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shineesbackbitches · 15 days ago

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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

#namjoon x reader #namjoon x y/n #kim namjoon x reader #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon fanfic #namjoon fic #kim namjoon #fic: mea culpa #namjoon scenario #namjoon imagine #bts fanfction #bts fanfic #bts fic #bts #shineesbackbitches #peachesndreams

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shineesbackbitches · 22 days ago

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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

#fic: hung up #peachesndreams #shineesbackbitches

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shineesbackbitches · 22 days ago

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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

#fic: hung up #peachesndreams #shineesbackbitches

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shineesbackbitches · 25 days ago

Text

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⸝⸝)

“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.

౨ৎMasterlist

#seungmin x reader #seungmin x y/n #kim seungmin x reader #seungmin fanfiction #seungmin fanfic #seungmin fic #kim seungmin #fic: hung up #seungmin scenario #seungmin imagine #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fic #stray kids #shineesbackbitches #peachesndreams

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shineesbackbitches · 2 months ago

Text

Whipped

౨ৎ summary: "He retreated to join Jungkook and Mingyu at the table, and immediately upon Eunwoo sliding into the chair, Jungkook rounded on him. “I brought you here to get snacks, not flirt with my friend!” He complained, hands curled tightly into fists and pressing into the table top. Eunwoo doesn't look up as he carefully removes his heaping slice of Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake from the bag, setting the box before him.

“Mingyu was the one flirting.” Ruthlessly, Eunwoo tosses Mingyu to the wolves (or wolf, he supposed, since it was just Jungkook), effectively distracting Jungkook."

౨ৎ pairing: Eunwoo x Reader

౨ৎ genre: bakery AU, first meeting, fluff, crack, series, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 4.6k

౨ৎ warnings: Jungkook and Mingyu being embarassing as hell, they're literally a nightmare duo to the customer service industry, multiple failed attempts at flirting, brief mention of pot brownies but there are no pot brownies, Reader gets kind of shy around Eunwoo for a hot second, meet cute

౨ৎ author note: this one goes out to all the readers who have to hella suspend disbelief for like, every fic ever. Any time a reader eats something or eats out at a restaurant I'm like, "oh, did I😬" bc me and my severe asf food allergies could never. So I've decided to do it to myself and write an entire bakery AU that would end me irl instantly :) bon appetit besties! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂)⸝♡

During his many years as an idol, Eunwoo had been subjected to many interview questions. Most of the responses were automatic, drilled into him as to what to say about promotions, music, scandals, stages, dramas, diets, ideal types, dating experience (”Of course, absolutely none at all! I’m dating my fans!”), and his wonderful company—eleven out of ten, no notes. From career-focused to just fucking invasive, Eunwoo could field any question without much effort or hesitation. Perhaps a tight, sarcastic smile here or there to signal to the interviewer that they were a raging asshole, but other than that, Eunwoo had maintained his dashing idol image.

Sanha was the first to comment on the gap in his image that appeared whenever one specific topic was brought up, snickering at a cut of one of Eunwoo’s interviews reposted to Instagram. The camera had remained stubbornly focused on Eunwoo as he rambled, his eyes twinkling and face more expressive than during any other segment.

“A whole four minutes and fifty-two seconds of you yapping about your top three ice cream flavors.” Sanha had grinned, shaking his head in feigned admiration. “Incredible. I love the part where you listed your top three flavors for every ice cream place within fifteen minutes walking distance from the company.”

Okay, so maybe he could get a little carried away when food was brought up.

And okay, yeah, it didn’t really mesh with his calm, cool, collected idol image, but who could fault a man nearing a decade in the entertainment industry for letting that image fade a little? Come on, Aroha’s didn’t stick around for the idol packaging, they were in it for the shenanigans and the creative journey. After almost ten years dedicated to his career, and fielding questions about his appearance, talent, and everything in between and beyond, he had reached the conclusion that his supporters were happiest when he was happiest. So, Eunwoo decided that the logical conclusion was that he needed to prioritize his happiness. And if rambling about his favorite culinary experiences made him happy, they’d gladly indulge him.

And indulge him they did.

Countless recommendations flooded his social media. Arohas sent in their favorite restaurants, cafes, bakeries, bars, food trucks, and little hidden gems for him to explore around the world. Eunwoo appreciated it, especially since a planned destination for a good meal made traveling a little less lonely. His favorite part of reading through the recommendations were the stories that accompanied them: retellings of celebrations, all-nighters, anniversaries, first meetings, breakups, solo dates, and fuzzy nights with rowdy friends, all experienced alongside culinary delights.

Eunwoo never felt more human than when he read (and sometimes reread) these stories, snickering and occasionally choking back thick tears at their adventures. So he decided to try and visit as many places as he could, organizing the recommendations by location, and noting when recommendations overlapped.

So far, Eunwoo was proud to say that Arohas had immaculate taste. He would have never discovered the intimate little places tucked back away from the more popular roads had it not been for them. Sometimes, he would even receive specific instructions on what to order (“The green chili pork tacos are life changing, I swear. Be sure to squeeze the lime over top!”). Other times, he would just take in the atmosphere and appreciate a moment of peace. It had become Eunwoo’s method of living his life to the fullest.

There was one specific place that had more overlapping recommendations than any others that Eunwoo hadn’t found the time to visit yet. Because unlike the obscure, hole-in-the-wall locations, this place was an absolute sensation.

Haru was irrefutably the best bakery in the city. Backed by bloggers, critics, and most importantly, other idols. Okay— maybe not most important in terms of culinary status, but what better marketing for a k-pop-themed bakery than actual idols’ Instagram posts? The owner had decorated and named all of their products according to groups, albums, songs, and lyrics. Not only did it appeal to fans, but idols often stopped by to take pictures with their dedicated pastries for cute, low-effort promotional pictures.

Eunwoo had admittedly been hesitant to visit at first. After all, it could easily be chalked up to a marketing gimmick— maybe the pastries weren’t that good, but the excitement surrounding the detailed presentation made everyone tastebud blind. He had been around long enough to know that looks could definitely be deceiving. Eunwoo also knew better than to believe that every idol actually consumed the pastries, other than a bite for the ‘gram. But even when Eunwoo zoomed in on Minho’s slice of Dibidibi-Devil’s Food Cake, the fluffy crumb and moisture level looked divine. So, casting his reservations aside, Eunwoo had vowed to make it to Haru some day. He just wasn’t sure when fate would allow it with his insane schedule.

Fate allowed it a lot sooner than he had been expecting.

As of late, fate came in the form of the infamous ‘97 line group chat. Specifically, Mingyu taking the initiative to revive the damn thing with a screenshot of Monsta X posing with massive macarons, some boldly mid-bite, others gaping comically at the size, and an idol smile and a thumbs up from the never-slipping Kihyun.

Monsta X Macarons?!?!?! HerOREO flavor?!?!? They look FIRE!!! Please please please someone come with me to Haru!!

Mingyu pleaded, the fire and underlined 100 emojis spilling over an entire line in the text box.

Thank you so much for sending food porn into the chat during our comeback prep bro.

Bambam’s scathing reply was near instant, closely followed up with Yugyeom’s frowny face and middle finger emoji.

Bummer bros.

Mingyu **was such a sympathetic friend. His sincerity could never be fully realized by the slanted mouth and frustrated faces pasted at the end of his message.

Okay so Bam and Gyeom can’t hang. The other four of you quit lurking!!!

Eunwoo sent his reply.

Sure, I’ve been wanting to go.

The moment his message sent, another response barged its way into the conversation.

YOOOOOOOOOOO I’M A REGULAR THERE!!!! I’M THE OWNER’S BEST FRIEND FROM HIGH SCHOOL!!! LETS FUCKIN GOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Jungkook’s enthusiastic message came as a bit of a surprise to Eunwoo. Jungkook had made friends in high school? Either way, he would appreciate the guidance on which pastries to try. Eunwoo had spent way too many hours scrolling Haru’s menu and display pictures late at night when he was craving something sweet. Everything looked absolutely heavenly, so he never managed to decide on an order for when he eventually visited.

His phone vibrated as the conversation continued.

Deadass bro?!?!

The deadest of asses bro

Eunwoo blinked and the three of them landed on a time and date where the stars aligned and their schedules miraculously opened up.

And that was how Eunwoo found himself in the front passenger seat of Jungkook’s car, with Mingyu occupying the back seat. Between the three of them, they only had filming and workouts scheduled before they were cleared for the remainder of the day. So in other words: it was a fucking miracle.

All three were dressed as inconspicuously as possible. Well— as inconspicuously as people with their occupations and brand sponsorships could be dressed.

Eunwoo himself had only had workouts that morning and early afternoon, so he had quickly showered and dressed in layers appropriate for the inconvenient time of the year when the temperature was biting in the morning but pleasant in the afternoon. He’d been a bit rushed for time, and he’d only partially dried his hair that was grown out longer than usual for an upcoming drama before slipping on his black padded jacket on his way out of the apartment.

Mingyu appeared to have scrambled to wash up after his workout as well, his black hoodie pulled up over his hair and the thick frames he rarely wore out perched on his nose. In contrast to the two of them, Jungkook was still professionally styled from whatever casual interview he’d filmed that morning. He’d toned down his meticulously waved hair by shoving on a beanie, but left his flawless makeup untouched— out of the ordinary, but not high on anyone in that car’s list of questions in the moment.

“What do you usually get though?” Mingyu persistently grilled Jungkook, leaning forward to hover behind the center console in the front seat. His knee bounced eagerly, a giddy grin plastered on his face.

Eunwoo appreciated that they were both foodies, although not to the extent he was. Mingyu wanted to have a game plan going in, less he stand at the counter indecisively until either the bakery closed or he succumbed to the pressure and bought one of everything. Eunwoo could relate— bakeries were not for amateurs.

