humans have four lives. a life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.
🌸 pairing. first love!wonwoo x reader.
🌸 word count. 2.5k.
🌸 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, romance, friendship.
🌸 includes. first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation. prose-heavy. synopsis from goblin: the great and lonely god. title from mitski’s song of the same name. inspired by this wonwoo post i made way back when.
🌸 notes. this was my planned enlistment fic, but it took me a while to polish. much thanks to my dearest, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta-ing and assisting with the final line. this goes out to @gotta-winwin, who i’m fairly sure i would find and adore in all my lives. my masterlist
Every morning at 7:42 A.M., you see him on the train.
He always boards two stops after yours, dressed in earth tones and quiet silences. There's a softness to him—the slope of his shoulders, the way he leans ever so slightly against the pole even when there’s a free seat.
He carries a book some days, a plain black umbrella on others. You’ve never heard him speak, but you’ve built a voice for him in your head anyway: calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.
You don’t know his name.
You know how he tucks his hair behind his ear when it falls forward, though. You know he reads with his thumb pressed between pages, like he’s holding space in more than just one chapter. You know the way his eyes flicker to the window, then away, like he’s still not used to being seen.
This is your first life: the planting of seeds.
A glance, a passing thought, a what-if rooted in the mundane. You sit with him in silence, three bodies apart, and imagine what it might be like to bump into him at a coffee shop, to hear him laugh, to say something that earns you a second look.
Once, the train jerks too hard at a stop and he stumbles. Your hand shoots out before your brain catches up, steadying him by the forearm.
He murmurs something—a thank you, you assume— and offers a brief smile. It’s not quite the real thing, but it’s enough to keep you warm the rest of the day.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
You begin to notice the little things. The way his shoes are always a little scuffed. The tiny pin on his tote bag shaped like a cat. The crease between his brows when he reads something particularly intense.
You wonder if he’s single. If he likes rainy days or prefers the sun. If he’d like the sound of your laugh. If he’s ever looked at you and thought, maybe.
You don’t know it yet—you won’t, not for some time—but you’ve already begun loving him. Not in the way that demands. In the way that simply hopes. That soft, shapeless kind of affection that asks for nothing in return.
Your mother calls this phase infatuation. Your friends call it a crush. But it feels deeper than that, doesn’t it?
Something older. Like a seed you’d forgotten you planted, blooming in the background of your everyday life.
You don’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
You still show up every morning at 7:42 A.M., and that feels like something sacred.
Some people meet under fireworks. Others, under streetlights.
You meet under the hum of subway rails, in the hush of early morning.
And even if nothing comes of it, you’ll remember this as the time you first saw Jeon Wonwoo—when your first love took root on a train that always ran late.
Your second life starts with an assigned seat.
It’s the first day of the semester, and the classroom hums with new pens, old anxieties, and the sharp scent of whiteboard markers. The teacher calls out names alphabetically, and when she says “Jeon Wonwoo,” you don’t flinch.
You don’t remember him from the train, of course—not in this life. That’s how these things work.
He slides into the seat beside yours. A quiet presence that feels oddly familiar. You glance over, and he nods politely, lips pressed in a near-smile.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hey,” he replies. His voice is calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.
This is your second life: the watering of seeds.
What started as quiet curiosity now stretches its limbs toward the light. You’re no longer strangers in motion, but classmates. Partners in the second row.
Wonwoo is the kind of student who doesn’t speak unless he has something to say, but when he does, it sticks with you. He lends you a pen on the second day without you asking. He shares a pack of sour candy with you during long lectures.
He passes you a note during a film screening that just says: This movie is terrible.
You laugh, quietly, and write back: You’re just saying that because you have no taste.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wound me,” he murmurs, the words only for you to hear. A lot of Wonwoo’s words are that— yours and yours alone.
You get partnered for a project. Your topic is obscure and boring, but somehow, working with him makes it bearable. You bicker. He rolls his eyes at your messy notes. You start staying late after class to finish the presentation.
One night, you’re both hunched over his laptop in the library. It’s raining outside. The air smells like paper and distant thunder.
“Do you believe in past lives?” you ask him out of nowhere.
He looks at you, long and unreadable. “I think we meet the same people over and over. Just in different ways,” he eventually says.
He’s indulging you. You’re not sure why. You push it, as if somehow wheedling an answer out of him might solve the pitter-patter in your chest. “So, maybe we’ve met before?”
“Maybe,” he says. Then, softer: “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a month.”
Your heart does that thing again. A steady lurch, like a train car that turned a corner a little too fast.
It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.
He walks you home after. You share his umbrella. He offers the dry side of the sidewalk.
