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hwan-g · 2 years

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DARLING. kim seungmin — 김승민

pair. bookshop owner! seungmin x f. reader | warnings. profanity, angst, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex, slight exhibitionism | genre. dark academia, romance, love at first sight | word count. 8k

tags. @ughbehavior (@straywrds), @cb97percent, @j-0ne25, @hyuneater, @hyun-bun, @choigore, @danyxthirstae01, @hellishmoons, @lix-ables, @skz317cb97.

a/n. this was supposed to be out for his bday, but life happened. nevertheless, hope you guys enjoy!! reblogs are great, all writers appreciate them incredibly 🤍

synopsis. it hasn’t stopped raining for weeks. as you enter his life, as you walk out of it. he just needs one chance with you.

Cold, empty—wet.

A city devoid of sun, in a constant state of mourning. Century old buildings with their Victorian architecture and smell of humidity, the eternal reconstruction that makes it impossible to enter them, a church with no door, a river without bed, a shop with nothing to sell. They might as well be part of the scenery, now and forever. Occupied space and not much else.

There had been a point in time, though, and this is the part that’s important to Seungmin. There had been a time when these grand structures held great power over people—artists, especially. Endless sketches of the fabrications can be found in the Public Library, a place he used to visit quite frequently before he opened his business. Blueprints of the interior, books about the conformation and infrastructure going on and about continually, pages creating volumes, creating noteworthiness, establishing history.

He wonders if you’ll come today.

Kim Seungmin was born in Seoul, Korea on September twenty-first to a doctor mother and architect father. He strived tirelessly for most of his childhood and adolescent life for more than adequate grades, and a clean record, and when it was deemed appropriate, on the day after his seventeenth birthday, he left for London to join his sister at the University of Cambridge, an exemplary student with a bright future. He surprised everyone when instead of following in the footsteps of his parents and going for Medicine or Architecture, he chose Engineering with History of Art as his minor. A respectable career, granted, but not what he was supposed to do—not what had been predetermined for him.

Four years of nothing but rain, libraries, books, and dorm life, he’d finally graduated with Honors, and went to join the real world, with its many offers, all miserable and soul consuming. It didn’t take long for the masks to fall, the pretenses to seize. Seungmin was fucking over it, wanted nothing more to do with the path he’d led for all those years, nothing to do with his parents’ expectations, the appearances to be kept, the role he had to play, to maintain, so they can boast and gloat, and fill their bellies in their private fucking golf clubs, to their insufferable little friends with the pretty daughters, and the arranged marriages.

Yeah, fuck no.

What he did alternatively—he took a loan out. He opened a bookshop in Pimlico overlooking the Thames, and he never looked back. He lived with three roommates in a crammed-up apartment on Winchester Street, a tiny room with a twin bed, a desk and a refrigerator, until he was able to stand on his feet, and move somewhere nicer, somewhere private, and do not get him wrong, that took two entire years—years of learning the ropes of handling a business, of making orders, of studying his crowd and getting a feel of the area, and even then, sales weren’t booming, they weren’t even fucking flickering, till more café’s opened up, bringing people towards that part of the river, the hibernating one, with the sleepy tree branches looming over Seungmin’s head every time he walked to work. It was hard, being independent. But he did an excellent job hiding it, and after a while…well maybe he was just a natural pretender.

Eventually he got a bike. It was a used, secondhand thing, and he had to change the chain on it, but after that it worked just fine, so it was enough for him. With a ‘help wanted’ sign under his arm, pedaling the ten-minute ride to his shop, his only stop the local bakery where he purchases his warm cappuccinos and apple strudels every morning. The co-owner of the place, Han Jisung, always asks the same question upon arrival—the usual, then?

The usual. Seungmin was a creature of habit from a young age. He had to have a plan, an extensive list of steps to be taken, a routine. He thinks his life would’ve turned out completely different if he wasn’t like this; he would’ve ended up working a corporate job, a nine to five, sitting on a desk with a suit and tie, holding a briefcase, that kind of thing. Something simple, mind numbing. Instead, he chose the calendar, the extra assignments, the sleepless revisions. All which ended with him thousands of miles away, managing an establishment with no outside help. The point was—he needed to find someone immediately. He couldn’t possibly bear to manage everything on his own anymore, what with the seminars and people going in and out in a regular stream, only pausing for a couple hours at lunch time.

Sometimes, the strudel would go to waste. There’d be no time. Still, the usual. Why bother switching something that’s worked so well for so long?

“It’ll be raining for weeks, I heard. Better get yourself a raincoat if you want to keep riding that rusty bike of yours,” his friend advised him, handing him his order with a tight-lipped smile.

Seungmin mirrored his expression. “Will do, mate. Thanks for this.”

“No problem. Hey, don’t forget—you, me, the guys. Friday evening. Drinks at The Morpeth Arms.”

