel mouth in general to note where.

“Just focus on this, please.” The pad of his thumb rubbed into your cheekbone, and he punctuated his petty request with a contradictorily delicate kiss to your forehead. His lips traced down the slope of your nose until they met your lips in an attention-commanding, open-mouthed kiss. It was dizzying, stealing any other unrelated thought from your head and replacing it with a floaty haze. Then, your eyes fluttered closed as he attached his lips to your neck; you knew he could feel your blood rushing under his mouth. He relished sucking and lightly nipping the column of your throat, and you could feel the curve of his mouth against your doubtlessly bruised skin at the first whine that escaped your lips.

He only grew more fervent at the noise.

“You’re fine, my love,” Seungmin murmured, and your lips quivered as your heart trembled at his promise. “I’ve got you.”

The comforter rustled as you squirmed while Seungmin took his sweet time on his journey down to your center, the entire region aching like it was bruised. He was all over you— mouth swirling hot around your nipple, a large hand dutifully working the other, his palm gliding down your waist and squeezing at the supple flesh of your hip.

“Seungmin,” The whimper breezed past your lips before you even registered the intrusive thought, “I need you.”

Everything froze. Seungmin’s mouth horrifically detached from your skin, the agonizing grief left in its wake unbearable. Before you could even voice the first syllable of your complaint after blinking your eyes open, you catch your reflection swimming in his dark, glossy eyes.

As Seungmin peered up at you, he held you with such undeniable security and devotion.

“You never have,” He confessed, the sincerity of his words cushioning you like cashmere. “But you can have me as long as you want me.”

With that, Seungmin slipped off the bed and dropped to his knees. They sank into the plush area rug. He tugged you closer to him with meticulous strength, gliding his large hands up your faintly lavender-scented legs, and settled the bends of your knees over his arms. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his eyes, pupils completely blown out to swallow the irises, fixated on the way your folds glistened in anticipation.

Admittedly, you had thought extensively about Seungmin’s lips on more than one occasion— how plush and rounded his bottom lip seemed in contrast with the steepness of his Cupid’s bow, and how in combination they formed an endearingly triangular shape. But right now, “The mouth on this man” held an entirely new meaning.

Seungmin’s downturned lashes brushed faint shadows against his cheeks as he hovered above your sex and let his tongue loll out to drip a glob of saliva right there. It was a sight, reverent and oddly pretty as the warm light from your bedside lamp set his skin aglow. It was also completely unnecessary— you were soaked, but Seungmin was thorough.

Then he dove in, gliding his tongue in a fluid, languid lap over your leaking core that stole your breath and triggered your thighs to squeeze around his head. He didn’t seem to mind. Seungmin exhaled, throaty and relishing, before delving in further, swirling his warm, slick tongue around your clitoris with a torturous level of care. You narrowly resisted tangling his short hair in your fist, desperate to hold on to something, but buried your hands into your comforter instead.

“My love,” Seungmin sighed— mouth still on you, the vibrations of his low voice drawing out a shrill gasp— and you thought your heart must have started throbbing in the same rhythm. “How could I not adore you?”

He took his time, exploring you, tasting you, mentally cataloguing the exact places and pressure that made your thighs quiver, back lurch, and breath hitch. All the while, the curve of his nose rubbed delectably against your clit, the friction and pressure enough to cause your lips to tremble.

He worked you up steadily, persistently, gently, and rigorously all at the same time, his tongue flicking ruthlessly up and down and his head angling to reach just where you wanted him— deeper. Seungmin lapped at your glistening folds, messy with a combination of both of your fluids, and drew your nerves into a stiff, desperate peak. Your fingers tangled further into your comforter as each humid exhale fluttered out against your core and thighs, his tongue licking confidently into you. You fluttered under his merciless tongue, whimpering as the flourish of your orgasm radiated out through your limbs until the tension drained and you were left with a fuzzy hum in your bones and a fresh flush to your skin.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” He moaned— ironic, although unperturbed by the thought as he added his long, dexterous fingers into his spine-arching ritual. Deliberate, slender fingertips traced your sensitive slit, and you clenched with an overstimulated whimper of his name.

“I’m right here.” He soothed, voice muffled as he softly pressed a kiss to your swollen folds. Methodically, he slid a long finger deep inside you, observing with half-lidded, glazed eyes and rough breaths as you instinctively tightned around it. The stretch of his second digit is nothing short of cosmological, the delectable curl he rewarded you with sending your consciousness to outer space momentarily as they reached deep inside you.

Seungmin was an intentional lover, tenderly drawing another two orgasms out of you with his divine fingers and sharp, feverish tongue. Stars burst behind your eyelids and the stimulation was intense enough to rocket your nerves to the moon.

You were still lost in the haze of your release as Seungmin carefully lowered your twitching legs from his shoulders. The bottom half of his face was gleaming with the evidence of his actions, but his starry eyes glimmered brighter, lost in a dreamy haze as he peered up at you.

“Just a moment.” He stood, fondly rubbing soothing circles into your knee as he did. “Let me clean you up.” And he disappeared into your bathroom while you tried to steady your breath, nothing short of debauched and satisfied. The faucet ran for a bit, and then Seungmin returned in just his boxers with a gentle smile and even gentler hands as he wiped you down with a warm washcloth and feather-light touch.

His actions were as dutiful as ever, dotingly apologizing as you twitched in his hold when he brushed over sensitive spots. Seungmin stamped an endearing kiss into your inner thigh once he was done, whispering a devoted, “Perfect” as he did, and deposited the wash cloth into your laundry before joining you on the bed. He settled you comfortably up by the pillows and under the silk covers, sinking right at your side to cuddle you below his chin.

“So,” He grinned down at you, a mischievous glint bright in his eyes and a boyish grin curling his lips. “Any more questions about how I feel about you? Any hidden motives you want clarified?”

You smiled coyly with an airy hum, eyes crinkling with a promise he didn’t know you were making.

Next time, you were gonna ride him until he cried.

“So,” You chirped, cheeks still flushed. Then your eyes fluttered up to his. “No divorce?”

He scoffed, eyes playfully sharpening. “Go ahead, honey.” Despite the nickname, his tone was sour again, but you knew it was there to mask the sweetness. “I’ll just marry you again.”

Seungmin tucked you closer into his hold, sharing his body heat and everything else that he possessed with you, trusting you to keep it safe.

“You think I’d agree to that?” Your nose scrunched as you teasingly prodded at his ego.

His warm palms pressed into you, silently swearing his vows into your skin. Seungmin’s lips brushed against your forehead, sweet.

“I swear you won’t fucking hesitate, my love.”

౨ৎMasterlist

౨ৎ taglist: @sunfk88, @softchannie

[shineesbackbitches]

౨ৎ author note: Sometimes going back and reading through the notes I left myself is such a trip, but I'm going to be real and admit that this is one of the most normal batches I've had in a long time. Take that as you will •ᴗ•

Lip Tint Stains and Hair Ties

౨ৎ summary: “He locked his gaze in front of him, unable to gather the wits to gauge your reaction. His round glasses had slipped further down his nose than he preferred them, but he made no effort to correct their resting place. Wonwoo’s vision had always been complete garbage, and the time he spent focused on video games had not served his eyesight for the better. His glasses were cute though, and you’d told him as much the first time he wore them around you. Overall, he felt neutral about his frames, but being able to clearly see the board at the front of the classroom, the leaves on trees, and the smaller details of your face he hadn’t noticed without them were enough to convince him to wear them consistently. (“Since when did you have like, individual eyelashes?” “You mean like, how everyone does?” “… Huh.” “You knew people have individual lashes. Wonwoo, you knew people have individual lashes, right?”)”

[shineesbackbitches]

YOUSAIDTHESTORYWASWRITTEN(Hung Up)!!! WHEN ARE WE GETTING IT?!?!?!?!?😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Hi hi! I'm glad you're eagerly awaiting the final part of Hung Up!🥰 I swear on my favorite discontinued lippie that I've been ✨hauling ass✨ on this final chapter. It's kinda been an absolute nightmare to write, but we are about to be so back besties!🤩✌️✨ I kind of lost the plot, and we are looking at over 10k for the finale with two scenes still missing ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (Please send my stunning, amazing, forgiving editor, Fen, the strength and patience to handle my nonsense🙃)

Fantastic news for you, though! Hung Up is the fic that will be dropped this month!🥳🥳🥳 I want her out of my drafts more than anyone else, I promise.

Our posting schedule is typically one fic dropped on the last day of the month, unless there are special circumstances (like our June post was on the 10th because we were celebrating), but Fen and I have more on that in our bios linked in the description🥰

Long story short, she's coming. Just hang on a little longer, lovie!!!😘🩷

[shineesbackbitches]

Oh do not worry about not having a scheduled drop! My entry to the world day is in a few weeks so I guess I'll consider whatever your July drop is as a personal gift? I'm kidding!! Also I really don't have a problem coming off anon it's not usually the bloggers I message I'm trying to hide from, it's their potential platform who I DON'T "know". But you two? 🤝🏼 shake on proposed friendship?😂 It doesn't seem likely we know each other irl so this seems fine enough 😆 Also if you can drop any more Mea Culpa lore like what the concept involves like are they all same universe or same theme or now I'm dying to know honestly.

Yeah last time I skipped GD and BB because I couldn't justify the prices for the tickets (seriously the YG artists always were literally double the price of anyone else who came back in the day and it was already super expensive for kpop acts to come out to begin with) but I went to see TY recently ish and I also earn my own money now and rarely leave the house and pretty much stopped going to cons for, tactfully speaking, ethical reasons so GD was part nostalgia part collecting the set (so I guess I should buy my Dae tickets soon...). The ticketing for TY and GD were both extremely wtf but for some reason for GD I got so so lucky recently but now I have to logistics.

I appreciate the general good career vibes from you both!! I was a huge academic weapon back in the day and everything felt so breezy and right and anything I wanted I could do but then I felt like I was losing myself and my internal compass was mega broken and that really destroyed a lot of the ease of things I used to be able to do without even thinking. Used to be an avid reader and now can barely make it to the end of a sentence without almost dissociating. Used to be measured and articulate and now sometimes words would fail me mid sentence. I know I can't go back to uni without it destroying me so I went straight to work and through sheer luck and tenacity bounced my way up but my current role despite being the closest to a career role than anything else, hasn't actually been able to give me any of the industry standard technical skills for me to even get an "equivalent" role elsewhere which is part of the problem and also the vibes are just... not right.

My current dilemma is the knowledge that I have to go but not really knowing where to, which wouldn't normally have been a problem for me, but the process of resumes, interviews, applications and the huge uncertainty of whether the next place will be a good fit just has me dead. I actually overstay at places so when I "decide" to leave "officially" in my head I would have mentally clocked out ages ago and the role or situation (cough uni cough) would have to be actively killing me to a degree that even I can't justify anymore. Current job pays decent money considering my lack of "real" qualifications and what I'm ending up doing day to day (lack of input from management until there's an error means I feel like I'm just creating a day full of busywork rather than real work...), a job my previous manager texted me after seeing I was serious about potentially leaving is even more money but I'm just not so sure it's good for me. It's the closest thing to an option I have right now so I think I'll just apply and see how I go and if it sucks at least my resume will already be done lol but if it truly sucks it will just put me in even more of a time crunch to exit that next place and I'll just take another critical hit to my already fragile mentality.

I know that given time and the right supportive environment I can do well pretty much anywhere in any role but like if it's not a good environment then suddenly all my skills go poof. It's like if I'm sad or upset or anxious suddenly I can't do anything lol but if I'm thriving mentally and emotionally then any job is getting great value for money, and I'm not even a bragger, I promise 😭

It's also super hard for me to gauge what a job is "really" going to be like day to day. Like I'm sure for most people they see lawyers as arguing in court all the time and high power political moves and slick outfits but I'm fairly confident there's also mountains of paperwork, cases can take years to move and most cases are probably very routine. Which honestly, if that's the case, would kind of appeal to me. Just tonnes of research and investigation in the background and someone else can take that information and do something with it.

I fully get companies have to have kpis and standards of work to measure how much value they get out of their employees and for benchmarking etc but my brain doesn't function kpi wise lol just give me a clear giant list of possible tasks and even the tasks that seem kind of impossible will get done. It's a little funny because I've bounced around a bunch of "entry level and entry level adjacent" roles and every time someone has taken a chance on me they seem so horrified that I'm not doing something "better" but that's not really what I care about. Like one day someone in a position of "better" managed to give me my current opportunity and whilst I'm grateful, there are some things that have happened that have shifted my mindset on staying. (Like uh... forcibly changing my reporting line to people that do not care for me the way the person who originally gave me a shot did lol- I owe nothing to the new "team", used loosely because they don't treat me the way I would like to be treated).

I'm not actually worried about "stable career" as much as most people are, and in fact most people are trying to convince me not to quit because this is considered a "good stable job" but for me I know I can do well as long as conditions are good so job security and stability is not really a Huge Concern but it's just the internal broken compass thing where I can't steer myself which is hurting me the most.

In some ways that's probably why I liked the main character of the NJ story so much. There was just an air of inevitability, of being able to do the job competently and in theory being supported and given the tools needed to succeed and THRIVE but instead just kind of left hanging to SURVIVE as if it's just another regular Tuesday, a non-event, expected to exceed expectations whilst also just casually fending off threats and danger as if it's not even worth mentioning.

Also I fully realise I've just wall of texted so I'm actually going to come off anon for your convenience 🤣. Thanks for letting me talk it out, please do let me know if I ever overstay my welcome.

The gasp I just gasped when I saw both your username and your POCHACCO PFP OHMYGODDDDDDDDD (I love that lil guy so much)🥺🩷👐 In the most consensual, sane, and loving way possible, many smooches on your forehead🥰 This is so exciting that you came off anon! Can we call you Star or is there another name you’d prefer??? We are so open to your preferences!

Happy happy early birthday! Elaborate secret handshake on the friendship proposal too! Already sending you a digital friendship bracelet🩷

We have so much in common lmao, both Fen and I are also academic weapons but the line between academic weapon and academic victim is thinner than we like to admit haha😔✊ I would legit give anything to have my personality back, like, I fought so hard to have my effortless magical girl personality survive, but uh, spending your days surrounded by a weird religious culty compound-like environment and being the only one not rocking with those quite honestly, rancid vibes does not do wonders for the glitter in my brain🥺✨ Truly worst case scenario for someone who does not take “authority figures” seriously.