You don’t hold hands. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But your sleeve brushes his once, twice. He doesn’t pull away.
The seeds are growing. They don’t know what they’ll become. They reach out of the soil and towards the sun anyway.
In your third life, there is yield. Something that bears ripe fruit, enough for you to pick and take a bite of.
Your mothers meet in the hospital nursery, trading horror stories about labor while you and Wonwoo cry in tandem from two separate cribs. Dual births, dual baby albums, dual high chairs at every party.
The houses share a fence, your families share garden tools and barbecues, and you and Wonwoo—well. You share everything else.
From the moment you could speak, you said his name like a reflex.
Your first sentence was reportedly, “Where’s Woo-woo?” and his was your name, mispronounced and gummy.
The tapes your moms keep are a blur of toddler feet and wonky camera angles. There’s one where he’s in your kiddie pool wearing a bucket on his head, and you’re laughing like he just invented comedy.
No one ever sat you down to explain your friendship. It just existed, like gravity or rain. And maybe that’s why the feelings sneak up on you. You’ve never known life without Wonwoo—how are you expected to know when the air has started to shift?
The day it happens, you’re sixteen. Lying on the warm roof of the garden shed while he’s reading aloud from some fantasy book you insisted on but couldn’t get through.
You’re not listening to the words. You’re watching the way his lips move, the way his lashes catch the sun. You’re trying to memorize the curve of his jaw, and then you’re thinking: Oh. Oh no.
You spend weeks pretending it didn’t happen.
“You good?” he asks once, when you nearly fall off the roof trying to avoid sitting too close.
“I'm fine,” you say, too fast.
He frowns, puts his book down. “You're acting weird.”
You sit up, brush dust off your shorts, make a face. “You’re weird.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“Shut up and read, Wonwoo.”
He does, but the silence between his sentences stretches.
It becomes harder to lie the more he smiles at you, the more he brushes dirt from your cheek or laughs at your jokes. You feel like you’re drowning in something warm and familiar, something you’ve known all your life but never named.
One night, after a school dance you don’t attend, he climbs through your window like always, hoodie slung over his shoulder. You’re sitting on your bed, and he flops beside you like gravity yanked him there.
“You ever think about stuff?” he asks.
You side-eye him. “That’s vague.”
“I mean, like... why some things feel easy. Like how we never had to try to be friends.”
You don’t say anything. The warmth in your chest is unbearable. He’s right there. He’s always been right there.
“Do you ever feel like we’ve known each other longer than we should’ve?” he continues, eyes on your ceiling. “Like, before this?”
You blink. Your heart pounds so loud, you’re sure he hears it.
“Sometimes,” you whisper. “Sometimes I think I’ve been in love with you before I even knew what love was.”
He turns to look at you. And Wonwoo—quiet, steady, unshakable Wonwoo—smiles like he’s been waiting all his lives to hear it.
“Me, too,” he says.
Your first life—
You wonder about him for years. His quiet demeanor, the books he read, the way he always stood near the door but let everyone pass him when it was his stop.
That was the first version of this feeling: Something sudden, warm, and unearned. Like the sun through a window.
You never know his name, but you built stories around him on every ride, convinced that maybe, just maybe, he’ll turn around one day and say something.
He never does.
And when you graduate, change routes, move cities, you never see him again. He becomes nothing more than that. A story. A seed. A start—for what, you don’t know yet.
Your second life—
He had felt like a miracle, like fate circling back to tap you on the shoulder. You thought that love would bloom into something permanent. It felt like it should have.
But timing is cruel, and the feelings—though mutual—couldn’t survive the storm of adolescence, the fear of messing up something tender. You tell yourself you weren’t meant to be.
You carry him with you anyway, in the songs you send each other, the paper cranes folded during long lectures, the way he once said your name like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
He walks you home, still, until he can’t. Until a lovely girl takes your place under his umbrella, and you find someone else to share your snacks with.
At reunions, you exchange polite smiles and aborted nods. Both of you find happiness beyond each other.
And then, the hardest of them all—
The one who knew every bad haircut and birthday wish. The one who saw you through braces, heartbreak, and every awkward year in between.
You loved him with the kind of ease that novels try to replicate; for a moment, you thought that might be enough. But when the time came, when the feelings were named and returned, you both pulled back.
Not out of fear, but reverence.
Some things are too precious to touch. You’d rather have him forever as your constant, your anchor, than risk a goodbye too painful to bear.
“Maybe in our next life,” he breathes, forehead against yours, breath warm. “Maybe then we’ll be brave.”
You nod, your fingers curling over the front of his shirt like it might somehow keep him in place. “We always find each other, don’t we?”
He smiles. It looks a lot like a promise.