Here’s the thing. Seungmin never forgot, he wasn’t the forgetful type; in fact, he had a spectacular memory, something that helped him immensely during his academic career, and earned him a few nods of amazement, the casual ‘memory of an elephant, this one.’ No, Seungmin just hated social events, especially the ones that included drinking yourself into a stupor, traveling in packs holding on for dear life, and paying an enormous amount of money just for your liver to turn black later on. He’d rather be at home, eating comfort soup, watching his home country’s drama shows, and falling asleep on the couch, glasses inadvertently positioned on the very tip of his nose, every single time.

Yeah, Seungmin never forgot. He just had other things to do. Something warned him though, that he might not be able to get out of this one. Undeniably so. He’s bailed on his friend group more than two times in a row, had no good excuse for it today.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied, waving a quick goodbye, and making a run for it.

“Don’t just see, Kim Seungmin. Do!” he heard the boy yelling after him, but he had already passed the threshold of the bakery, securing his things in the basket on the front of the bike.

Jisung was a force to be reckoned with. Same age as him, of Korean descent as well, a graduate of the Royal Academy of Culinary Arts, he took over his mother’s bakery and revamped the entire place, a smart move, which turned out to work in his favor, tripling the monthly profits in the first six months of reopening. Things seemed to just…go well for him, whatever he did, something Seungmin envied, but tried his hardest to learn from. It's always been him, Seungmin, and Hyunjin, an Art major, currently in his last year of school, ever since he came to England. Jisung had an ex-girlfriend attending Education classes at the same university as the bookshop owner, and Hyunjin would tag along only with the promise that he’d be able to stay in the premises and sketch the gardens.

Eccentric at times, the two of them, but the interesting kind, the kind that makes you want to stick around just to witness where it is all heading. Although they could get quite annoying when they wanted to…

He unlocks the wooden door with the glass pane, the intense smell of books hitting him at once. Moving in the familiar area, he makes sure to secure his bike along the wall, so it doesn’t slip and hurt any customers, and goes to turn on the lights from the panel in the back, resting his breakfast on top of the checkout secretaire.

The small bookshop lights up like a tree at Christmas, the fairy lights he’d installed earlier in the year hanging gracefully amongst the bookshelves running from floor to ceiling, stacks upon stacks decorating each section, all alphabetized and in categories, all carrying a purpose. Seungmin fixes his glasses on his face, running a careful hand through his parted hair, before removing his brown coat, rolling the sleeves of his white, crisp shirt high up on his forearms, and getting to work.

There’s a sort of ambience he particularly enjoys, a specific scent to accompany the unique odor of books, of yellowed out pages or alternately, of freshly published novels, recently sewn together, a big section of them in front of the big window as soon as you enter, with an exclusive segment of Seungmin’s Top Ten Picks of the Month. More lights along the walls, lantern looking designs, made specifically to give off a vintage overtone to his business, and a couple velvet armchairs in the corners, with decent sized tables, and candles on each side to provide a moment of relaxation for the customers.

Cinnamon and vanilla. A tiny tea and coffee cart next to his workspace for anyone that cared for it, always filled and ready to be taken advantage of. When Seungmin cared for something, he took it to the absolute extremes, made it part of him entirely, took care of it tenderly, tended to it regularly. This is why, he thinks, he succeeded in marketing this place. Because it isn’t just a means of income for him, because he’s genuinely a book lover, an avid reader. Because this is the inside of his soul, perfect to a T.

He starts the playlist on his tablet, lowers it to a gentle hum, and stands for a minute, taking in the warm palette of colors around him, sipping on his coffee, tasting the apple wrapped in puff pastry. It’s exquisite, as always, Han really has a fucking talent, he thinks as he peals the sticker off the sign he picked up from the printer shop earlier, sticking it on the storefront window, capital black letters in Times New Roman looking outside.

Hopefully, someone will show up within the week. In the case no one’s interested, well—he’s fucked. No plan B there. He counts on the broke students pacing up and down these streets daily to fill in the position. No one else in their right mind would work at a bookshop, of all places of employment, and for that he won’t dare fault them, not one bit. He can pay a fair wage, but it’s nothing to start a proper life, he’s aware of that. It doesn’t change the fact.

A little after ten, it starts raining; the fat, gray clouds he saw looming over him on his way there, finally giving way to fat droplets of water, drenching everything in their wake, a blurry watercolor painting. Seungmin sighs, leaning back on his chair, as he checks off inventory and researches up-and-coming authors to feature for next month. He accepts that it might be a slow day, and gets comfortable in his seat, yawning and stretching his limbs.

You enter in disarray, dripping water everywhere, closing a bright colored umbrella halfway in your attempt to shut the door behind you. The tote bag is the first thing he notices, it looked heavy on your shoulder, worn down. Then your coat, a deep emerald green, an entire forest, how it looks from above, and then finally your face as you turn to him, your expression bewildered, staring down at him like a deer in headlights, slightly confused, but not lost, not entirely.

There you are.

“Good morning,” he greets, no other words present in his brain. How peculiar. He adds a soft smile, for good measure.