Samsies on losing interest in things I used to enjoy doing (haha, don’t look at my 6-7 year hiatus on this blog), like reading and all my creative hobbies that I’m like, actually so fucking good at??? Like, damn, I’m really just out here picking up hobbies like that and slaying that shit for free??? I legit could not focus on a single word (not a great place for an academic weapon to be in) but like, I couldn’t NOT be an academic weapon, so I got one of those free text to speech readers and pushed through (but at what cost☠️) Legit the only thing that saved me was an academic miracle during my finals week where my uni was kinda urineun drop it like hot, hot, hot if you will😔 And you know, starting to re-love my old hobbies (writing, art, the works) and picking up new ones! And reading a concerning amount of fanfiction (esp Naruto fanfiction when my mental health was especially bad for some reason idk🙃??)

Anyway! We don’t have time to really unpack that nonsense, but long story short I am SO with you on the I CANNOT GO BACK TO SCHOOL RN OR I WILL JUST peace sign fades into nothing. But that does mean I’m on the career grind with a couple decent opportunities, but nothing really set in stone yet. Career decisions just suck the life out of you, but I recently got some advice from someone who has hella more experience than me about agonizing over whether or not I’m making the right career choice. Maybe it’ll be of use to you too!

Don’t stress about whether or not you’re making a right or wrong decision. No matter what you choose to do, it will lead you to other opportunities. Instead, focus on what skills you can obtain and keep learning, as that’s the real value you should get out of a job.

From the way you described your work environment and what environment you thrive in, this might be something for you to think about— or not! What do I know? But you’re paying attention to yourself and how you are feeling and that’s super important. I wish you the best and send you all the luck finding a better work environment that really allows you to flourish!🩷 You are super talented, kind, intelligent, and competent, and you’ll do a wonderful job!🥰

Mea Culpa lore, you ask?👀 You shall receive, my dear🤩✨ Happy early birthday!!!

I try to incorporate qualities into my MCs that I like myself to have—there’s always some gremlin/menace energy, confidence, competence, an elite sense of humor, the list goes on. Sweets will always be a favorite for me. A woman with a plan and the skill to not only accomplish it, but destroy everything in her way? My heart has already been stolen🥰

For the rest of the Mea Culpa Universe (which all are part of the same AU), ooh boy are these men down so horrendously bad, like absolute loser, but for the right woman! There’s an element of continuity with the one shots. The next one shot out will probably be Seokjin’s, in which the big, bad, intimidating head of Kim’s Organized Crime & Co. is brought to his knees by…

The chef that catered Namjoon’s wedding🤩✌️✨

Here’s a little spoiler of Devil’s Food for your birthday!

“This tastes like it was made by someone who doesn’t believe in same sex marriage.”

“Did you just tell me I cook like a conservative?” Seokjin spluttered, eyes wide in unfiltered betrayal.

“Yeah, you went way too hard with the oil— like you may as well have just deep fried it— and then buried your mistakes in salt. It’s really awful.”

Almost instinctually, Seokjin barked out the beginning of what was probably going to be a long winded lecture based on the first shout of, “Yah!”

That was as far as he got. You interrupted him, unflinching. “You’re crazy to raise your voice at me.”

Resolutely, he nods. “You’re right, Angel.” His warm hands cup your cheeks, thumbs rubbing soothing circles as he melts into your eyes. “I’d have to be out of my mind to ever yell at you.”

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

Softly, but with feeling: WOOF.

But also, definitely friendship offer accepted.

I resonate with a lot of what you have to say here about the job hunt in general and not feeling like you have the ability to hop without keeping your position at the same “level”.

I think for me, as an attorney, what people neglected to mention when I was going into this field is that it is— as much as being a barista at Starbucks or an insurance agent or whatever— a customer service industry. When you work for a private firm, your client is your customer, and you take a lot of shit.

It’s not some high-powered, ball-busting fantasy.

It’s an insane dude who thinks you’re the reason he lost his kids instead of his heroin addiction. It’s an elected judge who’s never even practiced in your area of expertise who tells you that you’re getting it wrong. It’s knowing that the end result of your work was not only amazing, but frankly a miracle, but your client still screams at you. It’s having a police escort six blocks back to your office because your opposing party is violent and threatening you in the courtroom. And it’s worrying that the piece of paper you just got your client won’t be enough to protect them and/or their family from the person who wants to hurt them.

As someone with a neurospicy brain and typical gifted kid burnout syndrome: my situation is extremely sub-optimal for both my physical and mental health. And more so since my bosses don’t take my complaints regarding my personal safety as seriously as I would like.

So, I recently decided I’m OUT.

And I’m sticking to that. I literally sat down over the course of a weekend and was like “What aspects of this job do I enjoy?” And I realized there are other things I can do that will let me do more of those things, but I need some specialized education as an in. So I networked, talked to people, and expressed my interest in switching fields— crazily enough: people love talking about themselves! And were so enthused about giving me resources that would enable me to gtfo.

All that to say, the changes I’ve made in the last year are: (1) mental health assistance, and (2) self-examination. And they kind of go hand-in-hand. I’ve recovered so much of the self I lost during my academic years, and actually discovered which aspects of myself were? Real?? And not just a reflection of what my parents wanted/expected???? And it’s made me more assertive about what I need to enjoy my life. It has definitely not all happened at once, but my little baby steps have started to pick up momentum. My internal compass was probably a little broken too for a while. But those personal changes mentioned above helped me kind of tear the old one out and rebuild it from scratch, because I realized the parts used to make it didn’t match my model, if you catch my drift?

More than anything, what I’ve found to be helpful is having the clarity of the kind of life I want to live, rather than the job I want to do. When I picture myself living that life, there’s definitely a bit of “hm— are the qualities of this career something that fits within this image?”

And I might be wrong— but that’s okay because nothing nothing nothing is permanent.

Maybe look at the position your previous manager recommended with that in mind? The vibes might not be right, but you’ll come out of it with something new. It doesn’t have to be the Goldilocks job just yet— but it’s either a preferable alternative to your current position in the interim while you figure out what makes the heart happy, or it’s such a significant change in environment that it could be the job you need.

I hope you find a soft place to land!

🌿 Caolfen

[shineesbackbitches]

I didn't think I needed an anon tag since I usually just comment and dip and yet here we are.

I see we are approaching the monthly mark for a drop and it feels strange of me to be back again 😂.

Sorry for drowning your blog in ✨️me✨️ when your readers are here for... whichever fandom drop is happening... though considering your recent wip post...🤔🤔🤔. Double sorry cos it's mostly just me rambling about my life 😄 but odds are I'll be back with commentary with whatever the next drop is so it won't just be the blog owners and a random anon's life story🤣 though I don't really have a problem coming off anon either.

Feeling a little down and anxious today and really feeling lost in life career wise but also as a 2nd gen girlie I caved and I'll be going to see GD!!!

Plz give me the strength, direction, confidence and anxiety-less of the main characters of your recent works and it's so over for everyone 😩😩😩 failing that I'm looking forward to the next episode of escapism

omg hiiii bestie!!! Always a joy hearing from you!🥰 Please come talk to us as much as you like— we always welcome sweeties here!🩷

You don’t have to come off anon if you don’t want to! You can pick a name or emoji or whatever makes your heart go kung chi pak chi🤩✌️✨

ALSO GIRL HAVE AN ABSOLUTE BLAST AT GD!!! That’s genuinely such a win. THE VIBES ARE GOING TO BE IMMACULATE!!! It’s going to be a life-giving adventure and it’ll be a nice breather/mental reset moment! As someone who is also doing some silly goofy career bullshit rn, I feel you, I relate to you, and I am passing on my magical girl your mother warned you about mindset to aid you in your journey!😉🩷✨ You absolutely have the intelligence, confidence, skillset, drive, experience, problem solving skills, and whatever tf else it is those AI resume scanners are looking for! As long as you believe it (dattebayo😔✊), you can force that reality.

I’m gonna be so for real and fully admit that my brain is ✨fucking unintelligible✨ so like, I can’t advise reading into my sporadic non-fic posts. Most of the time I don’t even know what I’m posting each month (which Fen adores that about me), but like, sometimes our scheduled fics are the ones we write at 2am bc a really funny concept spawned right as we were finally falling asleep😘

That said, our June post was Mea Culpa, so tragically no fic on Monday🥺 BUT July post is well underway so you have that to look forward to, plus there might be some other content to tide you over! Maybe from Fen, maybe from your magical girl… or maybe BOTH🤩

Once again, always a delight to hear from you, lovely!!!

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

Passing the mic to Fen now!🥰

Hello hello! I do not always directly respond to anons but I am always an appreciative audience of Peaches's readings of the anon messages, and I so appreciate you engaging with us!

Also have THE BEST TIME at G-Dragon!!! Peaches and I were so close to going to one of his One of a Kind Tour dates back in the day but, like, the stars didn’t align in the end with travel. I am living vicariously! Come tell us all about it after!

And then some big girl advice from me, perhaps unsolicited but: dude, none of us know what the hell is going on with jobs right now. Like, you will find something that fits your vibe. It may not even be the next job you get, but it’ll give you new skills to bring into your next role that might be it for you! So, so seriously: I’m on my (technically) fifth year in the legal field and I actually hate going to court and fighting with people so I’m picking up new skills outside of my job to completely switch fields while still making use of my JD. Everything is changing all the time— personal circumstances, interests, skills, the economy, the outlook of your chosen field— so embrace the change and move with the current. We all get a little lost sometimes, even those of us who thought we were making decisive moves towards what we wanted (obviously not talking about myself or anything…). You aren’t alone with that directionless feeling; we will all encounter it many times over our lives, but it’ll be okay. The only constant really is change! (I also live in eternal awareness of how preachy I can be, so feel free to ignore my philosophizing lol. The Namjoon kin in me lives strong and true.)

Anyway— sending you all the good vibes and feral determination to relish life and do what you want! 💙

🌿 Caolfen

[shineesbackbitches]

౨ৎ author note: Hilariously, the text to speech extension I use when (if) I edit gave me the jump scare of a lifetime on this one. I didn't think it was going to read my comments, so mid editing it reads out loud, "Girl, write a story without a fucking hand kiss. Like, what is your problem? other than a hand kink and a desire for princess treatment?"

I really thought it had become sentient there for a few horrifying moments☠️

Hung Up

౨ৎ summary: “You’re fine, Honey,“ Seungmin murmured. "I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

[shineesbackbitches]

Why am I still your only anon!!!! Anyway. Read the nj fic for old time's sake and because we have eerily similar vibes, down to the hair epiphany. Unfortunately, my brief yet intense foray into obsessive merch collection was mostly fansite goods. But I'm a much more mindful consumer now! I really enjoy the writing in how the words weave a story without having to outright spell it out. The "sue him" (he's a lawyer), the crack humour of brushing past the trauma of multiple failed assassinations, nj bristling at main character at first due to own insecurity of being illegitimate... the Kim family actually being pretty decent to each other... them making something good if unconventional out of their lives despite the *gestures vaguely at everything*. The main character is also deeply relatable except for the diamonds everywhere. Honestly the writing sold the story in so many ways and it was a delight to read. There's just something to be said about how both the stories I've read from this blog centre around a reliable and serious male lead and a completely unhinged but competent main character.

Bestie, it's just you, me, Caolfen, and a dream on this blog😔✊✨I feel like at this point, I should have an anon codename or emoji for you.

Omg, love that we both ventured on a successful hair journey! Character development!🤩✌️✨ And also super proud of you for being introspective about your engagement with your fandoms! Like, icon fr. Aju responsible, aju mental health aware✨🩷

This is legit the kindest thing anyone has said about my writing🥺 I'm so glad you vibed with the tone and quirky dynamics in Mea Culpa! I actually started writing it like 12 months ago, and it took me half a year to finish it. The Mea Culpa Universe was a concept Caolfen and I outlined back before we went on hiatus, so it was really fun to come back to it and flesh out the characters, world, and relationships, and how I reveal little bits of info in each part! Some parts have a completely different perspective on the same events or characters, so I'm really looking forward to writing the other one-shots!🥰

Let's hear it for Sweets! She made me love writing this story with her theatrics, unexpected kindness, and unquestionable ruthlessness. She was a joy to bring to life, and I'm elated that you loved her too!🩷I'm a sucker for writing characters that would be so toxic in a relationship had it not been those two specific people in that relationship. And honestly, if it isn't a little toxic, are we even having fun?😉 You got me! I love writing unhinged, gremlin, menace readers in my stories (all with varying degrees of intensity, of course) and pairing them with a devoted ✨LOSER✨ Like, boy are they in for a trip but they'll definitely enjoy the ride😊

Anyway, thank you so so much for your lovely words about Mea Culpa! You're the sweetest, and I'm over the moon that you enjoyed the story🥰 It really means a lot to get such kind feedback on a story I've been working on for like, a year!🩷

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

https://www.tumblr.com/shineesbackbitches/785333770154819584/same-anon-that-found-the-misunderstanding-funny-i?source=share

I started cracking up bc I had a feeling I knew which fandom you meant, and it's a fandom I was once in (no one jump me i promise it's not like that) and u dropped the fic and it was my ult bias back in the day hfhdjdjeje (I just got super overwhelmed by the amount of content and merch they were dropping combined with right around the time the fandom itself got really pushy and guilt trippy and just basically retired completely from k-ent since none of it was fun anymore and through a series of events fell into a new fandom several years later- but this time i learnt from my mistakes and am learning distance and moderation is the key to not being smacked into oblivion and losing another interest) (so uh yes I too took a several year long hiatus from the tumbleworld which was why I found ur hiatus amusing) (I should've known better I've been around kpop since like 2009 i should've known I would get dragged back when I was least expecting)

Omg, Alexa play Telepathy by Bangtan✨

Nailing the previous fandom is funny, but getting the ult? Hilarious!🤩✌️

I agree on the distance and moderation being key— I try and participate by supporting the artists and not the corporations. Like, if I'm feeling pressured to buy a bunch of merch (a couple of items that I actually want every now and then is fine) rather than enjoying the music and people in the fandom... maybe it's time for a breather🙃 Neither of us were ever into buying physical albums (where would we put them?) or collecting photocards (again, where would we put them?) either.