In that life, you yield.
At least you get to keep him. He delivers a tearful speech at your wedding. He makes you the godmother of his children. Your love reshapes into something else. One that still matters, even if it’s not the kind that you might have expected.
Three versions of a first love.
None of them last. All of them linger.
You don’t regret a single one.
The fourth life begins like the others—quietly, without fanfare.
You meet Wonwoo at a time when everything is finally still.
No childhoods to tiptoe around, no adolescent crushes that tilt into heartbreak. You aren’t sitting across from him in a classroom or watching him disappear behind the closing doors of a train.
He is simply there—on a late spring afternoon at a mutual friend’s dinner, wearing a gray sweater and a small, uncertain smile.
You don’t know it at the time, but this is the life you get to keep him.
It starts slow. There’s time, now. You learn him from the beginning, with no earlier version to compete with. And yet something familiar pulses beneath it all.
You know how he likes his coffee before he tells you. You can predict the rhythm of his speech, the slope of his laughter. You fall in love with him easily, steadily—like gravity pulling you to the ground.
He is your first love in this life. You don’t tell him. Not yet.
And then one day, you lose him.
The details don’t matter. A job offer. A choice. A goodbye. Whatever it is, you let go. It feels like the end of a story you’ve lived too many times before. You think: This is the harvest, and it was never mine to reap.
But you were promised joy in this life, weren’t you?
Years later, you see him again. A bar, this time. Familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten. He hasn’t changed much—still soft-eyed, still shy with his smiles.
“Wonwoo?” you ask, unsure if you want it to be him or not.
He turns. Freezes. His voice, calm and deep, amused and affectionate, shapes the words in the back of your mind: “I was hoping it’d be you.”
You sit. You drink. You talk.
You tell him, somewhere between the second and third beer, “You were my first love, you know.”
Sure, you’re talking about this life, but a part of you feels like it goes beyond that. You’re not sure how many iterations of this story exist in the book of the universe; all you know is that this simply cannot be the only time you’ve counted Wonwoo’s eyelashes, as if you might be able to make wishes with them.
He looks at you for a long moment. Studies you. As if, he too, is mapping out the features of your face against versions of you that no longer exist.
“You were mine, too,” he says.
You laugh, disbelieving. “Really?”
“Really.”
There’s silence. A good one.
And then finally, finally, he kisses you. No fanfare. No salty tears as you resolve to stay friends. It’s not a daydream on the subway, not a fleeting thought in a library.
It’s just that same, steady gravity of eventuality.
When his hand finds yours, when your lips press together, when he pulls apart with a half-smile, you know. Jeon Wonwoo is your first love, and this time, he’ll be your last love, too.
humans have four lives. a life of planting seeds, a life of watering seeds, a life of harvesting, and a life of enjoying those harvests.
🌸 pairing. first love!wonwoo x reader.
🌸 word count. 2.5k.
🌸 genres. alternate universe: non-idol, romance, friendship.
🌸 includes. first love/s, feelings realization/denial, reincarnation. prose-heavy. synopsis from goblin: the great and lonely god. title from mitski’s song of the same name. inspired by this wonwoo post i made way back when.
🌸 notes. this was my planned enlistment fic, but it took me a while to polish. much thanks to my dearest, @chugging-antiseptic-dye, for beta-ing and assisting with the final line. this goes out to @gotta-winwin, who i’m fairly sure i would find and adore in all my lives. my masterlist
Every morning at 7:42 A.M., you see him on the train.
He always boards two stops after yours, dressed in earth tones and quiet silences. There's a softness to him—the slope of his shoulders, the way he leans ever so slightly against the pole even when there’s a free seat.
He carries a book some days, a plain black umbrella on others. You’ve never heard him speak, but you’ve built a voice for him in your head anyway: calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.
You don’t know his name.
You know how he tucks his hair behind his ear when it falls forward, though. You know he reads with his thumb pressed between pages, like he’s holding space in more than just one chapter. You know the way his eyes flicker to the window, then away, like he’s still not used to being seen.
This is your first life: the planting of seeds.
A glance, a passing thought, a what-if rooted in the mundane. You sit with him in silence, three bodies apart, and imagine what it might be like to bump into him at a coffee shop, to hear him laugh, to say something that earns you a second look.
Once, the train jerks too hard at a stop and he stumbles. Your hand shoots out before your brain catches up, steadying him by the forearm.
He murmurs something—a thank you, you assume— and offers a brief smile. It’s not quite the real thing, but it’s enough to keep you warm the rest of the day.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
You begin to notice the little things. The way his shoes are always a little scuffed. The tiny pin on his tote bag shaped like a cat. The crease between his brows when he reads something particularly intense.