Normal. Nice job, Kim Seungmin.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” you say, and he guesses you refer to the rain, so he nods, watching you observe his establishment with curious eyes, leaving your umbrella behind as you walk over to the bookshelves. “It smells nice here. Are you the owner?”

Seungmin stirs, stands up straight, his tablet forgotten in his hands. “Yes,” he mutters, doesn’t sound sure of it. “Yes, I am,” he repeats, louder this time.

You hum and disappear behind a row. He finds himself leaning to find you again, stare at you a bit longer. He snaps out of it almost immediately, clearing his throat. Three things, he grounds himself.

One, the beautiful girl from last time had just entered his shop, yet it felt more like she’d shook through the foundations of the building and was coming for his very life.

Two, said pretty girl rendered him stupid two seconds in your interaction. What did that say about him as a person? He wasn’t usually like this. He’s had dates, and girlfriends, but they never felt like this—a blow to his stomach.

Three. He absolutely fucking needed to learn your name.

“Are you looking for anything specific?” he asks, nervous, wanting to cut through the tension he felt overtaking his entire body.

“Mythology classics!” your voice is an echo, a perfect ring of a pitch, reverberating through him.

He gets up at once, jumping at the chance to be useful to you, and crosses the shop, closing the distance between you. You’re skimming through a thick book unrelated to what you’ve just told him, your eyes moving on the pages. He doesn’t dare disturb you, not at first, but then the more he looks at you, the more he can feel his heart attempting to jump out of his fucking chest, so he deems it dangerous business, and breaks the silence. Your hair is wet, he finds, he sees. He wants to dry it for you.

Dangerous fucking business.

“Those would be on the other side, after poetry,” he informs you, and your gaze devastates him. It’s bright, it’s glorious, it’s a place he’d want to explore, dive into, and lose himself forever.

It’s looking up at him, waiting for him to lead the way. He blinks and moves. Your perfume is something light and floral and Seungmin wants to offer you coffee with sugar, give you books for half off, hire you part time, let you consume him. What a strange feeling to have for an absolute stranger, serving your heart on a silver platter over a mere ‘hello,’ and hoping they’ll accept it.

It terrifies the living shit out of him.

“Thank you for showing me. I loved this place when I came last time—I thought you just worked here. It’s hard to find what I’m looking for elsewhere,” you give him an excited smile, bending at the knees in front of the small section to pick out what you need.

He wants to know everything about you. “Are you a student?”

“English lit, fourth year. Aha!” you jump up, and Seungmin steps back, surprised. You wave the paperback cover in his face. “The Oresteia. Need to write a dissertation on it.”

Seungmin speaks as if in a trance, quoting the play he knows by heart. “‘This was always going to happen. She’s been dead since the beginning.’”

You’re beaming, buzzing, electrocuting him. Then you go right back down, your search not over yet. “You’d read this? It is quite extensive, is it not, and you need to watch out for the translations, some are over complicated, and hard to understand…”

“I enjoy the classics,” he admits, shyly. “You’re welcome anytime around here. To browse, or…whatever. And if you can’t find something, let me know. I’ll order it for you.”

“You’re too kind, bookshop owner, aren’t you?”

Seungmin stares, stares, stares—at the top of your head, at your elegant hands reaching for the spines of the books, flipping them over, inspecting them. He prided himself on his eloquence, his extensive knowledge of words, his friends sometimes teased him, called him a ‘walking dictionary,’ but what does he do with all this, when he must force his throat to open, unable to voice those same words he’s studied over the years, grown familiar with. They’re all traitors to him now, he will never depend on them again. Ridiculous, what’s happening.

You’re a customer. He shouldn’t be treating you any more than, any different. Why then did that one, singular smile of yours make a home in him, right under his ribcage? He pictured butterflies erupting behind you, wild in color, beautiful in their movement, flying too close to the fairy lights. This was unreasonable. It would wreak havoc in him, rearrange his world view, have him fantasize about things that could not be, should not be. Your lips, he thinks.

Cherry flavored.

“What’s your name?” he caved in. He wanted to pull you up, feel you under his touch, see for himself if you were real.

You got up once again, two more books in your hands, as you tilted your head in question, strands of hair falling in front of your perplexed face. “Do you always ask your customers for their names?”

Seungmin swallowed. He’d been caught. What he had—honesty. “Only you.”

You smiled again. He almost clenched his chest. “Good save. I’m (Y/N).”

He repeated it internally. (Y/N), (Y/N), (Y/N) …he imagines it rolling off his tongue, your body under his, those delicate wrists pinned above your head, whispering it to you again, and again, and again.

Fuck him.

“Seungmin,” he extends his hand for you to take, trying really hard to conceal what contact with you would do to him.

He’s defenseless against his own desires, he realizes. He’s never wanted to take someone as his own so badly before. His mind was in overdrive, completely overwhelmed. You’ve exposed him, laid him bare—have your way with him. He’d do anything, he decides right then and there. Anything. Say the word and he’s yours.

You take it, kickstarting a whole new series of events and catastrophes inside him.

