Most of my Moots are too nice or don't like conflict, so I will be blunt in their place(s)
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I don't post my own content as of yet, but I may in the future. If you would like to see content that I have co-written as the little devil in someone brain, go check out @writingforstraykids, we have 2 Collab series so far!
[Blue name means we're currently matching] Changing every month on the 1st!!
Chan doesn't quite notice he's doing it at first but after spending so much time with Minho his blinking habits change. Minho doesn't really notice it as well at first and it takes Jisung to point it out one day. Hyunjin’s telling a story that confuses both of them, making them stare at him and blink very slowly trying to make sense of his words. “What the fuck? You two are so in sync it's getting scary,” Jisung suddenly says and they exchange a confused look. “What's that supposed to mean?” Chan asks then. “You started blinking the same way Minho hyung does,” he tells him and at first they don't believe him one word. Until there's a video clip emerging of them sitting next to each other during an interview, trying to process the interviewer’s question. Minho can't help the warm feeling spreading in his stomach seeing how easily Chan adapts to him sometimes.
Speaking of videos, a different one appeared one day, all clips of moments where Chan acted like his silly little foive year old self. Which was fine at first, nothing new about that. Both boys, and well, all the members knew about that particular habit of their leader. And they all found it cute, no matter how annoyed they got when they became their leader’s target to pester -even if they acted like they hated it, don’t believe that for a second-. But what the pair didn’t expect were clips of Minho behaving very similarly following afterwards, that same playfulness housed in the dancer’s body as well. Chan and Minho both just blinked at the screen in disbelief, the air silent for a few minutes, until a strangled noise of realisation escaped Chan. He only now noticed that yes, he’d somehow successfully glued his silly little habit onto Minho, the mere thought making him giddy. The aussie’s partner couldn’t believe it for the next few days, but only until Jeongin pointed out how he was acting, because the poor maknae was being pestered by the cat who was acting like a foive years old suddenly.
Summary: Minho regrets asking you what you want for your birthday, as it turns out to be another cat. Don't blame him, you already have four. After a bit of grumbling, it's your husband who picks one first at the shelter...even though he won't accept your ridiculous name suggestions.
Minho tiredly drags himself up the stairs, his body sore after a long day of teaching the boys their new choreos. He opens the door to your shared apartment, smiling to himself as he spots you at the stove, preparing dinner. He walks up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and buries his face in your back.
“Hey, love,” you greet him happily.
“Hey,” he mutters into the fabric of your soft sweater. He takes a deep breath, taking in your comforting scent.
You reach back with one hand, gently scratching his scalp as you continue cooking. “You okay?”
“Tired,” he answers quietly.
“My poor baby,” you say adoringly and he huffs in protest. “We'll have a nice dinner in a bit and then we can relax, alright?”
“Mhm,” he hums in response. Not wanting to let you go just yet, he stays glued to you until you're done. You gently shove him to the table with a plate and some water. But, you can’t help the chuckle that left your chest as he tiredly shoved food into his mouth. “Stop laughing,” he grumbles and playfully glares at you.
You watch him, amusement in your eyes before speaking up again, “Baby, you said you wanted to know what I want for my birthday, right?” you ask.
“Oh, yeah,” he nods and looks up curiously. “Do you have a special wish?” he asks.
“I want a kitten,” you announce with an adorable grin on your lips. Minho blinks at you, a moment of silence passing in the air before he starts laughing.
“A kitten?” he asks grinning and shakes his head at you. What a silly request, no way you were serious about that. But…
“I…I wasn't joking,” you frown at his reaction. His body stills and his face falls.
“Honey, no. You can't be serious,” he says and stares at you in disbelief. “My love, we just got Cookie.”
“And?” you tilt your head at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion at his words.
“What do you mean ‘and’?!” he asks baffled. “That little rascal just started adjusting to my babies needing their space from time to time.”
“Your babies? So Cookie isn't one of your babies?” you ask, playfully offended.
“Of course he is,” Minho laughs and rolls his eyes at you. “But…oh honey, don't pout at me.”
“I'm lonely when you're at work and I need something to keep me busy! Your babies are sleeping all the time. That leaves me with one kitten, Min,” you explain and huff softly.
“Honey, the love of my life. Please don't do this to me,” he whines softly.
“You said I could have anything I want,” you pout at your husband and cross your arms. “Liar.”
Minho looks at you as if you hit him and puts down his glass. “Did you just-?”
“If we don't keep our promises one of us is going to end up with a broken heart,” you announce and he groans, closing his eyes.
-
“Ohhh he's cute, isn't he?” you ask excitedly, inspecting a little white kitten with big blue eyes.
“Mhm, he is,” Minho nods gently, biting back a sigh as you drag him through the animal shelter. If he could, he'd take them all home with him. That's why he really didn't want to come with you. Minho shoves his hands into his pockets and glances around the room, spotting a cage in the back. Something draws him towards it and he leans down, inspecting the small black kitten lying inside. “What's wrong with him?” he asks the employee waiting nearby.
“Oh, he lost part of his tail in an accident. So no one wants to take the little guy,” she tells him, a hint of sadness in her voice. His heart breaks a little at her words.
“Y/nnie,” he calls out for you and you quickly walk over. Minho points at the little kitten and looks at you with sad, big eyes. “What about him?”
“That one?” you ask surprised, leaning down to inspect the kitten. “What makes him so special?” you ask curiously, wondering what suddenly changed his mind.
“He just needs someone to love him for who he is. Even if he's flawed in most people's eyes,” he says and only then you notice the short tail. “He needs a safe home, full of love.”
Your heart slightly pinches hearing him. You can't help but pull him into a hug. “I want him.” You whisper.
“Yeah?” he asks softly, eyes shining brightly.
“I choose him,” you nod and smile at him softly. “He reminds me of someone…even though there's nothing wrong with your-.”
“Y/N!” he protests, eyes growing wide. “Shh, you menace,” he giggles and you chime in. “You're so stupid, I love you,” he says before connecting your lips in a sweet, but short kiss.
“Mhm, I love you too,” you laugh. Minho smirks at you happily. “But what if I found another kitten I like and found cuter?”
Minho blinks at you before closing his eyes in defeat. “We'll take them both,” he grits out between his teeth.
“I’m sorry, what was that? Speak up, love,” you tease him with a smirk.
“Which one?” he asks tiredly and rolls his eyes fondly as you show him the white kitten from before. “You're so predictable sometimes.”
“I don't care, I want her,” you say.
“Her?” Minho laughs. “She'll have a tough time with five brothers.”
“She's a princess and they'll treat her like one,” you shake your head at him.
“Mhm sure,” he snorts, gently cradling your head. “Well…you happy now?”
“Are you?” you ask gently.
Minho smiles at you sweetly. “We're married with now six cats. Sounds perfect to me. Why wouldn't I be happy, love?” he asks, giving you another loving kiss. “I started with three, you doubled it.”
“Stop pretending you don't love all the attention,” you laugh and grab his hand happily. “Let's go sort everything out?”
“Yeah, okay,” he nods. “Any names in mind?”
“I'm thinking Channie for the black one, Jinnie for the white one,” you tease.
“Absolutely not.” He denies it immediately.
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Thinking heavvyyy about a situation with Hao where he’s constantly getting into trouble with the police and you’re having to bail him out all the time. One night you have an important event after work that you can’t skip out on and right as you pull up to the event, you get an all too familiar call. Tired of him, you decide to let him stay the night while you attend your event. The following happens when you finally leave the event and pick him up.
You enter the police station sticking out like a sore thumb. Dressed in a skintight black dress and red bottoms you march your way back to the back of the precinct. It’s your third time in here this week and the fact that you know this place like the back of your hand, has you in a fit of rage. The sound of your heels echoing the anger that is seething off your body. You make eye contact with the watch guard, and he lets out a chuckle — he also knows who you’re here for. Making his way to the holding cell he laughs at Minghao, who is staring daggers into you.
“Your lady is pissed Xu. You’re in for one tonight,” the officer laughing while unlocking the cell to let your boyfriend out. You roll your eyes and immediately turn to head back to the car. Once you’re both outside, you turn around to face him, the anger is still evident from your face.
“Seriously Hao?!”
“Me? What about you?! I can’t believe you left me here all night!”
“Serves you fucking right! That’s the third time this week. And you know I had an important work event tonight! I had to let you stay here so for once I could at least keep track of where you are!”
“Ugh babe if you’d seen the guy—” You hold your hand up to stop him.
“I don’t wanna fucking hear it. Get in the car, I want to go home.” He whines and tries to say something in protest, but you stop him again.
“Xu. Minghao. You know I don’t like to repeat myself. Get. In. The. Fucking. Car. Before I take you back in there and let you stay another 24 hours.” Searching for any doubt in your eyes, his shoulders slump when you show no sign of mercy. He gets in the car and so do you but not without a slam of your door. You stew in silence on the drive. When you finally pull into the driveway, you don’t immediately get out, instead turning to face him.
“You know I’m fucking pissed at you right?” you growl out. He nods nonchalantly without saying a word. You scoff and head inside your shared apartment. This whole ordeal has you craving a drink, so you head to the kitchen. Before you’re able to grab anything, you feel Hao push up behind you.
“Babyyyy”
“What.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Gonna have to do a lot better than that for me to forgive you.”
“Name your price,” he says smirking against your neck. You know his game and you’re more than willing to play. Turning around you push him back towards the kitchen counter.
“Want you to beg for my forgiveness,” you sultrily say, a devilish glint clouding your eyes.
Immediately getting the hint, he drops to his knees and starts to kiss up your thighs. Your hand finds purchase in his hair, and you give a not so gentle tug.
“I said beg, didn’t I?”
The sting of your pull has him letting out a low groan. He lands another couple of kisses on your thighs; each kiss punctuated with a “Please”. He pushes your dress up to be met with the sight of your bare pussy, already slick from the kisses. Another groan bubbles from his throat.
“Baby can I make you feel good please? Let me show you how sorry I am,” he pleads. The sight of Minghao on his knees looking up at you has your knees buckling. To steady yourself you tug him by his hair and grind your lips against his face.