You wonder if he’s single. If he likes rainy days or prefers the sun. If he’d like the sound of your laugh. If he’s ever looked at you and thought, maybe.
You don’t know it yet—you won’t, not for some time—but you’ve already begun loving him. Not in the way that demands. In the way that simply hopes. That soft, shapeless kind of affection that asks for nothing in return.
Your mother calls this phase infatuation. Your friends call it a crush. But it feels deeper than that, doesn’t it?
Something older. Like a seed you’d forgotten you planted, blooming in the background of your everyday life.
You don’t talk to him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
You still show up every morning at 7:42 A.M., and that feels like something sacred.
Some people meet under fireworks. Others, under streetlights.
You meet under the hum of subway rails, in the hush of early morning.
And even if nothing comes of it, you’ll remember this as the time you first saw Jeon Wonwoo—when your first love took root on a train that always ran late.
Your second life starts with an assigned seat.
It’s the first day of the semester, and the classroom hums with new pens, old anxieties, and the sharp scent of whiteboard markers. The teacher calls out names alphabetically, and when she says “Jeon Wonwoo,” you don’t flinch.
You don’t remember him from the train, of course—not in this life. That’s how these things work.
He slides into the seat beside yours. A quiet presence that feels oddly familiar. You glance over, and he nods politely, lips pressed in a near-smile.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hey,” he replies. His voice is calm, deep, a little rough like he only just woke up.
This is your second life: the watering of seeds.
What started as quiet curiosity now stretches its limbs toward the light. You’re no longer strangers in motion, but classmates. Partners in the second row.
Wonwoo is the kind of student who doesn’t speak unless he has something to say, but when he does, it sticks with you. He lends you a pen on the second day without you asking. He shares a pack of sour candy with you during long lectures.
He passes you a note during a film screening that just says: This movie is terrible.
You laugh, quietly, and write back: You’re just saying that because you have no taste.
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You wound me,” he murmurs, the words only for you to hear. A lot of Wonwoo’s words are that— yours and yours alone.
You get partnered for a project. Your topic is obscure and boring, but somehow, working with him makes it bearable. You bicker. He rolls his eyes at your messy notes. You start staying late after class to finish the presentation.
One night, you’re both hunched over his laptop in the library. It’s raining outside. The air smells like paper and distant thunder.
“Do you believe in past lives?” you ask him out of nowhere.
He looks at you, long and unreadable. “I think we meet the same people over and over. Just in different ways,” he eventually says.
He’s indulging you. You’re not sure why. You push it, as if somehow wheedling an answer out of him might solve the pitter-patter in your chest. “So, maybe we’ve met before?”
“Maybe,” he says. Then, softer: “Feels like I’ve known you longer than a month.”
Your heart does that thing again. A steady lurch, like a train car that turned a corner a little too fast.
It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.
He walks you home after. You share his umbrella. He offers the dry side of the sidewalk.
You don’t hold hands. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But your sleeve brushes his once, twice. He doesn’t pull away.
The seeds are growing. They don’t know what they’ll become. They reach out of the soil and towards the sun anyway.
In your third life, there is yield. Something that bears ripe fruit, enough for you to pick and take a bite of.
Your mothers meet in the hospital nursery, trading horror stories about labor while you and Wonwoo cry in tandem from two separate cribs. Dual births, dual baby albums, dual high chairs at every party.
The houses share a fence, your families share garden tools and barbecues, and you and Wonwoo—well. You share everything else.
From the moment you could speak, you said his name like a reflex.
Your first sentence was reportedly, “Where’s Woo-woo?” and his was your name, mispronounced and gummy.
The tapes your moms keep are a blur of toddler feet and wonky camera angles. There’s one where he’s in your kiddie pool wearing a bucket on his head, and you’re laughing like he just invented comedy.
No one ever sat you down to explain your friendship. It just existed, like gravity or rain. And maybe that’s why the feelings sneak up on you. You’ve never known life without Wonwoo—how are you expected to know when the air has started to shift?
The day it happens, you’re sixteen. Lying on the warm roof of the garden shed while he’s reading aloud from some fantasy book you insisted on but couldn’t get through.
You’re not listening to the words. You’re watching the way his lips move, the way his lashes catch the sun. You’re trying to memorize the curve of his jaw, and then you’re thinking: Oh. Oh no.
You spend weeks pretending it didn’t happen.
“You good?” he asks once, when you nearly fall off the roof trying to avoid sitting too close.
“I'm fine,” you say, too fast.
He frowns, puts his book down. “You're acting weird.”
You sit up, brush dust off your shorts, make a face. “You’re weird.”