Off topic, but also still kind of on topic! When it comes to merch, I love looking at what people in the fandom make! Like, 90% of the time, it's cuter and fantastic quality and better priced than the official merch! The last few concerts Fen and I went to, we didn't even bother getting in the merch line because none of it was really our style. But we saw something fanmade after that was half the cost of the official merch that was WAY cuter and got that instead! Banger move!🤩✌️ I use it all the time, and I know I would have let the official merch just sit in my closet.

But also, it's so lovely to find another early 2000s Kpop stan!!!🩷 Like, yay! Another person who remembers when it used to be nearly impossible to access the music here without questionable means🥰 We were really just built different like that. Like, official subs? Perish the thought😮‍💨🤚

Anyway, yes, hiatus whenever you need🩷 But also, uh? Happy previous ult bias fic drop???

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

I tried to go back to my old blog and I haven't deactivated it or anything but I came back and everybody I was following was in drastically different fandoms and my old fandom wasn't fun anymore which was the entire reason I disappeared (also around 2018 lol) so then I remade and lurk mostly now. Went from being general casual multi to single fandom (but casual for other groups) to now (obvious lol) "new" fandom but I get the feeling that I can still name at least 95% of the members of the groups you're writing for 🤣 2nd gen vet discount kpoppie type thing you know

We love getting our literal ✨Shinee's Back✨ moment!

Fen and I are both mostly lurkers in every fandom we're in and always have been, so we feel you on the lurking account😔✌️✨We're both super multifandom, and I think that having a lot of variety in our fandoms makes it easy to cycle through our interests without getting too overwhelmed when we need a break from a fandom. Like, I'm CEO of jumping from Kpop, to Bucky Barnes, to Zelda, to anime, to manhwa, to consuming a ridiculous amount of Naruto fanfiction, to jumping back to Kpop, to— you see the vision🤗 So like, even though we didn't keep this blog active, we were still in all the fandoms as we wanted to be!

People always find a group when they need to find them, and going on a hiatus and then having a comeback is a natural, healthy way to engage in a fandom!🩷

I hope you're having a more enjoyable time in your fandoms!

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

Mea Culpa

౨ৎ summary: “Are you drinking brownie batter?” The scrunch of Namjoon’s nose indicated his judgment. His eyes flickered from your face to the batter-filled champagne glass nestled between your fingers and back to your face.

“Care for a glass?” You offered airily. You had to be drunk or at least tipsy.

Aghast, Namjoon remained rooted to his spot just past the threshold.

“The oven breaks, and you decide to drink the batter?”

౨ৎ pairing: Namjoon x Reader

౨ৎ genre: romance, contract marriage, angst, slowburn, fluff, oneshot series, mea culpa universe, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 12k

౨ৎ warnings: attempted murder, actual murder, organized crime, like, a healthy amount of minor character death (healthy for you, not for them), one minorly graphic depiction of death, Reader has never taken anything seriously a day in her life, Namjoon has always taken everything seriously his entire life, mention of car accident, Namjoon falls so hard it's embarrassing

౨ৎ author note: Congrats to Namjoon for completing his military GE! ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

“I’m letting you know that I’m billing for this conversation.” Namjoon’s frosted gaze settled on the uninvited guest perched on a previously unoccupied leather chair. The nature of his job already threatened to light the remaining threads of his fuse— constantly being around some of the world’s worst does that to a person.

On a good day, Namjoon detested people waltzing into his personal space— his sanctuary— his office. Growing up in a family as cut-throat as his, there was never a place for him to exist without the persistent prickle at the back of his neck alerting him to someone else’s presence. His office was the only place that was his. So a stranger breezing into his space— no appointment, in the middle of the work day— and planting themselves on his furniture like everything on god’s green earth belonged to them made his blood absolutely simmer.

“Do I look like I’m asking for legal advice?” Your eyes crinkled, the corners of your mouth curving into something that could have been mirthful had it not been for the blood steadily leaking down your cheek.

Namjoon wasn’t fond of messes. He preferred to handle them efficiently or to simply pass them along to whoever was at the top of his shit list, which right now just so happened to be—

“Then I’m afraid you have the wrong Kim spawn.” He flashed a respectful smile, dimples punctuating it with an endearing boyish charm. “Seokjin is—” —A lot of things, really. A bit theatric, conniving, extremely effective yet unorthodox in his methods, fucking crazy sometimes, but so was everyone in this line of business. Namjoon’s sure the two of you would get along like a house on fire.

A tinkling giggle cut him off. Well-manicured fingertips lifted to conceal your lips.

“I’m not looking for Seokjin, darling.” The blood oozed down your cheek, the carnelian liquid level with the tip of your nose.

One of Namjoon’s large hands combed back the strands of dark hair that fell into his eyes, a gesture that might have seemed relaxed were it not for the subtle dip in his brow, betraying his displeasure at his thwarted attempt to exile you from his office. The sleeves of his white button-up were rolled up, exposing his forearms and the sturdiness of his physique— and also the tension winding through the lithe muscle.

“I’m here to make a deal.” The long, thin earrings that dangled from your lobes caught the sunlight seeping in through the large window behind him, inlaid gems sparkling with a clarity that signaled wealth. You were irrefutably gorgeous, Namjoon would admit. But you were the kind of gorgeous that brought trouble.

Even so, he was intrigued. Sue him. Namjoon’s forearms rested against his dark wood desk; he propped up an elbow to cushion his chin with his palm. His steely gaze had intimidated many before you, but you seemed blissfully unaffected by his disquieting aura. Perhaps you were too familiar with that tactic. He quirked his eyebrow up, wordlessly encouraging you to continue.

“Marriage—” You chirped, your lips curled in a million-dollar smile, and your hands meeting in a satisfied clap.

“Declined.” He deadpanned, sensing you were rapidly burning through that aforementioned fuse. Instinctively, he knew you weren’t the type of person accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’. He anticipated the hissy fit you were undoubtedly about to throw in his territory, inspecting your face for the first hint of your mood souring.

It never came.

“Would you like to hear the benefits before you turn down the offer, silly goose?” The amused curve of your lips never faltered. Did you already anticipate his refusal? Or maybe you were more level-headed than he gave you credit for. Either way— wrong Kim spawn.

“I don’t understand why you aren’t pitching this to Seokjin.” His thumb brushed against his plush bottom lip in contemplation. “Why me?” There had to be something you were hiding. Seokjin was the sole legitimate son who would inherit the business, not him. If it was power you were after, then the heir to the throne was your best bet. You weren’t telling him somethi—

“You’re my dream man.” You simpered, your head angling playfully to one side and coaxing the trail of blood to follow. “You have a lovely family, a hunger for money, and zero interest in attaining power in this industry.” You ticked off, punctuating it with a faux bashful flutter of your lashes.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Ah, so that’s why you had no interest in Seokjin— you’d have to yield your capital to him. You needed an ally, not a merger.

“You want to marry me because of a potential power alliance, I’m greedy, and you would be able to keep your position.” He translated, an utterly unimpressed tilt to his brow.

“And because you’re cute.” You tacked on, deeply entertained by both his irritation and being the root of it.

His mind, constantly in overdrive— has been since he was old enough to understand he had to be useful to survive in his family— froze. You could see the error message flashing through his brain in the way his brows knitted together and his eyes widened just a fraction before narrowing yet again in suspicion.

“Let’s hear these benefits.”

You perked up at that, inching your seat closer to his desk and leaning your elbows on it. Sitting this close, he could faintly smell the expensive perfume you wore, warm and spiced, and the coppery scent of blood.

“One,” You listed off on a finger, “you get the immense privilege of marrying me.”

Dear God help him.

You continued, unbothered by his lack of acknowledgment of the first benefit. “Two, you get my protection.” Namjoon raised a palm to interject. “I already have protection.”

He clocked an unexpected shift in your eyes at that, something darker than the blithe air you feigned. It wasn’t sinister— it was almost commiserative: empathetic in a way that simmered uncomfortably under his skin.

“And that’s why you hole yourself up in this office.” The words came out slower, less theatrical than the rest of what you said. “You can only live here while under Seokjin’s protection.”

It pissed him off, the way you read him. Namjoon felt it would only be fair to raise an equally uncomfortable truth about you in return. An eye for an eye.

“And what excellent protection you have to offer,” His gaze darted pointedly to the fresh wound on your cheek. By this point, the blood had trickled to the corner of your mouth, now approaching the drop to your jaw. His eyebrows raised in challenge, riding the high of scoring a point against you in what was ostensibly a conversation he had allowed solely out of courtesy in prelude of a perfunctory dismissal, but had steadily turned into an actual negotiation. When had you managed that? “Inside job, huh?”

He was well aware of the absolute cluster fuck that came from multiple kids of varying degrees of legitimacy all vying to inherit the family business. Hell, he had experienced it himself despite having no interest in the position. As far as he was concerned, it had nothing to do with him. At no point had he ever imagined he would be the child to take over— he wasn’t even a legitimate heir. You, on the other hand, were the only known legitimate heir in your family. Clearly, that hadn’t deterred other people from attempting to remove you from the picture.

“My half-brother isn’t very inclined to let me inherit the family business.” You agreed easily, startling Namjoon yet again with your acknowledgment of a weakness. “He’s been sending me surprises non-stop lately. It’s very bratty of him.”

While it was rich hearing you call someone a brat, Namjoon understood what every waking moment felt like for you. Having to assume malicious intent behind everything around you and only having yourself to rely on was no way to live. Namjoon would know. Plus, your brother had to have balls of steel to order a hit in broad daylight— or he just wanted you dead that desperately.

“And the third benefit?” He inquired carefully, and immediately you popped right back into persuasion mode, that same masking grin plastered on your lips.

“As lovely and safe as your office is, you need more space.”

Namjoon wasn’t following what you were insinuating. Were you trying to convince him to give you his hand in marriage by bribing him with a bigger office?

Evidently, You could read his bewilderment because you leaned closer to him— giant desk separating the two of you be damned— and purred, “I can make the whole world yours.” Your eyes twinkled at the declaration and the gravity of your attention pulled Namjoon into your orbit.

So it was the promise of getting to exist outside his boundaries, outside his office. There wasn’t any bad blood between him and his brothers, but Namjoon knew he wasn't as high a priority as Seokjin on the list of protected assets. Combining your families’ resources would benefit both of you: Namjoon would be able to breathe out in the world and you would secure your position, all under the protective shield of the security only available to legitimate heirs. Tying the knot with you would elevate him to a status essentially on par with you and Seokjin at the very top of the pyramid. There would be no other opportunity like this for him.

Namjoon had to give it to you: you did drive a hard bargain. He accepted your offer to your satisfaction.

He braced his palms against his desk, rising out of his cushy leather chair to tower at his full height. You peered up at him, trying to determine his next move (any other day it would have been kicking you the hell out of his office), as he rounded the desk in four long strides and came to a stop in front of you.

Swiftly, he bent over you. The veins in his arm tensed, the lean muscle supporting his weight against the arm of the chair you occupied. His eyes fixated on the lower half of your face, his expression neutral. Your own eyes fluttered down his face, drinking in the cutely rounded tip of his nose, full lips, and tempting peek of his collarbones through the neck of his shirt. Only the sounds of the faint breathing existed between the two of you for a prolonged beat. Namjoon’s free hand lifted and the smooth, silky texture of a handkerchief pressed into your cheek just before the blood dribbling on the edge of your jaw could drip into the expensive fabric of your clothes. You blinked.

Got you.

A self-satisfied smirk to crooked a corner of his mouth up in celebration of his victory. It was short-lived.

Because you were an absolute menace.

Your own hand captured the one cradling your face, trapping it there. Your eyes fluttered closed as you nuzzled into his palm, angling your head so your lips could plant a kiss into it. He could feel the pressure and the warmth of your lips seep through the silk fabric, his pulse hammering rapidly in his wrists. Then, you readjusted to remain nestled in his hand, casting a coy gaze up at him through half-lidded eyes and slightly pouted lips.

“So,” You murmured. “You’re the attentive type?”

Namjoon fled his office in record time, abandoning his handkerchief without a second thought.

Namjoon quickly learned a few things about you in the following weeks. The first: you had a habit of making people's dreams come true.

For example, the wedding planner you hired was the best in her field. She brought visions to life and managed to keep everything within budget— she was nothing short of a miracle worker. She had arrived earlier than the meeting time, more than ready to spend the next eight hours pouring over every detail of the wedding, only to be greeted by Namjoon immersed in his work on his desktop and you fashionably late.

Your absence made the air in his office uncomfortable for both parties awaiting your arrival. Namjoon could feel the rapid click of the woman’s heel vibrating up and down against the wooden floor pulse behind his brow bone. He was sure she wasn’t faring much better with the obnoxious clack of his keyboard filling the silence instead of small talk.

Eventually, you entered his office, gliding just as confidently as you had the first time, to Namjoon’s seated form. You glided to an unexpectedly close halt. He was already less than tickled that you were yet again occupying his office, and now you were crossing another boundary by invading his personal space. You were done up in an expensive cream-colored miniskirt and a soft grey sweater. A large cream coat draped from your shoulders, and pearl accessories dangled from your ears, neck, and wrist. Namjoon noted that you somehow smelled richer today, the warmth of your scent somewhat creamier than he remembered, but the metallic note still lingered. Efficiently, you curled a slender finger under Namjoon’s tie, loosening it with a flick of your wrist, and swiping the stolen item to press to your forehead that Namjoon hadn’t seen was bleeding until now.

Your brother was one persistent son of a bitch.

“You’re here! Fantastic!” As quickly as you’d coasted to him, you sailed away over to the wide-eyed wedding planner, and then— “Do your thing, girl.”— dropped a black card into her hands.

The elation that lit up that woman’s face could never be replicated. She practically skipped out of the office, vowing to plan the most gorgeous wedding to ever exist.

And no one was more enthusiastic about the wedding than his brothers. Namjoon sat through celebratory meals and drinks filled with Seokjin’s squeaky laughter and Taehyung’s well-meaning jokes at his expense.

“I always knew you’d be the first of us to get married, Joon.” Seokjin gasped, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. His face was flushed red— whether from joy, laughter, or alcohol, Namjoon couldn’t tell. It could honestly have been all three.

“And she’s a total catch.” Seokjin raised his glass in his direction, a goofy grin plastered on his face. Namjoon figured Seokjin was referring to the massive influx of resources you brought to the table, but then Seokjin rattled on about every time he’d crossed paths with you. Which was a lot.