“Seriously, everything’s good.” Jungkook supplied unhelpfully. “It depends on my mood, but I usually get a slice of Blood Sweat and Tiramisu, Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake, or, like, something else.” He mumbled the last part, fully angling his face away from them to check his side mirror.

Mingyu huffed in exasperation and immense judgement, “No motivations behind those choices huh, Jungkook?” Eunwoo could hear the eyeroll in Mingyu’s criticism. He decided to get a slice of the Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake, the spongy crumb pictured on the menu a near permanent image seared into his brain.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed, his mouth dropping opening to defend his pastry orders (”I’ve always liked tiramisu— don’t look at me like that! The names are just coincidental!”), but Mingyu was not interested in his whining and shifted topics.

“So you’ve been friends with the owner since high school? How’d that happen?” He raised his eyebrows and stared pointedly at Jungkook, a teasing grin curling his lips up. Mingyu was intentionally riling Jungkook up; poking fun at his introverted and awkward personality from back then, and Jungkook could never ignore the bait, no matter how carelessly it had been tossed towards him.

“It happened when we became friends in high school.”

There was an extended beat of silence in the car where Mingyu waited for Jungkook to continue the story and Jungkook did not continue the story. Instead, a thick tension filled the car, clogging the conversation for the remainder of the drive. Eunwoo recognized Jungkook’s abrupt and abnormal evasion— mostly because this was a new level of unhelpful— even for Jungkook, but the way his hands curled into tight fists around the steering wheel was a dead giveaway that it was actually deeper than Jungkook was willing to let on.

Whatever, it wasn’t Eunwoo’s clowns or his circus.

That is, until he finally crossed the threshold into the bakery and the warm, comforting scent of almond, lightly toasted coconut, and a dash of cinnamon had him enchanted.

Or maybe it was you.

Bakeries tended to put him in a romantic mood; there was something sensual about them.

Maybe that was it.

Because Eunwoo couldn’t fathom any other reason for the weightlessness in his stomach when he saw you cheerfully greet them from behind the counter. Your customer service smile reminded him of the one taught to idols— emphasis on the puffy cheeks and twinkling eyes— but more genuine. There was a sweet quality to your voice too, like you were greeting a dear friend rather than a first-time customer.

The exterior resembled a cottage with its neutral wood detailing and scalloped overhang dangling beneath the script that spelled “Haru”. Plants decorated the outdoor seating, blocking off a private section for customers to sit amongst greenery and flowers. The inside decor was just as inviting: hanging plants draped across the ceiling, the same wood as outside pieced together the flooring, and pastel accents brightened the room. You fit right into the space, pretty in a fairytale kind of way, features dainty and endearing.

One glance and Eunwoo knew exactly what Jungkook’s cryptic behavior was about. He had known you since high school and hadn’t made a move yet? By Eunwoo’s calculations, that was a fucking fumble.

And not his problem.

If Mingyu picked up on the situation, he sure wasn’t putting forth his most sympathetic foot. It happened so fast, Eunwoo missed when it happened, but Mingyu had suddenly flung his hoodie off and speared his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame the air-dried strands into something more intentionally ruffled. Beneath the hoodie was one of his tight t-shirts that clung to his form and emphasized the size of his arms.

So inconspicuous was now off the table.

He lingered behind Jungkook as the trio approached the adorably decorated display case, with Eunwoo drinking in the calming environment at the back. He noted that you pressed your scraps into bite-sized, bunny-shaped cookies and sold them in packages near the register.

The instant Jungkook planted himself at the counter, the radiant smile melted off your face like the icing from a cupcake on a scorching summer day. Typically, best friends from high school greeted each other warmly, but nothing about the interaction validated Jungkook’s claim of youthful camaraderie going back years. The man just stared at you with his expectant, yet distinctly vacant expression until you broke the eerie silence.

“What can I get you?” Your tone was tight, face uncomfortably neutral. Your eyes darted down, unimpressed when Jungkook rested an elbow on the counter to lean in closer to you, which Eunwoo didn’t think he should be doing based on the hostility seeping from your cold glare.

“Come on,” He mumbled, volume low enough that Eunwoo had to shuffle forward to catch what he was saying. “You know what I want.”

If Jungkook was trying to be inconspicuous, he was absolutely failing. The entire scene looked far too shady for an exchange at a bakery. It was then that Eunwoo noticed the Epik High Brownies in the display case, and his eyes darted to the description underneath in alarm. In smaller print read, “Not pot brownies! You’re in South Korea, Sweetheart.” He pressed his lips together to fight an amused grin, instead turning his attention back to you.

“I’m sorry.” Your shoulders shrugged in feigned ignorance, lips lightly pouted. “I don’t know what you mean.” Then, your head tilted to the side, a clear indication that you had no intention of surrendering to Jungkook’s whims.

The man hung his head in defeat, begrudgingly muttering out his order: “Can I get two Jungkookies?”

Mingyu poorly concealed his guffaw with a cough, his hand slapping over his mouth to muffle the sound and something that sounded suspiciously like “loser.”

Instantly, you perked back up, voice positively saccharine as you keyed in the order on the register with slender, practiced fingers. “Of course! Two Jungkookies! Will that be all?”

Grumbling, Jungkook dug his phone out of his back pocket to pay, his other hand tapping the screen to add a custom tip. Eunwoo observed, exasperated as Jungkook pettily typed in a nineteen percent tip before hovering his phone over the reader. You held the bag of goodies out and Jungkook snatched them, the back of his hands betraying his embarrassed flush.

“These are my friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him before retreating to the side for Mingyu to step forward.

Mingyu’s eyes widened at the unhelpful introduction, rapidly bouncing between you and Jungkook, flustered and unsure how to follow up that disastrous interaction. His doubt that you and Jungkook had an amicable relationship was clear in the tension of his shoulders and the nervous press of his lips. Would he be guilty by association?

But the original friendly demeanor you wore when they first entered the bakery returned, and you coaxed him forward with a warm smile.

“Um, hi, yeah. I’m his friend. Um, Mingyu.” He cracked a hesitant smile, fumbling through his introduction. Mingyu scrambled to find his footing, raking his fingers back through his dark hair yet again. Then, it was like the cameras were rolling and his ‘puppy idol’ charm activated. The professionalism must have been stored in his post-workout biceps with the way he discreetly flexed them while he ordered, gesturing up at the menu, into the display case, back up to his hair again for the glory shot of his shoulders. He quirked his lips upward in a lopsided smirk, playing the part of heartthrob like his livelihood depended on it.

To your credit, not once did you stumble. You fielded every question and request professionally and kindly. Your eyes were either focused on your task of gingerly boxing up the pastries with practiced ease, or they held his uncomfortably affectionate gaze with pleasant apathy.

Mingyu sensed that his advances were falling short, and in a burst of desperation, he resorted to more blatant flirting as you carefully slid the box containing his Ready to Love Rugelach and Aju Nice Confetti Cake across the counter.

“Are you sure you’re into floral?” You asked, lips twisting into a concerned pout. “There’s a hint of rose in the rugelach— real rose, not the artificially sweetened kind— it’s not for everyone.”

Mingyu chuckled breathily as he slipped his actual wallet out of his pocket, an action that had Eunwoo raising an unimpressed brow. Was he really desperate enough to flash the— yes, he absolutely was.

“Don’t worry,” Mingyu maintained eye contact as he winked, sliding his black card out of his wallet with a flick of two long fingers. “you’re sweet enough to make up for it.”

Kim Mingyu, like the majority of the smart phone owning population, had Apple Pay set up.

Your polite smile remained firmly in place, eyes twinkling mischievously as you told him to enjoy. Mingyu’s last-ditch attempt had clearly whiffed, and he retreated off to the side and into Jungkook’s clutches.

Fuming, Jungkook firmly clapped his hand onto Mingyu’s shoulder with the knowledge that today had been arm day for Mingyu, and that the ache would have settled deep in his bones by now. The taller man flinched and snapped his eyes closed, concealing his hiss of agony with a deep inhale as if he were appreciating the delightful scent of the bakery.

Mingyu’s real misery arrived not with Jungkook’s blunt nails digging into the skin of his shoulder, but by way of you perking up and addressing him in farewell: “Oh, and if you see Dokyeom, tell that sweetheart I said hello!” You chirped, an unmistakably genuine light in your eyes.

Mingyu visibly deflated, his smile tight and his shoulders sagging under the weight of failure and Jungkook’s heavy palm. He forced out an insincere laugh, the sound hollow even to him. “You’ve met DK?”

“Of course! He’s here all the time.” You giggled, clearly affectionate toward the kind vocalist. “Nothing gets between him and a slice of Carat Cake. He even bought an entire Cheolie Pie once!”

The curses directed at his fellow bandmate were blatantly carved into Mingyu’s hardened eyes as he swallowed the bitter pill that had he never even stood a chance. And to be done in by one of his own, at that.

Finally, the time had come for Eunwoo to make his final decision on what to get. He casually stepped up to the counter, flashing a partially kind, partially apologetic closed-lipped smile. He was expecting the same friendly, business-oriented treatment you’d given Mingyu. But, to his surprise, he witnessed your demeanor shift yet again. While you’d been admirably confident and collected around his friends, completely unruffled by their— quite honestly, obnoxious— behavior, you abruptly went quiet before him. Downcast eyes evaded his as he introduced himself.

“Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Eunwoo.” He continued, “Everything looks so good, I really can’t decide what to get.” Eunwoo refused to allow his nerves to seep into his body language, but you still hadn’t even glanced up to him as he spoke. Had you already decided you didn’t like him? He should have come alone; he would have made a much better first impression. Eunwoo reflexively his teeth into his bottom lip, digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“Do you have any preferences?” Your voice was significantly fainter, and your fingers twisted the edge of your floral apron, rolling it from the corner.