“That’s not a denial.”
“Shut up and read, Wonwoo.”
He does, but the silence between his sentences stretches.
It becomes harder to lie the more he smiles at you, the more he brushes dirt from your cheek or laughs at your jokes. You feel like you’re drowning in something warm and familiar, something you’ve known all your life but never named.
One night, after a school dance you don’t attend, he climbs through your window like always, hoodie slung over his shoulder. You’re sitting on your bed, and he flops beside you like gravity yanked him there.
“You ever think about stuff?” he asks.
You side-eye him. “That’s vague.”
“I mean, like... why some things feel easy. Like how we never had to try to be friends.”
You don’t say anything. The warmth in your chest is unbearable. He’s right there. He’s always been right there.
“Do you ever feel like we’ve known each other longer than we should’ve?” he continues, eyes on your ceiling. “Like, before this?”
You blink. Your heart pounds so loud, you’re sure he hears it.
“Sometimes,” you whisper. “Sometimes I think I’ve been in love with you before I even knew what love was.”
He turns to look at you. And Wonwoo—quiet, steady, unshakable Wonwoo—smiles like he’s been waiting all his lives to hear it.
“Me, too,” he says.
Your first life—
You wonder about him for years. His quiet demeanor, the books he read, the way he always stood near the door but let everyone pass him when it was his stop.
That was the first version of this feeling: Something sudden, warm, and unearned. Like the sun through a window.
You never know his name, but you built stories around him on every ride, convinced that maybe, just maybe, he’ll turn around one day and say something.
He never does.
And when you graduate, change routes, move cities, you never see him again. He becomes nothing more than that. A story. A seed. A start—for what, you don’t know yet.
Your second life—
He had felt like a miracle, like fate circling back to tap you on the shoulder. You thought that love would bloom into something permanent. It felt like it should have.
But timing is cruel, and the feelings—though mutual—couldn’t survive the storm of adolescence, the fear of messing up something tender. You tell yourself you weren’t meant to be.
You carry him with you anyway, in the songs you send each other, the paper cranes folded during long lectures, the way he once said your name like a secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear.
He walks you home, still, until he can’t. Until a lovely girl takes your place under his umbrella, and you find someone else to share your snacks with.
At reunions, you exchange polite smiles and aborted nods. Both of you find happiness beyond each other.
And then, the hardest of them all—
The one who knew every bad haircut and birthday wish. The one who saw you through braces, heartbreak, and every awkward year in between.
You loved him with the kind of ease that novels try to replicate; for a moment, you thought that might be enough. But when the time came, when the feelings were named and returned, you both pulled back.
Not out of fear, but reverence.
Some things are too precious to touch. You’d rather have him forever as your constant, your anchor, than risk a goodbye too painful to bear.
“Maybe in our next life,” he breathes, forehead against yours, breath warm. “Maybe then we’ll be brave.”
You nod, your fingers curling over the front of his shirt like it might somehow keep him in place. “We always find each other, don’t we?”
He smiles. It looks a lot like a promise.
In that life, you yield.
At least you get to keep him. He delivers a tearful speech at your wedding. He makes you the godmother of his children. Your love reshapes into something else. One that still matters, even if it’s not the kind that you might have expected.
Three versions of a first love.
None of them last. All of them linger.
You don’t regret a single one.
The fourth life begins like the others—quietly, without fanfare.
You meet Wonwoo at a time when everything is finally still.
No childhoods to tiptoe around, no adolescent crushes that tilt into heartbreak. You aren’t sitting across from him in a classroom or watching him disappear behind the closing doors of a train.
He is simply there—on a late spring afternoon at a mutual friend’s dinner, wearing a gray sweater and a small, uncertain smile.
You don’t know it at the time, but this is the life you get to keep him.
It starts slow. There’s time, now. You learn him from the beginning, with no earlier version to compete with. And yet something familiar pulses beneath it all.
You know how he likes his coffee before he tells you. You can predict the rhythm of his speech, the slope of his laughter. You fall in love with him easily, steadily—like gravity pulling you to the ground.
He is your first love in this life. You don’t tell him. Not yet.
And then one day, you lose him.
The details don’t matter. A job offer. A choice. A goodbye. Whatever it is, you let go. It feels like the end of a story you’ve lived too many times before. You think: This is the harvest, and it was never mine to reap.
But you were promised joy in this life, weren’t you?
Years later, you see him again. A bar, this time. Familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten. He hasn’t changed much—still soft-eyed, still shy with his smiles.
“Wonwoo?” you ask, unsure if you want it to be him or not.
He turns. Freezes. His voice, calm and deep, amused and affectionate, shapes the words in the back of your mind: “I was hoping it’d be you.”