Namjoon leaned back to give himself room to stare across the table at debatably the most unhinged person he’d ever met; although, he might possibly rank just behind you. His initial assessment was correct. You and Seokjin did, in fact, get along like a house on fire. His older brother sang your praises like you’d hung the stars in the night sky, and countered Namjoon’s indignant huffs with a rapid-fire, long-winded lecture that began with an outburst of “Yah!” and ended with his arm flung out in a frenzy and “She’ll have you wrapped around her finger in a mon— No! Three weeks!”

It was safe to say that Seokjin was elated for you to join the family. Even Taehyung was buzzing from the development, although Namjoon wasn’t sure how the two of you knew each other. All Taehyung would say when questioned was, “You had to be there,” and flash a boxy smile that promised there was a whole hell of a lot more to the story than he would ever divulge. Probably for legal reasons.

Either way, his brothers were over the moon to have you.

Another characteristic he picked up on was your efficiency. Namjoon blinked and you already had the contract drafted, the documentation completed, and the living situation sorted out.

Based on your personality, he had expected your tastes to be more… extravagant. The house itself was modest— quaint, even, in comparison to what he’d envisioned. Your interior decor tastes leaned more toward functional and comfortable than anything else. However, one glance at the appliances and the value of the place skyrocketed. You didn’t skimp on furnishing the place by any stretch of the imagination.

“Your shoes go there. There’s a pair of house slippers in there for you.” You opened the shoe cabinet situated immediately to the side of the entrance hall. It wasn’t an offer. Your own fluffy slippers concealed your feet, accented with gems that were either ironic or authentic. Namjoon wouldn’t put it past you to slap real diamonds on your loungewear.

He was correct not to.

His feet now sandwiched in his own pair of fuzzy house slippers, Namjoon ventured into the house, discovering that you had an affinity for plants, which meant you gravitated toward natural lighting and a lot of it. The entire space resembled a greenhouse with impressive glass windows sprawling in every room. Gorgeous oak floors extended from the entrance to the living room where an oversized round sofa dotted with a dozen pillows and a folded throw blanket sat centered before a floor-to-ceiling arched window. The walls were lined with shelves, crammed with books and plants that reached for whatever they could latch onto. A few hanging plants dangled in the space behind the plush sofa above the potted ones housed on the sill, thriving in the direct line of sunlight deposited into the room. Mounted on the wall was a decently sized TV, but Namjoon couldn’t imagine you using it much.

To the side of the living room was a well-equipped kitchen with quartz countertops and more windows that transitioned into a single-pitch skylight to accommodate the herbs growing along the top shelf. The massive stainless steel French door refrigerator was overkill for two people and looked to match the rest of the appliances. The island functioned as a bar to sit at on one side. Namjoon admittedly perked up at the double sink— fuck kitchens with single sinks. He observed your back as you led him out of the kitchen and deeper into the house to your separate offices. Did you even cook to justify having a kitchen as luxurious as this?

You merely presented the door to your office to him before guiding him to his own. As expected, you’d furnished it according to his tastes, still granting him the option to switch anything out as he pleased.

Backtracking toward the entrance of the house, you started up the stairwell to the right of the front door. He followed behind you until you entered a bedroom and turned to face him with a “ta-da” gesture. The large bed had already been made, a plethora of pillows stacked at the head, and an extra blanket laid across the foot. The lavish comforter appeared to be thick and airy, capable of holding heat but not overbearingly heavy. Beneath the bed was a decently sized fluffy accent rug— the kind that Namjoon knew your feet would sink into. Nightstands and shelving were placed on both sides of the bed, charging cables already set up on what he could immediately determine was his side. Your nightstand and shelves were already occupied by several of your belongings. Namjoon eyed the resin-encased bouquet of vibrant yellow daffodils displayed on your nightstand before scanning the rest of the room.

Unsurprisingly, the main occupants of the room were more plants, most of them situated to line the glass wall letting in more sunlight. Upon closer inspection, Namjoon saw that the wall included two glass French doors that led to a balcony. You were mid-explanation of the walk-in closet when he interrupted.

“There’s no guest bedroom?” He demanded, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks. His gaze darkened considerably as he stared down his nose at you. The suit jacket did little to conceal his broad build, but Namjoon knew that his imposing physique did nothing to intimidate you.

Your eyes darted heavenward before fixing him with an aloof smile that said he was being silly. “I don’t do guests.” He could determine that from the limited seating in the living room; although, he’d give you that the round couch could easily fit four people. “Besides,” You breezed on, completely ignoring his exasperation. “The bathroom is absolutely to die for.”

You turned on your heel, floating into the bathroom that— holy shit— would have inducted you into the HGTV hall of fucking fame. The floor had been swapped out for pristine tile while the counter had been constructed out of the oak wood instead. A large mirror was mounted on the wall, stretching behind two sinks. Separate vanities sat on either side of the sinks. Further into the bathroom, divided by a glass door, was a shower with shelving and a steamer built in. Your fluffy bathrobe was already suspended from one of the hooks, a second robe that appeared to be for lounging around the house perched next to it. The other hooks were left unoccupied. The star of the bathroom was the tub which had to have been custom-made. It was nested into the shower space, with an oak ledge encasing it. It was large, but not so big as to be uncomfortable to recline in or risk completely submerging yourself. More plants dotted the bathroom, all fed by the skylight windows above.

Namjoon didn’t need to look at your face to know that you wore that smug grin that knew you’d bested him.

Fuck you and your impeccable interior design sense.

What Namjoon had anticipated the least (other than just how much of the furniture had been custom-made) was that you didn’t allow anyone inside the house. No one came in to clean or cook or anything— hell, you didn’t even order delivery. As much as you had called him out for his attachment to his office, you had the same fixation with the house. It was your place to exist and the precautions you took to ensure it remained yours were admirable in his eyes.

That you welcomed him to live in your sanctuary tugged uncomfortably at something in his chest.

That still didn’t make it any less excruciating to be around you.

Namjoon arrived home late into the evening, trading his work shoes for the comfier house slippers at the door. It was early into the first week of living together and your work schedules saw you barely interacting, which was fine by Namjoon’s standards. Alas, your timing finally coincided for the both of you to be home and awake simultaneously— the absence of your lavish house slippers from the shoe cabinet being the giveaway.

With a weary sigh, Namjoon shuffled up the stairs and into the bedroom. He slid out of his suit jacket, the absence of its weight an immense relief. Just before he crossed the threshold to the closet, the refreshing breeze let in through the flung-open balcony doors literally gave him his second wind. Namjoon diverted his steps toward the balcony where he could make out your silhouette through the off-white curtains flowing languidly into the room. The fabric lightly whapped him in the face, and he batted it away before leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

Silently, Namjoon peered at your back. You were folded up on a floor pillow, your lounge robe fluttering dramatically in the breeze, cradling a glass filled with the smallest amount of wine— was there a small amount to begin with or did you already drink a lot?

You knew he was there. You hadn’t turned to face him, but like him, you could always detect another presence. Abruptly, you glanced over your shoulder to flash a giddy grin, “Welcome home, Darling.” There was a flushed glow to your cheeks and your hair floated freely. Momentarily, you appeared genuinely lighthearted, like you were winding down at the end of a work day. “How was your day?”

“It was fine.” He murmured. He didn’t know why he continued, maybe to be polite. “Yours?”

A light snort filled the night air. “Brother dearest sent me another gift.” You swirled the remaining wine in your glass, expression blank. “I worked from home. Will be until he stops being a pain in my ass.”

Okay, so perhaps you’d had more to drink than he first thought, going by your atypically crass language. He quirked an eyebrow reflexively. If Namjoon were to specify what it was about you that disturbed him so deeply, it would be your petulant refusal to let your brother take over your family’s business. He was the eldest child, illegitimate or not, but you were too arrogant about your status as the sole legitimate offspring to relinquish the title. Your brother had survived longer and you blatantly disrespected that fact, writing him off. And Namjoon knew that had the roles been reversed— had Seokjin been born illegitimate instead of him— he would have acknowledged Seokjin as the heir. Because that was the right thing to do.

With this thought in mind, he snarked, “You know, instead of going to all this trouble, you could— and I know this is crazy— you know, let him have the fucking position.”

“That’s not crazy at all.” You hummed, your attention directed before you at nothing in particular. And for a split second, Namjoon thought the two of you had finally seen eye to eye. Then, you downed the rest of the contents of your class with a grace that hinted that you’d done it many times before and shot back, “It’s fucking batshit.”

Namjoon’s blood boiled. He’d kept it somewhat controlled from the moment you waltzed into his office, but he found it impossible to fight the escalating simmer that accompanied every interaction with you. This conversation validated everything he thought about you: that you were a conceited, stuck-up brat. His jaw tensed, lips pursing sourly. The fabric of his suit jacket wrinkled as he clenched his fist around it. He stalked forward to glare down at you and fully see your face, but the lack of light shaded most of the details of your expression.

“Why?” Namjoon bit out. “Because he’s illegitimate?” Go ahead, confirm what he already knew.

“No, darling,” You replied in that tone that danced the line between condescending and empathetic, mostly dependent on the interpreter. You lifted your now empty glass, peering through the glossy stain your bottom lip had stamped onto the rim. “Because he’s a shit businessman.”

Namjoon blinked. Once, twice, scanning your body language for any indication that you were bullshitting him. His shoulders released some of their tension, relaxing to a more natural position, and his eyes flicked toward your face, calculating.

“I, however, happen to be a blessing to the industry.”

Namjoon didn’t doubt it based on Seokjin’s never-ending compliments, but he could detect the slightest hint of overcompensation. Perhaps it had been there the entire time, but he hadn’t been interested in seeing you in a very human light.

Self-reflection could be a bit of a bitch and, apparently, so could he. While your situations had been similar, he hadn’t lived your life and you hadn’t lived his. Namjoon had survived thus far by assuming the worst in others and that, given the opportunity, they would betray him without hesitation. Habits were hard to kick; he’d immediately assumed you were no different. But you had gambled for the life you wanted— the one you were entitled to— and you’d given him an opportunity to do the same. Opening your safe space to him took courage, and you’d been more than hospitable. Namjoon would go so far as to say that you were actually considerate during the whole process. He’d agreed to this too. The bitter aftertaste of remorse lingered on his tongue; he needn’t have taken his frustration about the messy politics of inheritance and how they’d snatched away the life he had wanted out on you. It wasn’t just him they’d screwed over.

Namjoon cleared his throat, ducking his head to stare at his cushiony house slippers. You didn’t seem to have a preference for whether he stayed or left you to your own devices, basking in the gentle night air like you didn’t have a company to run, a bounty on your head, or a wedding in less than a month. He decided on the latter, mostly because he needed the time to process. Namjoon retreated into the resort-like bathroom to shower and swallow the fact that while he had learned much about you, he hadn’t actually understood a single part of you.

When he reemerged nearly a half hour later, he was still pleasantly light-headed from the steam, swathed in a worn, loose-fitting sweatshirt and sweatpants. Ruffling his still-damp fringe, Namjoon hesitantly glanced at the balcony, only for the doors to be latched closed and your form absent. A quick scan of the bed confirmed you weren’t in the room either. It was already late, and he’d been planning on heading to bed and sleeping off the uneasy air between the two of you (really, he knew only he felt antsy— he wasn’t sure you felt anything other than neutral about him). One of his hands grazed the back of his neck as he weighed his options.

Namjoon heaved a sigh before padding downstairs in search of you. Were you in your office? You did say you worked from home today, so he doubted you’d be spending any more time there this late. The round couch was unoccupied, so he continued into the kitchen.

There, the rich aroma of chocolate warmed his senses. You’d foregone the bar stools to perch on the counter instead, the excess silk material of your robe rippling down over the edge of the marble, your legs tucked neatly beneath you. The entire scene was overly dramatic for midnight baking if you asked Namjoon.

“What’s the point of installing a $4,000 oven that can’t handle preheating to 350 degrees?” You hummed, licking a glob of brownie batter that dotted the side of your wrist. Your eyes fluttered shut, savoring the sweet mixture. Namjoon averted his eyes, instead focusing on the mostly-full glass mixing bowl abandoned beside you.

“Are you drinking brownie batter?” The scrunch of Namjoon’s nose indicated his judgment. His eyes flickered from your face to the batter-filled champagne glass nestled between your fingers and back to your face.

“Care for a glass?” You offered airily. You had to be drunk or at least tipsy.

Aghast, Namjoon remained rooted to his spot just past the threshold.

“The oven breaks, and you decide to drink the batter?” He revoked every sentiment he’d previously held about trying to understand you. It would never happen. This headassery was proof enough of that. In fact, cancel the whole marriage.

”When in Rome, Darling. When in Rome.” You must have been one of those people who felt sexy when they drank wine; everything you said and did was delivered in a more sultry tone than your usual mischievous flirting. The stem of a second champagne glass pinched between your manicured fingers, you lured him closer with the promise of decadent, drinkable, fudge-y salmonella poisoning.

Reluctantly, he took the bait and shuffled closer. Only the accent lights had been turned on in the room, casting a warm glow. Plucking the glass from you with the intent of joining you on the counter, Namjoon mimicked your I-always-get-what-I-want smile sardonically, but it plummeted off his face as quickly as it appeared. He hadn’t been able to see you in decent lighting up until now, so he’d missed the splattering of scrapes along the left side of your face and hand. They were superficial from what he could tell, but they were also fresh. None of them seemed as deep as the gash you had on your cheek in his office.

“What the hell?” Namjoon’s honeyed complexion was still dewy from the shower and now flushed from uninvited hostility. His brows crinkled under his freshly washed fringe.

You shooed away his concern with a flick of your wrist and explained, “My half-brother totaled my car like a jackass.”

Something bitter stirred in the pit of his stomach at this information.

You, on the other hand, appeared unbothered, huddled in your kitchen late into the night a little buzzed, content with raw brownie batter and a busted oven.

His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek in contemplation. Namjoon figured your life’s motto had to be “c’est le vie” with how quickly you tended to accept major inconveniences.

“Are you passing on dessert?”

He braced a large palm onto the edge of the countertop to slip up beside you. Namjoon left a respectful couple of inches between you, but you could still feel his body heat seep through your thin clothing. “You’re not really getting what you wanted out of this arrangement, huh?” He asked, his head tilted down to inspect the contents of his glass.