“If you don’t make me cum within the next five minutes, you’re sleeping on the god damn couch tonight” you warn. Without a second thought, Minghao is diving into your folds. Grabbing one of your legs he throws it over his shoulder to fully immerse himself in you. Sucking on your throbbing clit like he’d absolutely die without it. He pulls away to praise you and take a breath.
“Fuck baby, you taste like heaven. Please cum on my face. I know I’ve been bad, but I need your pretty pussy to make a mess on my face.” He goes back to eating your pussy, this time using two of his fingers to fuck you. Curling his fingers just right, the sounds coming from you and him are downright sinful. He continues the delicious assault on your pussy and within seconds he’s bringing you to the edge. Tears brimming in your eyes, you’re telling him how close you are.
“I know baby. I know how good it feels. Let go for me. C’mon pretty girl, make a mess I know you can.” His words are what bring you over and you cry out his name over and over. The tears in your eyes, falling down your face. While you’re in bliss he doesn’t stop drinking you in. You have to physically pull him off you so you can catch your breath.
After a few minutes of silence, he comes up to stand next to you. Holding you up in his arms, he plants a kiss on your cheek.
“Sooo…”
“Hmm?” you breathe out, still coming down from the high.
“Can I sleep in the bed tonight?” he jokes.
“Shut up and take me to bed Hao,” you roll your eyes as you pull him into your bedroom.
whoops i got carried away and this was way longer than i originally expected
(All Omegas have pussys, free use, omegas as pets, non con body modification, public sex ) This is a very very horny thought and Definitly hard kinks but what about an au where omegas are basically free use pets and rare and ot6 who are well off enough to afford not one but two omegas- jk and m/c.
And one of the very very first things they do to the m/c when they get her is give her a clit piercing to match jk’s 🥰 they give her anesthetic because the poor thing was just so frightened when she learned that jk had asked very nicely if she was going to get some clit jewelry too and the alphas aren’t cruel enough to make her do it without anesthetic. She’s their pup afterall.
And I’m just thinking of all the ways they probably use it to their advantage- using a chain and lock on it so that she keeps her settling plug in or even locking her and jk togesther when they start getting mouthy or even when the pack want them confined to the nest (usually as a punishment) the omegas can’t go anywhere when their all snug up against each other- when even the smallest shift of their hips make the other moan.
Bonus points if they don’t even realize it could be used as a punishment if the m/c and jk where rubbing their pussys togeather and accidentally got caught togeather and the others didn’t find them until later. Or if they have to get chained up to the nest at night and wake up the alphas to unlatch them so that they can pee, a hand sneaking under shorts to fiddle with the clasp that they can’t find in the dark 👀 or maybe it’s standard and whenever they’re in public it has to be chained to their collars too, and anyone’s allowed to give it a tug 👀
Or if jk and the m/c don’t like each other at first (omegas aren’t used to having to share) and they also do it to help them bond- locking them together by their clits when they fight as a time out. And it’s hard to be mad at each other when every time you shift your clits rub, and they basically can’t move apart without it hurting so they have to stay with their pussys pressed against each other until their alphas think they’re sorry enough.
Usually because the m/c is dripping all over jk’s abs and he’s shaming her for how wet she’s getting because really she doesn’t have any control does she? And it surely can’t be that sensitive even though it’s a fresh piercing and it’s a little pathetic that she can’t even tolerate a bit of tugging 🙄 (but really is just mean and shameless into humiliating the m/c and proving how much of a better omega he is and really the pack should let him hold the end of her leash and tug it as much as we wants.
A/N: I was watching Witch's Court when I got struck with the thought of lawyer San and wrote this. tmi: I desperately need to eat breakfast
====================================
The coffee maker in the break room had been broken for three days, which explained why you were currently surviving on pure spite and the emergency energy drinks hidden in your desk drawer. It did not, however, explain why your law partner Choi San was currently lecturing Mrs. Suh about her grandson’s college fund instead of focusing on her very winnable divorce settlement.
“San,” you hissed through gritted teeth, sliding up beside him in the client meeting room. “Can I see you outside for a moment?”
San’s warm smile never wavered as he patted Mrs. Suh’s hand reassuringly. “Of course, Mrs. Suh, just give us one minute. Would you like some more tea?”
The moment the conference room door clicked shut behind you, you whirled around. “What are you doing in there?”
“Talking to our client?” San’s eyebrows furrowed in that infuriatingly innocent way that made him look like a confused puppy. A very attractive, very annoying puppy.
“You’re talking to her about her grandson’s student loans! She’s paying us three hundred dollars an hour to get her the best possible divorce settlement, not to be her financial advisor!”
“She’s stressed about her future,” San protested, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. “Her husband controlled all the finances for thirty years. She needs to know someone cares about her wellbeing beyond just the legal case.”
You stared at him. “San. She’s about to walk away with half of a multimillion dollar tech company. I think her student loan concerns are pretty well covered.”
“Money isn’t everything!”
“IT IS WHEN WE’RE LAWYERS!”
The shouting match was interrupted by Yeosang poking his head out of the neighboring office. “Are you two arguing again? I have a client call in five minutes and I’d prefer not to explain why our walls are shaking.”
You and San immediately stepped apart, both straightening your professional facades.
“We’re having a strategic discussion,” you said primly.
“She’s being heartless again,” San muttered.
“I am not heartless! I’m efficient!”
“You literally made a client’s crying widow take notes during her consultation!”
“She needed to be organized! Grief is temporary, but legal deadlines are forever!”
Yeosang sighed deeply. “You know what? I’m billing you both for therapy if you don’t figure this out. My clients are starting to ask if our law firm doubles as a couples counseling service.”
"Shut up, no one said that." you both say at the same time.
====================================
Despite your fundamental philosophical differences about client care, you and San had developed a bizarre rhythm that somehow… worked.
Take the Yang custody case, for example. You’d spent three weeks building an airtight argument for why Mr. Yang deserved primary custody, complete with financial records, character witnesses, and a devastating cross examination strategy for his ex wife’s lawyer.
San, meanwhile, had spent three weeks taking Mr. Yang out for coffee, letting him cry in the office supply closet, and somehow convincing him to attend co parenting therapy sessions.
The result? You’d won the case, but more importantly, Mr. Yang had voluntarily agreed to a shared custody arrangement that kept both parents in his daughter’s life.
“I still don’t understand how you do it,” you admitted, watching San organize thank you cards from former clients on his desk. His office looked like a greeting card store had exploded. Flowers, photos of client families, and what appeared to be a hand-knitted scarf from Mrs. Chen.
Your office, by comparison, looked like a law library had been hit by a tornado. But it was an organized tornado.
“Do what?” San looked up from arranging yet another bouquet.
“Get them to actually listen to good advice. I can give clients the most brilliant legal strategy in the world, but if they’re not emotionally ready to hear it…”
San’s expression softened. “You know what your problem is?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me even if I say no.”
“You care so much about winning the case that you forget the client needs to feel heard first. They can’t focus on legal strategy when they’re drowning in emotions.”
"They should seek therapy first then." you oppose as an instinct. He knows this, so he stays silent and watches you while you consider, absently straightening the stack of case files that had been perfectly straight already. “And you know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You care so much about making them feel better that you sometimes forget they hired us to win, not to be their therapist. Mrs. Suh didn’t need a shoulder to cry on. She needed her husband to pay child support.”
San laughed, and the sound made something flutter in your chest that you steadfastly ignored. “So what you’re saying is…”
“I guess... We balance each other out,” you finished reluctantly. “Your bleeding heart keeps me from turning into a robot, and my ruthless pragmatism keeps you from adopting every client.”
“Don’t forget devastatingly handsome and charming,” San added with a grin.
“I said pragmatism, not delusion.”
But you were smiling as you said it.
====================================
The Moon case should have been straightforward. Workplace harassment, clear paper trail, slam dunk settlement. Should have been.
You should have known something was wrong when San came back from his client prep session looking like he’d been hit by a truck.
“She’s not going to testify,” he announced, slumping into the chair across from your desk.
You looked up from the deposition outline you’d been perfecting. “What do you mean she’s not going to testify?”
“She’s terrified. Her boss threatened her job, her coworkers have been giving her the cold shoulder, and she just found out her ex husband is using the case to argue for full custody of their kids.”
“San.” You set down your pen very carefully. “The deposition is in four hours.”
“I know.”
“We’ve prepared for six months.”
“I know.”
“Entire case relies on her testimony.”
“I KNOW!” San exploded, then immediately looked guilty for raising his voice. “Sorry. I just… she’s falling apart. She can’t even make it through a practice question without having a panic attack.”
You studied San’s face, the genuine distress, the way he kept running his hands through his hair, the protective anger in his eyes when he talked about what the client was going through.
This was exactly why you preferred to keep emotional distance. Emotions were messy. Emotions made you want to fix things that weren’t fixable through legal briefs.
Emotions made you want to comfort your law partner when he looked this devastated.
“Okay,” you said finally.
“Okay?”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
You found Mrs. Moon in the small conference room, tissue box empty, makeup long gone, looking like she was about to face a firing squad instead of a deposition.
“Mrs. Moon,” you said, sitting down across from her. “San tells me you’re not feeling ready for today.”
She laughed bitterly. “Ready? I can’t even say my own name without shaking. How am I supposed to tell a room full of lawyers what that monster did to me?”
Here’s where San would have offered tissues and gentle reassurances. Where he would have talked about healing and courage and taking all the time she needed.
You were not him though, you had a different approach .
“You’re right,” you said simply. “This is going to be awful.”
Mrs. Moon blinked. “What?”
“Today is going to be one of the worst days of your life. They’re going to ask you horrible questions about traumatic experiences. You’re going to want to run away approximately fifteen times. Your voice will probably shake, you might cry, and their lawyer is going to try to make you feel like everything was your fault.”
“You’re… not helping.”
“But here’s the thing,” you continued. “You’ve already survived the worst part. You survived months of harassment. You survived losing friends, facing financial pressure, dealing with your ex husband’s manipulation. You survived all of that, and you’re still here. Nothing was your fault.”
Mrs. Moon was listening now, the panicked breathing starting to slow.
“Today isn’t about being perfect or fearless. It’s about telling the truth. And the truth is that you’re tougher than you think you are, because tough people are the only ones who make it to this room.”
When Mrs. Moom walked into that deposition three hours later, she wasn’t fearless. Her voice shook, she needed several breaks, and she cried twice.