“Well, Seungmin, I’m done here, and I have class in about ten minutes, but I’ll pass by again soon, yeah? Ring me up, won’t you?”

You brush past him walking up to the register, and he’s left watching your figure slip away from him, so easily, no further regard to him, that forest green coat of yours flowing around you, your boots stomping with certainty. A fucking vision, you were. Stomping your way into his shop, into his life, into his heart. Oh, what is reason? What are words?

Metamorphoses, The Oresteia, Theogony. What you purchase. He hands you the books, per your request, and you slide the tote bag down to your arm, shoving the books in there at once. He watches all this, in awe, speechless, afraid to let you go, knowing he can’t beg you to stay longer. It’d be weird. And slightly creepy, he thinks but it’s more of an afterthought. He notices he doesn’t really care—anyone that would grant him the wish to stare at you more, to marvel at your cute features.

“It was nice to meet you!” You grab the umbrella again and rush out of his life, the same you stumbled in.

He watches in mystified delight.

‘Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient,’ he remembers reading once.

He becomes half water. He waits.

Friday comes. Seungmin decides to go to the Arms, straight for them, no second thought about it, one and done, but then he procrastinates getting dressed, looks for his watch for ten minutes, and his keys are nowhere to be found, so he takes that as a sign he shouldn’t go. It’d be bad if he went. He shouldn’t go.

Then he remembers he doesn’t believe in the signs of the universe and locks his apartment behind him.

Two beers, then he’ll go home, he tells himself. Just enough so his friends can’t say anything to him, can’t be mad at him, will stop calling him incessantly, whining about how he’s neglecting them so, and what kind of a mate are you, Kim, not a very good one, eh?

Seungmin thinks he’s a pretty good lad, actually. He helped Hyunjin move this past summer and has offered many a solution to Jisung’s never-ending on-and-off relationship with that indecisive girlfriend of his. Hasn’t committed a crime in his life, not even a petty one, not a traffic light. He’s never littered in all the years he’s been conscious about his person. He’s been an upstanding citizen, and a supportive friend. He’s just a bit of a homebody, and when has that ever hurt anyone, really.

The pub is filled to the brim by the time he arrives, incredibly loud, with a game playing in the background. He finds Jisung easy enough and goes to him, to that table he frequents all the way to the wall by the bar and slips his coat off wearing it on the back of the chair.

“Couldn’t have picked a Sunday, yeah?”

Jisung claps his shoulder and shakes his head. “You’d complain about any day of the week, Min, so just sit here and look pretty like you do. Hyunjin’s bringing us drinks.”

The baker’s hair had faded to a light brown from the August sun back in Seoul, his yearly vacation, and just as Seungmin is about to make a joke about it, Hyunjin enters his vision holding three pints of beer, muttering excuse me’s to the table next to them. Blonde hair, soft looking cardigan, tall, long limbs and all, full scholarship artist-to-watch-out-for Hwang Hyunjin, on his way to an amazing career.

“Would you look at who the cat dragged in—my God, Kim Seungmin, is that really you? Gracing us with your majesty’s presence? I must be dreaming!”

His ‘majesty’ sighed and grabbed the beer, an unamused look on his face. “You know, surprisingly, this isn’t making me want to show up any more than it makes me want to dump both of you and find new friends. About time, I say,” he drawled. “Cheers!”

The two men looked at each other and burst out laughing. “Cheers, fuck it,” Jisung exclaimed.

Hyunjin turned elegantly in the chair, legs crossed, mischievous expression on. “What have you been up to, huh? Who’s the girl?”

Seungmin froze, then reassured himself they had no idea about you, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose—a habit that gave him away. The blonde ‘aha!’’d and bumped his elbow against Jisung’s, giddy as ever.

“See, I knew it.”

Jisung didn’t look particularly convinced, though. “Where would he even meet a girl, Hyun? The only dates he’s been on for the past year have been with his TV.”

“Ouch, bro.”

He wasn’t wrong, yet Seungmin wanted to let him know—about the girl that walked into his bookshop, has swept him off his feet. Just so he stops talking shit, just so it can finally set on him; that you’re real, that you happened. How you will never stop happening from now on.

Instead, he scoffed. “Fuck you, Han. You’re one to talk with that toxic shit you’re pulling.”

Jisung had the audacity to look shocked, and even appalled at the accusation. “I’m hurt you think I’m somehow at fault with how I’m being treated. I should just break it off once and for all, show you fuckers.”

Hyunjin casually sipped on his beer, palmed a few sunflower seeds. “It’s not about showing us—it’s about showing yourself, baby.”

Seungmin chuckled at that, chuckled even harder at Jisung’s blown out face, with the puffy cheeks and the big, wide eyes. He’d missed this, how carefree it all felt. It brought back memories, reasons why these people were close to him, why he could never get rid of them. They kept him sane. And gained him points with the ladies—Jisung’s humor, and Hyunjin’s angel features were a double threat. He just completed the group with the boy next door vibe, and sharp styling choices.