You hummed in question, your legs gently swaying back and forth.

“The whole point was to protect you from your brother, yeah?” He clarified.

“Yes,” You agreed, “but this is to be expected.” You finally directed your attention to him, your head angled to the side and resting against the cabinet. The blank and vaguely concerned expression he fixed you with prompted you to continue. “I’m royally fucking him over for good by marrying you.” You had a million-dollar smile; it was youthful and dazzling in a way that demanded attention. Right now, it still had that radiant jubilance, but there was an underlying air of menace that chilled Namjoon’s spine. “Once we’re married, the business will never be his. Even if he gets rid of me, you’ll be my successor.” Your eyes gleamed at him, warm and affectionate, capturing Namjoon with your magnetism yet again.

So that was your plan. Survive the next couple of weeks camping out inside until you had destroyed any chance your brother had at the throne by marrying him. After you, the lineage would transfer over to the Kims. Your brother might succeed in disposing of you and him, but Seokjin? Not a fucking chance. Namjoon understood your strategy, but something still itched at the back of his mind: why not just kill him yourself? Was it too morally reprehensible for you to kill your own brother? Was that a line you refused to cross? This particular piece didn’t fit with the rest of your puzzle, no matter how he tried to turn it over in his mind.

But you had chosen him as a matching piece, and he wouldn’t deny taking pride in being exactly what someone wanted for what might have been the first and only time. You accepted his position, his preferences, and his attitude. Maybe you understood him and that was why you had marched into his office with every intention to finally drag him out, snarky remarks and all.

“You and I,” Namjoon paused, pressing his lips together into a firm line and slightly nodding his head a few times.

Your eyebrows raised expectantly, waiting for him to find the end of his sentence.

“… Are fucking nothing alike,” He finally concluded.

Your delighted giggle ricocheted in his chest. As he took in your scrunched nose and flushed cheeks, Namjoon couldn’t fight the low chuckle rumbling in response.

Delicately, you raised your glass to clink it with his. “Cheers to that, darling.”

It was too late for the two of you to be fooling around in the kitchen by then. The dishes were placed in the sink to soak and Namjoon stood before you, waiting for you to head up to bed with him. You remained firmly planted, relaxed against the cabinet behind you, evidently not inspired to stand any time soon. Namjoon decided to speed up the process.

He stepped closer, tenderly resting his large, warm hands on your knees to part them far enough to wedge himself between them. His hands trailed to hook behind the backs of your legs, leaving a pleasantly fuzzy sensation behind, and gently tugged you forward to close the distance between you. From this close, you could breathe in the fresh scent of his shampoo and something slightly muskier. Namjoon thought the heat in your cheeks glowed the slightest bit more intensely as you slowly leaned closer. You weren’t meeting his eyes, instead fixating on his pretty, pouty lips that parted lightly in anticipation. His heart thudded in his ears and his palms— he wondered if you could feel his blood pulsing under the flesh of his hands as they pressed into your soft skin. You finally reached your destination, melting into his broad chest, your arms fluidly looping at the back of his neck and your chin resting in the crook of his shoulder. Namjoon twitched involuntarily when you absentmindedly combed your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck, your long nails gently scratching with just the right amount of pressure to send a rush of tingles down his spine.

“You drank too much.” He floundered to conceal the fact that you managed to fluster him yet again. Your legs crossed behind his hips and he readjusted his hands to support your ass and back before smoothly lifting you off the counter in one quick motion.

“No, I didn’t,” You refuted, twisting your face to disprove his accusation. The clarity in your eyes was unmistakable and had not at all been present during the earlier conversation. Instead, the mischievous grin he typically associated with you reappeared. “Just wanted you to carry me.”

As always, you were in the business of getting what you wanted and he was about to be a lifelong customer of your bullshit.

Your playful admission hadn’t exasperated him like he had expected though— instead, Namjoon was alarmingly endeared.

“Can’t have that anymore.” He didn’t wait long enough for you to process what was absolutely a threat before his movements became sporadic. Namjoon twisted side to side, leaning precariously on one leg and then bouncing on the other on the journey through the hall leading to the bottom of the stairs.

You coiled around him tighter, squeezing him in case he accidentally dropped you. His more juvenile side was a refreshing change from the high-class lawyer that’d had sucked the life and personality out of him. The exaggerated ‘woah’s he cried out throughout his performance and experiencing the strength of his broad form firsthand further attached you to him in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

But enough was enough. With as much faux petulance you could muster in your current state of disorientation, you licked at a spot below his ear before sucking an open-mouthed kiss into your area of attack.

Namjoon froze immediately following a sharp intake of breath. The lightheadedness he felt in the shower rushed back, sending him to space, and he willed his knees not to buckle lest the both of you topple to the hardwood floor.

Satisfied with your work, your lips drew back from his neck and your eyes fluttered back open. “Behave, darling.”

Namjoon didn’t miss the coyness in your tone.

“I’m still sore from this morning.”

What.

From the car accident. From your brother’s poor attempt at killing you. By paying some asshole to ram into the side of your car. And totaling it like a jackass.

You observed his blank expression in amusement as you watched his brain work in overdrive to fill in the blanks. Namjoon’s recovery time was a lot quicker this time around. It would be a shame for him to grow accustomed to your shenanigans too quickly.

He bounced you slightly into a more comfortable and secure position and shot you a grin that brightened his face with a youthful glow. The dimples that framed it were far more charming than they had any right being in this situation, and he drawled out a half-sarcastic, “Anything for you, Sweets.”

It was at the base of the steps leading up to the bedroom, the heels of your feet digging into the bone right above his ass, the creamy scent of chocolate still wafting from the kitchen, and the tip of your nose lightly pressing into the skin that connected his neck and shoulder where Namjoon supposed that he had known. Namjoon had known from the beginning that he had built his home out of Jenga blocks; only they weren’t uniform and instead had chunks missing and sides that protruded at odd angles that ruined the already precarious structural integrity. He knew that it would collapse at any moment, existing in a state constantly on the brink of destruction, and Namjoon hated messes. But you had decided to hold it up, changing nothing about the foundation or the wonky planks, just allowing it to exist as it was with the slightest bit of support around the perimeter. Namjoon knew that when he existed between the warmth, the safety, and the empathy of your hands, he breathed and he flourished.

But make no mistake, Namjoon would have to be dead nine times over before he would ever admit that you’d had him three days into living together.

Both of you continued with the odd kitchen-sink-cookie-esque relationship that blended friends, fiancés, and questionably flirty roommates. Truly a recipe for disaster, yet you’d somehow nailed the ratio, and the resulting product was delectable.

Some nights were spent sprawled together on the oversized round sofa, pillows strewn about haphazardly, yet you still chose to use Namjoon as a cushion. Either you curled up beside him, resting your head on one of his thick, suspiciously athletic thighs, or you took up residence entirely in his lap, reclining into his sturdy chest (”We’re literally on a couch, Sweets. Why am I being used as furniture?” “You’re the comfiest, darling.”). Namjoon called bullshit on that. You had impeccable taste in furniture, much to his detriment— he gambled falling asleep on the sofa every night. But he didn’t really mind the arrangement and took advantage of the opportunity to twirl the ends of your hair around his fingers into little ringlets and brush his grounding hand against the bare skin of your shoulder.

Existing together like this was comfortable.

Once Namjoon set out to know you rather than know about you, he discovered that he was actually quite fond of you— outlandish diamond-studded house slippers and all. You were dangerously intelligent, a strategist to your core, and way funnier than he had initially been willing to give you credit for— it had been far to risky for his pride.

Eventually, when your eyelids remained shut for longer than fifteen seconds at every blink and the angle of the book resting in your hands tilted severely enough that Namjoon knew you weren’t reading it anymore, he’d take the initiative to transport the both of you to bed. Once you were draped under the comforter and curled up on your side, your cheek pressed into the silk pillowcase, Namjoon slipped into the other side of the bed.

It was an odd, unspoken boundary in your relationship. For all the time spent invading each other’s personal space, flirtatious advances and innuendos and all, neither of you touched the other in bed. Like, at all. Not even an accidental, “Whoops, I rolled over and didn’t realize you were that close!” or an, “Uh oh, I woke up and cuddled you in my sleep without realizing! Haha, my bad!” Namjoon couldn’t tell if you were establishing the boundary for personal reasons or if it was out of respect for him, an unspoken promise that for all you relentlessly teased him, you would never overstep his limits.

The thing was— by this point you had showered together. Well, not together— you were unwinding in the bath when he waltzed in to take a shower and discovered a little late that the steam wasn’t residual from your shower. But you hadn’t reacted other than a soft greeting so Namjoon had carried on. The steam, for the most part, concealed everything, but neither of you seemed to fixate on the other.

And how exactly did one bring this up tactfully? Hey, I know we’re like, fiancés and all for the benefit of our respective businesses in the organized crime industry, but do you want to actually acknowledge each other’s presence in bed? That actually didn’t sound all that bad, but you’d still reply with a coy flutter of your lashes and breathe out a smartass, yet still somehow sultry, insinuation.

To avoid the entire situation, Namjoon would ask you about something else— anything else— before you could drift off for the night. Most nights, you’d mumble an answer he’d have to crane his neck closer to you to comprehend. They weren’t always coherent, and they didn’t always answer his question, but he’d take what he could get, even if it was a predominantly drowsy musing that lacked any relevance whatsoever.

Tonight, he chose to inquire about the flowers that always seemed to glow on your nightstand. Namjoon had known immediately that you were a plant person; your home was a dead giveaway. He appreciated it, finding the various houseplants soothing companions. You took care of them religiously, rotating them so each side received enough sun exposure and checking the dampness of the soil every morning. But these were the only flowers that were eternally preserved in an intricate resin sphere, arranged to form a crescent shape. Were they the first flowers you grew? Maybe they were your favorite? A gift? They had to be significant for you to keep them where you slept every night.

“The what?” Your eyes blinked open, a certain lucidness to them that was uncommon this late into the evening.

“Those flowers,” Namjoon clarified, gesturing to your nightstand. “Were they from someone special?”

You twisted to face the direction he indicated and huffed out a mirthful snicker before relaxing back to your original position. He hadn’t realized in the moment, but he had anticipated your answer with bated breath that ached in his chest.

“My half-brother gifted them to me when I turned eight.” You explained, an oddly reminiscent curve to your lips. “It was his first attempt at killing me.”

Namjoon’s head swam in a pool of unanswered questions. None of what you said made any sense, but you were far too awake for this to be a half-lucid rambling. But should he press the subject further? To anyone else, it would probably be a sensitive topic, but he had to understand why on earth you made the decision to preserve an attempt at murder and go as far as sleep next to it every night.

As usual, you could read his persistently blank expressions and find the request for context written in the darker parts of his eyes. You twisted to fully face him, mumbling out the following statement like you were sharing a deep secret and you trusted that he would conceal it— Namjoon would, he knew. He’d hide your vulnerable sides like they were his own.

“I’m deathly allergic to daffodils.”

Namjoon tried to imagine what you looked like as an eight year old, receiving a gift from your older brother on your birthday. Had your eyes twinkled in joy? Had your smile been exactly like your million-dollar one now, or had there been gaps where your baby teeth had fallen out? Had you thrown your arms around your brother gleefully in appreciation, ignorant to his sinister motives and the grime splotched onto his ugly words as he wished you a happy birthday? Namjoon couldn’t remember exactly how old he had been when he’d figured out trust was always a mistake. Had you already been aware at eight years old? Had that been your moment of discovery?

“Why’d you keep them?” His eyes remained unyielding on your expression, observing any minuscule details that betrayed discomfort about the topic. He couldn’t bear to look at the daffodils looming on your nightstand. He wanted to destroy the display, smash it to pieces on the concrete driveway, crumble the flowers to dust, whatever he had to do to eradicate them from existence, but he had to know why you chose to keep them.

“I’d never received flowers before,” You reasoned with a carefree shrug of your shoulders. “And they’re pretty.”

Namjoon hated your reasoning. He thought they were hideous, tainting the safe space you created and gleaming eerily where you slept. He held more affection for the busted $4,000 oven sitting in the kitchen than that pathetic attempt at an arrangement.

Nevertheless, he nodded in acceptance and decided to give the wedding planner a call in the morning. He’d show you what a gorgeous flower arrangement looked like.

Namjoon so far, as fiancé and friend, had miraculously managed to avoid being on the receiving end of your rather malicious promises (”I don’t make threats, darling, only promises,”). An honest to god accomplishment, considering you’d cohabitated for three weeks with his admittedly smoking fuse and your ‘my way’ personality.

He liked to think that he understood you well by now. At least, well enough to design your wedding bouquet. You hadn’t contacted the wedding planner with any specific requests for the ceremony, so Namjoon figured you wouldn’t be opposed to him getting involved for this.

The planner had melted when he explained his intention, gushing and flushing at such a romantic gesture. With directions to decide what flowers he wanted to include and a basic vision for the placement, they scheduled a meeting closer to the wedding. Namjoon found himself researching flowers and their meanings during his work hours over the next two weeks, deep-diving into professional florists’ websites for hours at a time. He selected a few flowers that conveyed what he wanted you to know, and then spiraled into another research hole about the meaning associated with the colors. That part, while time-consuming, wasn’t difficult. What gave him trouble was the actual arranging of the flowers-stem lengths, positioning, and sizes; the visuals didn’t conceptualize easily for him. As the wedding and the meeting date loomed closer, Namjoon had vetoed all of his own drafts but one.

The wedding planner glanced at the arrangement plan he designed and her mouth clamped closed. She had been all bubbly anticipation for ‘their big day’ and eager to begin operation bouquet seconds prior. The abrupt switch in her mood settled uncomfortably on his shoulders and coiled around his lungs.

Namjoon rubbed at the back of his neck. “No good?”

The woman fixed him with a determined stare, giddiness gone. “The flowers you chose are gorgeous.” She pulled up a fresh document on her tablet and twirled the pencil around her fingers. “I’m just going to make some adjustments to the arrangement.”

A miracle-worker indeed. Within four minutes, she’d situated the white hydrangeas, blushing orchids, lilac snapdragons, and pink roses into a glamorous bouquet. A single lily of the valley sprouted slightly off center, drawing attention but not seeming out of place. Despite the flowers being the same as before, the new design appeared more cohesive, more coherent even. Namjoon hoped that it would convey his message clearly.