But she told her story. All of it.
And she won.
====================================
“You know,” San said later that evening, both of you still in the office at nearly midnight, surviving on takeout Chinese food and the adrenaline crash from the day’s victory, “I always thought you didn’t care about the clients.”
You nearly choked on your lo mein. “Excuse me?”
“I thought you just saw them as case numbers. Legal puzzles to solve.” San was leaning back in his chair, tie loosened, looking more relaxed than you’d seen him all day. “But what you did with Mrs. Moon today…”
“I did nothing. Just told her the truth. That’s not exactly groundbreaking therapy.”
“You told her the truth in a way that made her feel strong instead of scared. That’s…” San paused, studying your face with an intensity that made you want to fidget. “That’s exactly what she needed to hear.”
You felt heat rise in your cheeks and blamed it on the MSG. “Yeah, well. Sometimes people need pragmatism more than sympathy.”
“And sometimes,” San said quietly, “pragmatism is its own form of caring.”
The office fell silent except for the hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of traffic. You were suddenly very aware of how late it was, how empty the building was, how San’s shirt sleeves were rolled up and his hair was falling into his eyes.
“We should probably head home,” you said, but neither of you moved.
“Probably,” San agreed, but his eyes never left your face.
“Long day tomorrow.”
“Very long.”
“The case prep…”
“Can wait until morning.”
Somehow, you’d both leaned closer across your desk. San’s hand was next to yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
“We argue a lot,” you said softly.
“We do.” San’s voice was barely above a whisper.
“We have completely different approaches to everything.”
“Complete opposites.”
“We drive each other crazy.”
“Absolutely insane.”
“This is a bad idea.”
Instead of answering, San reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek.
“Maybe,” he said, “we’re not actually opposites. Maybe we’re just… complementary.”
Before you could overthink it, before you could analyze the professional implications or worry about workplace dynamics, you leaned into his touch.
“Complementary,” you repeated. “I like that.”
San laughed softly. “Though for the record, you’re not heartless. You just keep your heart locked up in legal briefs and case precedents.”
“And you’re not naive. You just believe in people more than evidence sometimes.”
“See?” San’s thumb traced your cheekbone. “Complementary.”
When he kissed you, it tasted like victory and Chinese takeout and the promise of a partnership that went beyond just legal cases.
====================================
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” you said, pacing back and forth in front of San’s desk. “I’m saying you’re being emotional about this.”
“And I’m not saying you’re heartless,” San replied calmly, not looking up from the case file he was reviewing. “I’m saying you’re being stubborn.”
“This is a business dispute, not a family therapy session!”
“The client’s emotional state directly impacts their decision making capacity!”
Yeosang walked by the open office door, saw you both in full argument mode, and kept walking without breaking stride. This was just Tuesday now.
“Fine,” you said, stopping your pacing to plant your hands on San’s desk and lean forward. “What do you suggest?”
“Two hour meeting. First hour, I handle the emotional concerns. Second hour, you present the legal strategy.”
"Tell her to attend a therapy session before coming here and problem solved. You're not a therapist, San."
You considered this, studying San’s face. His hair was falling into his eyes again, and his tie was slightly crooked, and he had that stubborn set to his jaw that meant he was absolutely convinced he was right.
He probably was.
“Fine,” you said. “But I get to draft the settlement terms.”
“Deal.”
“And you’re buying lunch.”
“Also deal.”
“And…” You leaned closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “You’re going to stop being so annoyingly right all the time.”
San grinned, reaching up to straighten his tie while somehow managing to make the gesture look completely unfair. “No deal on that one. Someone has to keep you humble.”
“I’m a lawyer. Humility is against my professional code of ethics.”
“Good thing you have me then.”
Before you could retort, San pulled you down for a kiss that was probably wildly inappropriate for office hours and definitely worth every potential HR complaint.
“That doesn't mean we're gonna stop arguing about everything, you know,” you mumbled against his lips.
“I’m counting on it,” San replied. “It’s our best feature.”
Outside the office, Yeosang walked by again, this time with his hands over his ears and muttering something about soundproofing and hazard pay.
But inside, everything was exactly as it should be: chaotic, argumentative, and perfectly balanced.
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joshua hong (bracelet lover)
Hey! ☺️ Just wanted to let you know that the <3k wc bracelet arrived safely, though with some minor rough-handling (mild cursing). Thank you for the freebies (attempt at comedy, fluff) though! 💌 I love them!
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⭐️ ecbeads
ecbeads goodbye march, hello april & spring! to celebrate, be sure to be there for my spring into flowers drop this friday @ 12PM est! 🌷💐🪻
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ORDER CONFIRMED: ‘april flowers bring may showers’ glass beaded bracelet
Order Number #260501520
ecbeads.com/drops
thank u for shopping with me! your order is on its way :)
Your order will ship to:
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Psst. It’s me, your favorite consumer. I would’ve ordered more, but I wanted to give other people a chance, too. This drop was cute; you should do more blue-themed jewelry, its one of my fav colors :)
Estimated delivery:
Wednesday, May 06 - Sat, May 09
⭐️ ecbeads
ecbeads teasers for my beach drop this saturday! 🐚 sea u all there hehe (i am funny pls laugh)
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TYING THE KNOT: ecbeads’ guide to bracelet making!
1. Choose your beads!
Filler beads are a must, of course, but to start, pick three (3) or five (5) statement beads that mean something to you. Perhaps they remind you of the honey brown eyes from a loved one, or the gentle, mischievous smile when they’re up to no good. Once finished, the filler beads come naturally—maybe pink to accompany the blush of a smile, or small yellow daisy chain beads that compliment the wearer’s attitude well.
2. Grab your pliers and get to work!
Threading your beads may take a little to get used to, but it’s easy if you have the right tools: my favorite to use is Comebacks’ Round Nose Pliers. They’re great for the job and give astounding results, including easygoing banter, witty remarks, and smoothed edges of conversation. Even if you think there’s a bead too crazy to loop (e.g. a red-colored glass bead that makes your stomach curl with a feeling you’re not too sure of), these pliers have always got your back!
3. Put your links together!
Whether it’s a confusing chain of messages or strings that seem to fray a little at the edges, connect the loops and try not to fall through the holes of doubt. Most of all, don’t be discouraged! While the first few may not be perfect, and even a little scary to navigate, patience is a virtue. Trust me on this one.
Summary: When a simple lunch delivery to the royal palace goes hilariously wrong. You, a baker’s daughter find yourself accidentally hired as the Crown Prince’s personal assistant.
Fandom: ATEEZ
Pairing: Park Seonghwa x Reader
Genre: Royal AU, Fluff, Comedy, Romance
Word count: 4.2k~
Warnings: None. Fluff and romantic tension
A/N: I prefer General!Seonghwa over Prince!Seonghwa anyday but the thought of silver haired prince seonghwa is so yum 🤤 Also I noticed that I made a plot hole while re-checking today and nearly got aneurysm trying to correct it if there is a mistake blame it on that 😔✊
Extra Delivery: Crown and Crumbs
“No- Your Highness, there must have been a mistake. I’m just here to drop off the royal tailor’s lunch.”
Seonghwa blinks at you over a stack of letters that towers precariously on his mahogany desk. There’s something suspiciously relieved in his expression when he sees your face. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and his usually pristine hair has a rebellious strand falling across his forehead. “Excellent. I urgently need someone who knows how to say ‘no’ to me.” he smirked.
You clutch the wrapped lunch tighter, taking a cautious step backward. The Crown Prince’s study is intimidatingly grand; floor to ceiling bookshelves, oil paintings of stern ancestors, and enough gold trim to fund a small village. You definitely don’t belong here.
“I… what?”
“My assistant quit yesterday,” Seonghwa continues, quite aware to your growing panic but acting oblivious. He gestures at the chaos surrounding him. Scrolls unfurled across every surface, inkwells precariously balanced on stacks of documents, and what appears to a half eaten scone that might be older than some of the treaties on his desk.
“Something about ‘excessive pressure’ and ‘inhuman expectations.’ Quite dramatic, really.”
“Your Highness, I think you have me mistaken with someone else-”
“No way. Mistake is something I don't need right now.” He stands abruptly, and you’re struck by how tall he is, how his shoulders seem to carry the weight of the entire kingdom. “The Council expects a response to the Trade Agreement by noon, I have a ceremonial sword blessing at two, and somewhere in this mess is a very important letter from the Northern Duchy that I absolutely cannot lose.”
You stare at him. He stares back with an expression of such hopeful desperation that your heart does a tiny, traitorous flutter.
“I’m- I don't think I am qualified for this,” you say weakly.
“Neither am I, most days.” Seonghwa’s smile is tired but genuine. “What’s your name?”
You tell him, and the way he repeats it, carefully, like he’s memorizing the syllables makes your cheeks warm.
“Well then,” he says, “shall we pretend we both know what we’re doing?”
Somehow, you find yourself seated at a smaller desk that’s been hastily cleared of its mountain of correspondence. The lunch sits forgotten on a side table, probably wondering why it’s been abandoned for royal bureaucracy.
“The trick,” Seonghwa explains, settling back into his chair with considerably more grace than anyone dealing with governmental chaos should possess, “is to look confident while having absolutely no idea what’s happening.”
“Is that how you’ve been managing this whole prince thing?”
The question slips out before you can stop it, and you immediately want to crawl under the desk. You just essentially insulted the Crown Prince. They probably have dungeons for this sort of thing.
But Seonghwa laughs. A sincere laugh, not the polite chuckle used in ceremonies. “You catch on quickly. No wonder they sent you.”
“They didn’t send me, I’m just-”
“Could you help me with something?” He interrupts, and there’s something almost shy in his expression. “I have this ceremony in an hour or so, but I can never tell if my crown is sitting properly. The royal mirror is positioned terribly, and my last assistant always said it looked fine even when it was practically sliding off my head.”
Your heart hammers as he retrieves an elegant gold crown from its velvet case. It’s beautiful, delicate engravings of stars and moons, small gems that catch the light like captured starfire.
“I feel ridiculous asking,” he admits, “but could you…?”
You nod, not trusting your voice. When he places the crown on his head and turns toward you, you forget how to breathe. The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows catches in his silver hair, and his eyes hold a vulnerability you never expected to see.