“Where’s Jeongin?” he asks, opening the bag of crisps laid out on the table.

“Late night studying, he’s already driving himself against a wall,” Hyunjin replies, a seed between his teeth.

“Chris has a late session, as well,” Jisung adds. “Music majors—perfectionists.”

It was at that point that you walked in. Seungmin hadn’t noticed you, not until his friends looked towards the door, and then looked again, making him curious. It was indeed you, he concluded after blinking several times, you, the most beautiful fucking girl in there, searching for empty tables with—a guy. A guy taller than you, taller than him, and fuck him, he didn’t need to see that, he didn’t have to know who you hung out with, if you had a boyfriend and how long you’d been together—he could do without all those things.

But now they’re overtaking all available space in his mind. Now there’s green inside him, eating away, molding, rotting away everything, and he’s jealous, he’s jealous, he wants you, he wants you alone, single, to himself, forever—

“She’s cute, no?” Jisung comments and nudges him.

For a moment, just for a moment, Seungmin takes off his glasses and glares at his best friend, filled with fury and green, green, green, but then he comes to his senses, reasons that Jisung hasn’t got a clue who you are, what you are to Seungmin, and so with that he breathes. He breathes and downs his beer, fuck the crisps, fuck the plan.

“It’s her,” he confesses.

Hyunjin leans in, suddenly very interested, and Jisung furrows his eyebrows, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”

Seungmin looks at you again, sees the hand around your waist, the casualness of the movement, and doesn’t want to jump into conclusions, doesn’t want the conclusions to jump him, but he’s fairly certain, he’s almost a hundred percent—

“The girl that’s kept me away, let’s say.”

At first, “No fucking way,” but then Hyunjin studied his friend’s expression, the unwavering gaze, the set of his mouth, the defeated slump of his shoulders, and his head tilted, his own mouth hung open, stared.

“I’ll be fucking damned,” he deadpanned.

“But who’s that dude, then?” Jisung questioned, hanging off the edge of his seat, thirsty for the gossip.

“No idea.”

“How’d you meet her?”

“Customer.”

“Kim Seungmin!” Hyunjin gasps, a hand on his chest, over his heart. “The scandal!”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “Don’t listen to him. Is she aware of your feelings?”

Just as Seungmin was about to answer, the entire pub breaks out in boo’ing, the team on the TV losing dramatically, the place vibrating, and his fists tighten at the sound, his whole body alert, aware of you, in the same space as him, outside of the magic of his bookstore, outside of the owner/customer dynamic.

“I’ve only seen her twice, Han. My feelings don’t even make sense to me.”

A devilish smirk spread across the blonde’s face. “I think you want to fuck her, Min. This sounds like an attraction to me.”

Jisung slaps his hand on the table and points at his face, nodding his head. “That’s an excellent observation, my dear Hyun. Kim, you just need to get her out of your system.”

Seungmin groans and gets up, grabbing his empty glass of beer. “Shut the fuck up. Anyone need a refill?”

The men glance at each other’s half empty beers, slightly concerned. “We’re good, mate.”

The truth was, he had thought about the possibility. What he’s felt for you he hasn’t felt for anyone, not this strong, not this constant, even in your absence, especially in your absence. You should’ve been just another English literature student shopping for books to him. That should’ve been it.

It wasn’t. It didn’t feel like it could be.

Waiting for the beer, he dared a peek at you. You sat with your back facing him, your head thrown back at something that guy had said, the other members of your party smiling brightly at you. Your hair was down, moved with you. Seungmin could bring your scent forth in his mind, the flowers, the sweetness that surrounded you. It physically hurt to ignore you, to pretend this wasn’t killing him. He needed more, he needed to pull you away, he needed to vomit all this out; the attraction, as Hyunjin eloquently put it, the heart stabbing, the turning of his stomach—the fucking boner he got first time he saw you in that dainty dress of yours.

He needed you to know, to make a decision. He wouldn’t sit still, there’d be no sleep for him until he did something about it, until you were aware of this, whatever the fuck it was, also.

“I’ll come back for this,” he informs the bartender, and his feet carry him before he’s even concluded thinking about it before he even sets on it.

“Excuse me,” he says loudly. The entire table turns to him. You turn to him.

“Bookshop owner!” you grin at him, and he’s at ease at once. He doesn’t need anything else. “What a coincidence. How have you been?”

You’re kind, then, you don’t shun him away. He’s chosen well. Seungmin feels his heart blooming, expanding, threatening to take over. You’re kind to him. You don’t know him, not as well as he wanted you to, but you still chose decency. Did he deserve it with the thoughts currently swimming in his head? Probably not.

He spares one glance for the hunk of a guy sitting opposite you, only one, not more than that, because he might be half his size, but Seungmin had always been exceptionally strong whenever he deemed it necessary. Then his eyes are back on you, and God, why did he ever look away?

“I’ve been well,” he touches his glasses. Catches himself. “Could I please steal you for a moment?”