“She’s going to adore this, Mr. Kim.” The planner assured him with an encouraging grin.

He really hoped you would. There were two ways Namjoon could see this panning out. Either you would graciously accept the bouquet with a coy twinkle in your eyes and sultry comment about how he was such a “dedicated lover” or you’d smite him with that thoroughly unimpressed expression, brush the flowers off, and draw a thick line between you by giving notice that he’d overstepped.

Namjoon was about to find out.

He was a grown-ass adult and had experienced more stressful situations than this— legitimate life or death ones— but he swore his hands had never produced more sweat than in this moment. Only thick wooden doors painted a bright shade of white separated you. Traditionally, the groom wasn’t supposed to enter the bridal suite, but exactly what about this whole arrangement had been traditional? You wouldn’t care.

So why could he not will his dress shoes to unstick from the marble floor and for his fist to unclench around the lovely, fragrant bouquet? He needed to handle them delicately or he’d crush the stems, so why couldn’t he feel his grip? Namjoon squeezed his eyes shut, heaving in a deep breath until his suit jacket strained from the pressure of his expanded lungs and slowly exhaled. He repeated the process, waiting until his nerves began functioning again in his fingertips.

Namjoon wrapped a hand around the gold door handle, grounding himself in the chill of the metal in his palm. The door wrenched open, sliding out of his grip before he was ready, an attendant slipping out from the other side. She held the door open, flashing him a meaningful grin, and gestured for him to enter with a nod of her head. His movements were jerky, knees locking at all the wrong moments as he passed the threshold. Then, his eyes landed on your form and instantly his lungs were vacant and inoperable.

You turned to face him, white dress swishing with the movement, and Namjoon couldn’t think of any word other than dazzling. Your hair remained as flawless as ever, styled, glossy, and looking as soft as Namjoon knew it to be. The pristine dress had a sweetheart neckline that draped gracefully off your shoulders, leaving a tantalizing strip of skin below your collarbones exposed. He allowed his eyes to trail lower, swallowing thickly at the excess fabric that was swept up to trail at one of your hips, creating a tasteful slit and exposing your leg elongated by a pair of sparkly heels. The simple jewelry dangling from your earlobes and around your neck glinted in the natural light provided by the large windows, accentuating but not upstaging. Nothing glittered more than your eyes as your glossed lips curled into an amused smile at his obviously flustered state.

It was a balance of elegance and drama and divinity— enamoring and you. Just as he had first assessed, you were irrefutably the kind of gorgeous that brought trouble.

“God,” He struggled to breathe out, brows furrowing with the effort. “Sweets.”

Namjoon could easily have been convinced in this moment that you were a goddess walking amongst men for the sheer entertainment of it all; he had never been religious, knew better than to believe in a god fabricated to make people feel better about the harsh realities of the world, manipulate the gullible, and take advantage of the powerless. But you were real, brilliant, merciless, and you didn’t make promises you wouldn’t keep— he could easily be convinced to kneel before you.

And he did.

He approached you in long strides, his dark eyes holding your watchful gaze, because he had been drawn into your orbit just as he had during your first appearance in his office. Once he was close enough to brush his large hand against your dewy skin— though he wouldn’t dare— Namjoon dropped to one knee before you. Your lashes fluttered as you observed him from above, and Namjoon swore your blink restored his ability to breathe again.

His dark hair had been styled to part in a spiral, and he peered up at you through his wispy fringe resting at his eye level. Namjoon always maintained a meticulous appearance, suits pressed to perfection and hair styled up out of his clean-shaven face. Today, he was just as infallible as ever, his intimidating aura toned down ever-so-slightly with the softer styling of his hair. It accentuated the youthful, honeyed glow of his skin and the pronounced apples of his cheeks— they flushed a charming shade of red. His large hands extended out in the space between the two of you, the gorgeous bouquet rustling softly due to the steady vibrations of his hands. Namjoon’s plush lips trembled, parting to shakily exhale and reclaim his scattered nerves. “You promised me the world,” He began, “I’ll show you the most beautiful parts of it.”

He swore.

It couldn’t have been more than two beats of his heart between his vows and the shift in your expression, but Namjoon had been on trial and was waiting for his final verdict during those two beats. When it finally appeared, the gleam of your eyes and the arc of your lips said everything he already knew a couple weeks ago when he carried you up the stairs the night of your kitchen shenanigans— oh, how hard the mighty had fallen.

Slender fingers brushed against his hands, steadying them and applying light pressure to coax him back up to his feet. Your hands cradled his, holding the bouquet as you leaned forward to catch the light fragrance. Namjoon was rewarded with your contented smile— possibly the most genuine smile of yours he had ever seen— and your appraisal, “Well, you’re certainly off to a good start.”

There were absolutely worse places to discover that he felt unbridled, devout affection for you— the venue hours before your wedding was actually pretty optimal the more Namjoon thought about it. He found the strength to release one hand from the bouquet, reaching to brush some loose strands of hair out of your face. His eyes held nothing but reverence, and your gravitational force pulled him in closer until he hovered inches away from your face. Namjoon hadn’t been conscious of his hands as he did, but one carefully cradled the back of your head and the other found its place tenderly resting against your lower back. Was the excessive heat there from him or you? He couldn’t tell. Either way, it didn’t matter. Namjoon’s gaze flickered to your eyes again, searching for any indication that he had read the energy wrong and needed to back off (although he knew you would have made it very clear very quickly if he had).

The acceptance and endearment he found rattled his core in a way he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a terrible feeling. It was comfortable, warm, and intimate. Anyone else, and it would have had Namjoon retreating out of the bridal suite, out of the venue, out of the arrangement entirely. But Namjoon trusted your affection, and he hadn’t trusted anything in a long time. All that established, Namjoon thought it would only be fitting to finally kiss you during the ceremony to swear his end of the deal in addition to his devotion. With a smile bracketed by charming dimples, he slightly pulled back and muttered, “Not here.”

Not for the first time and certainly not the last, you caught Namjoon off guard. “Why not?” You blinked, a challenging glint in your eyes.

Slender, manicured fingers curled into the collar of his suit, and you hauled him back to you with one hand still occupied with the bouquet. He didn’t quite stumble, but your tug managed to draw him closer than before, and his large palm pressed more firmly into your back to maintain his balance.

“It’s just you, me, and the thirty armed guards posted outside, darling.” You whispered, fluttering your lashes with the coy expression that indicated you were teasing, and Namjoon fought the urge to roll his eyes.

His hands trailed to rest on your hips, the pads of his thumbs rubbing soothing circles, and he dropped his forehead to gently press against yours.

“Soon, Sweets.”

“Objections?” The officiator asked, although the stoniness of his eyes demanded that the audience stay silent.

Your brother got straight to the point.

At the first sound of a shot echoing throughout the venue, you leaped right into him, launching your entire bodyweight directly into his ribcage as if you hadn’t already knocked the air out of his lungs today. Namjoon fell back with no resistance, arms caging around you as he twisted his back to somewhat cover you from the spray of glass shards. Your head was cushioned from the tile by his unfortunately— in this situation— solid bicep. An uncomfortable landing for both parties, but far from the worst outcome. Namjoon’s imposing form concealed you from your attacker, his leg practically thrown over yours in his attempt to act as your shield. By the time he blinked the disorientation away to scan your state, you’d already drawn your weapon from— he wasn’t really sure where.

“Excuse me, darling.” You sought to heave him off of you with your knee, but his cooperation ended there. With an arm still securing you to him, Namjoon slid the both of you behind an overturned wooden table decorated with an intricate lace skirt.

You inspected his face, eyes quickly flicking down to his now rumpled suit and back up to the loose strands of hair that escaped its slicked back style. No injuries, you determined. Your eyebrows raised in question, searching his dark eyes and finding an absence of panic and instead unconcealed concern.

A silent conversation passed in the prolonged seconds where you huddled behind the table. This was part of your plan. You were ready to expand your safe space, but you weren’t going to force him to come with you. It was, of course, an option. But it was his choice to make and you’d respect it either way. You expected the same courtesy from him. This was the opportunity for you to honor your end of the deal and give him the world you’d promised to the both of you.

Namjoon needed to let you go.

A large, warm hand tenderly pressed into your cheek— a plea. Your own hand covered his, steadying the tremors and securing its position. Eyes closed, you planted a kiss into the palm of his hand where his blood raced through his veins and pulsed to meet your lips. Then, you nestled the side of your cheek against his hand, and your eyes fluttered open to gaze into his with unchecked confidence— a promise.

And then you were gone, and Namjoon was alone behind the upended table.

Namjoon knew now that at some point, he had left his office. He cracked the door open slightly, grip tight enough on the door handle for it to creak in protest, and he had hesitated, lower body numb and floating separately from him. The other side could very well be his demise. He had spent his life retreating behind anything that could barricade him from whoever was hunting him down, whether it be for personal vendettas or in retaliation against his brothers. But his hideout was too stuffy by now, too cramped, almost shrinking around him by the minute. Namjoon needed to leave his office now.

Cautiously, Namjoon swung the heavy wooden door open. You waited patiently in the hallway, head held high, haughty and dignified in a way that simultaneously entertained and aggravated him. With a flirtatious wink and a million-dollar smile that promised to raise both heaven and hell and everything you damn-well pleased, you turned and glided down the hall.

You left the decision to him.

Namjoon followed you out of his office, past the threshold, through the hallway, and out from behind the table into the front line of the final showdown of a battle that spanned decades. You hadn’t had someone on your side when you were eight and struggling to breathe, the obnoxious yellow daffodils and your brother as witnesses to your near demise. Up until Namjoon moved into your home, you had existed in solitude, and Namjoon wanted to be your companion now.

It wasn’t difficult to find you.

“Quit being such a pest.” You rolled your eyes at your half-brother like he’d pulled some juvenile prank that moderately inconvenienced you rather than attempting to end your life. The two of you opposed each other closer to the back of the venue, the only thing between you a few feet. Your form was impeccable, as expected, but the situation looked entirely wrong— your mild irritation, the wreckage of glass and other decorations scattered about the venue, the shattered pieces of shards collected in your otherwise pristine white gown, and the steel gun clenched in your palm glinting in promise. At a second inspection, Namjoon noted with reluctant amusement that your gun twinkled because it was yet another item you had custom made. Diamonds were delicately inlaid in the metal. Unquestionably real, again, as expected.

At the end of the barrel, your brother glowered at you, a malicious sneer curling his lip. His chest heaved from the severity of his seething and his insistence that you’d ‘ruined everything for him.’ Despite the chaos being of his design, he appeared more scuffed up than you or Namjoon. Several cuts littered his face, knuckles busted and bleeding, a scrap missing from the shoulder of his silk button down. He looked feral while you were the picture of indifference.

But the scene was still wrong.

The combined effort of your forces and Seokjin’s had already subdued the few remaining stragglers aligned with your brother. As the engagement drew closer, most people were literate enough to read the flashing neon sign that to betray you was to betray the Kim family as well. The illiterate had swiftly been taken care of. Your brother’s attack had been sloppy at best and downright suicidal at worst: an absolute dismissal of both Seokjin’s authority and yours. It was no longer an issue between half-siblings. This was more than enough grounds for war.

It wasn’t enough to kill your half-brother— you were going to massacre him.

Namjoon hated messes.

He approached you in long strides, shrugging out of his suit jacket and shaking out any stray pieces of decor along the way. Namjoon’s imposing form loomed next to you, glaring down his nose at your brother with a degree of animosity you hadn’t been exposed to before. Meticulously, he slipped his jacket over the front of your dress, securing the thick fabric over your shoulders. The crisp, clean scent of his cologne settled with the extra layer.

All the while, your brother snarled half-baked insults at you, pathetic and ineffective attempts at grandstanding to undermine your qualifications while you held him at gunpoint. Even more unimpressive were the two firearms discarded near your feet— you’d effortlessly disarmed him in front of an audience at your own wedding. Enough was enough, Namjoon decided. He stalked over to your brother, swiftly lodging his knee into his gut and cutting him off mid-whine.

You were correct in your assessment of Namjoon having suspiciously athletic legs, because your brother crumbled onto all fours like a dead spider. Namjoon wordlessly shifted to the side, as your brother heaved to catch his breath, still gasping out juvenile insults.

“Fucking,” A particularly wet pant. “Bitch-” A choked cough as Namjoon’s jaw clenched in disdain.

Abruptly, he snatched the pest by the hair at the base of his neck like a dog, yanking him up to his knees. Your brother’s eyes screwed closed at the excruciating pressure on his skull, hissing and unable to squirm under Namjoon’s relentless grip as he loomed over him.

“Don’t you think you’re going too easy on him?” Your bottom lip lightly pouted, and the weight in your gaze told Namjoon you were not asking despite your airy tone. Immediately, Namjoon twisted the fist tangled in your brother’s hair as far as possible and then some, his bicep straining against the sleeve of his shirt. Multiple chunks of his scalp gave way at the force. He was reduced to tears, wheezing out sobs as Namjoon flicked his wrist a few times on his way back to your side to discard the loose strands of hair.

“It’s not fair,” He whimpered.

You slightly tilted your head as you sighed in faux sympathy, and Namjoon readjusted his suit jacket over your shoulder.

“Sounds like a skill issue.”

You fired. Your brother collapsed, the angle uncomfortable, still. The venue was silent, guests and guards alike observing the aftermath like a picture. Your wedding dress was unstained, your empire was solidified, and Namjoon still needed to kiss you.

“Fix it.” You demanded with a close-lipped smile, that light, airy tone suggesting a playfulness that wasn’t actually there. Immediately, your guards sprung to fulfill your orders, clearing the debris and floral remnants. From his viewpoint near the banquet table, Seokjin addressed his men with a stare and voice as cold as the Arctic.

“You heard her.” He turned back to the deserts, gingerly plucking up a cupcake.

People bustled around you, righting tables, reassembling centerpieces, and disposing of the uninvited guests.

Namjoon carefully slipped his jacket off of you and draped it across his forearm, undisturbed by the faint speckles of blood fading into the dark material. He had a spare anyway. The wedding planner really had been worth every penny.

You leaned into him, angling your head to meet his eyes and finding them already on you, warm and lighter than you remember. “Brief intermission to touch up and then reconvene?” He suggested, dipping his head closer to you, a teasing smile quirking one corner of his mouth up.