The crown is indeed crooked, tilted slightly to the left.
“May I?” you whisper.
He nods.
Your fingers are trembling as you reach up to adjust it. You have to step closer, close enough to catch the subtle scent of patchouli and something uniquely him. His breath hitches slightly when your knuckles brush against his hair.
“There,” you murmur, your hands lingering perhaps a moment too long. “Perfect.”
When you meet his eyes, the world seems to slow. He’s looking at you like you’ve just solved every problem in the kingdom, like you’re something precious and unexpected. His lips part slightly, and for a single moment, you think-
A knock at the door shatters the moment. You spring backward so quickly you nearly knock over an inkwell.
“Your Highness?” A voice calls. “The Council is ready for your response regarding the trade agreement.”
Seonghwa blinks, seemingly dazed. “Yes, of course. One moment.”
He turns to you, and there’s something different in his expression now, warmer and softer. “Would you… would you mind staying? Just until I sort through this mess. I know you weren’t planning on this, but-”
“Okay,” you say, surprising yourself. “I’ll stay.”
His smile could power the entire palace.
After a while, you’ve somehow helped organize half his correspondence, located the missing Northern Duchy letter -it was being used as a bookmark in a poetry collection book-, and discovered that the Crown Prince has an alarming tendency to forget to eat when stressed.
“When did you last have a proper meal, Your Highness?” you ask, watching him squint at a particularly dense diplomatic document.
“Tuesday?” he ventures.
“It’s Thursday.”
“Ah.” He has the grace to look sheepish. “Time becomes rather fluid when you’re reading seventeen different proposals for grain taxation reform.”
You retrieve the forgotten lunch from the side table. “Here. The tailor will understand.”
“I can’t take someone else’s meal-”
“Your Highness.” You use your sternest voice, the one usually reserved for stubborn customers at your family’s bakery. “Eat.”
He blinks at you in surprise, then obediently unwraps the lunch. You try not to stare at the way his face lights up at the simple meal of bread, cheese, and fruit.
“No one’s spoken to me like that in years,” he says between bites.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m a person instead of a title.”
Your heart does that fluttering thing again. “Well, you are a person. A person who needs to eat regularly and sleep more than four hours a night.”
“How did you-”
“Your Highness, you have ink stains on three different fingers, your tie has been tied incorrectly all day, and you’ve been unconsciously rubbing your temples every few minutes. You’re exhausted.”
Seonghwa stares at you with something like wonder. “You notice things.”
“It’s hard not to when you’re-” You catch yourself before you can say something embarrassing like ‘when you’re incredibly, amazingly pretty and I've been admiring you from afar.’
“When I’m what?”
“When you’re… very obvious about it,” you finish lamely.
He grins, and it transforms his entire face. “I’ll have to work on my royal ambiguity.”
“Please don’t. It’s refreshing, actually. The honesty.”
Something shifts in his expression, becomes more intent. “Is it?”
Before you can analyze the weight in his voice, another knock interrupts. This time, it’s his valet.
“Your Highness, the ceremonial sword blessing-”
“Right.” Seonghwa sighs, straightening his shoulders as he transforms back into Crown Prince mode. But when he looks at you, the mask slips slightly. “Will you… that is, would you be willing to continue this arrangement? Temporarily, of course. Just until I can find a proper replacement.”
You should say no. You should explain the misunderstanding, return to your normal life, and pretend this strange, wonderful afternoon never happened.
Instead, you nod.
“Excellent.” His smile is radiant. “I’ll have a room prepared for you immediately.”
“Room? Oh no, I couldn’t possibly-”
“Nonsense. If you’re to be my assistant, you’ll need to be available for early morning briefings and late evening correspondence reviews. It’s only practical.”
Your mouth opens and closes soundlessly. You’ve somehow gone from a bakery worker to living in the palace in the span of a single afternoon by simply delivering lunch for a favor.
“Don’t look so terrified,” Seonghwa says gently. “I promise the dungeons are only for people who steal the good dinner rolls.”
Despite everything, you laugh. “How did you know I was thinking about dungeons?”
“Lucky guess..?” He pauses at the door, crown now perfectly straight and posture regally composed. But his eyes are warm when they meet yours. “Thank you. For today. For… staying.”
After he leaves, you sink into the chair and stare at the organized desk, the neat stacks of correspondence, the empty lunch wrapping.
What have you gotten yourself into?
After waiting for your background check to be finished, you're finally escorted to your room.
Your assigned quarters are roughly the size of your family’s entire bakery. The bed alone could fit four people comfortably, and there’s a sitting area with windows overlooking the palace gardens. It’s beautiful and terrifying and completely surreal.
A soft knock interrupts your attempts to process the day’s events.
“Come in?”
To your surprise, it’s Seonghwa. He’s changed from his formal attire into simpler clothes. Dark trousers and a white shirt that somehow makes him look younger, more approachable even though his looks come not from his clothing but his regal beauty.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “I rather steamrolled you into this arrangement. If you’re uncomfortable-”
“It’s not that.” You gesture for him to come in, and he perches carefully on the edge of a chair like he’s afraid of imposing. “I just… I’m not actually qualified to be anyone’s assistant, let alone yours. I work at my family’s bakery. I have no training in diplomacy or protocol or any of the things you probably need.”
“Can you read?”
“Yes, but-”
“Can you write legibly?”
“Well, yes-”
“Do you have opinions about things?”
You blink. “Opinions?”
“Everyone in the palace agrees with everything I say,” Seonghwa explains, running a hand through his hair. “It’s maddening. I could declare that purple should be the official color of vegetables and they’d all nod sagely and praise my innovative thinking.”
“You cannot assign vegetables a color. Even if you did it would be definitely green, not purple.” you say scrunching your face.
“Exactly!” His face lights up. “You see? Perfect assistant material.”
You can’t help but smile. “This is insane.”
“Most of the best things are.” He pauses, and something vulnerable flickers in his expression. “Will you... try it? Just for a few days. If you hate it, I’ll personally escort you back to your bakery with a formal apology and enough gold to make up for the inconvenience.”
The smart thing would be to decline politely and leave now, before you make an even bigger fool of yourself. Before you fall any harder for a prince who’s completely out of your reach.
But when you look at him -really look at him- you see past the crown and the title to the person underneath. Someone who’s lonely and overworked and genuinely grateful for the smallest kindness.
Someone who laughed at your terrible jokes and trusted you to fix his crown.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll try.”
You can bet on anything that his smile is brighter than any jewel in the royal treasury.
The next morning arrives with a gentle knock and a maid carrying what appears to be enough breakfast to feed a small army.
“Compliments of His Highness,” she explains, setting the elaborate spread on your sitting room table. “He thought you might prefer to eat privately while you settle in.”
Thoughtful. You’re beginning to understand that beneath all the royal protocol, Seonghwa is simply… considerate.
You’re attempting to decide between three different types of pastry when another knock sounds. This time, it’s the man himself, looking impeccable despite the early hour.
“Good morning,” he says, and there’s something almost shy about it. “I hope you slept well.”
“Like a rock. That bed is magic.”
“Wait until you try the library chairs. I’ve lost entire afternoons to their evil comfort.” He glances at the breakfast spread and frowns. “This is excessive. I specifically asked for something simple.”
“The kitchen staff might have a different definition of ‘simple’ than normal people.”
“Normal people,” he repeats thoughtfully. “I like that phrase. May I join you? My own breakfast is a formal affair in the dining hall, and I’d much rather have a normal person breakfast.”
You gesture to the abundance of food. “There’s certainly enough.”
He settles across from you with visible relief, immediately reaching for what appears to be a perfectly ordinary piece of toast. The domesticity of it, sharing breakfast and watching him relax, feels dangerously intimate.
“So,” you say, searching for safe conversation, “what disasters await us today?”
“Oh, the usual. Three diplomatic meetings, a review of the royal gardens’ budget, and a very tense discussion about whether the autumn festival should feature dancing or theatrical performances.”
“Both?”
“I suggested that yesterday. Apparently, it would ‘set a concerning precedent for future festivals.’” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I think they create problems just to have something to debate.”
“What do you want the festival to have?”
He pauses, piece of toast halfway to his mouth. “What do I want?”
“It’s your kingdom, isn’t it? What would make you happy?”
Seonghwa stares at you like you’ve asked him to solve an ancient riddle. “I… no one’s ever asked me that before. About what would make me happy.”
Your heart clenches. “Well, I’m asking now.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can practically see him thinking through possibilities he’s never been allowed to consider.
“Music,” he says finally. “I’d want music. Not just the formal court musicians, but… street performers, local bands, anyone who wanted to play. And food stalls run by actual families from the kingdom, not the palace kitchens. And games for children, and dancing for anyone who felt like it, not just the nobility.”
His eyes are bright with enthusiasm, and you find yourself smiling. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It sounds chaos to the Council.”
“Sometimes chaos is exactly what people need.”
“Is that your professional assistant opinion?”
“That’s my normal person opinion.” You lean forward slightly. “Your Highness, what if we presented it differently? Not as chaos, but as… connecting with your people. Understanding their culture. Being a prince who cares about everyone in the kingdom, not just the nobles.”
Seonghwa sets down his toast entirely, giving you his full attention. “Go on.”
“Well, festivals are about celebration, right? Joy. What better way to show strong leadership than by creating something that brings genuine happiness to your people? The Council can debate protocol all they want, but it’s hard to argue against joy.”
For a moment, he just stares at you. Then he starts to laugh. That real, unguarded sound you heard yesterday.
“You’re brilliant,” he says, and the warm admiration in his voice makes your stomach flip. “Absolutely brilliant. Will you come with me to the Council meeting?”
“Oh no. No, no, no. I can offer opinions over breakfast, but I can’t face the royal Council-”
“Please.” He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing yours. “I need someone in that room who remembers that I’m supposed to serve the people, not just manage them. I'll handle the council.”
The touch of his hand sends electricity up your arm, and when you meet his eyes, there’s something there that makes your breath catch. Something warm and wondering and impossibly fond.
“Okay,” you whisper, because apparently you’re incapable of saying no to anything when he looks at you like that.
His smile could outshine the sun.