Off to the side, Jungkook’s attention shifted from his relentless bullying of Mingyu in favor of whipping to your face like he had no clue who the fuck you were, round eyes vacant and mouth hanging open.

“Like, fruit or chocolate?”

Eunwoo observed the way your lashes fluttered and the faint heat that glazed your cheeks as you avoided looking at him, and it all clicked into place.

He chuckled lightly, the pressure in his chest fading and leaving something warm in its place. So you were just shy. “I like everything.”

But Eunwoo wouldn’t make you pack and ring up one of everything, despite his deepest desires aching to try everything and extend the interaction for as long as possible (and to, you know, actually try one of everything). He’d cut you some slack today and limit himself to five pastries.

But which five? He indecisively peered into the display case housing pastries uniformly decorated with animal faces, fruit, and nods to the k-pop industry. It really was an impossible decision to make.

“What do you recommend?” He decided to consult the real expert, and also try to gently encourage you to look him in the eye with exposure therapy. If you were able to hold a conversation with him, especially one in your area of expertise, surely you’d gather yourself enough to make eye contact at least once.

He observed as you abandoned the hem of your apron in favor of squeezing the cuffs of your sweater in your fists. “Well,” Your eyes trailed over the display case, and you snapped your professional competence back into functioning gear.

“The Chogi-White Chocolate Cake and Red Velvet are the most popular, but we just started making our seasonal Russian Roulette Raspberry cheesecake.” You indicated each dessert as you spoke, still quieter than before, but confident. That slice of cheesecake would absolutely be walking out with him, Eunwoo decided. The swirls of fresh raspberry marbling through the filling hypnotically had him more than convinced.

“I’d like a slice of the cheesecake, please.” He requested, watching you crack the display case open and gingerly slide the dessert out to be boxed up. “And could I also get a slice of the Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake?” Eunwoo gestured to dessert next to the cheesecake.

“Of course.” You nodded, keeping your attention fixed to your task. The flush of your cheeks still hadn’t quite settled. “Is there anything else?”

Eunwoo eyed the Strawberry Skies Blueberry Pie, the sugar dusting practically sparkling under the warm sunlight spilling in through the bakery windows, and willed his self control to prevent him from purchasing an entire pie. He swallowed and forced his head to turn away.

“Oh, there’s also the monthly TXT’s if you’re interested.” You sensed his struggle somehow without even reading his expression. Just then, Eunwoo noticed the small section of the menu dedicated to Tomorrow X Tasty’s. A grin curled the corners of his lips up at the witty name for specials, which were BamBam Butterscotch Kisses and Orange Caramels this month. He added both to his order and waited patiently as you swiftly collected all of his choices into one bag. Then, you turned and placed it on the counter next to the register, quickly adding up his total with fluid flicks of your fingers.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” You asked, still fixated on the screen of the register. Eunwoo shifted his weight onto one leg, reaching out in the direction of the register separating the two of you. Out of your periphery vision, you saw his hand move near your face, startling you enough for your eyes to finally flick up to his face in question.

“Oh, sorry!” Eunwoo beamed, a wide smile scrunching the apples of his cheeks up and crinkling his eyes. He was just so dashing. “Last thing, I promise!” He passed the bag of cinnamon sugared bunny shaped cookies he’d plucked from the basket beside the register to you. Now that you had finally looked at him, Eunwoo could confirm that you were just as charming as he initially thought. Your eyes were warm and brilliant, housing a kindness that comforted everyone that met them. The environment you created in the bakery reflected that kindness, and he anticipated finding out if your baking did as well.

“No worries.” You reassured him with a soft curve of your lips, slipping the bunny cookies into the back so they wouldn't crush any of the other pastries.

Eunwoo tapped his phone to pay after pressing button to add a twenty percent tip. With steady hands you passed him the bag of pastries across the counter, and Eunwoo couldn’t resist taking advantage of the opportunity to brush his fingers against yours during the transfer. Probably because of the air conditioning blasting on high in the bakery, your hands were chilled in contrast to the bashful heat of your cheeks.

“Thank you,” Eunwoo smiled with as much warmth as he could muster, his eyes crinkling. Stray dark strands of his hair swished into his eyes and he quickly flicked them out of the way. He could see out of the corner of his vision that Jungkook had manhandled Mingyu to an empty table a few feet away, but Eunwoo still dropped the volume of his voice for privacy. “I’ll be sure to enjoy them and come back.” He promised earnestly.

“Please do.” You held his gaze, and Eunwoo himself nearly melted, limbs feeling gooey like a glaze, at the smile you awarded him, spring-like in its comfortable warmth and vibrance.

He retreated to join Jungkook and Mingyu at the table, and immediately upon Eunwoo sliding into the chair, Jungkook rounded on him. “I brought you here to get snacks, not flirt with my friend!” He complained, hands curled tightly into fists and pressing into the table top. Eunwoo doesn't look up as he carefully removes his heaping slice of Your Hope Your Angel Food Cake from the bag, setting the box before him.

“Mingyu was the one flirting.” Ruthlessly, Eunwoo tosses Mingyu to the wolves (or wolf, he supposed, since it was just Jungkook), effectively distracting Jungkook. He tipped the lid of the box back and discovered that he was right from his assessment of the pictures online; the cake was light, moist, and had a lovely crumb. The enticing scent of almond wafted into the air, not overly sweet but still carrying a warm nutty note. He cut a sizable bite, impressed with the absence of crumbs flaking off, and scooped the cake into his mouth. Eunwoo leaned back into the chair, savoring the bite and ascending to a level of ecstasy so high, it had to be illegal in this country. He wasn't in a cafe anymore surrounded by his friends bickering—it was just him, his slice of cake, and for some reason, the soft chime of bells.

He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to see if a new customer had stepped through the door, but no one was there. Odd. Eunwoo twisted back to the table where Jungkook and Mingyu fired juvenile insults back and forth.

He was definitely coming back to shoot his shot without these two dumbasses getting in the way.

౨ৎMasterlist

#eunwoo x reader #eunwoo x y/n #cha eunwoo x reader #eunwoo fanfiction #eunwoo fanfic #eunwoo fic #cha eunwoo #fic: whipped #eunwoo scenario #eunwoo imagine #astro fanfiction #astro fanfic #astro fic #astro #shineesbackbitches #peachesndreams

34 notes · View notes

shineesbackbitches · 3 months ago

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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?”)”

౨ৎ pairing: Wonwoo x Reader

౨ৎ genre: childhood friends to lovers, school, college, slow burn, fluff, one shot, peachesndreams

౨ৎ word count: 11.5k

౨ৎ warnings: alcohol consumption, swearing, insecurities, high school sports (repulsive I know), orientation week bullshit, kissing, pretty tame making out, one gross incel, reader really grows into her menace (good for her), the tension between these two is enough to make Mingyu cry, fluffy hair Wonwoo our collective beloved, two brief mentions of choking but not in the sexy kinda way, Soonyoung and Jihoon bickering

౨ৎ author note: a little love letter for my fellow Carats <3 There, there Besties

From the time you began attending school, you always walked back home together— you and Wonwoo. Coincidentally, when clubs became a mandatory thing (something about the school administration promoting ‘holistic, well-rounded, there’s-more-to-life-than-grades-but-we’ll-pull-you-out-of-participating-in-your-club-activities-if-you-fall-below-a-B-minus-in-a-class’ students), you ended up in clubs that finished at the same time. You even ended up attending the same university, and would shuffle back to your dorms from late night library camp outs.

Wonwoo had always been a quiet kid, preferring to listen rather than contribute to conversations. He had no trouble entertaining himself either. You’d learned that it wasn’t that he lacked a personality— the guy was fucking hilarious— it just didn’t come out unless he was comfortable. He was just introverted and making friends wasn’t as easy for him as it was for other kids.

But were you really one to talk?

If you were in a self-reflective mood, you’d cop to being an eighth of a teaspoon more extroverted than Wonwoo. Large crowds were a major turn off, as were loud places. You needed to mentally prepare for a hang out with more than two other people. Going home immediately after school to co-exist in a room with Wonwoo was more appealing than joining a group of classmates to venture into the busiest shops your hometown had to offer for trendy Insta pics. It was safe to say you were as much of an introvert as he was— plus, the two of you lived nearby and there were no other kids close to your age in the neighborhood. It was only natural that you would gravitate toward each other. So you grew familiar with the little boy with rounded cheeks, rumpled dark fringe, and chubby yet abnormally nimble hands (probably from the hours he spent immersed in gaming).

The difference between the two of you was that while Wonwoo wholeheartedly embraced his withdrawn nature, kept his tight-knit circle of friends, and basked in the comfort of frequent solitude, you made the effort to become more extroverted. What if people thought you were standoffish if you repeatedly declined their invites to outings? Would your classmates not like you anymore? Would they distance themselves from you?

The fear convinced you to agree to more spontaneous ventures far outside your comfort zone. You admittedly had fun with your friends, but it didn’t diminish the dread curling in the pit of your stomach leading up to the outing or the absolutely wiped daze in your eyes when you returned. The brutal cycle of social gathering followed by exhaustion repeated at a pace that completely obliterated any opportunity of recharging from the realm of possibilities.

You lasted a little over two months before retreating back to the familiar routine of walking home with Wonwoo to decompress after the long school day. The frequency of your adventures out with your friends reduced to a few a month, which was way more manageable for your limited social battery. Wonwoo hadn’t brought up the short-lived attempt, instead resuming the pattern of meeting up at the side entrance where towering trees cast shadows that spilled out across the concrete, the occasional splatter of sunlight poking through the branches. The conversation always flowed naturally with him, from goofy things your classmates did to the books you were reading lately (“You already bought it? Nice! Can I read it after you?” “Yeah, just don’t tell Jun I gave it to you. He already asked to borrow it, but you read faster than him.” “You’re my most favorite person in the whole world, Wonwoo.” “I know.”)