Your eyes widen a bit, hands holding the table, ready to pounce on your feet. “Sure, but why? Is everything okay?”

Seungmin nods, offering you a soft smile and his hand. “Everything’s fine. It’ll only be a moment.”

“Okay,” you turn to your friends. Seungmin looks at his, already staring at him. Hyunjin winks. Seungmin blinks.

“I’ll be back guys.” You grab his hand, bringing him back, setting him on fire.

He tries to hide, push it all down, away from you, because he needs to be careful. One wrong move, he tells himself. One wrong move and that’s it. He opens the door for you, walks out after and into the chill of a September night. At least it’s quiet, at least he can hear himself think. One wrong move, it repeats, one wrong move…

“I apologize for taking you away from your friends,” he starts, walking to the side of the building to stand under a birch tree, almost completely devoid of leaves by that point. You follow, patient, kind.

“Oh, that’s—” you wave your hand, pft’ing. “They’re just classmates. We’ll be working together for a while.”

Just classmates. Seungmin stands up straight to that, in his full height. Just classmates you say, but that hand didn’t look friendly, that hand looked exactly how Seungmin feels about you, protective, territorial. You thought nothing of it, because that’s who you were, he could tell, you didn’t take things too seriously, you were alive, kind, kind, kind, what was another word—innocent.

He licked his lips, gathering the courage required to say what needed to be said, what needed to spill out his chest. He stood close, you stood closer. You were oblivious. For Heaven’s sake. This would be the hardest thing he ever had to utter.

“I—have no other way to say this, (Y/N) so, please just—fuck,” he chokes out a breath, looks you right in the eye. “I’m completely enamored by you. You have all control over this, you can curse me and walk away right now. But you need to know. I want to take you out.”

At first you just stared at him, the words slowly registering in your ears. Then, you opened your mouth to speak—closed it. Then opened it again, taking a step towards him. He remained in his place, hands in his pockets, afraid he’d reach out otherwise. He had no right, not until you gave him permission.

“You’re very handsome, you know that?” you say, placing a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t breathe, he doesn’t think. Your eyes are dark against the backdrop of the moon. Nothing moves. “And sweet, and interesting. I’m—nothing in particular. Seungmin, you’d get bored of me.”

“Never,” he’s quick to retort. “You’ve no idea what you’ve done to me, have you darling? From the moment you walked in my shop—that was it. I was done for.”

You shook your head, your fingers stilling in their caress, your hand goes to drop—his own shoots out, holds it, keeps it there, wills it to stay, desperate to show you.

“You really are very sweet,” you inhale. “No one’s ever said they want to take me out. No one’s asked.”

Seungmin doesn’t understand why, doesn’t want to ponder over it. He’s here now, and he wants you. He’d show you; he swears.

“I’m saying it. Go out with me, darling. If you hate it, you don’t have to see me ever again.”

You smile at that, your lips quivering. “Shame. I really like your bookstore.”

He smiles back. “I really like you.”

You bite your lip, and then you nod. “Okay.” A moment. “Could you kiss me, Seungmin?”

He needn’t be told twice. Pulling you closer by that arm extended on him, he closes in around you, smashing your lips together. It takes everything in him not to groan into your mouth, the softness of you, your smell, all driving him crazy, all intoxicating him, rendering him unable to think straight. You melt into him, something he loves, and he guides the kiss, his arms wrapping around that waist that he’s seen being claimed, bunching the fabric of your shirt in his fist, tightening his grip around you, devouring you.

He'd like to slip inside you, fuck slow, deep strokes into your cunt, bring you into a state of deliriousness with his cock. He can already imagine how good you’d take him, how you’d open for him. Buried in between his thighs—Heaven. Seungmin walks you to the bark of the tree and pushes you against it, deepening the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips, exploring your mouth, tasting the ale you’d been drinking. He’s having incoherent thoughts now, nonsensical things; how he’d like to drink you, let the very flavor of you invade the top of his mouth, fill his senses, allow you to run down his throat, sip into his every pore. Fuck him, he’s whipped, isn’t he?

“There’s no going back from this, darling,” he pants against your mouth. “I’m never getting over you—never getting over this taste.”

You pull him back in. “I don’t want you to,” you whisper, your lips curving.

“Sunday, after six. Come,” he mutters, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding your head in place. You gaze up at him. “Promise me.”

“I do. I promise,” you kiss him again. “I’ll come.” Again, and again, and again.

Another day spent waiting.

By noon Seungmin thinks you won’t show. That it was all a lie, perhaps an illusion of the full moon and one too many drinks. Then he checks out a freshman buying The Iliad, a tote bag on his shoulder, the warm scent of cinnamon coming from the pale cup he’s holding, and he’s sure you will.

You happened, you will.

Oh, to trust that someone won’t drain the blood from your heart. A treacherous road.