The Council meeting is every bit as intimidating as you expected. Twelve stern faced advisors seated around a massive oak table, all of whom seem personally offended by your presence.
“Your Highness,” the head councilor says with barely concealed disdain, “perhaps your… assistant… would be more comfortable waiting outside.”
“She stays,” Seonghwa says firmly, and the quiet authority in his voice makes something flutter in your chest. “Her insights have been invaluable.”
You try to make yourself invisible in your chair beside his, taking notes and pretending you can’t feel the councilors’ disapproving stares.
The festival debate unfolds exactly as Seonghwa predicted; lots of discussion about precedent and protocol, very little about what might actually benefit the kingdom. When he presents his vision using the framework you suggested, you can see several councilors wavering.
“It’s… unconventional,” admits the Minister of Cultural Affairs.
“Unconventional isn’t necessarily problematic,” Seonghwa replies smoothly. “Some of our most beloved traditions started as innovations.”
“But the security concerns-”
“Can be managed with proper planning.”
“And the budget-”
“Will likely be offset by increased merchant participation and tourism.”
You watch him navigate each objection with growing admiration. He’s brilliant at this, when he’s passionate about something. When he’s fighting for what he believes in rather than just managing what’s expected.
The head councilor drums his fingers on the table. The Council only agreed after a tense hours long debate.
"We’ll need a detailed proposal.”
“Of course.” Seonghwa glances at you, something almost playful in his expression. “My assistant and I will have it ready by tomorrow.”
After the meeting, you practically float back to his study.
“Did we just win that?” you ask.
“We did indeed.” Seonghwa grins, loosening his formal jacket with obvious relief. “Though now we actually have to create a detailed proposal by tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Well, it was your idea. Brilliant strategy, by the way, framing it as connection rather than chaos.”
You feel yourself blushing. “I just said what made sense.”
“Exactly. You cut through all the political posturing and found the heart of it.” He pauses, studying your face with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. “You’re remarkable, you know that?”
The compliment hits you like a physical thing, warm and overwhelming. “I’m really not-”
“You are.” He steps closer, and suddenly the study feels much smaller. “You see possibilities where others see problems. You remind me why I wanted to do this job in the first place.”
Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. “Seonghwa-”
The use of his name without the title makes him go very still. For a moment, you think you’ve overstepped, broken some crucial protocol.
Then he smiles, soft and wondering. “Say it again.”
“Your Highness-”
“No. My name.”
“Seonghwa,” you whisper, and his eyes flutter closed like you’ve given him something precious.
When he opens them again, there’s something raw and hopeful in his expression. He takes another step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“I should tell you,” he says quietly, “that I’ve never enjoyed anyone’s company the way I enjoy yours.”
Your breath catches. “Seonghwa…”
“And I should probably also tell you that I’ve been thinking about yesterday afternoon. About when you fixed my crown.” His voice drops even lower. “About how you looked at me like I was just… me.”
The space between you feels charged, electric. You can see the exact moment he decides to be brave, can see him start to lean forward-
And then the door bursts open.
“Your Highness, there’s been a development with the Northern- Oh.” The secretary stops short, taking in the scene with wide eyes. “I… should I return later?”
Seonghwa steps back so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. “No, that’s… what’s the development?”
You use the interruption to retreat to your desk, heart still racing. But when you glance up, Seonghwa is looking at you with such soft longing that your breath catches all over again.
This is getting dangerous. Wonderfully, terrifyingly dangerous.
The festival proposal takes shape over the next several hours, with the two of you working in surprisingly seamless collaboration. Seonghwa handles the diplomatic language and budget considerations while you focus on logistics and community engagement.
“What about here?” you suggest, pointing to a section about local artisan participation. “We could create a special showcase area for traditional crafts.”
“Perfect.” He leans over to see what you’re indicating, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You have lovely handwriting, by the way.”
Such a simple comment shouldn’t make you feel like you’re glowing, but somehow it does. “Thank you.”
“No, really. It’s… graceful. Like you.”
You look up sharply, and he’s right there, closer than you realized. Close enough to see the way his pupils dilate slightly, close enough to catch the subtle hitch in his breathing.
“Seonghwa,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a warning or an invitation.
He reaches up slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is feather-light, reverent.
“Is this all right?” he asks softly.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and you let your eyes flutter closed. This is madness. You’re a baker’s daughter and he’s the Crown Prince, but in this moment, with his gentle touch and the afternoon light streaming around you both, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I should tell you something,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“I knew.”
Your eyes snap open. “Knew what?”
“When you came to deliver lunch.” His smile is soft, almost shy. “I knew you weren’t the new assistant. The real candidate wasn’t supposed to arrive until next week.”
Your mouth falls open. “You knew? Then why did you-?”
“Because you were the first person in months to look at me like I was human instead of a title. Because when I made that ridiculous comment about needing someone to say no to me, you looked like you might actually be brave enough to do it.” His thumb is still tracing gentle patterns on your cheek. “And because I’ve been watching you at events for the better part of a year, hoping for an excuse to talk to you.”
“You’ve been watching me?”
“Trying to work up the courage to approach you, more like. Do you know how many times I’ve walked past your family’s booth at the market? How many excuses I’ve invented to attend events where you might be helping with the catering?”
Your heart is doing something complicated and wonderful in your chest. “Seonghwa…”
“I know this is complicated,” he says quickly. “I know there are protocols and expectations and a dozen reasons why this is probably a terrible idea. But I-”
You silence him by rising up on your toes and pressing your lips to his.
It’s soft and sweet and perfect, tasting like the tea you’ve been sharing and the promise of something extraordinary. When you pull back, he’s staring at you with such wonder that you feel like you could conquer kingdoms.
“For someone who is supposed to be good with words,” you murmur, “you certainly talk too much sometimes.”
He laughs, bright and joyful, and kisses you again.
The festival proposal is a complete success. The Council approves it unanimously, the people are thrilled, and somehow you’ve managed to revolutionize royal event planning while falling completely in love with a prince.
Three weeks later, you’re standing in the gardens at sunset, watching Seonghwa practice his opening speech for the festival. He’s nervous -adorably so- running his hands through his hair and muttering about crowd expectations.
“You know,” you say, stepping closer, “you could always just speak from the heart.”
“The heart doesn’t follow protocol.”
“Because it doesn’t need to.” You reach up to straighten his collar, smiling at the way he immediately relaxes under your touch. “Your people love you, Seonghwa. Not because you’re perfect, but because you care about them. Let them see that.”
He catches your hands, pressing them flat against his chest. “How do you always know exactly what I need to hear?”
“Lucky guess..?”
“I love you,” he says suddenly, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back any longer. “I know it’s complicated and probably terrifying and definitely against several royal protocols, but I love you. I love your terrible jokes and your practical solutions and the way you make me remember who I am underneath all the expectations.”
Your heart swells until you think it might burst. “I love you too. Even if you do have a concerning habit of making impulsive royal decisions.”
“Only the good kind of impulsive decisions.”
“Is that what I am? A good impulsive decision?”
He suddenly picks you up and spins you around, laughing as your feet leave the ground. “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”
When he sets you down, you’re both breathless and grinning.
“So,” you say, straightening his crown with familiar ease, “what happens now?”
“Now we revolutionize the kingdom one festival at a time,” Seonghwa says, leaning down to kiss you softly. “And maybe figure out how to explain to the Council that their prince has fallen in love with his wonderfully unqualified assistant.”
“Fake assistant,” you correct.
“Best fake assistant in the kingdom.”
You laugh, and he spins you around again, and in the golden light of the setting sun, with the promise of tomorrow’s festival and a lifetime of adventures ahead, everything feels perfect.
Summary: Working at a small café where your most mysterious regular customer orders increasingly complicated drinks while sharing bizarre stories about his “fish cake business.”, you finally discover that Jung Wooyoung is actually a reluctant mafia underboss using your coffee shop as therapy.
Warnings: References to organized crime activities, mild violence mentions (non-graphic), family pressure, anxiety/panic attacks, deception, unconventional therapy scenarios, found family dynamics
A/N: Everytime I get an idea to write something important on my author's note, I instantly forget what it was the moment I have the time to write...
====================================
The bell above Moonbeam Café’s door chimed for the third time in an hour, and you looked up from wiping down the counter to see him again. The guy in the expensive black suit who’d been coming in every day for the past two weeks, always ordering something different, always sitting in the corner booth with the best view of both exits.
Jung Wooyoung, you’d learned his name from his credit card, was either the most indecisive coffee drinker in Seoul or he was running some kind of elaborate taste test. Today he approached the counter with that same confident stride, designer shoes clicking against the worn linoleum.
“Good morning,” you chirped, already reaching for a cup. “What’ll it be today? Please tell me it’s not another unicorn frappuccino situation.”
His lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “That was a moment of weakness. Today I need…” He paused, studying the menu board with the intensity of someone decoding nuclear launch codes. “A double shot cortado with oat milk, one pump of vanilla, half pump of caramel, stirred counterclockwise exactly seven times.”
You blinked. “Counterclockwise? Is that… is that a real preference or are you just testing me?”
“Testing you,” he admitted, and there was definitely a smile now. “Make it however. I just needed something complicated to order while I figure out how to explain to my boss that I accidentally started a territorial dispute with the Busan crew over a misunderstanding about fish cakes.”
You paused, milk steamer hovering mid air. “I’m sorry, what now?”
Wooyoung’s eyes widened as if he’d just realized he’d spoken out loud. “I mean… uh… fish cake vendors. Very competitive business. Lots of… turf wars over the best street corners.”
“Right.” You decided not to probe further into Seoul’s apparently cutthroat fish cake industry. “One unnecessarily complicated cortado coming up.”
As you worked, you could feel him watching you with the same intensity he’d shown the menu. When you handed over his drink, he hesitated at the counter instead of retreating to his usual corner booth.
“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly.
“Shoot.”
“If someone 'hypothetically' promised their elderly grandmother they’d take over the family business, but that business turned out to be way more stressful than expected, and now they’re having panic attacks every time they have to attend a ‘board meeting,’ what would you do?”
You leaned against the counter, considering this oddly specific hypothetical. “Well, I’d probably start by figuring out if the panic attacks were about the job itself or about disappointing the grandma. And maybe talk to grandma about it? She might be more understanding than you- I mean, than this hypothetical person thinks.”
