#in honor of that one gose episode: ‘you have to count to 10’ ‘I LIED’ i mean even jeonghan was impressed

[hellomyjoy]

happy birthday, mr. wen! (ღ˘ε˘ღ) based on @imagine-svt's super adorable prompt!

The third time it happens, you turn around to stare pointedly at a crown of unruly hair. “Excuse me, sir,” you say.

The tiny wheeze of mirth that escapes from him can only melt your heart so much, is mostly a cause for suspicion, and you watch as large, innocuous eyes peek up at you from beneath a dark sweep of lashes. The corners of his mouth twitch upward.

“Can I help you?” he asks, the light from his phone casting his features as some paradigm of innocence, and you take a moment to consider both the arsenal of replies at your disposal along with the defenses comprising the boy before you.

This lanky, barefaced boy, trying to hide an unnecessarily gleeful expression beneath a cowed head and the frame of his phone. His eyes flicker rapidly between his screen and your face, the archetype of an operative running reconnaissance, and whatever expression he uncovers from you is enough for his nose to crinkle, cheeks to scrunch higher in delight.

Disarming, you decide unwillingly. Much too disarming, the odds tipping far too much into his favor, and this is a skirmish your risk-benefit analysis cannot adequately justify.

And so, in the end, you turn back around. Walk a little more aggressively towards your destination, slippers planting firmly on the wooden floor with every step. Behind you comes the sound of his long strides keeping up much too easily.

One step. Two, three, and you think, unbidden: how did that saying go? Fool me once, fool me twice. But a third time?

From the corner of your eye, you see the tip of his sock-clad toes sneaking forward, a half-step too bold –

A fourth?

– and you spin around before contact can be made, all pretense lost as you tackle him.

Never let it be said that you were an easy conquest. Your hands find the cracks in his armor with practiced ease: the soft, vulnerable spots to his sides, beneath his arms, neck, shoulderblades, and a satisfactory yelp tumbles from him under the assault of your fingers. He stumbles backward, folding in on himself and then onto the ground, phone lost somewhere in the fray.

His words are half-lost beneath gasps and choked laughter, the helpless fluttering of his lashes the unfurling of a white banner. “Wait, wait – ”

Ah, but you do not wait, you take no prisoners, and only when he is supine, chest heaving with the efforts of fending off your attack, do you stop. There is a hummingbird living beneath the delicate surface of his wrists as you encircle them, and you stare down at him, a feline perched smug and calculating atop its windowsill.

“Well?” you demand then, close enough where strands of your hair intermingle with his, his face captured in a soft, entangled web. “Can I help you?”

He stares up at you, flushed, breathless, wide eyes reflecting amber in the afternoon sun, and between the lines of this temporary armistice, you find yourself discovering only breadth enough for the soft stillness of mutual wonder. In this moment, he is an art form hand-painted by the most lovelorn impressionist, the capture of an idée fixe in tiny, detailed thoughts and strokes: a scattering of sunlight across an expanse of forehead, the pulse thrumming against the curve of his neck, that single, familiar stipple of ink above parted lips –

You pause, grip slackening, and it is enough. Too late, you realize the fault in your defenses – a vein of affection resurfacing from forgotten minefields, the proverbial turncoat staring at you across from enemy lines wearing your face. The featherlight brush of his fingers against the back of yours in a claim of premature victory. 

Your tone is a poor semblance of stern and unyielding. “No – ” 

Too late. 

He surges upward, presses his mouth against yours, and you feel the vibration of his swallowed laughter, soft and intimate. He moves on then, his conquest spreading to cover the map of your cheeks, nose, eyelids, forehead, the entirety of your face, before returning to home base. He has long broken free in the fumbling of limbs, and the palms of his hands press warm against your cheeks as he goes in for the kill, one, two, three –

Before pulling back, satisfied. Stares at you with such a glowing look that you cannot help but shy away, and he laughs quietly into the small space between like some shared secret, moves closer to brush his nose against yours.

“Can’t help it. You’re too pretty not to tease,” he whispers, beaming, and now you are the one lying with your back flushed against the floor, one arm draped over your eyes, groaning as you are forced to listen to his victorious crowing above you.

But he is merciful, this infuriating, precious boy – as thoroughly bested as you are, face some unsightly shade that will surely serve as ammunition for weeks to come, you live to fight another day.