He must’ve drank three cups of coffee by the time the stream of customers slows down, signaling lunch time. He digs for the wanted pamphlet in his drawer of take-out menus, and calls the number at once, ordering a barbeque chicken pizza with a side of cheesy bread. As he glances outside, clouds gathering already, the sky gray, dull, Seungmin throws his head back, sighing deeply, and listens to the cashier informing him of his total at the point of delivery.

“Thank you,” he says and hangs up. ‘Do you know if she’ll come,’ he wants to add, but he doesn’t, because that’d be crazy, nonsensical. Still, the question—it stands.

He breaks down boxes, organizes book labels and invoices, and even dusts the shelves. Five pizza slices and a heartburn later, Seungmin sinks back into his chair, and decides that time will not help him today. The anxiety is eating at him, at the tips of him, like a parasite, slowly making him sick, feverish. He won’t be able to keep this up for long, he wishes he’d told you to come earlier, maybe this way this endless questioning would’ve stopped by now, maybe the heartbreak would’ve been easier to swallow with people around. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle closing down shop with no trace of you.

God, the waiting. Seungmin doesn’t like doing this, has only done it once before–he takes the scotch out, a bottle he’s kept since opening this place, and drinks two big gulps of it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he thinks he might have to daydrink his way to getting you out of his mind. And the rejection. And the outline of your body on his. No other way about it. Alcohol or going mad, his two options.

Fuck him.

The clock on the wall behind his desk says five minutes to six. By that point he has no hope, no patience, no heart, no will–no scotch. He drags himself over to the door to flip the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed,’ and he leaves nothing but the fairy lights on, an indication that the shop is closed, but someone’s still inside.

He’s not drunk but he’d like to be. One thing about Seungmin, why he doesn’t like drinking–it does nothing for him. His damn tolerance is too high. He can drink and drink and drink, but it will make no difference. Only thing he’ll be left with is a dehydrated, scratchy throat; more of an annoyance than a relief.

Seungmin sweeps, mops, then proceeds to put every single book in the wrong area back to its original place. That should take him a good while, he thinks, definitely–it doesn’t. It takes him ten minutes, because this is his store, he knows it inside out, he’s done this hundreds of times before, and why aren’t you here? You should’ve been here by now.

The glasses come off. He won’t go down that road, he can handle rejection, he’ll move on, you’re just–well, you’re…unforgettable. Haunting. All he can think about, all he wants, all he craves. Outside is pouring, thunder cracking, always a blurry watercolor painting now describing what’s going on internally, draining away any opportunity of you showing up. He tells himself he’ll stay until the rain calms down, until it’s safe to ride his bicycle.

He tells himself he will never get over you, but that the water will eventually wash you away. It has to. It’s six-thirty and you are nowhere to be found. A little more. He’ll wait a little more. Out of desperation if nothing else. He won’t be afraid to admit. He kissed you, he tasted you. He’ll wait. You’ll come, you have to. You kissed back. You–

You’re standing right there. Drenched, shaking that god awful umbrella, looking through the glass, pushing the door open–spilling into his bookshop like nothing happened. Like before. Like a story repeating itself. Forest green coat, hair sticking to your face, disheveled expression.

“I’m late, aren’t I?”

Are you? Seungmin’s knees almost give way. He exhales shakily, blinking at your drowned figure. You’re not. You’re not. You’re right on time.

“You’re soaking wet,” he notes, and comes back to life, taking long strides towards you.

You chuckle nervously, shivering, apologetic. He grabs the umbrella and leaves it by his bike, his hand staying in yours, tracing your fingers, feeling for himself that you’re really there, that you really came. You look up at him, wide eyed, mouth falling open, studying him.

“Better take this off,” he mutters, and waits for your approval. He removes the coat from your shoulders, shaking off the rain droplets, catching a whiff of that cologne he so adores. He’s a fucking animal, he can’t even be near you without his mind doing a complete one eighty on him.

“I’m sorry,” you start, watching him take care of you. “I…wasn’t sure if I should come.” His hands push your hair back, listening calmly. “Bookshop owner, I don’t–”

“Seungmin,” he cuts you off, his gaze snapping down to meet yours. “Say my name, darling.”

“Seungmin.” It’s breathless, it’s surprising. It’s perfect. His cock twitches in his tailored pants.

He bites his lip. “Will you let me remove your shirt, (Y/N)? You’ll catch a cold if you stay in these clothes.”

A single moment of silence, your eyes clouding with the same intentions. “Yes.”

He expertly undoes the buttons, exposing your white, lacy bra underneath, your breasts deliciously tucked in the cups, better than his dreams, better in every way because it’s reality. Seungmin wants to take his time with you, wants to take you out on a proper date, pay for you, make sure you’re having fun, that you enjoy being with him, establish a connection before he–

He thinks he can’t wait. He thinks if he doesn’t take you right here, right now he’ll fucking die. None of the internal struggle shows on his face. You wiggle off your shirt, and he lifts his arms to remove his vest. Picturing you in his clothes, in his shop, surrounded by your smell, and the smell of vanilla…a fucking dream. His Aphrodite, compliant under his touch, willing, those lips teasing, their pink tint inviting. Fuck it all to Hell. You look absolutely beautiful, the brown of the fuzzy fabric making you appear softer, if that’s even possible. He pulls you into his arms, falling victim to his own wants, his own desires. He holds you tight, your freezing body gradually warming up under his caress, flush against him.