Wooyoung nodded slowly, like you’d just shared the secrets of the universe. “That’s… actually really good advice.”
“I’m full of wisdom,” you said with a grin. “Comes with the coffee shop territory. We’re like bartenders but with more caffeine and less alcohol induced honesty.”
“What if the family business involves a lot of… difficult personalities?”
“Every business has difficult personalities. The trick is figuring out which ones are actually dangerous and which ones are just dramatic.” You paused, noticing how intently he was listening. “Are we still talking hypothetically?”
“Absolutely.” He took a sip of his cortado and his eyes lit up. “This is perfect. How did you know to add cinnamon?”
“I didn’t add cinnamon.”
“Then why does it taste like-” He stopped, looking confused. “Never mind. Same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” you said, already wondering what impossibly specific drink he’d order next.
====================================
“Triple shot Gibraltar with lavender honey, oat foam art in the shape of a swan, served at exactly 140 degrees Fahrenheit,” Wooyoung announced the next morning, sliding a twenty across the counter.
“A swan?” You raised an eyebrow. “I can do a leaf or maybe a heart if I’m feeling ambitious, but I’m not Michelangelo.”
“Fine, a duck then.”
“Still ambitious, but I’ll see what I can do.” You got to work, noting that he looked more frazzled than usual. His typically perfect hair was slightly mussed, and there was a coffee stain on his otherwise pristine white shirt. “Rough morning?”
“You could say that.” He slumped against the counter in a very un-mafia-like manner, though you still didn’t know that’s what he was going for. “Remember that hypothetical territorial dispute I mentioned yesterday?”
“The fish cake thing?”
“Right. Well, it turns out the other party involved has a very different interpretation of what constitutes a reasonable resolution.”
You frowned, concentrating on creating what was generously a duck adjacent blob in his foam. “What kind of interpretation?”
“The kind that involves sending a fruit basket filled with live crabs to my office as a ‘peace offering,’ which my secretary opened thinking it was from a client.” Wooyoung ran his hands through his hair. “Do you know how hard it is to catch eighteen escaped crabs in a corporate setting while maintaining professional dignity?”
“I can’t say I do,” you replied, trying not to laugh at the mental image. “But I’m guessing the answer is ‘very hard.’”
“One of them pinched my accountant. He’s threatening to quit unless we implement a ‘hazard pay for unexpected crustacean encounters’ clause in his contract.”
This time you couldn’t hold back your laughter. “I’m sorry, but that’s actually hilarious.”
“It’s really not,” Wooyoung said, but he was fighting a smile. “My grandmother is going to kill me when she finds out. She specifically told me to handle this situation with ‘dignity and respect for tradition.’”
“Well, did you handle it with dignity?”
“I may have climbed onto my desk chair while screaming ‘GET THEM AWAY FROM ME’ in a voice that was definitely not dignified.”
You slid his Gibraltar across the counter, complete with foam duck that looked more like a deformed cloud. “Here’s your duck, and some free advice: own the crab incident. Turn it into a story about how you handled an unexpected challenge with grace under pressure.”
“Grace under pressure?” He snorted. “I threw my shoe at a crab.”
“Resourceful problem solving with available materials,” you corrected. “It’s all about the spin.”
Wooyoung stared at you for a moment, then broke into a genuine grin. “Has anyone ever told you you’d make an excellent PR manager?”
“Just you, and I’m pretty sure you’re not qualified to judge me.”
he muttered something you couldn't make out, taking a sip of his drink. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said, already looking forward to whatever ridiculous story he’d bring next.
====================================
“Quadruple shot affogato with house-made vanilla gelato, amaretto, and a sprinkle of edible gold flakes,” Wooyoung announced on Friday morning, looking like he hadn’t slept in days.
You paused in the middle of restocking cups. “We don’t have gelato, amaretto, or edible gold flakes. This is a coffee shop, not a high end dessert restaurant.”
“Right. Sorry.” He slumped onto one of the counter stools. “Just… surprise me. I’ve had the week from hell and I can’t make any more decisions.”
“That bad, huh?” You started making what you privately called the “Wooyoung Special”a drink that had evolved over the past two weeks into something that was one part coffee, two parts therapy session. “Fish cake business still giving you trouble?”
“The fish cakes are the least of my problems now,” he groaned, putting his head in his hands. “Yesterday I had to mediate a dispute between two of my… business associates… over the proper way to fold napkins.”
“Napkins?”
“Apparently there’s a traditional way to fold them for important dinners, and Park, one of my associates, used the wrong fold during a meeting with some very traditional clients. The other associate, Kim, took it as a personal insult to his family’s honor.”
You slid a simple vanilla latte across the counter. “How does napkin folding become a family honor situation?”
“When the clients interpret it as a sign of disrespect and threaten to take their business elsewhere,” Wooyoung said miserably. “Now Park and Kim aren’t speaking to each other, the clients want a formal apology, and my grandmother is insisting I personally learn seventeen different traditional napkin folds by Monday.”
“Seventeen?”
“One for each type of business meeting, apparently. There’s a different fold for negotiations, celebrations, first meetings, apologies…” He took a long sip of his latte. “I spent four hours last night practicing the ‘sincere regret’ fold and I still can’t get it right.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “You know, there are YouTube tutorials for everything these days. Even traditional napkin folding, I bet.”
His face lit up. “Really? You think there might be videos?”
“I guarantee it. Want me to look some up for you?” You pulled out your phone, quickly finding several tutorials. “Here, look. This guy explains the ‘respectful negotiation’ fold step by step.”
Wooyoung leaned across the counter to peer at your phone screen, close enough that you could smell his cologne- something expensive and woodsy that definitely didn’t fit with the fish cake vendor story. “You’re a lifesaver. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without these morning talks.”
“Happy to help,” you said, trying to ignore how your heart skipped when he smiled at you like that. “But maybe consider talking to your grandmother about getting some management training? It sounds like you’re dealing with a lot of interpersonal conflicts.”
“Management training?” He looked thoughtful. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. Though I’m not sure how much of it would apply to my specific… industry.”
“People are people,” you said with a shrug. “Whether you’re managing fish cake vendors or rocket scientists, the basics are probably the same.”
“Rocket scientists would be so much easier,” Wooyoung muttered. “They don’t usually threaten to ‘handle things the old way’ when they disagree about quarterly projections.”
You were about to ask what exactly ‘the old way’ meant when the bell chimed and Mrs. Park from down the street walked in. Wooyoung immediately straightened up, his entire demeanor shifting from frazzled coffee shop confessor to polished businessman.
“I should get going,” he said, leaving his usual twenty on the counter. “Same time Monday? I’ll probably need to debrief about the napkin situation.”
“I’ll be here,” you said, watching as he nodded politely to Mrs. Park and walked out with that confident stride again.
It wasn’t until after he left that you realized he’d never actually explained what kind of business required seventeen different napkin folds or why his associates threatened to handle disagreements ‘the old way.’
Maybe the fish cake industry was more complicated than you’d thought.
====================================
Monday morning brought Wooyoung and the most elaborate drink order yet.
“I need a nitro cold brew with homemade maple syrup, topped with whipped cream infused with lavender, served in a preheated cup with a side of those little Italian cookies,” he announced, then immediately deflated. “Actually, just give me whatever. I’m pretty sure I’m about to get fired.”
“Fired?” You looked up from the espresso machine in surprise. “By your grandmother?”
“Probably. The napkin situation went… poorly.” He slumped into his usual counter stool. “I spent the entire weekend learning those seventeen folds, right? I was so proud of myself. I had them down perfectly.”
“That’s good though, right?”
“It would have been, if I hadn’t accidentally used the ‘funeral condolences’ fold during what was supposed to be a celebration dinner.” Wooyoung put his head down on the counter. “Do you know what it’s like to watch twelve very traditional, very serious businessmen slowly realize you’ve essentially told them their successful deal is dead?”
You winced. “Yikes.”
“It gets worse. Kim, remember Kim from the napkin honor situation? He tried to save face by insisting I’d done it on purpose as some kind of power move. So now everyone thinks I’m either incompetent or actively insulting our business partners.”
“What did you do?”
“Panicked and claimed it was a regional variation I’d learned from my ‘mentor in Ilsan,’” he said miserably. “Now they want to meet this fictional mentor, and I’m pretty sure making up imaginary business contacts is frowned upon in our… industry guidelines.”
You set a simple americano in front of him. He clearly needed caffeine more than complexity today. “Okay, so you made a mistake. Can’t you just apologize and explain what happened?”
“You’d think so, but apparently admitting to mistakes shows weakness, and showing weakness in my line of work can lead to… complications.”
“What kind of complications?” you asked, that nagging feeling about his mysterious job getting stronger.
Wooyoung looked up at you, seemed to realize how much he’d been revealing, and quickly backtracked. “Just, you know, loss of client confidence. Reduced market share. Standard business stuff.”
“Right,” you said slowly. “Standard fish cake business stuff.”
“Exactly.” He took a gulp of americano and made a face. “This is really bitter.”
“That’s what americanos taste like. You’ve been ordering fancy drinks for so long you forgot what actual coffee tastes like.” You paused, studying his face. “Just like you’ve been telling me stories for so long you might have forgotten I’m not actually stupid.”
Wooyoung nearly choked on his coffee. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, fish cake vendors don’t usually wear thousand dollar suits, carry platinum credit cards, or have accountants who require hazard pay clauses,” you said calmly. “And they definitely don’t have business dinners that require seventeen different traditional napkin folds.”
His face went through several expressions; panic, calculation, resignation. Before settling on something that looked almost relieved. “How long have you known?”
“Known what, exactly? I still don’t know what you actually do. I just know it’s not fish cakes.” You leaned against the counter. “The question is, should I be worried that Seoul’s most stressed out mystery businessman has been using my coffee shop as his personal therapy session for three weeks?”
Wooyoung was quiet for a long moment, staring into his americano. “What if I told you it was complicated?”
“Everything’s complicated. That’s not an answer.”
“What if I told you that despite the complications, these morning talks are the best part of my day, and I really don’t want them to stop?”
Your heart did that skipping thing again. “That’s not an answer either, but it’s a better non answer.”