It was here that you determined that you and Wonwoo were each other’s safe space.

Not long after, Wonwoo’s baby fat disappeared from his face nearly overnight, replaced by a sharp jawline and a thin, long nose that accentuated the intensity of his eyes. He sprouted up at an alarming rate in comparison to his peers and, despite his willowy bone structure, he began to unintentionally intimidate others. It could be attributed to your shy disposition, but if you hadn’t already known Wonwoo before, you didn’t think you would have had the courage to approach him either. A laughable notion, really, considering how timid and gentle-hearted he was. Still, while he didn’t comment on his newly-perceived scariness, you knew he wasn’t exactly fond of his reputation.

You had the kind of friendship where you did small favors for each other all the time, so you decided to work your magic.

If your classmates saw a little bit of his less guarded side, maybe it would help him seem more approachable. After all, fear comes from the unknown, and Wonwoo didn’t readily disclose much about himself. No matter; you figured things could only go up from here.

“Do you want to eat lunch together tomorrow?” You glanced to your side where he was walking at a comfortable pace, carefully observing for slight changes in his expression or body language that indicated he wasn’t feeling up to it.

“I need to finish my Korean homework.” The subject wasn’t difficult for either of you, but Wonwoo tended to leave it until the class period before it was due. While you admired the confidence, you couldn’t stand the apprehension repeatedly ringing the doorbell of your subconscious when you had an incomplete assignment.

“We can work on it together.” You tried again, this time earning Wonwoo’s mildly suspicious gaze. Despite recently getting a hair cut, Wonwoo’s fringe grew at a quick pace and was already a few inches shy of completely concealing his forehead. Due to his grown out fringe, you couldn’t see his eyebrows, but you knew there was a furrow to them that wondered what you were up to.

“I guess we can do it tonight then.” He relented despite knowing you’d completed the assignment in class today. Wonwoo studied your face for a few beats, not understanding your unusual demand to spend the lunch period together. Were you overwhelmed by your rowdier friends? Was someone being an ass to you? Sure, you were pretty bashful when given attention, but you weren’t the type to let someone walk all over you. If it was too much, you’d tell someone before it escalated. Wonwoo decided to drop the matter and wait until tomorrow’s lunch period to press further.

You sat on the floor of his living room that evening, Wonwoo’s gangly legs folded crisscross on a plush floor pillow while you laid on your stomach just out of arm’s reach. He used a textbook as a flat surface to write on and you pretended to double, triple, and quadruple check that your answers were, in fact, correct for a subject you had a perfect grade in. In reality, you were performing mental gymnastics to solve Wonwoo’s predicament. You doubted eating lunch together would really improve his reputation significantly, especially since you were far from being the poster child for outgoing. Inviting him to join your friends was out of the question—they were too much even for you sometimes and you would never subject him to that. Maybe there was something he could at least enjoy doing that would earn him some positive PR.

“What?” He demanded, lips pursed slightly as he caught your attention on him and not the homework spread out on the floor before you. You just smiled in response, a cheeky little grin that Wonwoo could not for the life of him discern meaning from. All he knew was that you were definitely plotting and that he’d just have to accept that he was going to be along for the ride.

“You should check number four again.” Wonwoo advised.

“It’s right.” You responded blithely, not bothering to glance back at the worksheet.

“You sure about that decimal placement?” He prodded further, pressing his lips together in a thin line to stamp out the smile that threatened to break out.

“Uh-huh,” You insisted, just as unshakable as always. You batted your eyes a few times before grinning a little toothier than usual. “Are you done yet? You swore you’d play New Leaf with me.”

The impatient tilt of your head and the thrum of your fingers on your folded up arms was entertaining. Wonwoo smirked before turning his attention back to his already completed assignment. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna go play with your brother.” You pushed yourself up to your knees, already bouncing up to stretch out your ankles. “Bohyuk! Wanna pl—“

Just as quick as you’d called for his brother, Wonwoo’s hands flung out, palms up in surrender and nose scrunched up in distaste. “I was kidding! Don’t invite that.”

Lunch the following day was peaceful— uneventful even— as you spread out the contents of your lunchbox as fair game and Wonwoo followed suit. You peeked up at him while he helped himself to the meat in your container, fidgeting with the strap that held your lunchbox closed and twirling it around your pointer fingers. Just before you could open your mouth to begin the conversation, Wonwoo beat you to it.

“How are your friends?” He questioned, expression trained neutral, seemingly in the interest of making small talk. Wonwoo fishing for information was about as subtle as a brick wall, but you seemed to perk up at the topic. Unknowingly, he’d made this much easier for you to bring up. The lanky fool had played right into your hands.

“Great!” You chirped, eyes bright as you leaned across the table towards him. “One of them asked about you actually! Wants to know if you’d play basketball with him.”

This is so not where Wonwoo thought this conversation was going. Still, he decided to entertain the idea since you seemed excited about it.

“Which friend?” He asked tentatively, utensils resting on his lunch box. He fought the urge to scrunch his nose up in distaste, lest he clue you in that he was planning on declining.

You blinked a few times, buying yourself a couple seconds to formulate your answer so it wouldn’t result in an immediate refusal. “Um, you know the tall, goofy one who choked when he tried to drink milk through his nose becau—“

“Mingyu plays basketball?” Wow, Mingyu had really made a name for himself and hey! That wasn’t an outright no! Sure, he was a bit of a dumbass at times, but he was a good friend and fun to be around. In small doses. Spaced out. Super spaced out.

He’d love Wonwoo!

And Wonwoo would… probably be okay.

“Yeah! He really wants another person to play with and you’re pretty good.” You were laying it on thick with the compliments, fanning the flame of his ego to convince him that this commitment would result in absolutely no regrets. Your hands balled into tight fists as you stared at Wonwoo hopefully, the reflection of the sunlight gleaming in your eyes.

His mouth pursed in contemplation and a thick silence blanketed the air in the room. Then, he retrieved his abandoned chopsticks from their place balanced on the edge of his lunch box and breathed out, “Alright” before digging back into your lunch.

With a satisfied nod, you scooped up your own set of chopsticks and immediately delved into the spinach salad Wonwoo packed. You hummed appreciatively, the corners of your lips tilting up in a satisfied smile.

In the following weeks, Wonwoo joined Mingyu a few times a week on the basketball court. Just as you suspected, learning that the tall, reserved, and intimidating looking Wonwoo enjoyed basketball was enough for your classmates to drop the narrative that he was unapproachable. That said— his social circle didn’t expand much, but he was quite compatible with Mingyu. The slight tension in his shoulders relaxed and the tightness of his jaw released once he wasn’t overly conscious of how other people perceived his choice to keep to himself.

Another unexpected outcome of this development was that when club activities became mandatory, Wonwoo didn’t have to agonize over what club to choose. He and Mingyu signed up for basketball together without much thought.

Meanwhile, you joined the volleyball club. In all honesty, Wonwoo hadn’t seen it coming. Absolutely zero shots fired about your athletic abilities, but he hadn’t seen you play. Like, ever. His loss apparently, because the team captain was over the moon about the talent you brought to the team.

“When did you start playing volleyball?” He inquired on your journey home. There was an oddly shaped jumble of unease that fought for space in his chest against his ribcage at the realization that there was something about you he didn’t know. He was an observant person. How could he not know that he had been friends with an ace volleyball player for this long? It was a major blow to his pride.

“I never really played,” You began your explanation with a light shrug of your shoulders. “Like, I helped a friend practice a ton and learned something I guess.” You reasoned uncertainly, a contemplative tilt of your head as you didn’t quite comprehend this skill you possessed out of left field.

Oh, okay. So he wasn’t inattentive. You were just a fucking prodigy. Good to know.

“Let me know when you have a match.” Your eyes darted to his at the unexpected request and Wonwoo curled his hands into the long sleeves of his jacket before continuing. “I want to see you play.”

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?”)

“Okay.” You agreed easily, pressing your lips together lightly to stamp out the smile threatening to curl the corners of your mouth.

The attention awarded to you for joining club volleyball came from not just your own class, but others too. If you were aware of any of it, Wonwoo noted no indication of it— as far as he could tell, you loved the purely recreational sport and that was that. He didn’t doubt that you were a wonderful player, but a lot of the attention had been created by your team captain who missed no opportunity to boast about his team in general. According to other classmates, you more than lived up to the hype and Wonwoo wanted to see this unexplored side of you and support it.

It quickly became evident that other people were interested in seeing unexplored sides of you as well.

In a completely unsubtle way that only Mingyu could manage, he asked Wonwoo during basketball practice if you were talking to anyone.

“How would I know?” Wonwoo scrunched his nose in bewilderment. “She’s in volleyball now, not here.” He lunged for the basketball in Mingyu’s possession, fingertips just grazing the bumpy texture before Mingyu pivoted out of reach. While Wonwoo was one of the tallest at your school, Mingyu had hit a major growth spurt early on as well and stood a couple inches above him. Where Wonwoo was more lithe in frame, Mingyu was slightly broader. It was an interesting dynamic for basketball— Wonwoo’s speed and coordination against Mingyu’s strength and stamina— but it made the game entertaining.

An impatient groan ripped out of Mingyu, his head tossed back in irritation. “No, you—“ He sucked in a grounding breath, gathering his remaining shreds of sanity. In this moment, Wonwoo nabbed the ball from Mingyu, tauntingly bouncing it close enough to lure him to make a grab for it. “I mean like, does she like anyone? And I mean like like.” He quickly added on the clarification, unwilling to sit through Wonwoo’s journey of comprehension.

Wonwoo ceased dribbling, straightening up. He lifted a hand to dab at the sweat pooling around his temple and slicking his hair to his forehead to process the question. “How come?” He inspected Mingyu, a defensive edge narrowing his eyes and hardening his gaze. It was different from the steely quality he possessed while playing— while that one was impartial, this one was more personal and unnerving.