“My thoughts exactly.” Your nose faintly brushed his, and his limbs went fuzzy yet again. He felt the heat of your palm press into his chest and he let his eyes close. Then, you lightly pushed him away, twirling on your heel, and wiggling your fingers over your shoulder as you glided back in the direction of the bridal suite.

“Soon, darling.” You taunted playfully, and Namjoon could only roll his eyes with a huff that even he would admit was mostly theatrics.

Namjoon hadn’t realized until you that vengeance really could be sweet.

When you returned to your place at the altar a half hour later, hair and makeup refreshed, Namjoon was already waiting for you with a new suit jacket and your reassembled bouquet in hand. It hadn’t taken much damage when you’d dropped it to shove Namjoon to the floor. He handed it to you with a slight smile, which you returned with a grin of your own, and you both turned to face forward.

The officiant stood with an exhausted droop of his eyes, though unshaken by the previous event. He cleared his throat and skipped past the objections this time, evidently unwilling to risk another setback to the schedule. “Yeah,” He drawled, eyes flicking to his watch and crossing a foot over the other to lean against the podium. “This is all just a formality, so let’s skip to the ‘I do’s’ and just pronounce the two of you married.”

Absolutely no arguments there. You had essentially already exchanged your vows privately anyway— you when you’d first met in his office, and Namjoon hours before in the bridal suite. The ceremony proceeded efficiently without interruption, both you and Namjoon easily consenting.

“Fantastic.” The officiant straightened up and flipped his script shut. “By the power vested in me by me, I pronounce you married. You may kiss.”

You turned to face each other, your soft gaze fixed Namjoon’s face. He smiled, eyes glimmering. He was different— his air, and even his expression: slight crinkles around his eyes and less teeth than usual. This smile wasn’t sarcastic, cutting, or performative. It was genuine. Namjoon stepped into your orbit once more, hands already reaching to hold you, and you draped your arms around his neck, bouquet still held in one hand. Your free hand held the back of his neck, his skin warming under your touch. His own palms delicately pressed against your back, sturdy and grounding. Namjoon watched, completely taken, as your gaze dropped to his lips before you coyly fluttered your lashes at him one last time before he leaned in and let his eyes fall closed. You met him halfway.

Your lips touched, and Namjoon swore that even with his eyes shut, he could see the world you promised to make his.

౨ৎMasterlist

[shineesbackbitches]

Same anon that found the misunderstanding funny I also found it funny when I scrolled through the blog that u had a hiatus from like July 2018 and then reappeared this year and dropped like 1 fic a month since March in like 3 different fandoms... the range

What can I say? Who does it like me? (˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)⊹ ࣪ ˖ My comedic timing? ✨Unmatched✨

LMAO I have literally nothing to say for myself for like, a 6-7 year hiatus😮‍💨✌️💖 but I’ve always wanted to come back to her. I never stopped thinking about her, even after all this time. I’ve changed, grown, learned, found myself and the right shampoo for my hair. And through it all, she’s always been here, patiently waiting for me to return ready for our second chance love💖

Obviously, Caolfen and I have done some remodeling! We’ve also found a posting schedule that is more realistic lmao. Typically, we drop something on the last day of the month at 11:11 (make a wish✨) unless there’s something special happening! Like, our June fic is dropping on the 10th (let’s go fourth fandom🤩🫶)!

Thank you so so much for your sweet comments about Hung Up!💖 It’s been my op for like, the last two months so it makes me overjoyed that someone is actually having a good time with the story and is giving me the strength to fix part two. Also, you’re my first anon🥺💖✨ so that's cute!

Please look forward to the next part and have a lovely day!

With affection and sparkles,

Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

That misunderstanding where the character really truly believes sm is out to off her is tragically hilarious and honestly I think I could read like 5 more chapters of them both just being clowns. Thank u for writing

Yay!! You’re SO sweet!🥺 I’m so happy that my sense of humor is landing! As I was writing this, I was kinda wondering if it was only funny to me so it’s a huge relief that you’re enjoying the fic. You definitely have part two to look forward to soon, and possibly a couple bonus scenes of our silly geese lead couple! I’m also going to post my notes I scribbled off to the side of part one while I was writing it for everyone’s enjoyment, so you’ll get some more time with our Hung Up clowns! Thank you so much for your kind message and I hope you enjoy the next part! (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)ﾉ♡ With affection and sparkles, Peachesndreams

[shineesbackbitches]

Hung Up

౨ৎ summary: “You’re fine, Honey," Seungmin murmured. "I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

౨ৎ pairing: Seungmin x Reader

౨ৎ genre: married AU, angst, series, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 5k

౨ৎ warnings: Reader thinks Seungmin is trying to kill her, misunderstandings, kind of a When the Phone Rings AU but like also not really, attempted murder, car accident, a knife! NO!, brief mentions of injuries and death, the eggs survive but the hitman doesn't, Minho's a gift as always, confident Reader (as she should!), social events

౨ৎ author note: this is a lot lighter than what the tags suggest! I think this is going to end up being a two-part fic, with some spice in the next chapter, so we all have something to look forward to (⸝⸝ᵕᴗᵕ⸝⸝)

next ⏭

“Honey…”

Every time the pet name dripped from Seungmin’s downturned lips, you heard what he was actually referring to you as: excess, irrelevant, an add-in— unnecessary.

And honestly?

Fuck him.

You’re a total catch— gorgeous, intelligent, fucking funny, and efficient before efficient became a keyword for AI resume scanners. So, no, you really weren’t interested in quietly taking Seungmin’s covert snubs. Not in public gatherings with friends, family, coworkers, and nosy strangers, and certainly not within the four walls of your own home. At the risk of coming across as too vain: you were too far above this shit. In your humble opinion, Kim Seungmin didn’t have a damn thing to complain about when he stumbled his way into the great honor of making you his wife.

Ignoring you at events unless he was introducing you to some ‘important’ figure in his world or announcing your departure for the evening was petty. It wouldn’t irritate you if it didn’t catch the attention of other people who basked in the schadenfreude of your soulless marriage. You empathized with them, of course, because you understood that— in their eyes— you were an extremely successful, stunning, talented, infallible force, and to see something about your life that was less than perfect humanized you and made them think that you were on their level. You hated to crush their spiteful little spirits, but you had always gotten along swimmingly without male validation. Once you filed for divorce, you’d be back to your previous untouchable status.

There was one obstacle in your way, however, and he was calling you by that obnoxious pet name at yet another gala with the intent to keep you on his arm long enough to show you off to some coworkers or something and then immediately dismiss you to go entertain yourself (”Don’t stand too close, but stay where I can see you.” Asshole.). A difficult task when your only options are drink, mingle, and dance. Drinking was out of the question— you preferred to stay sober around people you didn’t know. Of course, you were around people you didn’t know, so mingling wasn’t an option either. That left dancing, and hell would have to hit sub-zero before Seungmin would ever join you on the dance floor. A pity, because you loved ballroom dancing, but Seungmin loved to network.

A damn shame.

You glided over to where he stood in a crisp white suit. The contrast of the light fabric with his cropped dark hair and glacial eyes was delectable. You had known the color would compliment his skin tone wonderfully when you’d selected it, and you’d had absolutely no ulterior motives for choosing a color that stained so easily and obviously. As you approached, you pasted a radiant smile on your tinted lips and looped your arms around one of Seungmin’s, pressing close into his side to transfer your irritation to him by invading his space. His expression betrayed no displeasure, forcefully indifferent, but you could feel the muscles in his arm tense under your palms. And if your grin became the slightest bit toothier when you noticed this, who was going to call you on it?

“I’d like you to meet Mr. —” His low, slightly nasal voice began, and you checked out for the rest of his introduction, turning to face the older man and his wife.

You playfully winked at the woman, releasing a hand from Seungmin’s arm to politely shake her hand. “Charmed! You have excellent taste in evening dresses— simply elegant.”

The woman raised a hand to cover her smile, a flustered blush staining her cheeks at your unexpected attention and compliment. It seemed she had been dragged to a number of these events over the years as well, and you were sincere in your praise. Her husband beamed at the exchange, twinkling eyes fixed on her as he immediately agreed.

“She is.” Ah, a happy couple. What a rare sight at one of these gatherings. Good for them.

Seungmin quickly rattled off an excuse for you to ditch the conversation and, as always, that was your cue. You detached yourself from his side, wiggling your fingers at the lovely couple as you slipped away with an airy, “Delightful to meet you!”

You settled on the outskirts of the dance floor near an open window that allowed a welcome draft to seep into the room. It cooled your skin enough to raise goosebumps on your arms, but the contents of a clutch purse— its attached thin chain settling heavily on your shoulder— seared into your hip.

A burner phone. The number untraceable.

And you had your darling husband to thank for it falling into your hands.

Well, and the guy that had tried to kill you three weeks ago.

You had been humming along to the music playing quietly in your car. After a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up ingredients for dinner, you had been eager to get home and into loungewear and the fluffiest socks you owned. The streetlights had flashed rhythmically in your driver side mirror as you’d navigated the familiar roads home. The exhaustion of a long day had frayed the typically sharp edges of your attention, so it had taken a while for you to notice that the music had stopped. Only the low hum of the engine filled the silence. Pursing your lips, you’d reached out to push the restart button for your entertainment system.

“No sudden movements.”

Your eyes had flickered to the rearview mirror as your foot twitched and pressed down on the accelerator. The reflective surface was occupied by a man in the backseat. Had he been in your car since you’d left work? Or maybe he’d slipped in during the ten minutes you’d been inside the grocery store? You could only see his callous eyes glaring at you from under a hat and mask, but it was obvious that he wasn’t pleased with your abrupt jump in speed. A knife had hovered against the side of your neck, clenched in a fist that promised no mercy. Per his request, your hand had remained suspended over the power button. You couldn’t tell if your heart had thudded out of your chest or if it had simply stopped beating.

“Do what I say and you’ll be fine.” His voice was generic— nothing particularly noteworthy about it. Moderate tone, no accent or cues as to his age. His other hand had held a black cellphone. He’d lifted it in front of him and tapped the screen. The dial tone rang for a few extended moments, each dull toll vibrating behind your eyes and into your brow bone. Whoever he was trying to contact didn’t answer, and the man grumbled out a curse before forcefully jamming his thumb into the screen a second time. The knife threatening your neck had inched closer as your surprise passenger’s irritation spiked, and you’d have sworn you could feel the sharp edge brush your skin with a prickle of static electricity. Again, the dial tone rang, and rang, and rang, and— finally connected.

“What?”

Your grip around the steering wheel had tightened, your skin blanching white at the unmistakable voice of your husband sounding from the speaker. His hallmark clipped words, flat tone, and single-word response had settled uncomfortably in your chest, filling it until your lungs ached from the pressure. Your shoulder had begun to stiffen from keeping your arm held out for so long.

“I have your wife.” The man had declared, straight to the point. “If yo—” You’d never find out what that man wanted, because Seungmin ruthlessly interrupted him.

“Let me know when you have a dead body.” And then he’d hung up.

The pressure that had accumulated in your chest vanished, leaving in its place a white hot rage. Sure, okay, he didn’t like you. He couldn’t stand having you around him in public and he didn’t fare much better at home, but if he’d been that miserable in this marriage, he could have just divorced you like a normal person instead of hiring a hitman— and a shitty one at that. You’d have signed those papers and smack a kiss-shaped stain in your favorite shade right next to your signature for good measure and good riddance. His fucking loss.

The only reason you’d put up with his aggressive disinterest this long was because your families had decided the two of you were “destined to be together”— the friendship between your families went back four generations, and neither of you had wanted to be the one to disappoint both of your family trees and refuse the marriage. Unlike him, you hadn’t held significant feelings about the arrangement, but if you had, you would have been an adult and hired a divorce attorney.

After this stunt of his though? There was no way in hell you were going to be the bigger person and provoke ancestral rage.

No— you were going to force his hand.

With that thought in mind, you’d flicked your now achy wrist and pressed your index and middle fingers into the button that disabled the rear airbags. Intentionally this time, you’d stomped your heel until the accelerator flattened against the floor. Your captor had been flung backward into the seat, the knife gripped in his fist narrowly nicking the top of your shoulder. Not feeling particularly generous, you didn’t give him any time to reorient himself as he spluttered out some unoriginal slur. You’d glanced at him again in your rearview mirror, and this time your vindictive gaze punctured his fortitude like a cheap old rubber balloon. With a challenging incline of your brows, you’d ruthlessly yanked the wheel to the side.

Metal crunched, glass splintered, your seatbelt burned as it cut across your chest, and the groceries slid across the floor. You’d slammed your car into the concrete median, the entire vehicle collapsing into itself to absorb the impact. The crash had been jarring— loud. It rang in your ears. But nothing had been louder than the sound of the man’s head bashing against what must have been the back windshield— you had been too disoriented to tell exactly— and his body slumping unnaturally against the rear driver’s side door.

You’d stumbled out of the wreckage of your car with your groceries in hand, grounds for divorce, and a shiny new burner phone to make that divorce happen.

Your attempted killer hadn’t been as fortunate.

You’d gone home that night with minimal, superficial injuries— because karma is a woman— and taken a steamy shower that had soothed the ache from the crash. Then, you’d slipped into the kitchen and thrown together a lovely meal, going so far as to open a nicer bottle of wine to enjoy while you cooked.

When Seungmin had briskly entered your home just as you finished, you whirled around with your wine glass delicately pinched between your fingers, flashing him a dazzling smile as you chirped out, “Welcome home, Honey!”

You had to hand it to him. He was an exceptional actor, maintaining his typical neutral leaning impassive expression as his intense eyes inspected your figure from head to toe. Seungmin honestly could have fooled you had it not been for the sag of his shoulders.

A slight, tight-lipped smile had quirked the corners of his mouth upward as he slipped his suit jacket off, murmuring a greeting back.

As you sat at the dinner table together, silently enjoying your meal and wine, you couldn’t help but delight in the knowledge that hidden away in your purse— sitting a few feet away from him on the counter— lay the flaw in his plan and the victory to yours.

Ironically, a framed wedding photo of the two of you hung above your bag. As far as you were concerned, it could have been a stock image it was so generic. You had flashed a smile at the camera and leaned into Seungmin, who in turn looked at you with a faint curve of his lips. Basic.