He looked up at you then, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that made you forget all about mysterious jobs and expensive suits. “Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“If someone, hypothetically, was in a job that required them to be serious and intimidating all the time, but they were actually just a guy who panics about napkin folds and gets terrorized by crabs, would that be… disappointing?”
You considered this carefully. “Disappointing to whom?”
“To someone whose opinion mattered to them.”
“Well,” you said, pretending to think it over, “I’d probably be more disappointed if they turned out to be actually intimidating. Serious and scary is boring. Napkin folding disasters are much more interesting.”
The smile that spread across Wooyoung’s face was brighter than all his previous smiles combined. “Really?”
“Really. Besides,” you added with a grin, “anyone who can make me laugh this much before 9 AM deserves at least a few more chances to explain themselves.”
“What if the explanation involves admitting that I’ve been skipping very important work meetings just to come complain to you about my problems?”
“Then I’d say your work meetings probably aren’t as important as you think they are,” you replied. “Or they’re exactly as important as you think, and you’ve got your priorities sorted out just fine.”
Wooyoung stared at you for a moment, then started laughing. Like, really laughing, not the careful chuckles he’d been giving you for weeks. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”
“Better than a death by crab attack,” you pointed out.
“Significantly better,” he agreed, still grinning. “Same time tomorrow? I promise the next crisis will be even more ridiculous.”
“I’m counting on it,” you said, already looking forward to whatever chaos tomorrow would bring.
After he left, you found yourself humming as you cleaned the espresso machine. Whatever Jung Wooyoung actually did for work, you were pretty sure it couldn’t be worse than your imagination had been conjuring up.
And if it was? Well, at least he made excellent coffee shop conversation.
====================================
Tuesday morning arrived with an unusual commotion outside Moonbeam Café. You peeked through the window to see two black SUVs parked across the street and several men in dark suits standing around looking like they were either security guards or extras from a crime drama.
When Wooyoung walked in at his usual time, he looked more frazzled than you’d ever seen him.
“One extra large americano to go,” he said quickly, not making eye contact.
You blinked. “That’s it? No elaborate drink? No crisis of the day?”
“I can’t stay long today,” he said, drumming his fingers nervously on the counter. “There’s been a… situation.”
“What kind of situation requires that much security detail across the street?”
Wooyoung’s head snapped up. “You noticed them?”
“Kind of hard to miss. Are they with you?”
Before he could answer, the café door chimed and in walked the most intimidating man you’d ever seen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with black hair and a face that suggested he’d never found anything amusing in his entire life. He looked around the café with the air of someone cataloguing potential threats, then his gaze settled on Wooyoung.
“Young master,” he said in a voice like gravel, “your grandmother is asking for an update on the Busan situation.”
“Tell her I’m handling it, Yunho hyung.” Wooyoung replied, and you noticed his posture had gone ramrod straight.
“She’s concerned about your recent… absences from important meetings.”
“I’ve been conducting field research on customer service excellence,” Wooyoung said smoothly. “Market analysis. Very important for business development.”
Yunho’s gaze shifted to you, and you suddenly felt like a bug under a magnifying glass. “This is your research?”
“This is Y/N,” Wooyoung said, and there was something protective in his tone. “Y/N, this is Jeong Yunho, my grandmother’s… business consultant.”
You gave a little wave. “Hi. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Pastry? Explanation of what’s going on?”
The corner of Yunho’s mouth twitched. “Coffee. Black.”
As you prepared two black coffees, you could hear them having a tense, whispered conversation behind you. You caught fragments: “…grandmother expects…” “…territorial negotiations…” “…can’t keep avoiding…” “…family obligations…”
When you turned around with their drinks, Yunho was giving Wooyoung a look that clearly said ‘we’ll discuss this later.’
“Thank you,” Yunho said, accepting his coffee. To Wooyoung, he added, “One hour. The office. Don’t be late.” Then he nodded to you and left.
Wooyoung slumped back onto his stool the moment the door closed. “Well, that’s probably the end of my morning coffee breaks.”
“Okay,” you said, leaning across the counter. “I’m officially too curious to pretend I don’t care anymore. What do you actually do, Jung Wooyoung?”
He was quiet for a long moment, staring into his coffee. “What’s the worst job you can imagine?”
“I don’t know… Hitman? Drug dealer? Reality TV producer?”
“Close.” He looked up at you with a rueful smile. “My family runs a… traditional business organization. Very traditional. The kind that’s been around for generations and takes tradition very seriously.”
“Traditional how?”
“The kind where ‘territorial disputes’ aren’t about fish cake stands, and ‘handling things the old way’ doesn’t mean filing complaints with the Better Business Bureau.”
The pieces clicked together in your mind. “Oh. OH.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re in the-” You lowered your voice. “-the actual mafia?”
“We prefer ‘traditional family business,’” he said dryly. “But yes. And before you ask, no, I’m not cut out for it at all. Hence the panic attacks about board meetings and the complete inability to handle territorial negotiations without accidentally starting crab wars.”
You stared at him. “So when you said your grandmother would kill you…”
“I was being metaphorical. Probably. She’s actually very sweet, just… disappointed that her grandson turned out to be more suited for customer service than organized crime.”
“This is insane,” you said, then started laughing. “This is completely insane. I’ve been giving business advice to a mafia don?”
“Technically I’m more like a very reluctant underboss, and you’ve been giving me therapy,” Wooyoung corrected. “And it’s been the most helpful therapy I’ve ever had, by the way.”
“I’m not qualified to be anyone’s therapist!”
“Neither am I qualified to run a criminal organization, but here we are.” He grinned at you. “Besides, your advice has been great. That thing about talking to my grandmother? I actually did that, and it turns out she’s been looking for an excuse to semi retire and travel more.”
“Really?”
“Really. She’s just been waiting for me to show some initiative and stop panicking about everything.” His expression grew more serious. “But there’s still the matter of proving I can handle the big stuff. Like actually resolving this Busan situation without starting a war or embarrassing the family name further.”
You processed this information, trying to reconcile the image of Wooyoung as a mafia boss with the man who’d spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining his fear of the café’s new automatic milk frother.
“So what happens now?” you asked.
“Now I go have a very uncomfortable meeting with my grandmother and try to convince her that my month of ‘market research’ has actually prepared me to handle serious business negotiations.”
“Has it?”
Wooyoung considered this. “Well, I’m definitely better at talking to people than I was a month ago. And I’ve learned that most problems can be solved with the right approach and enough caffeine.”
“That’s… actually not terrible business philosophy.”
“Right?” He stood up, leaving his usual twenty on the counter. “I should go face the music. But Y/N?”
“Yeah?”
“Whatever happens, thank you. For listening, for the advice, for treating me like a normal person instead of…” He gestured vaguely at himself.
“Instead of what? A guy who’s clearly in way over his head and coping by ordering increasingly ridiculous coffee drinks?”
“Exactly.” He paused at the door. “If I survive this meeting, same time tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” you said. “Try not to accidentally declare war on anyone.”
“No promises,” he called back, but he was smiling.
After he left, you stood there for a moment, trying to process the fact that you’d apparently become an unofficial therapist to an underboss.
Your life had definitely gotten more interesting since Jung Wooyoung started ordering complicated drinks.
====================================
Three months later, Moonbeam Café had some new regular customers.
“The usual, Mr. Park?” you asked as Park -the napkin folding traditionalist- approached the counter.
“Please. And make sure the foam art is symmetrical today. Uneven foam reflects poorly on one’s attention to detail.”
“One perfectly symmetrical leaf coming up,” you said, trying not to smile. Park had turned out to be surprisingly sweet once you got past his obsession with proper etiquette.
Behind him, Kim -the other half of the great napkin feud- was showing the new guy, Mingi, how to properly hold a coffee cup. “Pinky out is for tea, not coffee. Coffee requires a firmer grip to show respect for the beverage.”
“Hyung, it’s just coffee,” Mingi protested.
“Nothing is ‘just’ anything,” Kim replied seriously. “Proper form shows character.”
You finished Park’s latte and handed it over just as the door chimed and Wooyoung walked in, looking significantly less frazzled than he had three months ago. His suits still cost more than your monthly rent, but he wore them with actual confidence now instead of like a costume that didn’t quite fit.
“Good morning, boss,” you said cheerfully. “The usual?”
“You know it,” he said, settling onto his favorite stool. “How’s the new crowd treating you?”
You glanced around the café, which now regularly hosted what Wooyoung called “informal business meetings” but which mostly seemed to involve his associates learning to appreciate specialty coffee and arguing about proper pastry etiquette.
“They’re growing on me,” you admitted. “Though I still can’t believe you turned a café into a illegal business networking opportunity.”
“Grandmother’s idea, actually. Turns out a lot of our… business contacts… were getting tired of meeting in dimly lit restaurants and back alleys. Coffee shops are more relaxed.” He accepted his drink -a simple americano- the perfect drink he chose after experiencing every coffee order ever. “Plus, it gives everyone a chance to practice normal social interactions.”
“Is that what we’re calling Park’s twenty minute lecture on proper sugar packet opening technique?”
“Character development,” Wooyoung said solemnly, then broke into a grin. “Besides, you have to admit business has been good.”
This was true. What had started as Wooyoung’s personal therapy sessions had somehow evolved into the unofficial meeting place for Seoul’s most polite organized crime family. They always left generous tips, never caused trouble, and had scared off the group of teenagers who used to loiter outside and intimidate your elderly customers.
“Speaking of business,” Wooyoung continued, “I have news.”
“Good news or ‘I accidentally started another territorial dispute’ news?”
“Good news. The Busan situation is officially resolved.”
“Really? How?”
“Turns out they were never actually upset about the fish cake thing. They were upset because they thought we were snubbing their invitation to their grandmother’s 90th birthday party.” Wooyoung shook his head. “Three months of territorial posturing over a missed RSVP.”
“Did you go to the party?”
“Last weekend. Had a great time. Their grandmother makes incredible kimchi, and she spent an hour showing me pictures of her cats.” He paused. “Also, I may have accidentally agreed to a marriage proposal.”
You nearly dropped the cup you were washing. “WHAT?”
“Not for me!” he said quickly. “For Mingi. Apparently their family has a nice granddaughter who’s also terrible at the family business, and everyone thinks they’d be perfect for each other.”
“Oh my god, you’re a matchmaker now?”