“A guy— well, a couple guys wanted to know.” Mingyu shrugged off the imposing weight of his stare, carefully noting Wonwoo’s reactions in turn. Wonwoo could tell by the twitch of his mouth and the rigidness of his spine that Mingyu wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. Smart.

“She’s not interested.” End of conversation. Wonwoo resumed dribbling, faking the intent to try and weave past Mingyu’s arm that belatedly stretched out to block him, only to take the shot from right there over Mingyu’s head.

A clean shot.

“Man!” Mingyu whined, shaking his head in a way that spoke of betrayal and heartbreak. “Cold blooded.”

At least— Wonwoo thought you weren’t interested.

“You go on ahead,” You waved him forward, the strap of your school bag slipping off your shoulder and into the crook of your elbow. “I have a quick thing to do.”

Wonwoo turned back to face you, fists squeezed deep in his jacket pockets where his hand warmers were nestled. You hadn’t made plans with your friends— you would have left from school with them if you had. Were you meeting someone?

“I’ll come with.” Your eyes shifted nervously to the side and your teeth dug into your bottom lip. The tip of your nose was bitten red from the wind and your entire form quivered from the sting of the cold.

“It’s okay, I’ll be quick.” You tried again, gesturing over your shoulder toward the way you were headed. Wonwoo’s eyes narrowed at your blatant attempts at evasion. It was fine if you were going to see someone, he just would rather you be upfront about it instead of hiding it from him. You didn’t keep each other in the dark and you certainly didn’t avoid each other either.

“Then let’s be quick.” Wonwoo insisted, already striding in the direction of your detour. You begrudgingly relented, huffing irritably and shuffling quickly to pass him and lead the way.

Wonwoo blinked at you, really wondering if his vision was actually bad enough to flat out hallucinate. He anxiously glanced around at the (blessedly) mostly empty store and back to your form seated on the tile floor in the aisle. Like, not even crouched to look at something stocked at the lower level— no, ass fully sat on the linoleum.

“What are you doing?” He breathed out, weight shifting back and forth between his feet nervously. You scrunched your long sock as far down toward your ankle as it would go, a handful of display products balanced in your hand in addition to a dozen q-tips. Wonwoo shuffled closer to you in an attempt to conceal your at best questionable behavior from the sole employee occupied with her phone at the checkout counter and the few wandering customers. From above, he observed you pop the lid of a tester, carefully collect some product with the q-tip, and hunch over to swipe it just above your ankle bone.

“Hey,” He hissed then, jerkily nudging you with his knee as a demand for your attention and answer.

“It’ll leave a stain on my wrist and I’ll get caught.” You explained, unwilling to be more cooperative with the guy who refused to let you make this trip solo. You tried to get him to go home, and now he had to live with his conces quencing. Neither of the two colors you tried so far stirred anything in your heart. You discarded the q-tip in the waste bin stationed near you and repeated your process.

“It’ll leave a stain when you wear it and you’ll get caught.” Wonwoo reasoned, a desperate clip to his tone.

“Not if I find one that’s close to my lip color.” You denied reality. Wonwoo paused for a brief moment to consider whether or not you heard yourself. There was nothing really wrong with shopping for a tinted lip balm (even though he would prefer you to do it standing— you know, be socially acceptable and all that), but your school didn’t allow students to wear makeup. When were you even going to use this? You’d never even expressed interest in makeup until today. Once again, nothing criminal, but completely out of the blue.

“Why do you want that?” Wonwoo prodded in an effort to understand the mental gymnastics of it all. If he was being honest, he was still stuck on you seated on the floor.

“‘Cause if it’s close to my lip color, I might not be—“

“No,” He interrupted, pressing his fingers slightly below a brow to ease the beginnings of a pulsing headache away. He was abruptly empathetic to Mingyu for some inexplicable reason. “Like, why do you want it in general?”

“I don’t,” You began, attention fixed on the array of products gathered before you. Wonwoo still hovered behind you, waiting for the remainder of your reason. “I don’t like how I look after volleyball.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Because literally who did you know that looked good after club sports? Disheveled and out of breath was kind of the standard across the board. Also, he saw you right after clubs finished to walk home together everyday. You looked fine. Sure, not quite as put together as you were during classes, but your mussed hair and flushed cheeks were kind of charming— lively and youthful, even. The only people who even saw you were your teammates and him, so—

And Mingyu’s conversation from the basketball court snapped the missing puzzle pieces into place. Multiple guys were interested in you and were sneaking in to watch you practice. They were going as far to ask around about you, to the extent that they’d approached Mingyu to really approach him and dig for information about you. There was no way your social butterfly of a team captain hadn’t clocked it and immediately leaped at the opportunity to fill you in.

Did you like, like one of them?

“Trying to impress someone?” Wonwoo prodded, not quite successful in keeping the judgement at bay. His teeth grit together, trying to maintain a neutral expression despite you facing away from him. All at once, he wished that he could see your expression while simultaneously feeling relieved that he couldn’t.

“No, I just don’t like people staring at me when I look like that.” You fiddled with the lid of the lip balm, snapping it in and out of the closure groove.

So you were aware of the attention— too aware of it, in fact.

For someone so uncomfortable with other peoples’ gazes, you sure weren’t doing you— or him for that matter— any favors by parking yourself on the floor of a beloved cosmetic store in the early evening. But now was not the time to vocalize that thought when he had just scraped an insecurity out of you with about as much tenderness as he would have used trying to knock out the last bit of peanut butter from the bottom of the jar. So yeah, he was going to keep that one in the drafts for now.

There also wasn’t really any way for him to solve your problem. When it came down to it, insecurities were a battle fought with yourself. He doubted that anything he said or did would really resolve your feelings about yourself. That being said, he wasn’t going to withhold his thoughts or actions that might encourage the feelings to fade. He was also more than willing to hold the door open for them to leave and slam it shut on their way out.

Fuck the dumbasses who kept sneaking in to watch you practice and ignoring the fact that they were making you uncomfortable. And a little bit fuck your team captain too for allowing it to happen and even somewhat encouraging the behavior.

Wonwoo squatted down, hooking his large hands under your elbows, and scooped you into a standing position despite your bewildered fumbling. Once you were hauled up to your full height and turned around to face him, he abandoned his purchase on your elbows in favor of sandwiching your cheeks between his warm palms. Or maybe it was your cheeks that were warm? Either way, you were focused on him, maintaining eye contact for the first time since you’d left school that day. Wonwoo lightly shook your head, your cheeks squishing and eyes scrunching closed under his ambush. Once he was satisfied with his work, he stopped, waiting until your eyes blinked away the disorientation and opened to settle on him again.

“You’re pretty.”

It was quick, definitive, and without room for discussion. Before you could even fully process the previous five seconds, Wonwoo cut off any protests, hiking up his long sleeve on one arm to reveal a forearm splotched with a particularly nasty navy colored bruise.

“Ah, shit.” He tugged his sleeve back down over his knuckles, then switched to his other unblemished forearm. Both him and Mingyu were pretty abrasive basketball players and, with their combined lankiness and Mingyu’s net negative coordination due to his lack of spatial awareness, elbows and hands were destined to smack into the wrong places.

“Here.” Wonwoo extended his arm out to you. “They don’t check guys for makeup because they’re sexist.”

You stared at him, eyes wide in disbelief. After a brief nod of encouragement, you quickly resumed your work. Your hand cradled his forearm, holding it steady as you brushed on ascending lines of lip product, tinting his skin various shades of pink. His skin was hot under your touch and felt fuzzier than the cotton swab. Eventually, after waffling between two shades that were essentially the same but actually just slightly different, you landed on your choice.

Wonwoo went to school the following day with an impressive gallery of stains streaked up his arm underneath his jacket, but only the two of you knew that.

You were caught wearing the tinted lip balm before the end of first period, your homeroom teacher demanding you scrub it off with a tissue. And as you inspected your appearance in the bathroom mirror, lips bare, there was an absence of inadequacy burrowing in your chest, instead replaced by a peaceful indifference. When you returned to class, the self-conscious slouch anchoring your arms to your sides had dissolved, but only the two of you noticed that.

Your team captain insisted that practices from now on be closed off to visitors, slamming the doors to the gym shut with no consideration for the students trying to sit in. He reasoned that the other students were a distraction and that if they were that interested in volleyball, then tryouts were scheduled for the third week of the next semester.

Wonwoo had been the one to make this request, but only he and your captain knew that.

Old habits either die hard or they don’t die at all, because even in university, your tradition of walking home together persisted. Freshman orientation was essentially hazing for introverts, and your silly orientation leaders decided to host a dinner for the incoming class— a thinly-veiled excuse to get fucking hammered beyond coherent speech. Plus, the schadenfreude of watching a group of kids experience their first and absolute worst time consuming alcohol was too good for them to pass up.

A little over an hour into the mandatory event, you were so beyond over the whole thing. You’d eaten your fill and stopped politely laughing at the upperclassmen who thought they were just so charming at least thirty minutes ago. Drinking was, as you expected, over-encouraged and heavily pressured. At one of the mentors’ insistence, you knocked a shot or two back and sent him stumbling back to the end of the table furthest away from you. It wasn’t your first time consuming alcohol, and you had no intention of exceeding your limit around a bunch of strangers. As far as you were concerned, they could suck it.

Wonwoo sat across from you, usually sharp eyes glazed over at an autographed picture on the wall of someone famous posing with the owner of the restaurant, jolly grins and peace signs thrown up. You shifted your weight, shuffling around in your seat to generate just enough movement in Wonwoo’s field of vision to snap his brain back from outer space. His blurred eyes honed in on you— he hadn’t participated in drinking with the upperclassmen either, also disinterested in drinking in the unfamiliar environment, yet cursed to exist in the moment all the same.