You sit. You drink. You talk.
You tell him, somewhere between the second and third beer, “You were my first love, you know.”
Sure, you’re talking about this life, but a part of you feels like it goes beyond that. You’re not sure how many iterations of this story exist in the book of the universe; all you know is that this simply cannot be the only time you’ve counted Wonwoo’s eyelashes, as if you might be able to make wishes with them.
He looks at you for a long moment. Studies you. As if, he too, is mapping out the features of your face against versions of you that no longer exist.
“You were mine, too,” he says.
You laugh, disbelieving. “Really?”
“Really.”
There’s silence. A good one.
And then finally, finally, he kisses you. No fanfare. No salty tears as you resolve to stay friends. It’s not a daydream on the subway, not a fleeting thought in a library.
It’s just that same, steady gravity of eventuality.
When his hand finds yours, when your lips press together, when he pulls apart with a half-smile, you know. Jeon Wonwoo is your first love, and this time, he’ll be your last love, too.
★ office worker!wonwoo x reader.
★ word count: 2.7k
★ genre/warnings: mdni. 18+ content. alternate universe: office, co-workers. pining, feelings realization/denial, 3 + 1 fic-ish. lewd thoughts, alcohol consumption. making out, hand job, loss of virginity, praise kink.
★ footnotes: inspired by the business proposal scene. we all know which one, but gif attached anyway. :-)
(Or: The three times Wonwoo keeps his glasses on, and the one time he doesn't.)
Wonwoo knows he's done for the moment that you walk in for your first day.
Despite his bad eyesight, he's not blind. He can tell when somebody is hot, and you fit that bill. Sue him.
Still, he tries to rationalize. There's not a lot of good-looking people in the company's IT department. That's probably it, he thinks to himself, as you smile warmly and introduce yourself to everyone.
Wonwoo has just been deprived of good views. That's it. That's all.
As you go to do rounds, he tries to focus on troubleshooting the network issue that some higher-up has been complaining about. But then you get to him, expecting his name, and Wonwoo suddenly can't bring himself to care about the DNS check he's supposed to be running.
"Jeon Wonwoo," he says in a perfectly level voice. "Welcome to the company."
Your face lights up. "Oh! I think you're the one who's supposed to be training me on the new systems."
Right. His boss had mentioned this. Something about onboarding the newbies. And Wonwoo had said yes, because that was just the type of person he was.
Fan-fucking-tastic, Wonwoo thinks as he gives you a quick once-over.
He manages to look bored as he does it. Almost scrutinizing. Truthfully, Wonwoo is not-so discreetly checking you out. The crisp white blouse, the tight pencil skirt, the black stockings.
So help him, God.
"Hope you can keep up," Wonwoo says for the lack of better thing to say.
The easy smile on your face remains, like you're unperturbed by Wonwoo's infamously cool demeanor. Somehow, that makes things infinitely worse.
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as you leave to meet other people. He tries very, very hard not to watch the way your hips move as you walk away.
You're good, he'll give you that.
Wonwoo, once again, tries to make excuses. One had to be good in this field of work, in this company. You're not an exception; you're supposed to be the norm.
Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's not entirely true.
There's one too many nepotism babies and pushovers who barely survive performance evaluations. But you're good. Eager to learn. Sharp in all the right places.
Wonwoo is a little bit jealous.
He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, in between training you on the company's cloud service models and hammering out the new machine learning workflows.
And so he keeps his head down, and he points out the bugs in your codes, and he chalks up his initial attraction as a moment of weakness.
That is, until the two of you are last to leave the office on an unassuming Tuesday evening.
The two of you had gotten in to some long-winded debate about the future of AI. Wonwoo is only made acutely aware about how much time has passed when the janitor shuts off the lights, assuming everyone has gone home. You giggle; Wonwoo cracks the smallest of smiles.
As you both emerge from the company building, Wonwoo's glasses fog up.
It's a normal enough occurrence that he shouldn't be annoyed but it's also a little bit embarrassing. He's used to going home late, to being alone when he does this little ritual of his.
He's just about to take off his glasses when you do it for him.
There's nothing much he can do or say as you gently tug the glasses off his face, as you use a corner of your blouse to swipe off the condensation on the lenses. You're saying something— something about this being the most annoying thing about wearing glasses, about knowing the struggle— but Wonwoo can't hear it.
His gaze is fixed on your lithe fingers and the careful way they hold his specs. Something sparks in the back of his head. A thought, unbidden. How those fingers would look so much better wrapped around his—
Jesus. Wonwoo swallows hard as you hold out his glasses back to him.
The look on his face must be odd, because you're suddenly apologetic. "I must have overstepped," you say sheepishly.