“Inadvertent matchmaker. There’s a difference.” He grinned. “But yes, I’m apparently very good at identifying people who are disasters at organized crime. It’s becoming my specialty.”
“So what’s next for the Jung family business empire?”
“Well, grandmother is officially retiring next month. She bought a condo in Jeju and is planning to take up pottery. I’m taking over as head of operations, which mostly involves making sure everyone plays nice and keeping our legitimate businesses actually legitimate.”
“And the illegitimate businesses?”
“We’re transitioning to a more… consultation based model. Conflict resolution, business mediation, that sort of thing. Turns out when you’re known for being able to handle difficult negotiations, people will pay good money for your services.”
You stared at him. “You turned the mafia into a consulting firm?”
“I prefer ‘traditional conflict resolution specialists,’” he said with a straight face. “We’re even getting business cards made.”
“This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Says the woman who accidentally became the unofficial therapist to organized crime,” he pointed out.
“Touché.” You finished cleaning the espresso machine and turned back to him. “So, does this mean you’ll stop having daily crises to tell me about?”
“Are you kidding? Do you know how stressful it is to run a legitimate business? Yesterday I had to fire someone for the first time, and I stress bought seventeen different types of office supplies afterward.”
“What did you buy?”
“So many pens, Y/N. So many pens. And a label maker. And one of those desktop zen gardens, but I’m pretty sure I’m using it wrong because it’s just making me more anxious.”
You laughed, relief flooding through you. “, as long as you’re still a disaster, I guess my job here isn’t done.”
“About that,” Wooyoung said, suddenly looking nervous. “I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m not joining your reformed mafia consulting firm.”
“Not that kind of proposition. Although, we could use someone with your people skills.” He took a deep breath. “I was thinking more like… dinner? Tomorrow night? Somewhere that doesn’t serve coffee?”
You felt that familiar heart skipping sensation, but stronger this time. “Jung Wooyoung, are you asking me out?”
“I’m asking if you’d like to continue our daily therapy sessions in a different venue,” he said with a grin. “Possibly with wine instead of caffeine. And maybe some of those fancy napkin folds I finally learned to do correctly.”
“Will there be breadsticks? Because if you’re going to show off your napkin skills, there should definitely be breadsticks.”
“I’ll make sure there are breadsticks.”
“Then yes,” you said, smiling back at him. “I’d like that.”
“Really?”
“Really. But I’m still charging you twenty dollars tip every time you want to complain about work.”
“Deal,” he said immediately. “Same rate for relationship advice?”
“We’ll negotiate that later,” you said. “Right now, I think your associates are trying to start a pastry turf war over the last blueberry muffin.”
Wooyoung turned to see Park and Kim engaged in what appeared to be a very polite but intense standoff near the pastry case, while Mingi tried to mediate.
“I should probably handle that,” Wooyoung said, standing up.
“Probably,” you agreed. “Try not to accidentally promise anyone else in marriage while you’re at it.”
“No promises,” he called back, but he was laughing as he went to prevent Seoul’s most ridiculous organized crime family from going to war over baked goods.
You watched him go, still amazed at how much had changed since that first morning when he’d ordered a unicorn frappuccino and complained about fish cakes.
The End
====================================
A/N: DID YOU GUYS SEE THE YEO MAKEUP VIDEO THAT DROPPED YESTERDAY?!?! I didn't get the chance to watch it BUT THE PHOTOS?!??
pairing﹢ateez x fem!reader (yunho, san, wooyoung)
genre﹢ sfw + slight suggestive, slice of life, rom-com, established relationship, drunk reader and tipsy bf.
synopsis﹢you’re drunk and have no idea who your boyfriend is, but you still flirt with him. he is tipsy, confused, and very into you anyway.
YUNHO was sipping something sweet, trying not to get drunk this time, just enough to enjoy his time. but when you stumbled up to him like a girl in a teen drama, he knew he would enjoy it even more. messy hair with smudged lipstick, eyes that looked around, trying to figure out where you were. the crop top was slightly lopsided, shorts riding up…you were a mess, a beautiful mess in his eyes.
“heyyy pretty boy… you’re very...pretty,” you slurred while hiccuping between the words, swaying slightly before sitting down next to him, with a big thud on the soft sofa. you even giggled cutely and started blushing when he looked at you.
he blinked, looking you up and down while smiling lovingly and charmingly at you. “thanks, pretty girl.”
you tilted your head, twirling a curl of your hair, pretending to have a bubblegum in your mouth, trying to impress the handsome young man, or playing hard to get. “i have a boyfriend, i think.”
“your boyfriend is right here.” pointing at himself, but you still looked everywhere but not at him. okay, how much did you drink exactly? because it's frightening that you can't even recognize him, your own boyfriend, the love of your life, the one taking the mvp spot in your heart.
you gasped. “nooo, you’re too hot. my boyfriend’s like…super mid. you are like a boyfriend upgrade ultra pro max hot.”
he choked and nearly spat out his drink. “pardon me?” you poked his chest, giggling as you sat on his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, “you wanna be my second boyfriend?”
“i am your first and only boyfriend!”
“ohhh…” you looked devastated, your lip started trembling, and a frown appeared on your face. so you're like that, huh? a girl who would cheat on her boyfriend with her boyfriend. make it make sense. “so i cheated?”
“no—baby no, it's technically not cheating. you didn't cheat on your boyfriend.”
you whined, “then kiss me and prove it!” yunho’s smile curved slowly, almost wickedly, as he leaned in. “you want proof?”
before you could answer, his lips found yours: a kiss so sweet that it made your head spin. the slight taste and smell of alcohol clung to you, but to him, it tasted like cotton candy that instantly melts.
his palm came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he deepened the kiss. you gasped softly into his mouth, wanting more, and needing more. but he pulled back first, and you stared at him, totally not lovesick, until you opened your mouth to say something.
“you have such big and nice hands, long fingers too…can you chok–”
yunho kissed you again because you were not finishing that sentence while drunk.
SAN was tipsy. flushed cheeks with a red lipstick marks that added more to the natural blush, small smile on his face, sleeves rolled up, drink in hand, he was dangerously alluring. but then you stumbled out of nowhere, wrapped your arms around his torso and sighed, “you are so hot, like if the sun and the tnt from minecraft had a baby—light it up dynamite~”
he blinked, because what is this nonsense coming out of your mouth, that is somehow making sense. he knew you found him more than attractive, gave him tons of compliments but this was definitely something new. “uuh–princess what?”
you pulled back, squinting your eyes trying to recognize the man you just hugged. why does he look so good, very handsome, sexy, and those beautiful eyes–wait a second, aren't you taken already?
“excuse me, are you open minded?” and suddenly you started flirting and saying even more nonsense, but what can you do when such a handsome man is in front of you?
“(name), we’ve been dating for two years.”
you gasped and frowned, because what do you mean you have a boyfriend? with the saddest voice and smile, you were truly disappointed. “so you are not open minded and you can't put your number in my iphone sixteen pro max?”
he blinked again, trying to give you a smile that would be like a sign of reassurance, that everything is okay and he isn't mentally fighting himself. “i’m not, but i’m already your boyfriend.”
“well, screw him. you are waaaay hotter. he looks like you but, like, you have more… muscles, and less clothes. and god can i kiss you? your lips look very kissable.”
san deadass just stared at you. “you just described me again.”
your hands cupped his face, especially his soft cheeks, making fish lips from the pressure. oh my goodness why is he so…the words in the dictionary won't be enough to describe him. “okay but if you weren’t my boyfriend… i would help you raise the population of south korea.”
“you already do.”
“no way! we have a child, what is the name? is it a girl or a boy? does it have your eyes?”
at this point, san gave up and just wrapped his arms around your waist, letting you sway against him. you kissed his cheek sloppily and whispered, “you’re cute. wanna be my boyfriend?”
he grinned, very tipsy, already planning how to handle your hangover in the morning, and maybe already planning names for babies. “i’d be honored.”
WOOYOUNG was mid-sip, laughing at something stupid he found on tiktok or instagram…or just looking at the photos he took of you earlier when you sat on yeosang and used him as your personal pony. poor boy, but it was so entertaining. and here you are now, the soju princess, wandering over, singing the wrong lyrics to something, swaying like you were performing for an invisible crowd.
then, without warning, you planted yourself right between his legs and pointed at him, very much offended. “excuse me, sir? are you single and emotionally available?”
wooyoung’s brows arched, his smirk growing as he set his phone aside, letting his hands slide lazily over your thighs. you didn’t even flinch at the touch, because apparently you had no problem letting a random stranger get handsy. “i don’t know,” he drawled, “are you, ma’am?”
you nodded your head. “well… i’m dating this guy, uh—what was his name? starts with a w… or maybe an m? whatever. he’s got this stupidly pretty face,” you squeezed your cheeks together in frustration, “and he’s sooo annoying. always teasing me about stuff i hate. like, i tell him to stop and guess what? he doesn’t. ugh, men.”
he grinned, leaning in. “yes, girl, tell me more. he sounds like he wants to be different…yeah, a different type of disappointment.”
“exactly, you know how it is!” you gasped, slapping his knee. “but, like… god, he kisses so well. don’t get me started on his tongue—”
“oh, i wouldn’t dare. men tend to get crazy when they date a pretty girl.”
blushing at his comment, but you narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously. “what’s your name, anyway?”
“youngwoo.”
your jaw dropped. “wait… my boyfriend’s name is wooyoung. oh my god, crazy, right? you have, like, almost the exact same name, and the face—wait. what if… you’re his long-lost twin brother?”
tilting his head, innocently and if you were sober right now, or knew who he was, you probably wouldn't let him do anything, not even think about doing it. but you are not and that's what makes it more fun. “if i was his twin, would you like to make out right now?”
you didn’t even hesitate, hands in the air screaming hallelujah. “take me as i am! marry me! i want to be free! hot girl summer!”
he was laughing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, but still grabbed your waist and pulled you in anyway. wooyoung will remember this till the day he dies. and for the rest of your life, he’ll find random moments to lean in and whisper, “remember when you made out with my long-lost twin?”
at least you'll know you won't get so drunk next time, but the title soju princess doesn't sound bad at all, plus it comes with the bonus of wooyoung's twin brother.