Slowly, intentionally, you blinked twice.

Want to ditch?

Wonwoo tilted his head to one side in what could have easily been a stretch of his neck.

Fuckin’ yeah, I do.

You pursed your lips, eyes flickering once to the door and back to him.

Sensational. At the same time.

Less then two seconds later, Wonwoo raised to his full hight while you swung your legs to the aisle created by the two long tables. He half-heartedly nodded to a few of the people around him that noticed he had stood, and you successfully slipped into an opening. Now that you were on your feet, the alcohol diffused to the rest of your limbs and head quicker than you anticipated— nothing concerning, you were just a little more buzzed than you planned to be. What a fantastic indicator that it was time to pack it up. With a brief flash of a smile and farewell to the kind-enough girl next to you, you made your swift exit to where Wonwoo waited for you at the end of the aisle.

The most genuine smile you had seen from him all evening quirked the corner of his lips up, and the dim, yellow lighting in the restaurant cast a warm glow in his dark eyes. He’d left his hair more rumpled than usual today, the gentle waves softened his appearance a bit, but still accentuated the crisp angles of his cheeks, jaw, and eyes. Gone were the last bits of gangly, awkward teenage proportions, instead developing into striking features of a charming young man. Since senior year of high school, Wonwoo had only sprung further upward, although unlike his middle school growth spurt, he had actually broadened considerably this time. The thing was— Wonwoo was kind of a walking dichotomy. He preferred oversized clothing that concealed the lines of his frame— it completely fooled everyone into thinking he was pretty lanky, but you knew that to be completely false. His form was large and imposing, both in height and broadness, but the changes in his build were only obvious when you stood this close to him. He chose to wear an oversized grey sweatshirt this evening that you’d seen many times before. The sleeves were stretched out from his tendency to tug them over his hands.

You trailed behind him as he blazed the path to the door. Wonwoo pushed the door open, a rush of biting night air dropping your internal temperature substantially. He stepped outside, holding the door open for you to pass through. Just as you moved to cross the threshold, the girl that sat next to you called out, “Get home safely!” You turned to acknowledge her, and your coordination must have been more influenced than you had initially realized, because your foot caught on the ledge protruding from the doorframe. You gasped and braced for unforgiving concrete and a banger of a concussion during syllabus week.

Wonwoo lunged— legitimately lunged— to secure your shoulders in his arms. The back of your head thudded against his chest and your back flattened against his torso. Your fingers latched onto Wonwoo’s sturdy arms suspending you just above the concrete and you huffed in deep breaths to regain your bearings. Holy shit.

“You okay?” Wonwoo’s round glasses had shifted down in the scuffle, balanced precariously at the tip of his nose.

Still disoriented and searching for your center of gravity, you breathed out, “Yeah, yeah— I’m okay.”

Gingerly, Wonwoo straightened into an upright position, bringing you with him. To your credit, you only fumbled slightly when searching for purchase with the soles of your shoes.

“Go a little too hard a little too fast?” He was joking, poking lighthearted fun at the circumstances of the entirely avoidable situation. His hesitant grin was partially contained by residual concern for your physical wellbeing— sure, he’d saved you from a cold greeting courtesy of the concrete, but did you twist your ankle on the ledge?

“Should’ve gone faster, harder.” You quipped, giggling at the absurdity of the last three hours. Wonwoo squatted down beside you, carefully taking your hand nearest to him and guiding it to rest on his shoulder for stability in the event that you toppled over for a second time that night. Despite the chill of the air seeping through your clothing, an unfamiliar heat sweltered in your bones. You wondered if Wonwoo could feel it pulsing at your fingertips where they pressed into the well-worn material of his sweatshirt, but his attention was preoccupied with your ankle. The bottom of your pant leg was rolled up a few times, and Wonwoo’s long, slender fingers prodded at the exposed skin with a tenderness that absorbed the strength in your knees— you’d have fully buckled onto his broad shoulder had you been fueled by anything other than spite to remain standing.

“How does this feel?” He peered up at you, the question visible in his dark eyes, all the while smoothing languid circles into your ankle with his thumb the same way he toggled on his game controller. The weight of his gaze seemed foreign, not quite suffocating, but somewhat sultry. It was an oddly sensual moment, and you didn’t know what to make of that. Probably the alcohol doing its rose-tinted thing.

“It feels good.” You answered more truthfully than he would ever know. But the street outside a restaurant overflowing with your peers was not the place to unpack that. He unrolled your pant leg, tugging it back into place before standing again and insisting that you two get going and escape the cold. You weren’t cold, and you could make out the slight glow of sweat on Wonwoo’s skin, but you chalked it up to the exertion of his impressive dive mere minutes ago.

In all of the years you spent with Wonwoo, you could count the number of times he’d caught you off guard on one hand. He was a man of habit and predictability— it was familiar and cozy, and you appreciated the reliability of him. He hadn’t changed, still the same in his careful, intentional movements, but he somehow knocked you completely off-kilter that night on the sidewalk.

Metaphorically speaking, in this instance.

You, on the other hand, were a bit of a wild card in Wonwoo’s eyes. He knew you well— like he knew the layout of his house well enough to slink to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get a glass of water without flipping any lights on. But every so often, there would be something that wasn’t present before. He would smack into it, take a moment to process the new entity, maybe feel around and familiarize himself with it, and then carry on as usual. To date, the discovery that you were an excellent volleyball player remained the most prominent surprise in his memory.

Nearly two months into your freshman year of college, you blew that one out of the water.

Wonwoo approached you from behind while you were perched at one of the large desktops in the library. He could tell you had a document open— even with his shit vision, there was no mistaking that layout and that obnoxious shade of blue that triggered every students’ fight or flight instinct. But you were missing the anguish of someone writing a paper, no tense hunch to your shoulders or irritated furrow of your brow. Instead, you seemed at ease, reclining easily into the back of the chair, expression focused but neutral. Your movements were unhurried as you navigated your screen with the pitiful library mouse held together by oddly crinkled scotch tape.

What the hell were you working on?

“Hey,” He murmured in greeting, conscious of the people working around you. But then he got a glimpse of your computer screen, and in contrast to your unbothered form, Wonwoo became the embodiment of immediate, deep, bottom-of-the-soul resentment. Pulled up proudly on display were screenshots of some of the most heinous, crude, and honest to god incriminating text messages he’d ever read. His jaw clenched, teeth gritting together painfully at the unimaginably inappropriate names and descriptions littered throughout the one-sided chat. Wonwoo’s eyes pierced the name of the sender exhibited at the top of the screen like he could somehow impale them through the bubble of their initial. He didn’t know them, but he was about to. At the beginning of the thread was a single message from you, a polite and firm decline of an invitation to “hang at his place.” The animosity simmered in the pit of his stomach, boiling up his chest and scalding his throat and tongue as he snarled, “What the fuck?!”

You twisted around in your chair, taking in Wonwoo’s rare hostility and the attention it earned you from other people in the library. His low timbre was always soothing to listen to, but the abrupt change from still waters to rough husk was a commanding force.

“Hi,” You beamed up at him, eyes practically twinkling, apparently unaffected by the images on your screen.

“Who the hell is this loser?” He bit, cheekbones more angled than typical as he hollowed his cheeks. His teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, a futile attempt at keeping the malice at bay. Wonwoo was many things, but above ripping this guy a new asshole? Certainly not.

“Oh,” You swiveled to glance back at the screen, sure enough, the incel vomit remained on the monitor where you left it. With practiced ease, you quickly resized the final screenshot in the series, enlarging it to a near comical degree. “Just a silly goose.”

Wonwoo stood stewing in silence as you clicked file and selected print with a too-cheerful click of the barely-holding-on mouse. He had maybe just short of a million questions firing rapidly internally. How did you even meet this guy? Did you have classes with him? Where did he live? Was he deathly allergic to anything? No, not for any particular reason, just curious. Does he walk home alone at night? How long had he been bothering you?

The only question he managed to voice was, “Why are you making these, like, gigantic?”

That was when he noticed that the sparkle in your eyes this entire time had been mischief. The grin you flashed was significantly wider than your natural smile, and possessed a rascality he hadn’t seen you wear before. It looked sickly saccharine and promised chaos. You looked ferocious. It looked good on you.

“How else is his grandmother gonna read it?”

Wonwoo’s heart swelled with pride. It pumped into the organ until it reached its maximum capacity and expanded until his chest ached in elation. Of course you were going to rock this guy’s shit. And in front of his family no less. Wonwoo physically could not contain the cackles that erupted from the bottom of his stomach, folding over at the waist from the force. He clutched at your shoulders in an attempt to remain standing and gasped in shuddering breaths. Eyes crinkled closed, nose scrunched upward, and smile lines on display, Wonwoo seemed to have unlocked a new level of joy.

“You are just fucking magnificent.” He praised in adoration, planting an affectionate kiss on your forehead. You short-circuited at the warmth that bloomed from the press of his lips on your skin.

This was new. You weren’t even sure it actually happened for a few beats, convincing yourself you’d simply imagined Wonwoo bending over you in the library to kiss you. Wonwoo kissed you. Like it was normal. And you couldn’t short-circuit in front on him because then it wouldn’t be normal.

Rapidly, you snapped back into the moment, coyly tucking your loose hair behind your ear. “Aren’t I just?” A large hand buried itself in your hair at the top of your head, giving it a playful ruffle. Wonwoo smoothed out the bumps he had created immediately after, delicately combing his fingers through and working out the minor tangles.

He was still going to rip this guy a new asshole.

After the incident outside the restaurant and especially after the moment in the library, there was an obvious shift in the dynamic of your relationship. Or maybe your relationship had changed before then and you just hadn’t picked up on it. Because while you were second guessing every action, word, and expression, Wonwoo seemed entirely in his element— unfazed even. It seemed that kissing your best friend was an entirely normal thing for him to do, despite having never done it before and generally not being all that open to physical affection.