Nothing about your relationship had changed from the time the photo was taken; you still pretended to be happy and Seungmin still pretended to care about you. But your parents had fawned over the picture, going as far as getting it professionally printed and framed, then gifting it to the both of you. You had received it with an obligatory “aww” and Seungmin had wordlessly gone ahead and hung it up to appease your families.

Seungmin was contradictorily more affectionate with you at home than he was in public— likely to lure you into a false sense of security. Gentle caresses of his warm hands against your skin, light kisses pressed into your forehead, and doting, gleaming eyes were all part of his convincing act. For someone who had just requested your demise, he was a natural at looking at you like he was irreversibly, hopelessly in love with you. His strict distance from you outside of your home was truly whiplash-inducing after a night of his inability to keep his hands off of you.

Physical touch seemed to be his preferred form of expression, though you both retired to separate rooms at the end of each night. Before bed, Seungmin would hover near you. Every night you curled into the couch with your back reclining against one of the arms, Seungmin would settle next to you, tug your legs to rest in his lap, and silently, reverently rub the pads of his long fingers into the skin of your knees. Yet another confounding factor in your relationship: you could never figure out what he wanted.

As you’d both cleaned up the kitchen, Seungmin handling the dishes while you cleared the counters, you’d caught your fingernail on the edge of the cutting board. You were a lucky girl, and your polished nail hadn’t chipped, but the surprise and sting still withdrew a quiet whine. And with only that, Seungmin had whirled around from the sink with his brows furrowed, automatically snatching your hand into his to inspect it.

“Are you okay?”

Wow, did he choose the wrong career path. But two could play.

You’d laughed his concern off breezily. “I’m fin—”

He’d interrupted you, bringing your hand closer to his face as he protested. “There’s a cut. Did you—?”

Ugh, it was probably just a nick from the crash.

You’d flattened your barely-injured hand against his mouth, effectively silencing him. “I’m fine.” You insisted, smiling warmly. His dark eyes stared into yours, charged earnestly with something you weren't able to name. You’d always likened Seungmin’s eyes to deep water—the inky pools were tricky to discern, and the currents were stable, but still an unpredictable force of nature nonetheless. A little unnerved by his attention and the warm puffs of his breath against your palm, your hand had quickly retreated, only for him to chase it back into his again. Seungmin never broke eye contact as he brought your hand back to his lips, pressing a heartachingly ardent kiss into your palm. A few strands of his black hair had fallen across his forehead as he’d tilted his head to apply more pressure. The heat of his lips had seared into your skin, simmering in your blood until your nerves had gone fuzzy.

All this to say— Kim Seungmin was fucking unshakable.

That is, until you’d decided to hit a little closer to home. It had been a simple picture. Just a room, the contents ordinary— bordering on bland— yet the phone buzzed immediately after the image was sent. Seungmin’s response had festered in the pixels of the chat log, venomous and succinct:

‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

You’d rolled your eyes, reclining against the arm of your chair, your legs slung over the other arm. Finally, he’d taken the bait. And all it took was an innocent little photo of your living room. Without delay, you sent the next picture, this time of his bedroom.

‘Something wrong?’ You’d taunted, unwilling to give him time to gain rationality now that you’d gotten him irritated.

Again, his response had been near instant:

‘Are you there right now?’

With a scoff, you’d sent another photo. Your bedroom.

‘What do you think?’

The ringtone had startled you, bursting the silent bubble in the room. It had taken you a moment to realize that it was your cell and not the burner nestled in your palms. Your brow had furrowed, and you’d stretched to pluck the cell off your desk. It was Seungmin. You’d contemplated not answering, waiting to see what his next move would be, but you decided to have a little fun now that you’d sliced through the thick layers of his skin and drawn blood.

“Hello?” You’d answered, voice intentionally neutral.

“Honey,” Seungmin’s tone had been even, like there hadn’t been some stranger sending him pictures of the inside of your home— like it was a normal thing for him to call you in the first place. “Are you home right now?”

You’d paused, letting him stew with the thought that his wife he wanted dead might have been at home with an intruder before you answered innocently and honestly, “No, silly. I’m at work. Am I—?”

He’d cut you off: “Okay.” And ended the call.

You’d blinked at the dark screen, irritated.

The burner phone had rung in the next few seconds, Seungmin’s number flashing at the top, but you’d petulantly let it go unanswered. Another message followed.

‘Pick up the fucking phone.’

You’d sniffed, your fingers nimbly tapping the keys.

‘You don’t get to make demands.’

The silence had stretched, and you’d rolled your ankles, waiting for Seungmin to bend— to surrender. Your index finger tapped against the side of the burner as the minutes passed by. A buzz had announced your first win.

‘What do you want?’

Easy. Your lips had pulled into a gleeful smirk as you typed.

‘Divorce your wife.’

You’d honestly believed that Seungmin would agree, no hesitation. Instead, he prodded.

‘What business do you have with her?’

Yet another indignant huff had blown past your lips.

‘Again, you don’t get to make demands.’

Surely he would agree, you’d thought. You’d return home that night and Seungmin would already have the papers ready for you to sign. He’d take this as a blessing and use the opportunity to finally break ties with you. That was what you had thought. But when more than twenty minutes had passed, you’d pressed the camera icon with the intent to send a more invasive photo of his closet to inspire his reply.

It came before you loaded the picture into the message bubble:

‘I need time.’

That night, he had settled next to you on the couch in the living room, disturbingly close. Seungmin had brushed some loose hair away from your eyes and asked you if you wanted to go on a trip, get away for a bit.

A scarlet red flag billowed aggressively in your mind.

Was he seriously going to try and convince you to go to one of those secluded, middle of nowhere, destination vacations with a conveniently perilous hiking trail where he could stage an accident?

You’d pursed your lips and fluttered your lashes, pretending to mull it over for a while until you feigned disappointment that it just wasn’t possible with your work schedule. Seungmin’s dark eyes had been heavy then, disappointed, but he pressed a light kiss into your forehead in acceptance.

His excuse for the past two weeks had been the same: recycled insistence that he needed more time.

To every message you had bothered him with via the burner, demanding that he get on with it, Seungmin had responded that he was making arrangements to file for divorce, but that it was a lengthy process and you needed to be patient.

You knew that if he’d had any intention of actually filing, he would have already done it by now. For Kim Seungmin, no process was that lengthy, especially as a high-profile prosecutor.

That brought you back here— standing alone at the edge of a ballroom and watching other partners glide around the floor, contemplating whether you could slip away unnoticed to send your darling husband another threatening message.

Seungmin had managed to maneuver around each threat thus far, dismissing claims of your possession of damning dirt on him with uninterested responses, even going so far as giving you his permission to leak whatever it was you had. Every time you escalated your threats to destroy his career, he brushed you off with mildly irritated replies requesting that you delete his number.

It was time for another nudge, you supposed. You turned to make your way to the ladies room, only to come face-to-face with a man standing directly in your path. He had mischievous, round eyes, shiny, dark hair parted to show a section of his forehead, and prominent cheekbones. The man was dressed in a classy, but basic black suit; he was conventionally handsome though, so he pulled it off.

Besides, who were you to judge for mailing it in at these events anyway? You by no stretch of the imagination attended the gatherings underdressed, but you used to take the time to pin your hair into intricate up-dos for the extra bit of elegance. The price of the style was that it put too much pressure on your scalp though, and with Seungmin’s repeated dismissals, the muttering behind your back, and the minutes that ticked by slower than a work week, the resulting headaches were excruciating and not worth it. Now, you opted to leave your hair loose, still delicately styled, but an obvious lack of effort on your part. You stared at the man, waiting for him to step to the side.

He didn’t.

Instead, he grinned at you like you were long-time friends. “Hi!”

You blinked. “Hi.”

“You remember me, right?” He quirked an eyebrow at you, a mirthful smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.

“Afraid not.” You sighed musically, pouting your lips in a vague, insincere apology.

He snickered, and it was delightfully high-pitched; an interesting contrast to the sharp, masculine angles of his face and powerful build. “Wow, that’s so bad. Lee Minho. Prosecutor. I share an office with Seungmin.”

You giggled, winking mirthfully at him. “Just teasing! How are you settling in?”

You were not, in fact, just teasing— but who would call you on it?

And if they did— why would you care?

Minho threw his head back, his eyes squeezing shut as he laughed from deep in his chest. “It’s fantastic. After four years, it’s finally starting to feel like home.”

You never faltered, still smiling radiantly at your husband’s coworker who you had definitely met on numerous occasions and absolutely committed his name and face to memory. “That’s lovely to hear!” You moved to side-step Minho; as charming as he was, you had a divorce to incite.

He mirrored your movement and extended a hand out to you in invitation.

“Care to dance?”

You inspected his proffered hand; his veins were thick and his fingers slender, small callouses dotting the sides.

Minho’s smile was gentle, good-natured, as he continued, “It’d be a shame for the prettiest woman in the room to not dance.”

You hummed noncommittally, your manicured fingers lifting to cover your lips. “Your flattery is—”

“It’s the truth.” Minho kindly insisted, and the softness of his voice was genuine. “I don’t compliment people unless I mean it. And that shade of blue on you is simply breathtaking.” Minho was right. You had loved the dress the moment you saw it— the sparkly material, the high slit up the leg, and the fabric that draped in an enchanting pattern at the back. Plus, it was a unique shade of blue.

“It’s cornflower blue.” You awarded Minho a genuine smile and stretched your hand out to rest it in his waiting palm.

Another hand intercepted before you made contact, long fingers wrapping around your hand to form a barrier. Your eyes flicked to glance over your shoulder, and Seungmin hovered behind you, inky eyes drilling into Minho with enough intensity to burn holes in his tastefully boring suit.

“It’s time for us to head home.” Seungmin announced flatly, and Minho deliberately poked right back at him, ignoring the glaringly obvious social cue.

“Can’t stay for one dance?” The question was innocent, but you watched as Minho’s smile twisted into something closer to taunting.

Seungmin was as firm and unyielding as ever. A few short strands of his dark hair fell out of their neat part, hanging over his forehead. They fluttered slightly in the draft from the window. His high cheekbones tapered down into a narrow jawline that clenched so severely you might have been able to hear his teeth creak if not for the persistent murmur of the other guests. Seungmin was undeniably handsome, but the contours of his eyes were narrowed as he scowled at Minho.

“No.” The tension was unnecessary as the two stared each other down, and it was weird that Seungmin was willingly touching you in public. His hands were smooth with the exception of a few rough patches, you noticed, hot against your skin; his grip tightened the longer you stood there.

“Next time, then!” Minho declared cheerfully, and you could tell by the glint in his eyes that he’d achieved something— like there was a joke to this situation that only he was in on.

Whatever. You had more pressing matters.

Like how quickly Seungmin was stalking out of the room with his hand still clamped around yours. Between his long strides and your not-entirely-broken-in heels, it was inevitable that in your struggle to keep up, your foot would slide right out of your shoe. It happened just as you stepped outside through the front entrance, the night air nipping at your skin, inflaming your cheeks, and numbing your exposed toes.

“Slow down.” You demanded, tugging on your joined hands and stumbling to a stop.

Seungmin whirled around, eyes darting to your bare foot and then to your discarded shoe. Finally, he dropped your hand, expression unreadable as he hooked a finger under the lip of the heel. Then, he returned to your side.

Your foot hovered above the ground precariously as you waited for Seungmin to drop the shoe in front of you. Instead, his arm coiled around your waist. You could immediately tell by the pressure of the hold that he was about to hoist you up. You shoved a hand into his chest with as much force as you could while still balancing on one foot— it honestly wasn’t much, but Seungmin still paused and furrowed his brows, both questioning and somewhat dissatisfied.

“What’s wrong?” He asked, and you really, really wanted to laugh.

Rather than very publicly expose your biggest problem barely a foot outside the threshold of a ballroom packed with high-ranking officials whose names and faces you couldn’t be bothered to learn, you couldn’t help but be more concerned about the issue less than five feet ahead of you: the steep concrete steps leading down to the parking lot. It had been irritating to walk up at the beginning of the night in your heels; they were practically endless then and had nearly made you overheat under the weight of the expensive material of your dress. But now, the concept of Seungmin carrying you down those unforgiving flights chilled every nerve of your being.

Because it would be so easy for him to just drop you. No one else was out here to witness it. It was night time and the property owners hadn’t been inspired to install much lighting outside the building. He could pretend to trip, stage the entire thing as an accident, and he would get away with it.

“You can’t carry me.” Was the only thing flashing in your mind, and it was so vivid that it was what fell right out of your mouth.

This time, the incredulity of his expression was blatant. There was a crease across his forehead that shouldn’t have been attractive, but still irritatingly was as he insisted, “Yes, I can.”

Seungmin was pouting— like, bottom lip puffed out pouting— playing the part of wounded husband whose wife was questioning his strength. That was so not what this was about; you were too busy questioning his morals.

You shook your head with enough vigor that your dangly earrings lightly whisked against your neck while trying to convince him to ditch the idea— and quick— because your leg was beginning to tense with the beginnings of a cramp from holding it up for so long. Why was this a common theme in your life lately?

“No, it’s so far to the car, and the stairs are steep, it’s dark out too.” You rattled off, searching his inky eyes for any indication that he’d comply. “And you already have a hand full.” You concluded, nodding to your shoe still dangling from his index finger.

He was silent as he processed your many grievances, studying you like there was something else there that he was trying to find in the subtext of your words.

He relented and lowered to one knee, gingerly guiding your foot back into the heel. Your demise now avoided, you allowed your lips to curve into a satisfied smile at the thought that one of Seungmin’s white pant legs was going to get dirty. He was straightening back up to his full height when he snaked an arm under the bend of your knees and lifted, his other hand finding its home on your exposed back.

“Seungmin—!” You yelped, and clutched your arms around his neck so tight that your forehead pressed into his cheek.

Sturdy, he strode to the top of the stairs.

Your heart was going to bust out of your chest and tumble down the steps before you did.

Seungmin began the descent, and each step felt weightless in your stomach— like tripping over the toe of your shoe. Your grip around Seungmin’s neck coiled impossibly tighter, so that if he dared to let go you’d just take him down with you.

“You’re fine, Honey,” Seungmin murmured. “I’ve got you.”

You couldn’t suppress your trembles or the quiver of your mouth as his warm lips grazed your forehead, little puffs of his breath diffusing across your skin.

If you’d had your wits together in the moment you would have voiced the response pounding in your head, chest, and esophagus.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

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