Overstepped?
Wonwoo is pretty sure he's the one overstepping. He's the one imagining you bent over his desk, after all, where he'd be more than happy to keep two fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet.
Instead, Wonwoo mumbles "you're good" as he puts his glasses back on just a little too forcefully. The nose pad presses in to his skin and leaves the smallest of marks, but he figures he deserves it with how he's being.
Wonwoo decides that maybe he's just repressed.
He's always been too busy to sleep around, to sleep with anyone, so this is just some twisted form of karmic justice. To have someone so desirable within sight but not within reach.
He asks for Mingyu to start setting him up on dates. His best friend is a little too glad to comply.
Wonwoo goes on about four before giving up.
Because it doesn't matter if he ends the night with a heated kiss or a mouth around his cock. Every single time, with each girl, he can only picture his company's drab cubicles, fingers flying across a keyboard, clicks of heels on a floor. (You, you, you.)
Things only go from bad to worse when the company celebrates its annual Christmas party at some swanky speakeasy. The alcohol is free-flowing, and God knows that Wonwoo needs it— because you're certainly not doing him any favors.
Your dress is a touch too short, and your smile is pretty, and Wonwoo really needs to get his head out of the goddamn gutter. He cannot, should not be fantasizing about what it would be like to drag you in to the alleyway outside, to hitch up your leg around his waist, to finally feel his aching hardness slide in to your—
"Wonwoo?"
He starts. It's a good thing he downed his drink earlier. Otherwise, he might've spilled his cuba libre all over the front of your purple dress.
You're squinting at him, a playful sort of grin on your face. For a moment, he terrified you've read his mind, but then you're slurring out, "Your glass is empty."
"That it is," Wonwoo says dryly. He lets you lead him over to the bar.
As the two of you wait for his drink to be made, you pull the rug out from underneath Wonwoo once again.
It happens so fast. One moment, you're discussing go-to karaoke songs; the next, you're grabbing his spectacles and trying them on for yourself.
They're ill-fitting on you and the frames don't match your face shape. Wonwoo nearly winces when you awkwardly try to adjust them by the temples.
"Your eyesight is a lot worse than I thought," you whine— a whine, my God. Wonwoo wants to die then and there.
When his whiskey sour is served, Wonwoo shoots it back and promptly orders another one.
"How do I look?" you prompt, tilting your head to one side.
For a moment, Wonwoo contemplates telling the truth.
You look like sin, he could say. You look like you'd make the prettiest sounds if your back was up against the door of the bar bathroom, if his hands were feeling you up over your dress, if his mouth was leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.
Wonwoo shakes his head. He's definitely not drunk enough to be saying all that.
"Fine," he grumbles. "You look fine."
Once you've had your fun, once his glasses are back on his face and you're off to charm whoever the hell else, he'll wish he could have been a little more truthful.
Here's the thing: For all of Wonwoo's intelligence as the company's go-to IT guy, he's still pretty oblivious where it matters.
He doesn't realize that you don't really give two shits about AI, that you're only staying so late at work for him. He doesn't pick up that your party dress had been purple because he had offhandedly mentioned once that it was his favorite color.
All of those little things only hit him when he finds you standing outside his apartment, looking mildly miffed. "How much longer do I have to flirt with you, Jeon Wonwoo?" you demand.
Oh. Oh.
"Not another day more," Wonwoo promises as he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls you in to his flat. He thanks all the higher powers in the universe that Mingyu has decided to buzz off for the night.
Wonwoo's mouth is on yours the moment the door shuts behind you. It's messy, all clashing teeth and warring tongues. The sudden force of it has you reeling back a step.
His fingers find purchase at your hips, right over the very skirt of his wildest fantasies. You tilt your head like you're trying to deepen the kiss— only to have your forehead bump against his glasses.
You make a sound of protest against his mouth and he swears he sees stars.
Without missing a beat, Wonwoo lifts one of his hands just long enough to pull his glasses off. He casts them aside unceremoniously. He'll buy a new pair if he has to.
He's back to kissing you before you can even open your eyes.
By some miracle, the two of you make it to his bedroom.
It's only then that Wonwoo manages to tear himself away from your mouth, looking slightly panicked.
You're pinned underneath him, the top buttons of your blouse already undone. And you're a vision— your hair splayed out underneath you, your chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. Wonwoo has to resist the physical urge to keep making out with you.
"I—" he chokes out. "I haven't—"
Thank God you're smarter than him, because you immediately get what he's trying to say. You prop yourself up by your elbows to look at him. "We don't have to," you say carefully, your fingers curling around his bicep.