You didn’t want to be uncomfortable around Wonwoo— he had been your safe space for as long as you could remember. But the once-clear waters of your relationship had turned murky and tricky to navigate. More disorienting was the fact that Wonwoo wasn’t uncomfortable. At least if he had been, you could acknowledge whatever this weird, new thing was and figure this out together. But you couldn’t bring it up like this and risk Wonwoo denying that anything was different between the two of you.

Things were different though. Like, was Wonwoo auditioning for the role of boyfriend or something? Because while he had always been attentive, things were escalating at a dizzying, heart-fluttering pace.

Wonwoo seemed to always have a hair tie around his wrist— always had since he witnessed you struggle to eat without your hair slipping into your face when you were kids and heard you grumble that you forgot one for volleyball. He’d offer you the hair tie and you’d gush out something appreciative along the lines of, “As expected, you’d never let me down.” Even now, he’d unhook the elastic from his wrist on particularly windy days, or when he’d watched you toss your hair back one too many times when you were studying, presenting it to you in his outstretched palm. You hadn’t thought much of the sweet gesture until now.

The escalation of this routine came when Wonwoo began tying your hair for you, wordlessly gathering your hair with long, nimble fingers and securing it low and loose out of your way; he always avoided wrapping it too tightly or too high, anxious of causing you a tension headache. The brush of his warm hands always brought you back to where you sat in the library, processing his kiss and affectionate touches. The tips of his fingers would sweep the sensitive skin of your neck from behind and you would still, anticipating the pressure of his lips against your heated skin again. But it never happened.

Overall, Wonwoo was more touchy lately— not exactly a high hurdle— and you just didn’t know how to act. You know— other than soak it up. You were more than receptive to being spoiled by his physical affection, be it platonic or romantic. After fumbling through the first week of the new development of sides pressed together, tender hands brushing hair out of your face, and the light pressure of his chin resting atop your head when he approached you from behind, you decided to return it enthusiastically and see if you could finally force Wonwoo’s hand.

You found him reading while leaving one of your classes, his form relaxed on one of the benches that lined the courtyard. His neck was craned down, attention focused on his class reading, expression neutral. Despite still being deemed intimidating and off-putting by those who never spoke to him, Wonwoo was undeniably dashing in his quiet confidence. The sharp angles of his cheeks and jaw only became more accentuated during college (perhaps a result of the poor college student diet) and his already-penetrating eyes intensified when he chose to forego glasses for contacts— which wasn’t very often.

You detoured out of his line of vision to close in on his back, careful to keep your steps light. Successfully avoiding popping him out of his study bubble, you looped your arms over his wide shoulders, leaned into his back, and chimed his name in greeting. Immediately, he tilted his head up to meet your eyes with a lopsided grin, his eyes twinkling knowingly— Wonwoo could smell your shampoo wafting in the comfortable breeze as you neared. Now, with the close contact of your skin, he could smell the light moisturizer you had used since you were in middle school. He permitted himself a deep inhale, reveling in the clean, fresh scent.

“Hey,” He greeted, voice low and clear. The faint wind ruffled his hair— he had allowed it to grow longer than it’d ever been before, which still wasn’t very long, but the waves grazed his eyes in airy wisps. “Good class?”

You hummed affirmatively, taking the opportunity to card your fingers through his tousled hair with a practiced ease like you’d done it for as long as you’d known him. He dissolved into your touch, clicking his tablet off and trading his classwork for your attention.

“Vibe night?” He asked like you had ever previously declined or planned to decline a night spent relaxing together at one of your places. It was just like how you would retreat home from school to one of your living rooms to do homework, read, play video games, or whatever in each other’s presence growing up. The escalation here yet again entailed increased physical contact and noticeably domestic undertones. Some days you’d accompany one another grocery shopping for dinner and snacks before kicking the night off.

On days where the academic grind had vacuumed the life force out of the both of you, it was a detour to a restaurant to get takeout. You had your go-to spots that you rotated through, dependent on the weather and your moods. By now, the employees recognized your pair and your typical orders. One of the last times you’d visited during midterms two weeks back, the elderly owner of the Thai restaurant had been delighted when you stepped in, announcing joyfully that you had visited on couples night so he threw a dessert on the house into your to-go bag.

It wasn’t uncommon for the nature of your relationship to be misunderstood, so you began to gently correct the well-meaning man with a polite smile. Before you uttered a syllable, Wonwoo’s deep voice vibrated beside you, graciously thanking the owner and fluidly swiping the paper bag from the counter where your hand was stretched to curl around the handle. Instead, Wonwoo’s large hand not occupied with the to-go bag enveloped yours and on instinct, your fingers squeezed around his.

With a farewell and another ‘thank you so much!’ the two of you exited the restaurant hand-in-hand. You expected him to drop the act and by extension your hand once you were a decent distance away from the windows, but Wonwoo kept your hand secured in his the entire walk home— which you would never complain about. The temperature had dropped for the season and the sun had already set under the horizon, so you would soak up the extra warmth emitting from your joined hands, burrowed into his jacket pocket. You could always rely on Wonwoo to purchase the coziest clothing, always fleecy and pleasant against your skin. His coat did not disappoint, the fuzzy lining offering you an excuse for how overheated you felt with your hand engulfed in his.

But that was two weeks ago when you were still flustered by Wonwoo’s abrupt swell of affection. If you were being entirely honest, his affection still shot prickles down your spine and numbed your fingertips, but you at least knew to expect it by now. Now it was a matter of being capable of having the same effect on him.

“You already know.” You agreed easily, before tacking on. “Whenever and however you want me.” You were absolutely referring to what time he wanted to meet up and at whose apartment, but to pass on the double entendre was a wasted opportunity. Wonwoo’s form went rigid under your touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The ‘error 404 Wonwoo not found’ pop up was clear in his abruptly vigilant eyes. Flashing him a smile that spoke of nothing abnormal in your choice of phrase, you wished him a good class, manifested him being let out early, and blew him a kiss in farewell, a bounce in your step as you retreated.

You got him. Was it enough to convince him to make his move? You’d fuck around and find out, you supposed.

Later when Wonwoo finished his last class— from which he did get let out twenty minutes early (“You are so welcome.” “We got out because we finished his material.” “Because I’m magic. You should be super nice to me and let me choose the game.” “You can choose the game because it’s your turn, not because you’re magic.”)— he trekked to the library where you were busting out an assignment at an alarming speed to gather you for the night. You snapped your laptop shut, reaching for your bag you’d hooked on the back of your chair, only to discover Wonwoo was already holding the edges open for you. With an appreciative grin, you slipped the laptop into the padded sleeve and zipped it closed. Wonwoo fixed the straps of your bag over his shoulder, ignoring your insistence that you could carry it yourself, and together you walked to his apartment. Tonight, you didn’t hold hands on the journey and there was no fuzzy electric charge to the moment. It was as it usually was, with soft laughter and quiet recounts of your days just like it always has been.

Everything was just like was before until you entered his apartment.

Wonwoo held the door open for you to pass through the threshold, slipping in behind you and hanging both of your bags on the empty hooks lining the entrance. You wiggled out of your well-broken-in sneakers without undoing the laces and reached for the shoe cabinet by the entrance, but Wonwoo beat you to it. He crouched before the cabinet and snagged your designated pair of slippers, wordlessly placing them by your feet. Once you swapped into the slippers, he threaded two fingers under the tongues of your sneakers and neatly set them in the cabinet. Then, he followed suit and changed into his house shoes. It was hardly anything out of character for Wonwoo—he was always considerate, but your blood pulsed ferociously in the veins of your wrists at the small gesture.

It would have made sense to venture into the apartment instead of remaining in the entryway, but you stayed and watched as Wonwoo turned to face you. Your eyes met and the static charge returned to your fingertips. You swore his eyes darkened as they flickered further down your face. The limited space of the alcove demanded you hover in each other’s personal space close enough for a slight shift in your weight to force you to unintentionally brush against each other. The slightest touch would result in a static shock, you were positive. Wonwoo hovered closer and your breath was trapped at the top of your throat— if he adjusted the angle of his head, then he’d—

“Hungry?” He murmured, low tone fluttering in the pit of your stomach. “There’s some of the spinach salad in the fridge.”

Fuck auditioning for the role of boyfriend— this man was fully auditioning for the role of husband. Acts of service and making sure you were fed? Sold! To the man with abysmal eyesight and the instinct to anticipate your needs!

Unfortunately, you were far too queasy to trust yourself to eat anything at the moment. A damn shame, because you really did love his family’s spinach salad. “Later,” You promised. He didn’t press the matter despite knowing you hadn’t eaten since early that morning due to your packed class schedule. Nodding in agreement, Wonwoo pressed a large, warm hand to the small of your back, encouraging you into the apartment.

Immediately, you padded over to the large couch in the living room, folding up into your corner and snatching your emotional support circular throw pillow to rest your wrists on while you gamed. Wonwoo passed by the entertainment center, retrieving your designated controllers from the cabinet and waking the docked Nintendo Switch before heading toward the couch. He maneuvered around an arm chair, nabbing the throw blanket draped over the back. Once close enough, Wonwoo settled the fuzzy blanket across your lap, fixing the areas that bunched up, and then passed you your controller.

The blanket hadn’t always been a fixture of the living room. It was during your third time over at Wonwoo’s apartment when the two of you were watching the last few episodes of a drama when Wonwoo noticed you curled up and shivering. You’d intentionally worn long sleeves that day because the apartment was a freezer box— full blame on Wonwoo’s roommate who liked to live in the arctic— but it wasn’t sufficient to shield you from the unrelentingly glacial winds generated by the air conditioning. The last time you were over and frostbitten, Wonwoo had swaddled you in one of his oversized sweatshirts that smelled like freshly-washed laundry and a hint of something muskier. The cuffs were stretched to conceal your hands, likely from Wonwoo repeatedly tugging the fabric over his own hands when he wore it. When he heaved himself off the couch and disappeared into the hallway, you expected him to return with another one of his sweaters, but instead he brought back a crème colored blanket that he’d evidently just bought based on the tag he wound around his fingers to tug off with a snap of his wrist.