“‘I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself,’” he quotes in your hair, his palm rubbing circles on your lower back, hoping you’d know. That you’d get it.

“Frank Kafka,” you answer with a breathy laugh. “‘What’s happened to me? It was no dream.’”

Something opens in his heart, tears itself out. There’s no stopping it. “My darling,” he whispers, and lifts you up. You gasp, his name falling from those lips. It happens fast, he walks you to the mythology section, in front of the window, a consequence he won’t think of until later, your back hitting the shelves, as your arms circle his neck. Seungmin kisses you, then. What’s there left to do? There are no words to describe this. You taste like rain and hard candy, and his fingers get lost in between your thighs, pushing aside fabric, and feeling the slick of your cunt. All reason escapes him, all but the sensation of your excitement for him on his digits. He kneels down, has to have a taste, needs to, for his sanity. His arm snakes around your ass and keeps you there, as his tongue comes in contact with your leaking pussy, lapping your juices, slurping loudly, shamelessly.

The back of your hand presses against your mouth, moans tearing through anyway. No one’s ever gone down on you, you didn’t even know how it felt, nevermind that it felt like this, wet and embarrassing, but so good, oh my God, so good, fuck, your fingers getting lost in the mop that is his hair, tugging, your breathing ragged, fast, your knees shaking, the smell of books engulfing you–

“You taste like Heaven,” he grunts, and his tongue gets replaced by his hand, as he makes his way back to your mouth. “Taste yourself, darling, see for yourself what you do to me, how am I supposed to stay away when–that’s right, fuck my fingers, go on, my love…”

There’s still water dripping from your hair, and he leans the side of his face on it, enjoying the coolness it provides while his entire body is on fire. You’re everywhere on him, he feels all of you, and his fingers curl inside you wanting that release, craving those broken moans he’s eliciting out of you to get louder, to deafen him, to fill the entire shop and stay, echoing over and over so he never forgets this moment, so he’ll always have you. You’re biting his neck, your nails digging on his shoulders, in his back, falling, going to his belt, coming to the buckle, undoing, all the while coming undone.

Right before you start spasming, he lifts you up again and slips inside you swiftly, cupping your face with one hand, his mouth taking yours in an open-mouthed kiss, cursing at how tight you fit around him. For one second, just one single moment, he does not move, no matter how much you want him to, no matter how you’re wiggling and arching, against all of his thoughts of fucking you into the bookcase to have and admire you whenever he wants. No, he marvels in the way his cock is throbbing inside you, all of you alight, in flames, and only then–only when you mouth his name, staring in his eyes desperately–only then he finally begins thrusting, causing you to wrap your legs around his torso, holding on for dear life.

“Is it supposed to feel like this–God, please, please don’t stop, never stop–”

Seungmin wasn’t planning to. Stopping was the furthest thing from his mind as his hips picked up pace, his thrusts angled, deep and hard, bottoming out every time, skin hitting on skin, your hot breaths mingling, mixing, one one one– You felt exactly how he imagined, and a thousand times better, Christ, your tits perfectly bouncing, your cunt squeezing him closer. Books fall, all around you, the sound of them magnifying what the two of you are doing, what’s in process, an altering of souls, because he knows this will never again be the same for him, this shop without you, it will always be more, more, more, he will fuck you over every surface, he will make you part of him, he swears, you’re never leaving, not when your juices are the only thing that can get him drunk, not when you sound this hot moaning his name, his name, it’s never vibrated through him like this before, a name, you make it holy, you make it matter–

“Cum with me, cum with me Seungmin, please, let me feel you, fuck, fuck, fuck–”

He’s your servant, he would do anything you asked. He comes with a ferocity unknown to him, panting, sweaty, holding on to you, drilling the last bit of cum deep within your walls, his hands holding, squeezing, digging into your waist, forehead on your sternum dropping soft, abenseminded kisses, and you let him. You let him, because you have no idea what the fuck just happened, you only know that it was the best thing, the rightest decision you’ve ever made in your entire life.

“You look so handsome without your glasses,” you compliment him shyly, smiling.

He carefully puts you down, adjusts your skirt, and tucks himself in his pants, before touching the bridge of his nose. There was nothing there. He chuckles, and his arms are around you again. He can’t bring himself not to touch you, can’t find a reason why he should stay away, put some distance. You belong in his arms, he concludes.

You belong with him.

“So, I’m not when I wear them?” he teases, his lips on your forehead.

A weak punch on his stomach. He hufs a laugh, moving back just a breath so he can stare down at your face. You look fucking beautiful. You look like you’re his.

“You’re like a sexy professor with them on, you know what I mean, or like a–”

He kisses you. He’s falling in love. He’s already fallen.

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