"That's the thing." He doesn't even bother to hide how desperate he sounds. "I kind of really fucking want to."
The smile you give him then makes his heart stutter. He resolves to unpack that later.
Right now, he focuses on the way you pull off his slacks, the way you spit in to your palm, the way you dip your hand past his boxers and—
"Holy shit," he exhales, because this is definitely leagues better than his imagination.
You're watching his every reaction as you slide the curve of your palm against him, as your fingers close and squeeze and tug, and it takes absolutely everything in Wonwoo not to flip your positions.
He prays for patience; he prays for grace. He prays that he doesn't finish just from a goddamn handjob.
Once you've deemed him sufficiently hard, the two of you do switch positions. Wonwoo reaches in to his bedside drawer for the condom that's been sitting there for months. (Mingyu, the cheeky bastard, had left it there as a gift. Wonwoo has never been more grateful for his best friend.)
Wonwoo snaps it on with a lot less finesse than he would've wanted. Soon enough, he's hovering over you, his fingers curled in to a white-knuckled grip around his sheets.
"I should probably stretch you out a bit," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort it's taking to keep himself together
But you shake your head, your hands catching in his dark locks as you practically drag him down. "Wonwoo, I swear," you whine. "If you don't fuck me this instant—"
It's not the hands in his hair that does it. Not the bluntness of your words.
It's that stupid, stupid whine.
Wonwoo thrusts in to you without preamble, and the scream catches in your throat as he fills you up.
"Fucking take it, then," he hisses.
Wonwoo was a bit worried that his inexperience would get in the way, but there's one thing he seems to have in common with you: He can be a pretty quick learner, too.
His thrusts are a bit clumsy and erratic, but he figures out what you like based on the sounds that you make, the way that you move.
You arch your hips up whenever he bottoms out. You whimper whenever his balls slap in to the cleft of your ass. And when his fingers finally find your bundles of nerves, you say his name so beautifully.
"Just like that, Wonu," you gasp, rendered incapable of saying his full name. He likes the way it sounds, so he rewards you with another sharp thrust. You babble on, "Fuck, yeah. That's good. You're so fucking good."
Something inside him burns, then. Enough to have him picking up the pace, to have him pressing the calloused pads of his fingers in to every inch of bare skin that he can reach.
You seem to notice his renewed vigor, and the minx that you are— despite the fact you're being fucked stupid— you give him more.
You moan that he's perfect and doing so well and so fucking hot, and his cock only bullies in to you harder with every pretty word.
"I'm not going to last—" Wonwoo warns through gritted teeth, his grip bruising on your hip. "I'm not going to last much longer if you keep talking to me like that."
His fingers are already fumbling; his pace, stuttering. He's not sure how much more praise he can take, but then you have to go and whimper about how badly you've wanted him, just like this—
Wonwoo manages to bottom out just one more time before coming undone.
The feeling of him twitching inside you, of him panting against the side of your neck, has you following not long after. It's absolutely torturous, the way you clamp down on him like you're squeezing him dry.
Wonwoo gathers his bearings enough to pull out. He heaves out a sigh and falls back on to his bed beside you, his own thighs still shaking a bit from all the effort he's exerted.
A beat. Neither of you speak; you're both too busy catching your breath, coming down from your respective highs.
But then you're sitting up, moving, and Wonwoo physically feels his heart drop.
"Where are you going?" he stammers. He can't even bring himself to sound cool about the prospect of this just being a one-time thing.
You put him out of his misery rather swiftly. At the foot of his bed, you pause, take one look at his face, and then soften significantly. Your gentle pat to his ankle is a welcome reprieve.
"We should clean up," you tell him, somehow managing to reassure his unspoken fears. "Where's your bathroom?"
"Ah— first door down the hall."
You don't pull on any of your clothes as you go, so Wonwoo doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you leave.
Once you're out his bedroom door, Wonwoo suddenly feels boneless. He sinks further in to his bed and contemplates how the hell he's going to go about this— whatever this is.
Wonwoo's overthinking is cut short when you bound back in to his room, your hands behind your back. He barely has any time to speak before your lips are on his.
It's a sweet kiss, one that catches him off-guard. He's frozen for only a millisecond before his eyes flutter close and he melts right in to you, his hand resting at the side of your face.
It's not quite the answer that he's looking for, but it's a close thing.
When you peel away, his head rises from his pillow, desperately chasing your mouth. You let out a tinkling sort of laugh before pulling your hands out from behind you— and placing his glasses on for him.
Wonwoo blinks confusedly underneath his lenses.
"Just need to make sure that you can see what you're getting in to," you tease as you push his hair out of his forehead.
He just looks at you for a second. And oh, is he done for.
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