“Sorry, I forgot.” He smiled, a little sheepish, and handed you the blanket.

Ever since, the blanket had been yours. Its home was in the living room of Wonwoo’s apartment, waiting for your return.

Now, he dropped into his place on the couch cushion next to you. With a few rapid clicks of his thumb, the jingle of the Nintendo Home Screen sounded through the speaker system. Already queued into the first slot was Animal Crossing because it was your pick tonight, and you’d always pick Animal Crossing. It was here that you knew that Wonwoo was always a couple paces ahead of you, and he always knew what you needed.

He sensed the weight of your unwavering gaze and turned his attention toward you, about to ask you something, but the words died before he could even think them into existence. The controller he gave you sat abandoned at your side, your hands instead curled into the throw pillow resting on your thighs. Wonwoo was always ahead of you, perceptive of your every need. The slight tremble of your bottom lip, the glassy haze in your eyes, and the shallow rise and fall of your chest told him exactly what you needed then. He wouldn’t make you ask twice.

After carefully depositing his controller on the coffee table, Wonwoo shifted toward you, keeping his attention on your eyes in search of any indicator that you wanted out. He’d back away if you wanted, go back to lounging on the couch and playing video games with you if you gave so much as a hint that it was what you wanted.

You didn’t. A comforting hand that had held yours in his jacket pocket for warmth, combed through your hair to tie it out of your face, and hoisted you up from the floor of a cosmetic store gently settled at the back of your head— his hands were always big and safe. You curved your lips into a small, reassuring smile, and Wonwoo understood. In a split second, his free hand snatched his thin, round glasses from their perch of his nose and tossed them onto the coffee table. Then, your eyes fluttered shut and he closed the distance.

The static sensation returned full force, numbing your body with that fuzzy feeling that made you lightheaded, but you could still feel Wonwoo. Everywhere he touched sparked your nerves back into functioning condition. You could feel his safe hand resting on your waist and the heat diffusing from it, gently rubbing small circles into your skin with his thumb— just like he had done to your ankle. You could feel the confident force of his lips on yours, firm and slow, like he was savoring you, drawing out the moment for as long as he’d waited for it— he’d stay here with you for even longer than he’d waited if you wanted. You wouldn’t stop him. Trading your purchase on the pillow for the shoulders of Wonwoo’s dark blue sherpa jacket, you tried to pull him closer, unsatisfied with how distant you felt despite your physical contact. Wonwoo seemed to agree with the sentiment, slightly pulling back from your lips so that your noses still lightly grazed with every minuscule shift.

Your eyes blinked open when you registered his sturdy arm coil around your back, only to fall breathless again. His sharp eyes possessed an intensity you hadn’t seen him wear before. It wasn’t intimidating, but your skin flushed at the fervor. His usually neat enough dark waves were fluffed up; you hadn’t realized you’d done it in the moment, but one of your hands had languidly trailed up the back of his scalp moments ago. With slick coordination that surfaced every so often, Wonwoo slightly lifted you, slipping beneath you and settling you in his lap. Much better.

You discarded the fuzzy blanket pooled on your lap off to the side—you appreciated Wonwoo’s sweet gesture, but it was only in the way now. He reclined into the back of the couch and you swayed right after him, abdomen flushed against him and your arms looping behind his neck. His build really was a whole lot more athletic than you realized now that you rested on his powerful thighs and his firm back shuddered under your palms. Wonwoo tilted his head up and to the side, a lopsided smile quirking the corner of his mouth, gums just barely peaking out— his bottom lip was more pigmented and puffier than usual. His high cheekbones glowed in the dimmed light from the TV, and you don’t think you’d ever seen him so rugged before. The expression could have been mistaken for being haughty— you knew him better than that though. It was still that same smile that spoke to his softhearted nature, the one that had him doting on you as easily as he breathed. You answered his grin with an eager press of your lips, relishing in the cautious pressure of his tongue swiping across your bottom lip.

That was how Soonyoung discovered the two of you, rounding the corner that connected the hallway to the living room and damn-near smacking the back of his head on the wall in his haste to retreat. Then, Jihoon stepped out of his own room and approached him, disgruntled by Soonyoung’s hand spasming and smacking against his chest.

“Look at our boy.” He whispered, a proud gleam twinkling in his eyes, not missed by Jihoon. Uninterested, Jihoon poked his head around the corner, immediately regretting it and whirling to criticize his silly-ass roommate.

“Don’t watch them, you fucking creep.” He hissed. And with that and a nose crinkled in immense judgement, Jihoon crept back into his room, ignoring Soonyoung’s insistence that he hadn’t been watching.

“What made you tell me?” You asked, breaking the peaceful silence while you relaxed on the couch, still nestled together, then clarified. “Now, I mean.”

“I was sure you’d figure it out eventually.” Then Wonwoo huffed mirthfully at that adorably optimistic belief he held onto for over six years. “And then we were well into college and that never happened.”

Your blank stare and light press of your lips told him you were both unsatisfied with his answer and knew him well enough to call him on the probably half-true bullshit. No way did he just get impatient and go ‘fuck it.’ Unless something happened, Wonwoo was capable of waiting decades before making his move. He would have, had his instigation of increased physical affection been received uncomfortably by you. But he was always under the assumption that you weren’t interested in a romantic relationship and not that you were unaware of his long kindled affection for you.

All things said and done, there was no harm in waiting to pursue a romantic relationship with you. Wonwoo had always been a significant fixture in your life, whether his role was friend or romantic partner didn’t add or subtract from the quality of your relationship. The both of you had always had each other anyway.

“I met up with Mingyu,” Wonwoo admitted, a bashful grin tugging a corner of his lips up. “And he asked me how you were.”

You blinked, not quite following his line of reason. “Okay?”

“But he asked me like, ‘How’s your girlfriend doing?’ And I told him I hadn’t asked you out.” He spoke at a rapid fire pace, and if you hadn’t engraved his speech pattern into your chest, you would have had to ask him to repeat himself. “He lost his mind. Like, the disappointment was palpable.” He recounted with an exhausted droop of his eyelids. “Told me to pull my head out of my ass, that it was pathetic that I liked you for years and did nothing, and that he’d come visit himse—“

You stiffened at that information, interrupting him. “Wait, Mingyu knew that you liked me before I knew that you liked me?” Seriously, Kim Mingyu figured it out before you? Sure, you weren’t in grade school anymore, but according to Jihoon, Mingyu had very much not changed. (”I heard from a friend at his college that he almost choked at orientation because he tried to drink soju through his nose on a dare.”)

Wonwoo winced sympathetically, corners of his eyes crinkling in the same way they did when he physically could not contain his joy, and his hand moved to smooth the loose hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. “Yeah, I know. A bit of a low blow there, huh?” An understatement.

Your chin returned to its resting place on his chest, a self-reflective frown quirking the corners of your lips down, and sighed, “Man.”

A husky laugh huffed out through his nose before turning into hearty chuckles that heaved his chest up and down, taking your form relaxed on top of his with it. “Don’t sweat it.” Wonwoo reassured, thumb lightly brushing your cheek, a warmth in his dark eyes that you were slowly becoming familiar with seeing your reflection in. “I still love you.”

It wasn’t the first time Wonwoo had caught you off guard with his blunt delivery of significant information. He tended to come to conclusions early on and then fold them over a few times to stash them in his back pocket like he would a receipt. Out of sight, out of mind, but still always with him nonetheless. It was entirely possible that Wonwoo carried his love for you shoved deep in a nook he hadn’t paid much attention to for far longer than he, or you, or anyone realized.

Maybe he loved you when he intentionally packed a large serving of your favorite spinach salad his dad made for your scheduled lunches together in grade school. Or it could have been when Mingyu unintentionally let slip that you asked him to play basketball with him to improve his reputation. He had to have known it to be true when he willingly offered his skin as your canvas for lip products. Then it was reinforced by that abysmal orientation dinner you both bailed on. And again every time you surprised him, and when you didn’t, and he knew exactly what you were going to do or say or need. He loved you in the second controller he brought with him when he moved into his apartment, decorated with your favorite Animal Crossing villagers. He was never just giving you a blanket on the nights you spent curled up together in his apartment— he was handing you far more than that.

Wonwoo was content with you simply accepting the affection he offered, but your reciprocation was very much welcome and celebrated. With the way you cared for each other, he doubted much would change about your dynamic—he didn’t mind though. This was comfortable and warm, and as always, you were together.

You examined the lines of varying shades of pink swiped up your wrist, glistening under the fluorescent overhead light. So far, none of the swatches stirred anything in your heart. You slipped the tester back into the designated notch on the display and plucked the next one out of its home, twisting the applicator out.

A familiar hand appeared from behind you, cradling your outstretched arm in long fingers to steady it. Warmth pulsed under the pads of his fingertips and bloomed into your wrist. Wonwoo peered over your shoulder, thoughtfully surveying the array of glosses painted on your skin. Then, he tapped his index finger twice to the side of one of the samples, “I like that one.”

“Yeah?” You crane your neck to cast a coy gaze over your shoulder at him, fluttering your lashes for effect. “Buy it for me and I’ll let you kiss it off me.”

He knew you were absolutely serious by the mischievous grin and twinkle in your eyes. Wonwoo nodded in agreement, his eyes dark, and pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head. He adjusted so his lips lightly grazed the shell of your ear, sending that fuzzy feeling down your neck and spine.

“Pick three.”

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